The mage worked invisibility upon himself, then cautiously eased the door open a crack. The corridor beyond seemed empty. He stole forth and looked about.

Better and better, he thought. Ilthond muttered a spell of flight and rose high to drift unseen along the corridor and search. No guards… why? Was Shadowdale truly so lax and careless a place as all that? No, there must be some strife or alarm…

Around the corner came a dozen guards with drawn swords and forbidding, intent glares. Ilthond moved over and past them in careful silence. Where might the young maid be? The tower’s mortar was mixed with substances to prevent scrying, but he was sure he’d find her anyway.

Perhaps she was up in the plainer but more secure rooms of the levels above, or down below, as befitted a guest of importance. The greater risk probably lay downward- but so, too, did almost all chances of learning who was where, and doing what. Ah well, a short, risky road leads fastest to the top, they say…,

Ilthond reached the stairs and headed down, keeping near the sloping stone ceiling. Carefully and quietly he went, like a silent shadow. He searched, nosing through rooms and along halls, flitting back and forth with patient care not to be brushed against or seen by those who might be able to detect him.

He had come down a long hall where the torches burned every twenty paces, and there at one end humans in rich garb stood or knelt near two who lay side by side on the ground. Ilthond came closer slowly, silently, straining to hear from afar.

“How d’ye feel?” Rathan growled. “Better, I trust?”

Shandril nodded, slowly. “My head still aches. But my thanks, indeed, good Rathan. Again I am in your debt for healing me when I lay stricken.”

“Not in my debt,” Rathan corrected. “The Lady it is whom ye owe.” He traced a circle about the disc upon his breast with the middle finger of his right hand.

“Yes, I shall not forget the Lady’s favor,” Shandril replied. “How is Narm?”

Rathan looked over at Narm. “He sleeps. Best to let him sleep on. But you must try your spellfire,” he said gently.

Shandril had come up to her elbows. She now drew her legs under her and extended her hand. From her spread fingers spellfire spat, crackling down the hall in a long tongue of flame. She ended it almost immediately, and it died away, curling into air. “As before,” she said briefly. “I can still-”

A pain-wracked groan came out of empty air down the hall. Florin and Mourngrym drew blades instantly and stepped in front of Shandril to shield her. Shaerl drew her dagger and reached out with its pommel to pound a gong close at hand.

Its echoes had barely died away before the form of a robed man with hawkish features and glossy black hair came into view in midair. His face was twisted with pain, his robe still smoldered, his shoulder and breast were burned bare. He hissed the word that unleashed the power of the wand in his hand.

Lightning sprang into being and a forked bolt struck both Florin and Mourngrym. The Lord of Shadowdale staggered aside and fell heavily, blade clattering. Shaerl cried out and ran to him. Florin, too, fell, driven to his knees by the energy hurled against him, but he was struggling up into a weak charge, face black with pain and effort. Shandril stood up and lashed out in heartsick anger with spellfire.

“Wherever I go!” she said bitterly, on the verge of tears. “Always, beset! Always friends and companions hurt! You come seeking spellfire? Well, then-have it!” Spellfire roared out of her in a tumbling inferno that lasted for but a breath but raged down the hallway in a blistering wall that swept over the flying mage like a wave crashing over rocks in a storm.

Narm had awoken, looking dazed. He struggled to his knees to work art, to protect his lady from this new menace. His hands halted in midair as he gazed at the blackened, crippled thing that the spellfire left behind on the scorched rugs of the hall.

Shandril raised a hand again as the man moved weakly and twisted cooked lips in hissing words of art, but she did not unleash her flames. The head sank down between smoking shoulders that shook with pain. The mage vanished, gone as though he had never been. Only the smoldering of rugs showed where he had lain.

“Wherever we go,” Shandril said wearily, turning to Rathan, “your healing services are needed. I hope you will not grow tired of it all before this comes to an end.”

“Lady” Rathan said as he hastened to where Mourngrym lay. “This never ends, I fear. Worry not about my patience-it is what I walk these Realms for.” He knelt by the Lord of Shadowdale, and looked back at her over one shoulder. “You do a most impressive job, I must say,” he added with the barest trace of a grin.

Jhessail arrived then, robes held high as she sprinted along in the forefront of a large group of guards. “Shandril?” she cried. “Florin? Mourngrym?” Merith was at her side, blade out.

“Healing, we need,” Rathan said. “The time for blasting and all that is past.” He looked up. “Send ye four guardsmen for Eressea at the temple… I have no more power to heal now, and Mourngrym yet needs it.” Jhessail spun about to relay his orders and then back to face them all.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Another mage. Flying about, this one was, and invisible. Shandril touched him with spellfire purely by chance when I asked her to test her powers. He struck Florin and Mourngrym with lightning from a wand. Shandril burned him but did not slay him. He teleported away,” Rathan explained. Jhessail looked at Shandril and then sighed.

“You stew him not?” she asked.

Shandril nodded, eyes on hers. “I could not,” she said. “It was… horrible. Who knows? He may have meant me no harm at all.”

Jhessail nodded. “I cannot fault you,” she said slowly. “Yet I bid you remember this: when you fight, art to art, seek to slay-and mind you finish the job. An enemy who escapes will return for revenge.”

“Aye,” said Shaerl, eyes hot. “A man who dared to strike down my lord lives yet! I blame you not, Shandril. It must be terrible to hold such death within you, always knowing you can slay. Yet, if that man were within my grasp right now, I would not hesitate to strike and slay. One who would harm my Mourngrym does not deserve to live.”

As she spoke, they heard the sounds of running feet. A guardsman reached the head of the stairs, yelling, “Lord Mourngrym! Lady Shaerl!”

Shaerl turned. “Say on.”

“My lady, the prisoner is gone! We had him in the cell, and his hands were bound-yet he vanished before our eyes!”

“The man Culthar?” Shaerl asked. “How could this happen?” She turned to Jhessail, and then back to the guard at Jhessail’s calm-faced nod. “My thanks. I hold you blameless. Return to your post, with our thanks.”

The guard nodded, bowed, and hurried off.

Jhessail shrugged. “A teleport ring, perhaps, or even a rogue stone. There may be other ways of art Elminster and I don’t yet know. All would require outside aid. The Zhentarim, perhaps, or the priests of Bane. He was the eyes for someone, here in the tower” She spread her hands with a ghost of a smile. “All the ravens are gathering.”

Shaerl sighed. “Yes, I’m growing tired of it.”

Rathan looked up. “Ye’re growing tired of it! What of we who heal?”

“Ah, but you have divine aid,” said Mourngrym weakly from below him. “Mind you see to Florin, too,” the Lord of Shadowdale added. “I need him healthy and alert.”

The man who had declined the lordship of Shadowdale, and led the knights from their early days, was leaning against a wall in pain-wracked silence. “Florin?” Jhessail hailed him tentatively, as she drew near. “Are you badly hurt?”

“As usual.” Florin’s voice was rueful, and he lowered it so that only she could hear his next words, so faintly that she almost missed them. “I fear I am growing too old for this constant battle, Jhess. It’s not the thrill it used to be.”