Crown of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Shandril sighed and looked down at the dead Zhentarim again. Then she lifted her head, wearing a determined look. “All right.”

  Tessaril chuckled. “That’s the spirit, Shan.” She gently took the sword from Shandril’s hands and laid it on a nearby chest. “How did you like my House?”

  Shandril looked at her. “When you’re alone, it’s … frightening.”

  Tessaril nodded. “It can be. Those who don’t know the words to say can get lost and wander endlessly, or step through a gate into a far more dangerous place than this—or than Zhentil Keep, for that matter.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “I didn’t; I was given custody of it when I took the lordship of Eveningstar. The only easy entrance to find is the one you came by, and it opens only from the room you came from. The Hidden House is part of the wardship of the Lord of Eveningstar. Those who don’t know that—including most noble families of Cormyr—have always been puzzled by the high rank given to this post. They usually put it down to Azoun and my being very old friends.”

  Tessaril smiled and waved a hand. In response, a bearskin rug rippled in through a doorway that had not been there before, glided to a smooth stop by Shandril’s feet, and settled to the floor. An instant later, two large and soft chairs glided in through the door after it, and arranged themselves on the rug, facing each other.

  The Lord of Eveningstar sank into one of them, drew her feet up under her, and waved at Shandril to sit in the other. “This place once belonged to the legendary sorceress Phaeryl, in the days of Netheril.”

  Shandril nodded. “I’ve heard of her—she bred dragons.”

  “That’s the one. No one knew where Phaeryl’s lost abode lay; most thought it was somewhere in the Stonelands, and more than one band of greedy adventurers clambered all over the Haunted Halls looking for it. By chance, a warrior of the Harpers stumbled on the entrance you used, too many years ago to want to keep count of. She’s a friend of mine, and we explored this place together. It was a lot of fun.”

  “Fun?” Shandril’s tone was disbelieving.

  “We learned a lot, talking to the ghosts—”

  Shandril’s expression told the lord what she thought of that experience.

  Tessaril shook her head in mock reproof and went on: “—and we got to see a lot of faraway places, and put on the most amazing gowns; you’ve no idea what crazy things folk used to wear. Oh, and we used to play hide and seek here. We were young, then. Later, we played it with our suitors.”

  Shandril rolled her eyes and in response heard the deep warm sound of Tessaril chuckling.

  “I didn’t like it, much, wandering around here alone,” the Lord of Eveningstar added softly. “It would have been much worse, though, if a Malaugrym had been chasing me.”

  Then Tessaril made a clucking sound and waved a hand. Almost immediately, two dark figures in armor—Shandril stiffened involuntarily—clanked into the room, picked up the Zhent’s body, and walked out. Empty helms gaped, the visors raised; these suits of armor, too, were empty.

  “My guards,” Tessaril explained. “They would offer you harm only if I willed them to.” Her face changed. “I’m sorry your first taste of the House was fleeing a Zhent and a Malaugrym. The Zhentarim was not supposed to be able to follow you, but I was overconfident. His spells were stronger than Storm or I could resist; I’m glad you slew him when you did, or we’d be standing there like statues still.”

  She stretched in her chair, looked around at the hall of oval mirrors, and said, “Though if you have to hide from anyone, this is the best place I know of to do it in.”

  “How so?” Shandril asked, “I’d always be afraid I’d open a door and find myself face-to-face with someone I thought I’d slipped away from, six rooms back.”

  Tessaril smiled at her. “Yes, the doors do not always open into the same rooms you have found behind them before.” Her smile changed, touched by sympathy. “You’ve already found that out, I see.”

  She made a peculiar wriggling gesture with her fingers, and a cabinet nearby swung open. A bottle and two glass flagons floated out of it, heading for her hands.

  “There’s a much greater benefit to this place,” the Lord of Eveningstar said as she poured a glass of frosty-cold green wine and handed it to Shandril. “I can feel the presence of any intruder and where they’re lurking.”

  “Me, for instance?”

  Tessaril grinned. “We’re going to get along fine, Shan. I hope you’ll have patience enough to stay here for a bit in hiding while you and Narm and Mirt all get fully healed. There’s even a place where you can safely hurl spellfire and make sure you’ve built it to its height before you venture out again to face the Zhentarim.”

  Shandril sipped the wine and found it warm and very good. She drank deeply and said, “Thanks, Lord Tessaril. I accept.”

  Tessaril chuckled again. “Call me ‘Tess,’ please—and think about one other thing.” Her face grew serious again. “A wielder of spellfire may find fewer hiding places in all vast Faerûn than she expected. This is one of them. Think of it when you’re looking for a home; neither Azoun or I will try to command you if you choose to stay here. We consider it one of Cormyr’s treasures—but not part of Cormyr.”

  Shandril looked at her in disbelief. “Here?”

  “I’m not expecting you to prefer it to freely roaming Faerûn,” Tessaril replied. “I’m suggesting it as the best refuge I know.”

  “Umm,” Shandril said, resting her chin on her glass and staring at the opposite wall. The painting on it obligingly flickered and changed shape.

  Tessaril held out the bottle to refill Shandril’s glass. “Narm and Mirt both seem all right,” she said. “The priests of Lathander are in awe of you, by the way, over what you did to Narm. Storm’s gone back to Shadowdale, we’ve not seen the Old Mage again, and we’ve not seen or heard anything more from the Zhentarim. I’ve spoken with Vangerdahast—without revealing that any of you were still here—and he’s of the opinion that you fought something called a ‘lich lord,’ more powerful at sorcery than most archmages living today. He’s mightily impressed with you, too.”

  Shandril smiled wearily. “So’s everyone else I meet—but then they usually try to kill me.” She was suddenly very tired, and felt something moving through her fingers. She looked down—in time to see the glass fall from her hand.

  Shandril watched it shatter on the floor, stared at the bouncing fragments dully, and then raised slow and angry eyes to look at Tessaril. Flames leapt in them as she said bitterly, “You put something in the wine. I trusted you, too.”

  “I hope you’ll go on trusting me, Shan,” Tessaril said sadly as she got up and put her arms around Shandril. “Now you need to sleep—or you’ll soon kill yourself. You’ve been hurling spellfire without rest or food or water. Each time you call on it, it’s eating you inside to get its energy. Rest now; you’re safe here.”

  The last thing Shandril felt was a gentle kiss on her cheek. She fell asleep wearing a curious expression. To Tessaril, it looked as if she was trying to frown, but smiling in relief.

  “Well?” Fzoul slowly turned from the papers he’d been studying and raised cold eyes to fix Sarhthor with a challenging gaze.

  The sorcerer looked back at him expressionlessly. “He failed. Through our spell-link, I felt him die.”

  Fzoul studied the wizard’s stony face. “You’re no more surprised than I am.”

  Sarhthor shrugged. “He was an overconfident, arrogant fool. One more we’re better off without.”

  “You don’t approve of cruelty or pride?” Fzoul asked flatly.

  The sorcerer seemed almost to smile. “I see no reason to laud villainy just because the Brotherhood uses might and pays no heed to the moral judgments of others. If I have a flaw, it should be something I work against to make me better in the service of the Brotherhood—not something I take pride in and show to all as a weakness of the Brotherhood, ready to be taken advantage of.”


  Fzoul nodded. “Wisely said.” He paused, toying with the tiny skull carved from Iliph Thraun’s thighbone. The high priest leaned forward. “Tell me, Sarhthor—what are your own thoughts on this matter of spellfire?”

  Sarhthor shrugged. “A formidable weapon, something of almost irresistible power—but not something to tear apart the Brotherhood over.”

  Fzoul leaned back. “Oh? Tell me, then, what—in your view—are the more important matters facing the Brotherhood now.”

  Sarhthor nodded. He went to the row of chairs along one side of the room and picked one up. Though it was large and heavy, the slightly built wizard lifted it as if it were made of paper.

  Fzoul’s eyes narrowed. Sarhthor met the high priest’s gaze mildly, carried the chair to the table, and without invitation, sat down opposite Fzoul.

  “First,” the wizard said calmly, “we must foil Thay’s growing influence in Calaunt and Westgate.”

  “First?” Fzoul’s voice was silky.

  Sarhthor looked at him expressionlessly and said, “You told me to state my view. If you’d prefer to fence, Fzoul, I can oblige.”

  Fzoul held his gaze for a long, chilly time, then silently waved him to continue.

  Sarhthor inclined his head and went on. “Then there’s the matter of Maalthiir of Hillsfar. If he were dead, we could take advantage of instability there to place a large number of agents—and slay those Mulmaster has established there.”

  The wizard shrugged. “I’d also like to see more of the soft word and hidden agreement in the way we work in days ahead—and fewer marching armies and indiscriminate spell-hurling. We’re making enemies at far too fast a rate, and making too many rulers uncomfortable. I don’t want to see armies from several realms besieging our walls in a year or two.”

  Fzoul nodded slowly. “This is more sense than I’ve heard from the mouth of a wizard of the Brotherhood in several winters.”

  Sarhthor nodded, the ghost of a smile on his face. “They’re all too eager to topple towers and twist the world overnight, aren’t they?”

  Fzoul lifted his lip in a cruel parody of a smile. “Exactly. I’m hoping we can see eye to eye on more things, Sarhthor, than your predecessor and I ever did. It would be a pleasure to work together to make the Brotherhood great for once rather than spending our best energies in fighting each other, wizards against priests, and cabal against cabal.”

  Sarhthor smiled thinly. “I’m sure it’s afforded the Great Lord Bane—and foes such as Elminster—much entertainment over the years.”

  Fzoul’s smile vanished at those words, but he said only, “Say on.”

  Sarhthor shrugged. “I’d like to build Zhentil Keep into something greater than a fortress of fear, Fzoul—an empire ruling all Dragon Reach and the Moonsea. Whatever our individual dreams, there’ll be more room for ambitious Brothers who wear the robes of Bane or who walk as wizards to find their own desires fulfilled if we grow larger and more powerful. I know Great Lord Bane wants to see such an empire loyal to him, because I’ve heard your underpriests chanting the Words of Bane often enough. The sorcerers under me provide you with wilder magic than other priesthoods can match—we need each other.”

  Fzoul’s face was grim, but there was a light in his eyes as he asked, “What, then, do you think we should do first?”

  Sarhthor did not quite smile. “Well,” he said.…

  Narm came into the hall of mirrors in the Hidden House, went to where Shandril sat, and bent over her. “What’re you eating? It smells wonderful.”

  With an impish smile, Shandril looked up at him over her shoulder, shifted what she was chewing to one cheek, and replied, “Fried snake.”

  Narm choked.

  Mirt chuckled wickedly across the table and said, “Well done, Shan. Ah, to see wizards wearing that sort of expression more often.” He lifted his own steaming plate to Narm and said, “Cooked it meself, lad—try it; ’tis good!”

  Ignoring Narm’s expression of disgust, the old merchant went on jovially, “One must have the right sort of snake, of course, and prepare it just so … or it’s best to stay with chicken instead, roasted with almonds. That comes close to the same taste, but falls short.”

  “I’m certain you’re right,” Narm said in a voice that indicated nothing of the sort. Then the young mage peered suspiciously at Mirt. “Where’d you get the snake, anyway? I’m sure Tessaril doesn’t have them stacked up in her larder.”

  Mirt smiled at him and pointed at a door. “I found it in one of the rooms—the one with the bones an’ open graves.…”

  Narm wandered away, waving dismissive hands at the proffered plate and looking rather green.

  “Mirt! Stop it!” Tessaril’s voice was reproving. “I’ve brought friends to visit.” From behind her, Storm grinned at Mirt, eyes twinkling.

  “Mmm,” Mirt said in welcome, holding his rejected plate of fried snake up toward her. “The Bard of Shadowdale—and me without anything to plug my ears.”

  Storm stuck her tongue out at him and took the plate. Out from behind her stepped a familiar figure that made Shandril squeal with delight and bounce up from the table.

  “Elminster!” she cried. “Are you well?”

  A flicker of a smile crossed the bearded face as Shandril threw her arms around him and embraced him tightly.

  Warm, avid lips met hers, and she pulled her head back, startled. “You’re not Elminster!”

  “No,” Torm said with a grin as his magical disguise melted away, “but there’s no need to stop giving me that sort of enthusiastic welcome; I’m much prettier than he is.”

  Shandril whirled free of his arms and flounced away; the punch she threw in the process left Torm doubled over and breathless.

  Narm hooted with laughter at the sight and asked, “Why the disguise?”

  “Torm’s been fooling a dozen or so Zhentarim into thinking Elminster’s enjoying a quiet rest in Shadowdale,” Storm told him, and looked teasingly at the thief. “It’s been a terrible strain on Torm, though; he hasn’t been able to get in any philandering, robbing cradles, or lightening purses for almost a tenday now.”

  The chorus of mock-sympathetic groans was momentarily deafening; Torm hung his head just long enough to drift close to Mirt and deftly snatch a bottle of wine from the Old Wolf’s grasp.

  Tessaril pursed her lips and wiggled a finger; the bottle promptly shot up out of Torm’s fingers and curved down smoothly in a return journey to Mirt’s hand. The Old Wolf chuckled, saluted her, and drank. As usual, he didn’t bother with a glass.

  “Tess,” Shandril said in a low voice amid the general hilarity, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m getting very restless here.” She grinned. “Am I healed enough, yet?”

  The Lord of Eveningstar smiled at her. “I think you are,” she replied, “and I’ve something to show you.” Tessaril led her through several rooms into the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedroom Shandril had adopted during her stay in the Hidden House. There, she indicated a window.

  Shandril looked at her curiously. “I’ve looked out it many times,” she said, “but it always shows the same thing.” She turned to the window—and saw the scene she expected to see.

  It was winter outside the panes she was looking through. She could feel the cold coming off the glass. She was looking at a crossroads, somewhere, with high banks and bare-limbed trees all around. As always, there was snow, falling softly and endlessly. In its midst, where the roads met, stood a leaning stone marker with letters up and down the sides. Whenever Shandril stared at the stone pillar, she had the curious impression it was looking back at her.

  She turned to Tessaril. “That’s what I always see.… Where is it?”

  “Another world entirely,” her hostess replied softly. “But that’s not what I want you to see. Have you ever tried to picture someone while standing at this window?”

  Shandril stared at her, and then looked at the window and frowned.

  Snow swirled outside the glass for a mo
ment and seemed to turn to fog—and then, through a slowly widening gap in the smoky swirling, she saw Gorstag and Lureene sitting wearily in the taproom of The Rising Moon. Hot mugs stood by their hands, and they were smiling at each other. Lureene’s bare feet—dirty, as usual—were propped one on each of Gorstag’s massive shoulders, and he was gently and deftly massaging one of her calves with his powerful hands. Shandril smiled, and found her eyes full of tears.

  Tessaril put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re well and happy, yes.” She stroked Shandril’s hair gently. “Are you sorry you ever left the Moon?”

  Shandril looked up at her. “Once I would have answered you very differently, but—no, I’m not sorry.” She laughed shortly. “I always wondered what adventure would be like, and what the other Dales looked like … and now I know.”

  Tessaril nodded. “Look out my window again,” she said softly. Shandril saw a very different scene this time.

  It was a large but dark chamber with stone walls. A man in a black, high-collared robe sat at a table of ebony marble and seemed to speak to someone who wasn’t there. His hands were clasped; Shandril realized suddenly that he was praying.

  She turned to Tessaril in wonder. “Who is he?”

  “If you plan to have any dealings with the Zhentarim,” Tess told her, “you’ll be facing the wits of this man: Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of the Black Altar, the temple of Bane in Zhentil Keep—and leader of the Zhentarim at present. Watch him for a few days, please, before you leave the Hidden House. If you really must walk into the lair of a snake, ’tis best to know what he plans for you—and which is the safe way back out.”

  Shandril watched the black-robed man. “Where is he?” she asked softly.

  “Someplace that surprises me a little,” Tessaril replied. “He’s not in Zhentil Keep at all—but instead in the Citadel of the Raven, well to the north. It’s a huge fortress that the Zhents took over by trickery years ago. The room you’re looking at is one I usually see when spying on Manshoon. It’s in Wizards’ Watch Tower.” She smiled. “Some folk of the citadel call it the Old Fools’ Tower.”