Ed Greenwood - Swords of Eveningstar

If she found no way out of Espar, such would be her lot. No choice and no escape. Her friends might dream large and dare little-but they were all she had. And, gods smile, they ached to get out of Espar just as much as she did.

Not to leave it behind forever, or shun its beauty. Just to have horse and coin and life enough elsewhere to ride in and out of it as she pleased, to go hither and thither, to make her own life and not be doomed only to being a man’s drudge. Or a lass-lover dwelling in some abandoned steading or other on the edge of the Stonelands with other women too bitter or scarred to want any man, drudging together to farm the days and seasons through, to have enough to eat.

Never to have the Art that stirred betimes thrillingly within her, even to glowing and crackling at her fingertips, be more than untapped restlessness, a wild might-have-been that would earn her the mistrusting spy-watch of the war wizards, a fell reputation among respectable folk… and yearnings unfulfilled.

Jhessail sighed and whispered to the moon, “Lady of Silver, I beg of you, speak of me to Mystra, that she show me what to do about the Art that kindles in me! I am not worthy to ask this, yet must, for the Art stirs in me and has firm hold of my heart and hopes. I, Jhessail Silvertree, beg this.”

It was an entreaty she had made so many nights before. And would again, for there was nothing so glorious as when the Art stirred in her and surged through her, and her mind and eyes flickered blue-white and alive with power…

She sighed again, a soft moan of longing that sent her plunging into memories of spell-sparks drifting from her, the cool fire coiling in her throat, the fear and awe on the faces of her friends as her first fumbling attempts to work spells did something, and ended their snorts and jeers forever.

She remembered the hope being born in their eyes as they looked at little Twoteeth-nay, at her paltry yet wondrous attempts to call up the Art-and saw in her their own road out of Espar. For if she could truly be a mage, they could truly be adventurers, and charter or no, dare to seek their fortunes across the Realms, through chance, daring, and drawn blades. ’Twas said adventurers earned high coin in Sembia, just the other side of the Thunder Peaks.

Jhessail closed her eyes against the moon, the better to chase memories of those moments of magic leaping through her… hoping, just perhaps, if she remembered vividly enough, the Art would stir again, or Mystra would send her a sign, or Spell-sparks and swirling blue-white flames roiled and eddied in her memories-then, astonishingly, slid aside to show her a face she knew.

Clumsum. Doust, his dark blue eyes twinkling at her, an unseen breeze stirring his brown hair as he said something silent and unheard to her. A memory she could not quite recall the where and when of, though ’twas probably the day he’d told her he was giving himself to Lady Luck. The quietest and kindest of them all, never terse like Islif, and lacking Semoor’s nasty streak-except when word-dueling Semoor himself. Yes, there was his symbol of the goddess, held proudly up for her to see: a silver coin, large, heavy, and smoothly featureless as all novice priests’ holinesses of Tymora were. He’d not be given one with the face of the goddess on it until he’d proven himself worthy in her service.

He was probably jesting, the dry, deadpan mirth that was incredible given all the beatings he’d suffered under his father’s drunken fists. A shadowy line of whiskers across Doust’s upper lip and along the line of his jaw told the world what a youngling he was-and warred with his eyes, that proclaimed just as firmly to those who bothered to look into them what an old wise soul he was.

Then Doust’s face turned into Semoor, grinning at her. Nay, let’s be honest: leering at her. It was he-Stoop, from the bent-over way he carried himself from so much time fishing, slumped bonelessly over his rod-who dubbed her ‘Flamehair,’ and first told her she was beautiful, and that he wanted her.

They’d both been all of nine summers old at the time, and Semoor was already a schemer and sneering cynic. She remembered him, grinning that same twisted grin, facing down a shouting drover with the bored words he used so often: “Impress me, cow the wind, awe yon dog.”

Even more ox-beef of build than his best friend Doust, peering at the world past that unfortunately large vulture-beak nose. Dancing brown eyes to match his shoulder-length brown hair. Sly, loud, and quick where Doust was quiet and aloof, a natural to take the robes of a priest of Lathander-if he strayed not to the dark worship of Mask instead.

Sharp-tongued, always chuckling. Always telling her he’d not mind bedding “little Jhess Flamehair, fairest flower of all Espar.” Never seeming to mind her refusals, but not ceasing his hints and outright requests, either. Surprisingly, fascinated by elves, and always having a smile and wave for any of the Fair Folk he saw.

And when Semoor looked at folk, he seemed to always see them as they truly were, staring past lies, deceptions, and grand talk.

Two friends who saw priesthoods as their roads out of Espar. Even if they never dared adventure, there were shrines and temples to Lathander and Tymora in cities and towns all across Faerun, and holy service could take them far from quiet Espar.

As could the sword. That glorious blade Islif had waved under their noses today… the blue sheen of the steel, the longsword so heavy, solid, and deadly sharp as it flashed so close to her face, the sword that could do more to foes with one swing of Islif’s brawny arms and shoulders than all her own halting cantrips and scraps of spells, with a day to fuss and prepare and hurl them in.

Yet every trudging Purple Dragon had a sword, and most every grown man in Espar, too. Battered old blades, most of them, dark and marred from use, probably most often used to hack vermin, slash stubborn knots, or poke fallen food out of the fire before the flames made it entirely ash, if truth be told.

Yet Islif’s sword was different.

It was a glittering thing, sleek and made to deal death, with nothing “everyday” about it. Just like Islif.

Islif was more man than lass, with her broad shoulders and rippling muscles, her eyes icy gray, her brows dark, and herself always alert. Close-mouthed, strong enough to hurl men back or trade blows with them and stand tall as the victor, breaking jaws and showing fear to no man. Slow to anger, genuinely amused by most insults, and more like a striding sword-commander than any Purple Dragon Jhess had yet seen; when cottages caught fire or the winter wolves came raiding, Islif snapped orders at men twice her age, and was obeyed.

Jhess was a little afraid of her, and had admired her hunting skills and the way she stood up to men for years. Those large, raw hands could whittle a knob of wood with surprising grace, too, using a belt knife as deftly as any man shaving his jowls for a wedding, to make a tiny bear, or boar, or deer with its head raised. And then, silently, Islif would toss it away, or find a child’s hand to drop it into. If Cormyr ever needed a warrior-queen, it had Islif Lurelake.

Yet taller than Islif, and far grander of voice, manner, and looks-yet free of the superior pride that such god-gifts usually awakened in men who owned them-stood the best among them all, Florin Falconhand.

Florin could be a king, if Cormyr ever needed one of those.

Jhessail sighed, opening her eyes to gaze at the moon again.

She saw its glow, but somehow that glow was around Florin’s square-jawed, handsome face. Blue-gray eyes, quiet yet forceful, curly brown hair and shoulders as broad and as muscled as Islif’s. Kind, dignified, never saying anything remotely as rude or jovial as Semoor at his usual.