Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [84]
"Not after a breath or two. Where did he have to go in such haste?" She looked at the chain dangling in her hands.
"He patrols, outside, with the Lord Rathan.
Elminster expects some trouble tonight… someone trying to get at our guests, no doubt."
Naera turned to him in astonishment. "The young lad and lass? What danger could they possibly be to anyone? They are not royal, or suchlike."
Rold chuckled. "Young, says Naera, who dallies with a man younger than herself, a-Oh? Did you not know? Yes, the lord's seen a winter less than you have… Don't look like that, now; was he any greater the monster for that?" He grew serious. "The young lass, as you rightly call her, defeated the High Lord of Zhentil Keep himself, the fell mage Manshoon.
Scared him into flight, she did, and him riding a dragon, too! She holds some great power."
Naera stared at him in amazement. "And Torm is needed to guard that?"
Rold nodded. "Why else do you think I've never spoken ill to you of pursuing him as you have? It is a rare one you chase, for all his rashness and rudeness and dishonest ways. I'd not want to stand against him in a fight." He paused at the door and looked back, saying, "You'd do well to remember that, little one, when you're sending slaps his way. Come down, now, and we'll see what's left at table. You must be hungry after all you've been up to this evening."
Naera made a face at him, but rose to follow. She wore the chain proudly around her neck as they swept down the stairs.
In his chambers, Torm had torn off his fine clothing and jewelry like so many rags and pebbles and hurled them onto the bed, leaped around finding his gray leathers and blades, and burst back out the door like a lunatic, almost colliding with Rathan. The cleric stood waiting, arms crossed patiently, leaning on the wall across from Term's door.
"Remembered, did ye?" the cleric said jovially. "I warrant ye had help. It's your short stature, I tell ye… with that small head ye carry upon thy shoulders, there's no room for a brain that can think, once ye've filled it with mischief until it runs out thy ears and mouth-"
His words were cut short by a shrewd elbow in the belly as they hurried down the stairs. Puffing for breath, the cleric leaned on a pillar by the door, thought a prayer to Tymora, and then bustled out the door into the night.
"Remembered, did you?" a mocking voice asked out of the darkness beside him.
"Tymora forgI’ve me," Rathan Thentraver said aloud as he swept a pike out of the startled hands of a doorguard and rammed its butt end hard into the shadows. He was rewarded by a grunt. Satisfied, he returned the pike with a nod of thanks, and said kindly, "If ye're quite finished playing the bobbing fool this night, perhaps we can get going. It mig'it interest ye to know, by the way, that the guard ye gave the chain to is the uncle of the maid ye were dallying with. Adroit, lad. Adroit."
"Oh, gods," came the softly despairing cry, out of shocked silence. "Why me?"
"I've often wondered that. Truly, the gods must have grander senses of humor than we do," Rathan replied, as they clapped hands on each other's shoulders in the darkness, and drew their weapons. "Now, let's get on with this, shall we?"
They had much wine and talked until late. At the last, Illistyl (she who had rescued Narm from devils not so very long ago) and Sharantyr were left in the bower, standing together, the ranger a head and more taller than Illistyl.
"We should say good-night, if we are to be fit for the testing on the morrow," Illistyl said wearily, putting down an empty goblet. "You have seen them both in battle, have you not? What manner of dweomercraefters will I be training?"
Sharantyr shook her head. "I never saw them fight. I cannot help you, I fear." She shrugged. "I think it better you should come to the task, if it falls to you, knowing nothing of them, and alert for all. What