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  swordmaster, her hands going to her hips. An arrow sang toward her. The swordmaster's furious order

  was too late to halt its flight but Shandril looked at it calmly, not moving. Under her gaze it caught fire,

  blazed like a tiny, leaping star, and was gone in drifting sparks and smoke. The moan of awe and fear

  from the watching villagers was louder than the startled oaths some of the Zhentilar uttered.

  "You called me out," Shandril said in a terrible, hoarse whisper. Her eyes, blazing with fire, fixed on

  the Zhentilar swordmaster. As she glared, flames roiled around her face - and then lanced out.

  The Zhentilar's face paled as hissing flames leapt at him. He flung up an armored arm to shield his face.

  The flames swelled to a sudden, savage roar. Then the swordmaster cried out in sudden pain, twisting

  in his saddle. Smoke rose from the half-cloak about his shoulders. His mount reared under him,

  neighing, and the torch fell from his smoldering hands. Shandril raised one blazing hand, and in her

  eyes he saw his death. "By all the gods," she said in fury, flames rising around her hair in a leaping

  crown of fire, "you'll wish you hadn't."

  One

  A COLD CALLING

  Tongues wag their ways on great adventures with ease. Feet oft find it harder to follow.

  Mespert of Baldur's Gate

  The Book of the Coast

  Year of the Talking Skull

  Most of the long, high hall lay in chill darkness. Here and there, lamps shed eerie, feeble glows into the

  cold vastness. Menacing shadows swirled where this lamplight was blocked by a long stone table, the

  many highbacked seats drawn up around it, and the robed men who sat in them.

  "So you have all come," came a calm, purring voice from one end of the table. "Good. The Lord

  Manshoon will be pleased at your loyalty and eager ambition. We are looking for those who in days to

  come will lead this fellowship in our places. It is our hope that some among you will show themselves

  suited to do so. Others here, I fear, will reveal just as surely that they are not"

  Sarhthor fell silent The men around the table knew his slim, graceful form would remain as still and as

  patient as stone until he wished to move a finger or change his expression. Right now, as the silence

  stretched, his calm, keen-eyed face was-as usual-expressionless. It might have been carved from the

  same gray stone as the pillar behind his seat. Sarhthor's dark eyes, however, glittered with cruel

  amusement, a look familiar to many seated there. They were the most ambitious and daring of the

  apprentice magelings of the Zhentarim, and had all been trained or inspected by this man. Many long,

  tense breaths were drawn as quietly as possible in the dimly lit cold as the wizards sat and waited,

  trying not to show their fear, their personal hatreds of each other-and their mounting impatience.

  At length, one of the seated men spoke. "Teacher Sarhthor, we have come to hear High Lord

  Manshoon's will of us, and to serve. May we know his plans?" Sarhthor smiled. "But of course, Fimril.

  Lord Manshoon will tell you what you are so eager to hear." He added a little smile, and then let it slide

  slowly and coldly into calm inscrutability. In the mounting silence, the men around the table regarded

  his face for a long time, trying to match the calm, unreadable expression Sarhthor wore. Some came

  close to succeeding.

  Someone coughed, and heads turned, glaring. The heavy silence returned and slowly grew old.

  Sarhthor sat at the end of the table as though he was the tomb statue of some dead king and watched

  them all with cold patience. Finally one of the magelings stirred in his seat. He was a handsome, fine-

  featured man whose upswept beard was scented and adorned with small, highly polished moonstone

  teardrops. They glistened here and there among his beard's curled hairs as he spoke. "I am patient,

  Teacher, but also curious. Where is the high lord?"

  "Why, here, as it happens," said a new voice, full and rich and only gently menacing. Heads turned all

  down the table.

  At the far end of the table from Sarhthor sat a regal, dusky man robed in black and dark blue. A

  moment before, there had been no man and no chair in that spot. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep smiled

  at all the turning heads. Before him on the table sat a serving platter covered with a silver dome, steam

  rising gently from around its edges.

  "I've only now escaped from the pressing business of governing this great city" - the voice dipped only

  slightly in silken irony "- to meet with you all. Well met. I trust the patience taught by Sarhthor and

  wise others among us has kept you all occupied, and I beg you to excuse my not offering you any of

  my evenfeast I am" - his voice dipped in soft menace - "hungry this night."

  Then the Lord Manshoon flashed his teeth at them all in a smile that shone very white, and he

  uncovered the platter before him. Wisps of richly scented steam rose from the deep red ring of firewine

  sauce. It lay in a channel in the platter, surrounding the lord's evening meal: a dark, slithering heap of

  live, glistening black eels from the Moonsea, lying on a bed of spiced rice. A slim, jeweltopped silver

  skewer appeared in the lord's hand from the empty air before him- Smoothly, he stabbed the first

  coiling, twisting eel, and dipped it delicately in the hot sauce.

  "Despite my apparent ease," Manshoon said, waving his laden skewer as he looked down the table,

  "our Brotherhood - nay, the world entire - remains in peril. You have all heard of the recent commotion

  among our fellows of the Black Altar, and of the matter of spellfire."

  He paused for a moment. The silence of the listening Zhentarim wizards had changed subtly, and

  Manshoon knew he had their keen interest now. He smelled the sharp edge of their fear as they faced

  him and tried to look unmoved and peerless and dangerous. He almost chuckled.

  "That matter remains unresolved. A young lady by the name of Shandril walks Faerun somewhere

  south and west of us, guarded only by a dwarf and her mate - a knave by the name of Narm, who is

  weaker in Art than the least among you has been in some years. This Shandril alone commands

  spellfire, imperfectly as yet. She seeks training from Harpers and can expect some Harper aid along her

  way."

  The quality of the listeners' silence changed again at the mention of the Harpers. Manshoon smiled and,

  with slow bites, emptied his cooling skewer.

  "Sarhthor will tell those of you who are professionally interested all about the known strengths and

  subtleties of spellfire. Such professional interest will be exhibited only by those who have volunteered

  for the dangerous but fairly simple task of seizing or destroying this Shandril, and bringing what

  remains of her in either case here to this hall.

  "You all know that something wild and uncontrolled has crept into the Art of late. This chaos may or

  may not be linked with spellfire - but it prevents us from surrounding the maid and overwhelming her

  with spells. We can, however, take her deep in the wilderlands, where we can act unobserved, and the

  unintended effects of such a confrontation can be curbed without much loss or concern.

  "All knowledge of her powers and anything you learn or take from her will be placed entirely at the

  disposal of the Brotherhood. Hold nothing back. Those who fail to exhibit such probity will earn an

  immediate and permanent reward. Those who merely fail against the girl Shand
ril will have as many

  chances as they feel they need to impress us. We will be watching. As always." His eyes

  smiled merrily at them as he devoured the head of an eel, touched the bowl casually, and vanished with

  it in a flickering instant.

  The end of the table was utterly empty again. Only faint wisps of spiced steam remained behind,

  curling in slow silence.

  The magelings stirred, shoulders visibly relaxing here and there down the table. Heads turned, throats

  were cleared - but these stirrings came to a hushed halt an instant later as Sarhthor's purring voice came

  again from the near - darkness at the other end of the table.

  "So who here volunteers to seize or destroy spellfire for us? Yield me your names, or" - he smiled

  faintly - "recall urgent business elsewhere and take your leave of this place ... and also, I fear, of the

  Lord Manshoon's favor." He looked around, meeting the wary eyes of several wizards too brave or

  foolish to look away. "Your patience we have seen this night. We have also taught you to be decisive;

  show me the result of that teaching now."

  In the clamor that followed, a smile slowly appeared and crawled across Sarhthor's face like an old and

  very lazy snake. But as each man there volunteered, Sarhthor's eyes met theirs briefly and bleakly, like

  a sudden, icy lance-thrust in a night ambush. In his dark gaze, the magelings saw that he expected them

  to die in this task. Sarhthor felt he owed them at least that honesty.

  "What's wrong with you, then?" Delg asked, drawing himself up as much as his four battered feet of

  height allowed. The dwarf stood over Shandril, beard bristling as he squinted down at her. A pan of

  fried onions, mushrooms, and sausages sizzled in his hand. "Or don't you like an honest pantry?'

  Shandril smiled wanly up at him from the bed of cloaks and furs she'd shared with Narm, and she

  raised a warding hand.

  "I'm seldom hungry these mornings." Her slim face was as white as the snowcaps of the Thunder Peaks

  behind her. She shuddered and looked away from Delg's steaming pan, wondering if she'd ever arrive

  at far-off Silverymoon. To reach it, they still had to cross half of Faerin. The ruined village of

  Thundarlun was only a day behind them, and even draining the fallen war wizard's wand had not fully

  restored the spellfire that smoldered within her.

  On the other hand, twenty more Zhentilar would ride and slay no more; she'd left them twisted bones

  clad in ashes. Shandril shivered as she heard the screams again. Then Delg brought the pan so close to

  her nose that its sizzle jolted her back to the chilly morning. She pulled away from the smell, biting her

  lip to keep from gagging. She clutched the furs closer around herself.

  "Well, why?" the dwarf demanded, frowning fiercely. "Are you ill?"

  "No'" Narm said gently from behind him, "she's with child."

  The dwarf almost fell as he lurched and tottered about speedily to face the young mage. "She's what?"

  he demanded. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

  Shandril giggled. "We are married, Delg," she added sweetly.

  "Aye. But-but-what of the babe, with you hurling spellfire about, an' all?"

  "I-" Shandril began, then fell silent, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness. The dwarf saw

  something almost desperate in her eyes, and he whirled about again to face Narm. The young wizard

  also spread his hands anxiously but said nothing. Then he shrugged.

  "You don't know," said the dwarf heavily. "You truly don't know what you'll give birth to after all this

  hurling fire and collapsing and hurling fire again. . . ." Delg let his words trail away as he looked at

  them both challengingly, but the two young humans were silent.

  The dwarf sighed heavily and tossed up his arms in resignation. Mushrooms and sausages left the pan

  to soar into the air, still steaming.

  Narm leapt forward but missed catching one. Most of the others landed on Delg's head or back in the

  pan. The dwarf stood a moment more, looking down at Shandril and shaking his head. Sausages shifted

  in his tousled hair. "Ah, well," he said, rather sadly. "Ah, well . . ."

  Narm brushed off the sausage he had picked up. "Delg Hammerhand," he asked softly between bites,

  "have you been so lucky - sorry, favored of Clanggedin - as to have gone your entire life through

  always knowing exactly what you're doing and what the right thing to do is and what everything means

  and the consequences of all?"

  Delg glared at him, beard bristling. "D'you mock me, lad? Of course not"

  "Well, then," Narm said mildly, "you will understand how we feel, doing our best with what the gods

  have given us, beset by foes and wandering lost in the wilderness, far from aid and wise advice. Uh,

  save yours."

  Shandril laughed helplessly. Delg turned back to look at her, sighed theatrically, rolled his eyes for

  good measure, and said, "Right. I stand corrected. Thy panfry awaits, great lord." He bowed to Narm,

  waving with the pan at a nearby rock. "If you'll be seated, herewith we two can sate our hunger and

  discuss how best to feed your lady without having her spewing it all back at us."

  The morning sun shone down bright and clear through the trees of Shadowdale, leaf-shadows dappling

  the rocks on the rising flanks of Harpers' Hill. Storm's blade flashed back its brightness as she slid the

  steel edge along the whetting stone. The Bard of Shadowdale sat thoughtfully under a tree, putting a

  better edge on her old and battered long sword. She kept silent, for that was the way Elminster seemed

  to want it, this morn.

  The Old Mage stood looking east, whence a cool breeze was rising. His eyes flashed as blue as the sky

  as he raised the plain wooden staff he bore, and the staff seemed to glow for a moment in answer. The

  wind rose, and the wizard's long white beard and mane stirred with the rustle and dance of the leaves

  all around. Elminster was muttering things under his breath, using his old and deep voice, and Storm

  knew that her sister, on her throne in far-off Aglarond, heard them and was whispering words back.

  None other was meant to hear them. Storm took care that she did not, for that was the way she was.

  Elminster stopped speaking and smiled. The wind died away again, and birds rose from the trees

  around, twittering. The Old Mage stared eastward, unmoving. Storm watched him, frowning a little.

  She knew him well enough to see the sadness hidden behind his eyes. The Old Mage stood silent and

  motionless for long minutes.

  When Storm began to grow stiff and the edge on her sword threatened to become brittle and over-

  sharp, she slid her shining blade softly into its sheath and went to him.

  Elminster turned to her thoughtfully. "I thought," he said slowly, his eyes very blue, "I'd put such love

  behind me, long ago. Why do I keep finding it again? It makes the times apart from her" - he turned

  away to stare into the green shadows under the trees - "lonely indeed."

  Storm put a hand on his arm. "I know. It's a long walk back from Harpers' Hill. That's why I came."

  In silence one old, long-fingered hand closed over hers and squeezed his thanks, and together they went

  down the twisting trail through the trees.

  "Ready? We'd best be off, then. Even with spellfire to fell our foes, it's a long way to Silverymoon, an'

  we're not out of the Zhents' reach yet." As he spoke, Delg hoisted a pack that bulged with food, pots,

  and pans onto his should
ers.

  Shandril put on her own pack, but said softly as she came up beside the dwarf. "No ... we haven't any

  spellfire to fell our foes. I'm not going to use it again."

  Delg's head jerked around to look up at her, but it was Narm who spoke, astonished. "Shan? Are you

  crazed? What - why?

  His lady's eyes were moist when she looked up at him, but her voice was flat with determination.

  "I'm not going to go through my life killing people. Even Zhents and others who wish me ill. It's ... not

  right. What would the Realms be like if Elminster walked around just blasting anyone he chose to?"

  "Very much as it is now for you - if everyone he met tried to kill or capture him," Narm said with

  sudden heat. "Folk have more sense than to attack the mightiest archmage in all the Heartlands."

  "But not enough to leave alone one maid who happens to have spellfire - "the gift of the gods.'"

  Shandril's tone made a cruel mockery of that quotation. She looked away into the distance - "I... hate-

  all this. Having folk hate me.. . fear me ... and always feeling the fire surging inside. . . ."

  "You're not the first maid who's been afraid of things, you know," Delg said.

  Shandril's head snapped up. "Afraid?"

  "Aye, afraid," the dwarf said softly. "You're afraid of what you wield. Afraid of how good it feels to

  use it, I should say ... and of what you might do with it-and become in the doing."

  "No!" Shandril said, shaking her head violently. "That's not it at all!" She raised blazing eyes to glare

  into his own. "How can you know what I feel?"

  The dwarf shrugged. "I've seen your face when you're hurling spellfire. One look is enough."

  Shandril stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed, and then buried her face in her hands. The small,

  twisted sound of a despairing sob escaped between her fingers, and they saw her shoulders shake.

  Then Narm's arms were around her. "Shan, love," he said soothingly, trying to calm her. "Shan-easy,

  now. Easy. We both love you. Delg's telling truth, as he sees it ... and truth's never an easy thing to

  hear. Shan?"