"So Arauntar and Beldimarr in Orthil's guard are Harpers," Narm muttered, "and will be watching for us.

What about this Orthil himself? Did Tess say-?"

"She called him a good man," Shandril said thoughtfully. "She did not say he was a Harper or knew anything about us-or that he could be trusted with… our secret."

She glanced around and back behind them, knowing that Narm had already done so but wanting to be sure for herself. The little valley opened up before them, and it might have snakes or even something as large as a fox skulking in its grasses… but of ores or brigands or stalking dead tomb-things there was no sign.

The maid of Highmoon gazed at the hills ahead and the glorious deep blue sky above, flecked with just a few lazily drifting wisps of white cloud, and sighed.

"Tired of all this running?" Narm asked quietly. "Yes," Shandril told him quietly. "Very tired of it." She looked north again, as far as she could see, to where distant mountain peaks rose-a few to seaward, just north of Water-deep, but most over to the north and east, in the northern backlands. "You'd think, in all the wide Realms," she said wistfully, "there'd be a place for Narm and Shandril to dwell in happiness, free of the hundreds of evil, greedy folk who want the spellfire wench dead."

Narm nodded grimly and said nothing, but his hand went out to hers and squeezed it comfortingly. Shandril sighed again. "Zhentarim, a few Red Wizards of Thay, Dragon Cultists, the odd ambitious wizard, these shape shifters, too-is there no end to folk who want to snatch my spellfire, and me with it?" she asked bitterly.

"We could stay priestesses of Chauntea for the rest of our days," Narm said quietly. "I'd do that without a moment's regret, if you'd be happy. We could find a farm somewhere.