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commanded. "No more butchery is necessary." Wildly waving their swords, they
skidded to a halt only feet from the old mage. They cast quick glances back to
ensure that this was not some illusion of their enemy's. "Put the steel away,"
the old mage said wearily and went to his knees beside Symgharyl Maruel. "The
time for all that is past." As he spoke, she collapsed on her face with a
groan, the wand clattering away on the rocks.
Gently he took the broken body under the shoulders and turned it until The
Shadowsil lay face-up in his lap. Florin and Merith watched in astonishment,
the elf s blade still wavering uneasily in his hand.
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
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now. I cannot learn this 'good' you stand for." The Shadow sil'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 offlind And all she
has been crumbles away
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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.1" 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 Shan-dril, 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 Nairn'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
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all that." The sobs under the young apprentice's encircling arms died slowly
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