Florin drew off his gauntlets as he squatted, facing Elminster across the body of the foe who had sought to slay them all but a breath or two ago. “Elminster;’ he asked gravely, “what are you about?”

Symgharyl Maruel opened her eyes at the sound of Florin’s voice and stared dully up at them, as one who has traveled a very long way. She spat blood weakly, and her eyes found Elminster. “Master,” she hissed, blood bubbling horribly in her throat. “I-hurt.” The last word was almost a sob. “Little flower,” Elminster whispered gently as she drew a shuddering breath, “I am here.” At his words, she coughed blood and began to cry weakly, the tears running down her cheeks as the knights gathered about in astonished silence. “If ye lie quiet,” the sage murmured, “I shall see if I can find art enough yet in my tower to heal thee.” He clasped her hand gently and began to slide out from beneath her. One feeble hand plucked at his sleeve, and the mage the knights had all hated or feared mastered her tears.

“No,” she told him firmly, eyes burning upon his, “promise me you shall not bring me back… I am too set to change now. I cannot learn this ‘good’ you stand for.” The Shadowsil’s eyes closed; her head fell back wearily. Then her eyes flickered. “Promise,” she hissed, hands trembling on his.

“Aye, Symgharyl Maruel, I promise thee,” Elminster told her gravely, stroking her shoulder almost absently with one old hand. Symgharyl Maruel smiled.

“Good, then,” she said, voice trailing away. ‘“Ware my belt… it has a poisoned buckle. One more thing,” she added, voice a hissing ruin now. Elminster leaned close to the bloody lips to hear, and the failing hands gripped his robes until they grew as white as The Shadowsil’s face.

The mage raised herself, her body shaking with the effort. Dark eyes shone defiantly once at them all, and then her head reached Elminster’s shoulder. She clung there, shaking like a leaf in a gale, and then leaned forward to kiss his cheek, softly and yet fiercely. “I love you. I wish I could have had you.” And The Shadowsil turned her head against his chest, smiled, then died.

There was silence for the space of many breaths while the old mage sat motionless, cradling the still body in his arms. The slim hands loosened their hold on him, but Elminster held her. No one moved or spoke. All stood waiting. From Elminster there came no sound.

After a time, the sage looked up, laid his burden gently upon the stones beneath, and slowly rose to his feet. Symgharyl Maruel’s bone-white face was still smiling, but it was wet with the old man’s tears. 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 leavetaking, 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 offland. 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 lingered. I shaped an illusion, and she came into it to bid me-all of you-good-bye.” The mage turned to Rathan. “Thy holy water, good brother?”

Rathan nodded and stepped forward, unclasping a flask from his belt reverently. A scorched smell from The Shadowsil’s fireball hung about his clothing and he moved with the careful stiffness of the newly healed. At the mage’s gesture, the flames of the pyre sank and died, and Rathan doused the charred bones from head to foot. Gray smoke rose and slowly drifted away.

Then Elminster removed his cloak, and Florin and Lanseril stepped forward to lay the bones upon it as soon as they were cool. Jhessail joined her voice with the old mage’s in a prayer to Mystra. When it was done, Elminster caught his cloak up in a bundle and said, “All well, friends? Rathan? Torm? Ye took it the worst, if memory serves.”

“Well enough,” the cleric replied, and Torm agreed with a terse, “Yes.” Elminster nodded.

“Well, get thy treasure and let us see to Shandril. I would be gone from here as soon as she can safely travel-wyrms who are not as dead as they should be seem to have a distressing habit of showing up here to visit.” With that, the old mage rose with his bundle and went over to Shandril, puffing on his pipe thoughtfully. “I wonder just who shall call upon us next?” he said aloud, looked down at the bundle be bore, and shook his head suddenly.