"

"Yes, and die there the moment our disguises slipped or someone took a good look at us," Shandril said wearily. "No, I want to get to Silverymoon, hear whatever wise counsel High Lady Alustriel sees fit to impart to us… and join the Harpers. Join because I've earned it, and they want me, and my-powers-can be of use to them. I can't hide from myself any better than I can hide from all the spellfire hunters."

She kicked at a stone, which rolled over obligingly to reveal nothing of interest, and added, "Fm in a cage, and my death- or the deaths of all who seek spellfire-are the only doors out."

Narm sighed. "Shan, don't talk like that," he pleaded. "I'll be here for you, I'll fix things somehow…"

Shandril's eyes were swimming as she looked back at him and shook her head, ever so slightly. "Don't think I don't love you or want you with me, Narm. You're all I have to cling to-but you're not Elminster or the Simbul or dread Larloch, and you never will be. It might take all of them together to smash down every last seeker-after-spellfire, even if such folk could be known on sight and obligingly thrust forward to be seen and struck down. And what if Elminster or the Simbul or Larloch suddenly decides that they want spellfire?"

She drew in a deep breath and added in a small voice, "I'm not going to live very long, Narm, so if I want something, please give it to me or get for me. It may be the only chance 111 have to enjoy it, ever."

"Shan," Narm said roughly, taking her by the shoulders and swinging her around to face him, "please! Don't talk like that! Doom doesn't stand so close!"

"Oh?" Shandril asked him, in a voice that trembled on the edge of tears. "How so? Can you answer me this: Is there anywhere in all Faerun for someone who wields spellfire to hide?"

A Little Trouble Lately