by Ed Greenwood
He thumped a flagstone with his fist and tried to rise. Halfway upright, he grunted, stiffened, and sank back down. Flames tumbled out of his mouth in a little, rolling puff. He fell back full length on the blackened flagstones, fires flickering here and there along his body. Then there was a sudden whirlwind of blue-white flame where the Old Mage lay—and he vanished, leaving the bare floor behind.
Shandril made a small, startled sound in her throat. The two women stared at the empty place where Elminster had been, and then at each other. Storm shook her head.
“Gods … to see the Old Mage so hurt; does your power challenge the gods, Shan?”
Shandril turned to her and began to cry. “No, Storm. No. If it did, I’d still have my Narm!”
Narm lay sprawled on the floor, face gray, hands spread in a last, futile effort to help her.
Shandril looked at him once and then buried herself in Storm’s embrace. It was all over; Narm dead, Delg gone, her dreams shattered, Manshoon’s slaying only a passing satisfaction, this place and her newfound friends here destroyed, even Elminster laid low … how could the gods be so cruel?
Shandril was sobbing bitterly against Storm’s chest when priests in the robes of Lathander burst up the stairs into the room, led by a soot-smudged Tessaril and a pair of Purple Dragon guards with frightened, grim faces and drawn swords.
Storm, in her burnt leathers, knelt with arms around the sobbing wielder of spellfire. She nodded at Tessaril in recognition and then said quietly, “There is nothing you can do here, now; all of you save Lord Tessaril, please leave us.”
Tessaril gestured silently to her soldiers in confirmation of these orders, and the men obediently filed back down the stairs. Their shocked expressions told Storm what the room around her must look like to those who hadn’t seen the battle.
When they were gone, Storm reached out to pat Tessaril’s shoulder in thanks and said quietly, “Shandril, there is something we must do.”
The Lord of Eveningstar looked down, unsmiling. She shuddered and reached out her hands.
Storm shook Shandril until she looked up through her bitter tears. The bard stared into her eyes and said, “There’s a chance we can save your Narm. Only a chance. We need your aid.”
Shandril nodded numbly, and the two women took hold of her hands and formed a kneeling ring around Narm’s body. They laid their free hands on her husband’s chest.
Then Storm looked up and said gravely, “We need your power, little one—slowly and steadily at first. Then give us more, carefully, and we shall see if your spellfire matches the fabled fire of old.”
White-faced and trembling, Shandril nodded. Tears of fire rained from her cheeks as the spellfire slowly curled down her arms.
As they knelt together over Narm, his body began to glow.
“The collective performance of the Brotherhood thus far has been a source of some amusement,” Xarlraun said, its deep voice cutting across the chamber, “but hardly effective.”
The beholder floated above the human Zhentarim gathered in the room. Deep in its shadow, Fzoul replied, “Aye. Manshoon is dead.”
“For how long, this time?”
“Forever, we believe.” Fzoul blinked his newly healed eyes, but was unable to keep a smile entirely from his face. “He may find it difficult to come back from death without any bodies to possess.”
“He had six or seven waiting.”
“Aye.” Fzoul bowed. “Unfortunately for our esteemed high lord, ‘had’ is the correct word.”
“I see,” the beholder said softly, drifting away. “The price of spellfire grows high indeed.”
Fzoul nodded. “I’ve ordered Sarhthor to call our magelings back from pursuing spellfire. Brotherhood trading concerns have been neglected, and immediate steps should be taken. Certain trade officials in Melvaunt, Ordulin, and Priapurl, for example, have lived too long.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the beholder. It sounded amused. “Is the hunt for spellfire over then?”
“Rather than becoming an attractive addition to our power, spellfire could well become the doom of the entire Brotherhood. It would certainly have done so, the way Manshoon was going about it. Its capture became his private obsession.”
Fzoul paused and looked around the chamber—at the upperpriests and Sarhthor, at the head of the surviving senior mages. His mouth tightened as he recalled Manshoon’s traitor agent, Ghaubhan Szaurr. He wondered briefly if the wizards had discovered his own agents among their ranks.
“Nonetheless, spellfire is too important to ignore. At the very least, we must destroy its source—how much longer can one young girl have such luck, after all?—or prevent our rivals in Mulmaster, Thay, Calimshan, and the Cult of the Dragon from seizing it. With or without us, the hunt for spellfire will continue.”
Fzoul turned and pointed at a certain mage as if coming to a sudden decision. Let them all think him as headstrong and arbitrary as Manshoon; it would lead to traitors revealing themselves before their plans were ready. The wizard Beliarge was too ambitious by far—and capable, too. It would be best to eliminate him now.
“You are our next chance, Beliarge. This Shandril is weaker now than she has ever been—and word has come to me that Elminster and the Harpers are no longer guarding her. All you need overcome is the Lord of Eveningstar, a woman who thinks herself something of a wizard. I’m sure you can prevail against the likes of her.”
Sarhthor stirred, but said nothing. Beliarge bowed and smiled.
With cold pride, the High Priest of the Black Altar looked around the chamber. At last the Brotherhood was under his command. It would be best not to make the same mistakes Manshoon’s arrogance had led him into. He gave them all a cold smile and asked, “Is there counsel anyone here would like to add? Ideas, disputes, or other business? I would like everyone to speak freely, without fear of reprisal—for we are truly a Brotherhood, not a tyranny.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Sarhthor spoke. “There is one thing more: a report from one who survived the failed attempt for spellfire in the Stonelands.”
Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “I did not know anyone had survived.”
Sarhthor nodded and gestured, dismissing a spell. The features of a mage standing behind him flowed and shifted—and Fzoul found himself looking at a woman who must have been stunningly beautiful before she became so burned and disheveled. Now she looked like a victim of a leprous infection that had eaten cruelly at her. Bristles of short hair adorned one side of that ruined head and locks hung long and silky down the other. Someone in the room hissed in revulsion.
“Who are you?” Fzoul asked briskly. Frightened eyes met his for a moment.
“Tespril, Lord. I’m—I was apprenticed to Gathlarue.”
Fzoul nodded. Gathlarue the Wonder Wizard, he’d heard that one called, who thought women should rule the Brotherhood but was so feeble-witted that she thought she could conceal her gender from her fellow Zhentarim. She’d led the attack at Irondrake Rock, hadn’t she?
“Greetings, Tespril,” he said coldly. “Tell us what befell at Irondrake Rock.”
She raised startled eyes for a moment—did the high priest know everything?—and began. “My mistress, accompanied by myself and her other apprentice, Mairara, was in Marsember on Brotherhood business, with ten and six Zhentilar as escort. We received orders to hunt Shandril Shessair after she entered Cormyr, and chased her through the Hullack Forest. She reached Irondrake Rock in the Stonelands before we caught up with her. It seemed to be her destination; I don’t know why.”
Fzoul raised his eyebrows but silently waited for her to continue.
Tespril stared at him uncertainly, then said, “My mistress decided the confined area Shandril and her companions had reached offered an excellent chance to defeat them.”
“How many companions had she?” an upperpriest asked sharply.
Tespril turned tired eyes on him. “Three,” she said. “The young mage who is her mate—he has no power to speak of�
��a dwarf, and a man named Mirt, whom we believe to be the same Mirt widely believed to be a Lord of Waterdeep.”
Fzoul’s eyes gleamed. Here was a chance for a fat ransom—or better, an agent in the City of Splendors under the magical control of the Brotherhood. He asked calmly, “Did they speak of meeting anyone?”
Tespril spread her hands. “Not that I heard. Dusk fell while they were still exploring the area, and my mistress decided to attack.”
“You failed,” Fzoul said flatly. “Why?”
“My mistress believed that the gargoyles she commanded—by means of rings she’d crafted—could defeat Shandril and her companions. Only Mirt, we believed, carried an enspelled weapon.” Tespril shook her head, remembering the horrors of the fight. “I—I fled after my mistress was slain. I think we killed the dwarf, and the Brotherhood should know that Gathlarue’s forcewall spell seemed to thwart the spellfire for a time. I saw most of the warriors killed; I doubt any of the Brotherhood survived but me.”
“How did you escape?” Sarhthor asked coldly. “You don’t have the power to use a teleport spell.”
Tespril looked at the floor. “I—I used one of the Brotherhood’s teleport rings.”
“Only Gathlarue among you was given such a device,” Fzoul said softly.
Tespril nodded. “I … stole it from her, before the fight. I was sure we’d lose.” Her gaze fell to the floor.
Fzoul turned away. “The Brotherhood thanks you for your foresight and your report. Sarhthor, you know what to do.”
Sarhthor nodded, face expressionless, and turned, waggling only one finger. Tespril made a short strangling sound in her throat before her body hit the floor.
“This meeting is ended,” Fzoul said smoothly. “I thank you for your attendance and your efforts thus far. Diligence in the service of the Brotherhood is always”—he paused to give everyone time to look down at Tespril’s sprawled body—“justly rewarded.”
“It worked!” Shandril said through delighted tears, embracing Storm. Narm’s chest rose and fell again steadily. “Gods thank you! Was this your idea?”
“No,” the bard replied very softly. “It was Sylune’s.”
Shandril’s eyes widened. “That long ago you spoke of me?”
“No,” Storm said. “Sylune does not live as she did before, but her spirit is sometimes with me.” She smiled slowly. “Harpers have secrets upon secrets—do you think it was an accident you were married on the site of her home?”
Tessaril bent and kissed Shandril. Her eyes were very sad. “It would be best, child, if you got pregnant again as soon as possible.”
“Again?” Then the blood drained from Shandril’s face, and she whispered, “What’s happened to my baby?”
“The skull’s draining,” Storm said gently, “was too much for the life inside you. Iliph Thraun killed your unborn child.”
Shandril stared at her in horror. “Gods aid me.” Her words were so faint that they could scarcely be heard. Wordlessly, the women embraced her. They stood pressed together for a long time, but Shandril did not cry. For now, at least, she had no tears left.
At last, Shandril sank back and looked down at Narm, who lay breathing quietly, his face no longer gray. She sighed, and her lip trembled. She bit it, and then stood up, lifting her chin.
“Well,” Shandril said, “at least I have my Narm again.” She looked around at the cracked, blackened walls, and added, “And another score to settle with those of Zhentil Keep.”
The air in front of her flickered, and suddenly a man in dark robes stood there, rings gleaming on his hands. He bowed and smiled at them. “A nice cue, that. Thank you. Beliarge of the Zhentarim, at your service,” he said.
Storm’s eyes blazed. She shoved Shandril away, and dived for her sword. Beliarge watched her with a mirthless smile, as his fingers moved in the intricate gestures of a spell.
Tessaril stepped forward suddenly and caught hold of Shandril. Turning the startled maid around, she hissed a word. A floating, shimmering, upright oval of light appeared in the air in front of Shandril—and she felt Tessaril’s hands at her back, shoving her through it.
Abruptly the stone-lined chamber disappeared, and she was somewhere else. Somewhere grand and dark, where she’d never been before.
In Tessaril’s Tower, Storm whirled up from the floor, long sword in hand.
The Lord of Eveningstar had raised her hands to cast a spell at the smiling intruder. Her face sharpened in anger.
The Zhentarim smiled politely at them both and crooked a finger. The spell he’d cast took effect—and both women froze, unable to move.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, ladies,” he said, bowing. “I hope you enjoy my little achievement; a more powerful holding spell than I think you’ll find anywhere else. If I didn’t have more pressing concerns, I’d tarry and get to know you both better—but my business is with Shandril Shessair, and since your gate helped her leave so abruptly before my spell was done …”
He stepped forward and twisted the sword from Storm’s grasp. Choosing a place where her leathers were burned away, he idly drew a scarlet line across her belly with the keen tip of the blade.
Storm’s eyes glittered at him in helpless anger. “The spell won’t let you go free, no matter what I do, you see?” Beliarge said pleasantly, holding up the blade in front of the bard’s nose so she could see her own blood glistening on it.
“I could carve my name in you both with a dagger, and take quite a lot of time and trouble over it, too, without your being able to move, or even make a sound. Were I a cruel man, I could toss you down the stairs—or even out a window—and you’d land all rigid. It shatters bones like glass, I’m told.” He sighed theatrically. “Spellfire, however, is more important even than this, so I must leave you. Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to spend some time—truly enjoyable, leisure time—together, in the future.”
With cruel fingers, he pried open Tessaril’s mouth and put the bloody tip of the blade between her teeth. Supporting the naked steel lightly on his fingers, the wizard yanked Storm into place at the other end of the blade. A moment later, the hilt was deep in her own mouth, the quillons just in front of her lips.
With a satisfied smile, the Zhentarim mage stepped back and surveyed the two helpless women and the blade suspended between them. He waved them a cheery farewell, favored them with one last cruel grin … and stepped through the gate.
15
IN THE HIDDEN HOUSE
All of us need a hidden, private place, a little refuge all our own where we can shut out the cares of the world for a while. It’s why we build play-huts when we’re young and love-nests when we’re old—but those can be lost forever if the love fails. Those of us wise enough or lucky enough to have such a place as we grow older will keep our wits longer and laugh more than others.
Laeral of Waterdeep, quoted in
Words to an Apprentice
Ithryn Halast, Year of the Weeping Moon
Shandril stood in a grand hall of dark, carved wood and oval mirrors. They reflected back the room behind her—but without any trace of her own reflection in them. She looked down at her hands wonderingly, but they were visible enough. What sort of place was this?
A place Tessaril knew, that was certain. Shandril looked behind her; the flickering oval of radiance was still there, hanging in midair. What would happen if she stepped back through it? She’d walk straight into the arms of that Zhentarim and another battle—and the bone-deep ache told her she had too little spellfire left for such a fray.
Shandril ran weary fingers through her hair and looked down a long, unlit, carpeted hallway in front of her. It ran straight out of the chamber where she stood and into distant darkness. Shandril was reluctant to leave this room and perhaps get lost in a place full of dangers she did not know. It might go on forever like the dungeons under Waterdeep, and she’d starve or die in a trap before finding a way out or seeing the sun again.
She glanced back at the m
agical gate and wondered if she’d be able to see back into Tessaril’s Tower if she went around behind the oval of light and looked through it.
Behind the gate was a wall, and against it stood many dark, heavy wooden tables and tall chests, all of different heights. One of them proudly displayed the Purple Dragon, but bore several heavy padlocks. On another lay a slim, glowing sword, small enough for her to comfortably lift. Wondering, Shandril approached it and hefted its cool weight in her hands. She was still holding it as she turned to look at the back of the gate.
She saw nothing through the oval of light except the other side of the room she stood in. Shandril sighed—and then froze, hardly daring to breathe, as a man’s back appeared in front of her. The dark figure of the Zhentarim, striding out of nothingness beyond the gate into the room with her. He turned his head to look about, and she saw his cruel smile. In a moment he’d turn and see her. She glided forward.
It was hideously easy.
He turned, almost touching her. His eyes lit up as he saw her, he started to smile—and she thrust the sword up, into his throat.
Beliarge of the Zhentarim choked and sputtered. His eyes bulged, and as Shandril tore her blade free, blood rained everywhere. With futile fingers, the wizard clawed the air and his throat, the rings on them powerless to save him. Blood spattered on the floor and on Shandril. Some sprinkled the oval radiance of the gate—and it rippled like water and disappeared. The Zhentarim staggered, fell clutching at his gullet, made a horrible gurgling sound as he kicked at the floor, and then went limp.
Shandril was alone again. She shivered.
For a moment she stared down at the rings on his fingers, but decided she did not want to touch those bloodied hands or search him for anything else, either. Using a corner of his robes to wipe the worst of the blood from her arms and the sword, she looked around the room once more, sighed, and walked to the hallway. She was not going to stand here beside a dead Zhent.… The gods alone knew what spells might be set off by his death. Elminster had warned her about that once. Even the magical gate was likely trapped somehow to keep Storm and Tessaril from coming through, or Shandril from returning.
