Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [81]
Many of the diners were standing, now, and a few had begun to dance. Far across the room Narm caught sight of the commanding height and broad shoulders of Florin, looking every inch a king.
Beside him stood a lady Narm had last seen on a forest trail near Myth Drannor, and before that in the taproom of The Rising Moon inn in Deepingdale, sword drawn and ready: Storm Silverhand. She wore a simple gown of gray silk, with only a broad black cummerbund and a silver-hiked dagger for ornament, but she looked so regal and beautiful that Shandril forgot all thoughts of what a fine gown and tabard did for herself.
"Look," she breathed, grasping Narm’s hand and pointing with a nod of her head.
"Yes. I see" he replied, and turned to Lanseril, who stood near at hand talking to a burly, bearded man in amber and russet. The druid wore a simple brown woolen robe. Narm touched his hand. "Pray excuse my interruption, friend Lanseril."
"No excuse needed, Narm-it's what everyone does.
My life is a series of interruptions," Lanseril replied with a warm smile. He bent his head near. "What is it?"
"The Lord Florin-is the Lady Storm his-ah, handfast to him, or-?"
Lanseril chuckled. "Florin is married to Storm's sister, the ranger Dove, who is soon to bear his child, and is for her safety presently elsewhere. Storm's man, Maxam, was killed this past summer. She does not speak of that, mind. Florin and Storm are friends who keep each other from being too lonely at dance and at table. Despite what Torm may slyly hint, they are no more than that."
The druid turned and touched the sleeve of the man he had been speaking with.
"May I introduce Thurbal, Captain-of-Arms and Warden of Shadowdale?" he asked politely. Thurbal, a man of weather-beaten and plain features whose eyes were at once shrewd and kindly, bowed to them both.
"Lady Shandril and Lord Narm," he said, "I bid you my own welcome. Have you enjoyed the feast thus far?"
"I-I, yes, greatly," Narm replied, noting the great plain-scabbarded broadsword Thurbal wore at his side, despite his high-booted finery.
"It's the first feast I've ever been invited to, Lord,"
Shandril replied. "M am no high lady, I fear."
Thurbal frowned slightly. "My pardon," he said, "I assumed-ah, but no harm done if you will forgI’ve me, for I am no lord, either. Lord Lanseril told me something of your importance. I hope you will not take offence if I seem to watch you closely while you're here; it seems my brawn is on the block, so to speak, if you are endangered when I might have prevented it."
"Endangered?" Narm asked, as Shandril paled.
"Here?"
Thurbal spread broad, heavy hands. "We live in a world of magic, Lord. There are no safe defenses.
AD the might I can muster to hold steel to your lady's defense and your own cannot stop magic that finds a way through. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if all men had to stand or fall by their actions at the end of a sword, and there was no magic about.
But then again, such a world might be in a worse mess than this one."
"But we have enemies?" Narm asked soberly.
Lanseril shrugged and replied, "Shandril, or the two of you together, can create and hurl spellfire, something known only in the histories of art; something very powerful indeed. Many would like to be the only one to control and wield it. You must watch the shadows, and expect trouble, even here."
"And get used to being 'lord' and 'lady'," Thurbal said with a grin. "All of the knights hold that title, and you stand with them until you declare and choose otherwise. My men will obey and aid you the better if they continue to think you are Lord and Lady of the Dale." He paused, and then added, "By the way, Lady Shandril. I have heard from the Lord