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"Too high already," agreed the cleric Salvarad in a soft voice that warned of
sharp things beneath its purr. The triple lightning bolts of Talcs, worked in
silver, gleamed upon his breast. "Yet, brothers, consider the cost if it
becomes
widely known that a young girl a young girl who commands an unusual and
powerful
ability of art has defied us and destroyed so many of us! Can we afford to
let
her go at any price now? What think you?"
"Oh, aye, for the cost of a loss of reputation, let her go," Zilvreen said.
"What loss is that? A few butcherings and mannings and menaces and that sort
of
loss is mended, at least among those folk with whom it works at all. But can
we
afford to pass up our chance of wielding spellfire, when our enemies could
end
up using it against us? There is the real price, brothers."
"\fes, we cannot afford to face this spellfire that we have seen clearly. But
we
cannot let our foes gain it!" one of the warriors said. The man beside him
turned to look in surprise.
"You think your enemies can stand against it? Hah! I've heard it whispered
that
Manshoon of Zhentil Keep was put to flight by this girl! I say we keep our
ranks
safe and war no more upon this Shandril unless time and Tymora weaken her so
that our chances are improved. Let others go after her and be the weaker for
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it!
We shall reap the reward of their folly as the vulture dines upon the fields
of
fallen.
"Swords have got us where we are today. Aye, not without art and divine
favor,
I'll grant, but swords have kept rulers and bandits at bay. We do not need
this
spellfire. Waste not our best blood on it!"
"Well said, Guindeen. Yet," Salvarad responded, "can we afford to let our
foes
win spellfire to wield against us? We should all then be destroyed."
"You bring us to the hard choice, indeed," Naergoth Blade-lord said quietly,
"and that brings us to the choice behind it: Who wants to go up against this
young maid?" He looked around the table, but the silence that followed grew
heavy.
No one moved or spoke. After a very long time, Naergoth said softly, "So be
it.
We are agreed. We put spellfire behind us and go on to work for the greater
glory of the dead dragons in other ways."
There were reluctant nods, but no one said anything. It is difficult to laugh
at
fear when one regularly dealt it often to others.
They rode west, steadily. Narm peered warily all about as they traveled,
expecting another attack. But Shandril found this forest somehow friendlier
than
the Elven Court. Amid the thick tangle of trunks and gnarled limbs, one could
see into the deep, hidden places. Vines hung in spidery tangles from high
branches to trunks. Ferns grew thick upon the ground, broken only in places
where limbs had fallen.
Shandril looked here and there, at moss upon rocks and trunks, and at great
thick trees as large about as some cottages. But Narm saw only danger,
possible
ambushes, and concealing shadows. But as the day grew older and no attack
came,
he too began to enjoy the road to Deepingdale.
"It is beautiful," he said, as they came to the crest of a gentle rise in the
road and saw sunlight streaming down through the trees in a small clearing.
"Aye," Shandril said in a small voice. "I've never seen these woods before,
even
though I lived just a day's ride from here." She peered about. "Sometimes I
wish
I'd never known this spellfire, and I could Just come home now with you,
instead
of fleeing a hundred or more half-mad mages."
"Why not stay?" Narm replied. "You have the power to slay a hundred half-mad
mages."
Shandril sighed. "Aye, maybe. But I'd lose the dale and my friends and even
you,
I don't doubt, in the process. Power-
ful mages always seem to destroy things about them. They work worse
devastation
than forest fires and brigands. Sometimes I think life would be much simpler
without art."
"I said that to Elminster," Narm replied, "and he said not so. If I could see
the strange worlds he's walked, he said, I'd understand."
"No, thank you," Shandril replied. "I've troubles enough, it seems, in this
world." The road rose again through a leafy tunnel of old oaks, then gave way
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to
an open area.
Narm and Shandril rode close and quiet, side by side, looking all about them
for
danger. Tiny, whiplike branches that had fallen from the trees above lay amid
the dead leaves and tangled grass and ferns like thin, dark faerie fingers,
waiting to clutch or snap underfoot. They rode on, and still no attack came,
nor
did they meet travelers upon the road.
"This is eerie," Shandril said. "Where is everyone?"
"Elsewhere, for once," Narm said. "Be thankful, and ride while we have the
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