Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [66]
Elminster stepped back and waved the knights and Narm away from him, gesturing at them to draw far back. He then started to sing. The old mage's voice began scratchy and hollow from disuse, but gained in strength as he sang the leave-taking, until the last lines rolled out deep and clear.
The sun comes up and the sun goes down Winters pass swiftly and leaves turn brown Watching each day and at last it has found Another dream to lay under the ground Another name lost to the wind Wailing away north past ears of Hind And all she has been crumbles away.
Of all that great spirit, can nothing stay?
Mystra, Mother, take your own Skill and power now dust on bone Good or bad, what matters now?
Her song is done, her last bow Mother of art, I pray now to thee, Take back her truename in mercy And as her body is lost to flame Greet your own Lansharra again.
Elminster's hands moved, he spoke a few quiet words, and fire burst from his hands to strike the still form of The Shadowsil. Flames burst straight upward in a many-hued pillar. Narm watched the old man, who stood staring into the greedy flames.
Hesitantly, the evoker approached. When he stood behind Elminster's shoulder, he spoke.
"She called you 'Master.'" The flames roared and crackled before them.
"Aye," said Elminster. He smiled slowly, and there were tears in his eyes again. He turned and looked out over the waters of the Sember, far below, but he didn't see them. He saw things long ago and in another place.
"You knew her?" Narm asked quietly.
"I once trained her and rode with her." The mage's lips moved roughly, almost reluctantly. Then his white beard jutted defiantly. "I was much younger then."
Narm felt a rush of sympathy and turned to look at Shandril, lying so still upon his cloak. His heart nearly broke. "Does one often see friends die if one is a mage of power?"
"Aye," Elminster replied, almost whispering. Then he seemed to rouse himself and caught Narm’s eye in a gruff, more familiar look. "That is why even one's enemies are to be honored. If it falls within thy power, no creature must die alone."
Narm stared at him for a long breath, lips white, and then nodded slowly. Then he rushed forward and caught the old wizard in a fierce embrace, and tears came. A startled Elminster held him awkwardly and patted his head and said gruffly, "There, there, boy.
Shandril lives. It's not so bad as all that." The sobs under the young apprentice's encircling arms died slowly and the strong young grip lessened. The muffled voice, when it came, was hesitant.
"Lansharra… did you love her very much?"
"Yes" the sage said simply. "She was like a daughter.
Had I been several lifetimes younger and she not quite so quick to cruelty…" His voice trailed away and, abruptly, he spun about and stood facing the dying pyre. His voice rolled out, rich and imperious.
"Look all of ye!"
He raised his hands and gestured. It seemed that above the thinning smoke that rose there a form came slowly into being-the form of a young and slim woman, with long glossy hair and almost chalk-white skin. She was very beautiful and wore a simple robe of white and gold bound with a blue sash.
She looked around at them with joy and wonder.
All the hardened veterans of the knights stood and watched in silence, the flames flickering in ruddy reflections upon their armor and ready swords.
In utter silence the image of a youthful Symgharyl Maruel worked a bluefinger cantrip before them all.
When the blue radiance sparkled into being at her fingertips, she laughed in sheer delight and held it up in one hand to show it. She then tossed her hair back to see it the better, waved at them, and was gone.
Elminster stood looking into the last of the flames, his old face expressionless.
"You did that, did you not?" Torm asked, awed.
"That wasn't… her. "
"Aye, I did it, though not alone, and aye, it was her.
So she was one summer before any of ye here but Merith was born. Her spirit