In quiet haste, they gathered their gear and led their mounts and mules into the night. Westward Narm and Shandril followed Rathan, pace by careful pace, over rolling ground.

Torm caught them up before long. “The fire’s scattered and out. I can find no one else following, but listen sharp everyone.”

“It seems I’ll be doing that the rest of my life,” Shandril said in a bitter whisper.

Torm put his head close to hers. The faint light of Selune caught his teeth as he grinned. “You might even get used to it. Who knows?”

“Who indeed,” she replied, pulling a reluctant Shield up an uneven slope in the dark.

“Not much farther now” Rathan said soothingly from up ahead. Loose stones clacked underfoot, and then Rathan said in quiet satisfaction, “Here. This place will do.”

Shandril fell into sleep as if it were a great black pit, and she never stopped falling. She awoke with the smell of frying boar in her nostrils. Narm had just kissed her. Shandril murmured contentment and embraced him sleepily as she stretched. He smelled good.

Close at hand, a merry voice said, “Works like a charm, it does. Can I try it? Shandril, will you go back to sleep for a moment?”

Shandril sighed. “Torm, do you never stop?”

“Not until I’m dead, good lady. Irritating I may be, but Tm never dull.”

“Aye,” Rathan rumbled. “Thou art many things, but never dull.”

“Fair morning to you both,” Shandril laughed.

“Well met, lady,” Rathan answered her. “Thy dawnfry awaits thee… simple fare, I fear, but enough to ride on. We were not bothered again in the night, but ye had best watch sharp today. It will not be long before those bodies are found.”

Narm looked around at the grassy hills. “Where exactly are we?”

“West of the road, in the hills west of Featherdale,” Rathan supplied. “Turn about. Do ye see that gray shadow-like smoke-on the horizon? That is Arch Wood. Between here and there lies an old, broad valley with no river to speak of anymore. That’s Tasseldale. I would not go down into the valley. Though it’s a pleasant place, indeed, with many fine shops and friendly folk, it is also full of people ye want to avoid. Nay, keep to the heights along the valley’s northern edge.

“There, ye’ll meet with no more than a shepherd or two and perhaps a Mairshar patrol. Tell them-they police the dale and always ride twelve strong-that ye’re from Highmoon, going home, Shandril, with this mage ye met in Hillsfar. Call thyself ‘Gothal,’ or something, Narm. Stick to the truth about Gorstag and the inn, lady, and ye’ll fare the better. Give no information to any others until ye meet with the elves of Deepingdale.”

“Elves?” Shandril asked, astonished.

“Aye, elves. Don’t ye know anything of Deepingdale, where ye grew up?” Rathan’s voice was incredulous.

“No,” Shandril told him. “Only the inn. I saw half-elven, under arms, when I left with the company, but no elves.”

“I see. Know ye that the present Lord of Highmoon is the half-elven hero of battles Theremen Ulath, just so ye don’t say the wrong thing.” The burly cleric rose and pulled on his helm. “Now eat. The day grows old.”

They ate, and soon the time came when all was ready, and Rathan sighed and said heavily, “Well, the time has borne. We must leave ye.”

He turned on his heel to look southwest. “One day’s ride should take ye to the west end of Tasseldale, in the Dun Hills. That’s one camp. Keep a watch-sleeping together for indoors. Peace, Torm, no jests now. Another day’s careful riding west-just keep Arch Wood to the left of ye, whatever else ye come upon-will bring thee to Deepingdale. Ye can press on after dark once ye’ve found the road, and make The Rising Moon before morning. All right?”

They nodded, hearts full.

“Good then,” Rathan went on in gruff haste, “and none of that weeping, now.” He held out a wineskin to Narm. “For thy saddle.” He fumbled at the large pouch at his hip and brought out a disc of shining silver upon a fine chain and hung it about Shandril’s neck, kissing her on the forehead. “Tymora’s good luck go with thee” he said.

Torm stepped forward next. “Take this,” he said, “and bear it most carefully. It is dangerous.” He held out a cheap, gaudy medallion of brass, set askew with glued-in cut glass stones on a brass chain of mottled hue that did not match the medallion. He put it about Narm’s neck.

“What is it?” Narm asked.

“Look at it now,” Torm said, “lake care how you touch it.” Narm looked. About his neck was no cheap medallion, but a finely detailed, twist-linked chain of heavy work. Upon it hung two small, golden globes, with a larger one between them. “This is magical,” Torm said, “and keep it clear of spellfire or any fiery art, or it may slay you. We call it a necklace of missiles. You, and only you, can twist off one of these globes and hurl it. When it strikes, it bursts as a mage’s fireball does; mind you are not too close. The larger globe is of greater power than the other two. It needs no ritual or words of command to work. Keep it safe; you’ll need it, some day… probably sooner than you think.” He patted Narm’s elbow awkwardly. “Fare you both well,” he said.

The knights mounted, saluted them with bared blades, tossed two small flasks of water, wheeled their mounts, and galloped away. Hooves thudded briefly upon the earth and then died away and were gone.

Narm and Shandril looked at each other, eyes bright and cheeks wet, and slowly embraced. “We really are alone now, my love,” Narm said softly. “We have only each other.”

“Yes,” said Shandril softly. “And that will do.” She kissed him long and deeply before she spun away, leaped into her saddle, and said briskly, “Come on! The sun waits not, and we must ride!”

Narm grinned at her and ran to his own saddle.” Spitfire!” he called as he swung himself up.

Shandril raised her eyebrows and spat fire, obediently, in a long rolling plume that winked out just in front of him. The horses snorted in alarm, and she grinned. “Ah yes,” she agreed, “but thy lady.” She looked west then and tossed her hair from her eyes. “Now,” she commanded, lifting her chin, “let us away!”

Away they sped from that place, leaving only trampled grass and silent, unseen spectral warriors.

The stars were clear and cold outside, but Elminster saw them not. He gazed into a twinkling sphere of crystal on the table before him in the upper room of his tower. Within the crystal he saw a rich, red-carpeted chamber with tapestries of red and silver and gold, a fine, roaring fire, and a lady in a black, tattered gown sitting at a table, gazing back at him.

“Well met, sage, and welcome,” she said with the faintest of smiles.

“Well met, lady queen and mage. Thank ye for allowing this intrusion.”

“Few enough call upon me, old mage, and fewer still do so without some plan to harm or hamper me. I thank you.”

Elminster inclined his head politely. “I have further thanks for thee this night, lady. Thank ye for protecting Narm and Shandril on several occasions-possibly more- these past few days. I am most grateful.”

The Simbul gave him a rare smile. “My pleasure, again.” There was the briefest of silences, and then the old mage asked a careful question.

“Why did ye aid them so, when the maid is such a threat to thy magic, and with it, the survival of Aglarond-and of thee?”

The Simbul smiled. “I know the prophecy of Alaundo and what it may mean. I like Shandril.” She looked away for a moment, and then back at the old mage. “I have a question for you, Elminster. Answer not if you would not. Is Shandril the child of Garthond Shessair and the incantratrix Dammasae?”

Elminster nodded. “I am not certain, lady, but it is very likely.”

An eyebrow lifted. “Not certain? Did you not hide the girl and shelter her as she grew?”

Elminster shook his head very slowly. “Nay. Not I.”