Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [164]
They nodded, hearts full.
"Good then," Rathan went on in gruff haste, "and none of that weeping, now." He held out a wineskin to Narm. "For thy saddle." He fumbled at the large pouch at his hip and brought out a disc of shining silver upon a fine chain and hung it about Shandril's neck, kissing her on the forehead. "Tymora's good luck go with thee" he said.
Torm stepped forward next. "Take this," he said,
"and bear it most carefully. It is dangerous." He held out a cheap, gaudy medallion of brass, set askew with glued-in cut glass stones on a brass chain of mottled hue that did not match the medallion. He put it about Narm’s neck.
"What is it?" Narm asked.
"Look at it now," Torm said, "take care how you touch it." Narm looked. About his neck was no cheap medallion, but a finely detailed, twist-linked chain of heavy work. Upon it hung two small, golden globes, with a larger one between them. "This is magical,"
Torm said, "and keep it clear of spellfire or any fiery art, or it may slay you. We call it a necklace of missiles. You, and only you, can twist off one of these globes and hurl it. When it strikes, it bursts as a mage's fireball does; mind you are not too close. The larger globe is of greater power than the other two. It needs no ritual or words of command to work. Keep it safe; you'll need it, some day… probably sooner than you think." He patted Narm’s elbow awkwardly.
"Fare you both well," he said.
The knights mounted, saluted them with bared blades, tossed two small flasks of water, wheeled their mounts, and galloped away. Hooves thudded briefly upon the earth and then died away and were gone.
Narm and Shandril looked at each other, eyes bright and cheeks wet, and slowly embraced. "We really are alone now, my love," Narm said softly. "We have only each other."
"Yes," said Shandril softly. "And that will do." She kissed him long and deeply before she spun away, leaped into her saddle, and said briskly, "Come on.
The sun waits not, and we must ride!"
Narm grinned at her and ran to his own saddle."
Spitfire!" he called as he swung himself up.
Shandril raised her eyebrows and spat fire, obediently, in a long rolling plume that winked out just in front of him. The horses snorted in alarm, and she grinned. "Ah yes," she agreed, "but thy lady."
She looked west then and tossed her hair from her eyes. "Now," she commanded, lifting her chin, "let us away!"
Away they sped from that place, leaving only trampled grass and silent, unseen spectral warriors.
The stars were clear and cold outside, but Elminster saw them not. He gazed into a twinkling sphere of crystal on the table before him in the upper room of his tower. Within the crystal he saw a rich, red-carpeted chamber with tapestries of red and silver and gold, a fine, roaring fire, and a lady in a black, tattered gown sitting at a table, gazing back at him.
"Well met, sage, and welcome," she said with the faintest of smiles.
"Well met, lady queen and mage. Thank ye for allowing this intrusion."
"Few enough call upon me, old mage, and fewer still do so without some plan to harm or hamper me. I thank you."
Elminster inclined his head politely. "I have further thanks for thee this night, lady. Thank ye for protecting Narm and Shandril on several occasions-possibly more- these past few days. I am most grateful."
The Simbul gave him a rare smile. "My pleasure, again." There was the briefest of silences, and then the old mage asked a careful question.
"Why did ye aid them so, when the maid is such a threat to thy magic, and with it, the survival of Aglarond-and of thee?"
The Simbul smiled. "I know the prophecy of Alaundo and what it may mean. I like Shandril." She looked away for a moment, and then back at the old mage. "I have a question for you, Elminster. Answer not if you would not. Is Shandril the child of Garthond Shessair and the incantatrix Dammasae?"
Elminster nodded. "I am not certain, lady, but it is very likely."
An eyebrow lifted. "Not certain?