by Ed Greenwood
She turned to Narm and replied, “Yes, time to wake these dear friends—all but Sarhthor, I fear.” She stared at the wizard’s sharp features and impulsively bent and kissed his cheek. He did not stir. Sad and sober, Shandril turned to heal her other friends with a kiss.…
The last tingling of the spellfire left Mirt, and the gentle healing hands withdrew. The Old Wolf growled and tried to struggle to his feet. The world swam, and his knees gave way. He fell back, too weak and dazed to rise yet.…
Tessaril sighed and fought her own weakness. Dragging herself upright, she leaned on her sword for support. “Come, Lord,” she said quietly, extending a hand. Mirt groaned again, and struggled to reach her slim fingers.…
“Mmm. That was a nice kiss,” Belarla said, stretching, as she lay on her back on the flagstones. Shandril watched the wrinkles of pain fading away from the Harper’s beautiful face and smiled down at her. Belarla smiled back.
“Yes, she’s much better than most of our clients,” a still groggy Oelaerone commented from nearby. She sat idly turning something in her fingers: a few scorched feathers clinging to a blackened wooden shaft—all that was left of the arrow that had nearly claimed her life. “But then—they’re men … and what do men know of kissing?”
Belarla rolled up to one elbow. She stiffened and put a warning hand on Shandril’s arm. “Speaking of men,” she murmured, pointing.
Shandril looked up quickly and saw men with grim faces—priests in the black robes of Bane—coming into the courtyard. The Holy of Bane were more than a score strong, and some of them held glowing staves and maces. A tall man at their head raised his staff, pointed at Shandril and her companions, and shouted, “For the glory of Bane, slay them!”
“Slay them!” thundered thirty throats as one, and the priests loyal to Elthaulin, the New Voice of Bane, followed him forward.
With a dark look in her eyes, Shandril rose from the Harpers. Spellfire swirled around her hands and ran swiftly along her hair—and then she sent it lashing out. Elthaulin blazed up in front of her like a dry torch.
Healing took far more spellfire than smiting, Shandril realized wearily. Must I go on killing forever? “Halt, men of Bane!” she cried. “Let me be, and I’ll leave you alive. Or strike at me—and taste this!”
Shandril let flames roar up into the sky and forced a savage smile onto her weary lips. The priests’ charge ended. They screamed and pushed at each other in a mad retreat. Shandril followed, grimly determined to make the city safe by nightfall.
No, they’d not soon forget Shandril Shessair in this city.
By the time Shandril returned to Spell Court, the sun was setting over the Citadel of the Raven. In the gloaming, she saw winking spell lights beside the cluster of her friends. The lights faded, and a single figure stood where they’d been—the Bard of Shadowdale. Shandril ran joyously to meet Storm, who had begun conversing with Mirt and the others.
As Shandril approached, Storm turned and called out warmly, “I wondered when you’d grow tired of devastating the place.”
They hugged each other. “Belarla and Oelaerone send you their heartfelt thanks and their congratulations,” Storm said. “Mirt tells me they had to get back to their house, before the customers started to come calling—and before you got them into another fight they might not walk away from.”
Shandril had started to laugh, but she fell silent at those last words. She looked past the bard at the body of Sarhthor of the Zhentarim lying still on the flagstones. Shivering, she clutched Storm’s strong, reassuring body harder and quietly told the bard what the wizard had done before he died.
Storm drew back in surprise, staring alternately at Shandril and Sarhthor. “I don’t recognize him,” she said, “but I don’t know all the Harpers in Faerûn, after all.” Her face darkened. “Come; let’s be gone from here before Manshoon regains control.”
“Manshoon?”
Storm smiled ruefully. “Manshoon is always less dead than he appears. Elminster’s slain him more than once before—quite thoroughly—only to have to do it again a winter later. Manshoon has his secrets.” She smiled more broadly and dropped something into Shandril’s hand. “And now you do, too.”
Shandril looked down. In her hand was a small silver harp on a chain. She touched it in wonder. Its tiny strings stirred in a mournful, somehow proud tune.
“If you both don’t mind,” Storm added softly, “Mirt wants to give Delg’s badge to Narm. You’re both Harpers now.”
Epilogue
Lighting crashed and staggered across the sky far to the east. The guard watched it, thankful for the momentary entertainment. No duty post in Zhentil Keep was more mind-numbing than this one. He hefted his halberd wearily and yawned. Rubbing his cheek, he watched lightning crack the dome of night again, and was briefly thankful that the storm was far off; otherwise he’d have to huddle against the door of the crypt to keep dry.
Hours to go until dawn.
“Gods deliver me from this everlasting boredom,” he muttered.
“The gods have heard you, fool—to your cost.”
The guard tried to spin, but the hand that clasped his neck was very strong. Struggling wildly, he glimpsed the crypt’s doorway, dark and open, but he couldn’t see his attacker. He didn’t need to. Fear lashing his heart, the guard went down into the last darkness, and he knew who had killed him.
Manshoon looked down at the sprawled body. “Yawning when you were supposed to be guarding my future is a crime punishable by death. Had I forgotten to warn you of that? Life is so unfair.”
He carefully closed the door of the crypt, glancing at the four bodies lying ready there … four? Gods, he’d best be preparing others; how many had he gone through now? He turned away to start the long walk home across Zhentil Keep. The way was long, and the boots this body wore had started to crumble; he walked slowly, thankful that the storm had emptied the night streets. The few guards who saw him carefully looked away; Manshoon passed them with a grim smile.
Fzoul obviously hadn’t known about all of his crypts. Sloppy work, unfortunately typical of the more devout—or ostensibly devout—side of the Brotherhood. He looked up at the spires of the Black Altar as a lightning flash outlined them, and nodded.
“I have a score to settle there.” There were advantages to staying dead for a tenday or so—it gave traitors time to show their true colors, get their hands properly dirty and their plans half-hatched.… Smashing them then was most satisfying. He was looking forward to it.
He turned away. The High Tower beckoned. He needed a bath, a drink, and a warm body beside his in bed, before dawn. For the first time, Manshoon wondered why he had ever begun to strive for more than such things … after all, what more could a man achieve? He shrugged and put such thoughts from his mind. He’d feel more himself in the morning.
Shandril and Narm lay curled up together in front of the crackling fire, a bearskin rug soft and warm around them. Narm glanced up at the walls and ceiling and said thankfully, “Well, at least this room hasn’t grown any new doors or corners tonight.”
Shandril chuckled softly, took her own look at the Hidden House around her, and said, “I don’t know … I think I’ve almost grown used to it.” She reached out and turned Narm’s chin until his eyes met hers, and then asked quietly, “Don’t you think it would make a great home for us? The Zhents would never find us here.”
“That was my suggestion, too,” a calm voice agreed, “and I still think it’s a good one.”
Narm and Shandril turned their heads in surprise. A moment later, Shandril leapt up out of the furs to embrace their visitor.
Tessaril winked at Narm. “I come bearing gifts.”
“Though not baring them as much as certain folk,” Mirt grunted, stepping into view behind her and eyeing Shandril’s naked form, still pressed against the Lord of Eveningstar. Shandril stuck her tongue out at him.
Narm got up, holding the rug around him, and cleared his throat. “Er—welcome! Will you
have wine?”
Mirt swung a huge bottle into view from behind his back and grinned at him.
“Thank ye, lad, I will,” he said, striding forward. He’d brought his own huge pewter tankard, carrying it in the same large, hairy hand that held the bottle. The Old Wolf lowered himself to the floor with a grunt, stretched out on the rug before the fire, wheezed, snatched the fur from Narm’s startled grasp, and draped it over himself coyly.
“Oh, Shan-dril,” he trilled in mimicry of a young suitor. “I’m over here! You can come back and lie down by the fire now.”
Shandril looked at him, the firelight dancing on her smooth curves, and then walked deliberately to him, turned a corner of the furs over the Old Wolf’s face, and sat firmly on him. “So, what gift?” she asked, ignoring the muffled protests from beneath her.
Mirt started to reach his hands up to tickle her, but Narm grabbed them and ended up on the floor wrestling with the Old Wolf. Though her seat started to jerk back and forth beneath her, Shandril sat serenely atop the shifting and curling bear rug. Mirt’s muted voice roared, “Don’t break my bottle!”
At that, Tessaril looked up from her belt pouch. She took in the scene, put her hands on her hips, and whooped with laughter. When her mirth had died, the Lord of Eveningstar extended a hand and drew Shandril to her feet. Then, lips quirked in a wry smile, she plucked the bearskin out of the struggling pile and put it around Shandril. “This gift is somewhat serious,” Tessaril said, “so we’d best calm the Old Wolf down a bit.”
Narm, who’d found himself in a headlock several moments earlier and was now unable to get free, agreed as audibly as possible.
When some order had been restored, Tessaril drew forth a sparkling gem from her belt pouch. “This is your gift,” she said, “but I advise you not to touch it, or even keep it on your person—you can probably be traced by it, and there may be worse things magic can work through it. I’ve had the stone tested by the strongest wizards of Cormyr, and we think it’s safe for you to see it. Remember: don’t touch it!”
Shandril looked at her quizzically.
“It’s a speaking stone,” Tessaril said, releasing the gem. It floated in the air by itself, turning slightly, innocently winking back the light at them all. “It came to me in Eveningstar—borne by a merchant who’d come from Zhentil Keep.”
In the silence that followed her words, she stretched forth a finger and touched the stone. Light winked within it, and then a voice spoke, cold and clear and very close, as if the speaker were in the room with them.
“To Shandril Shessair, greetings from Manshoon, and a promise: I and those I command will make no further moves against you and yours. Nor will we try again to gain spellfire. You may well mistrust this promise, but I assure you I’ll keep it.”
The light in the stone died, and the gem sank slowly to the floor, landing on the rug without a sound.
The stunned group stared down at it in silence, and then Tessaril bent over, took it up, and pocketed it.
Shandril shook her head. “I know I’ll never be able to trust those words, but—somehow—I believe him. When he said that, he meant it.”
“Being killed can have that effect on ye,” Mirt rumbled. “What puzzles me is how Sarhthor—Harper or no—knew about this ‘crown of fire’ bit.”
Tessaril looked up. “He was a Harper indeed, Mirt; High Lady Alustriel confirmed it. She tutored him in the Art and recruited him, years ago, but no longer knew if he held himself a Harper or followed his own path of power and evil. At Manshoon’s command, Sarhthor did a lot of research on spellfire, devouring entire libraries of spell-lore. In a diary kept in Candlekeep, he read the same passage I have: ‘If someone freely gives his life-force to a wielder of spellfire, it powers the spellfire to truly awesome heights, causing a crownlike halo of flame around the spellfire-hurler.’ ”
Mirt looked at her. “This happened before? Someone willingly gave his life for a brighter flame?” He shook his shaggy head. “Ah, well, I suppose there’s no shortage of crazed-wits in Faerûn.”
The tankard in front of him grew a mouth, and in the dry tones of Elminster, it said, “And few, indeed, are better able to speak of craziness than Mirt of Waterdeep.”
Mirt had flung the nearly empty tankard away—and the old sword on his hip had made it into his hand—before he growled, “Elminster?”
The tankard landed with a clang, rolled over, and stopped. “None other,” it said with dignity. “How many archmages do ye throw around, anyway?”
“Elminster!” Shandril leaned forward to peer at the tankard. “Have you—recovered? How are you?”
The tankard looked somehow testy. “Aye, forget about me for days, lass, and then recall old Elminster as if he were a favorite puppy—or some disease—ye’d forgotten ye had. I’m doing just fine, thank ye all, not dead yet.”
Narm laughed. “He hasn’t changed.”
“More respect, youngling,” the tankard growled.
“Elminster,” Shandril said eagerly, “we’re going to have a baby.” Her face clouded over for a moment, and she added quietly, “Again.”
Mirt looked at her. “Aye, and tankard or no, this calls for a toast or three! Mind ye not fight over its naming, now—if it’s a boy, call it after me, not him.” He jerked his head toward the stein on the floor.
The tankard spoke again. Shandril was surprised to hear how soft and gentle Elminster’s voice could be when he dropped his testy blustering. “It’s not a boy, Old Wolf. I know already that thy babe will be a girl, Shandril. The blessing of Mystra upon ye and Narm—and upon her.”
“Thanks, Old Mage,” Shandril said, touched.
“Ye’ll both be needing it—and Narm, too,” Elminster added, in his customary sharper tones. “For in the visions Mystra sends me, I’ve seen that thy lass will have the power of spellfire, too.”
Oprion Blackstone sat alone in a high, locked chamber in the Black Altar, staring into a scrying bowl as Fzoul had taught him to do. His false Manshoon speech sounded even better to his ears now than when he’d laid the enchantment, but that accursed Tessaril had put the speaking stone back in her pouch—so he could see nothing of what was happening in the Hidden House. Making the stone burn its way out of the pouch now would certainly be a mistake.
He could, though, hear everything. Oprion raised his head to stare at the carved Black Hand of Bane that hung on the wall, and he said to it grimly, “And that child will be mine. If need be, I’ll take the form of a younger man and woo it. For I will have spellfire for my own, whatever befalls gods and men in the days ahead. The gods have twisted humors, indeed, to give a silly, soft slip of a girl such power. Spellfire will be mine.”
His face paled, then, as if he was seeing more in the Black Hand than a carving, and his voice deepened into the echoing tones of prophecy. “No struggle is ever done; no matter is ever closed. As long as gods and men strive on Toril, there is no ‘forever.’ ”
“I must go now, lass,” Elminster’s voice came again. “There are others who’d speak with ye, though.”
Another, rougher voice came from the tankard. “Shandril? Lass?”
Shandril was up out of Narm’s arms in a rush, reaching toward the tankard. “Gorstag?” she cried, and happy tears wet her cheeks.
“Aye, lass; gods smile on you. Lureene has a word for you, too—”
The voice changed again. “Shan! Are you well?”
On her knees before the tankard, Shandril laughed. “Very happy, Lureene. Safe in hiding, both of us, and with a babe on the way.”
“Good! Give it a kiss for me—and mind you stop at two babes, Shan: the gods give us only two hands to hold them with. Keep smiling, little one.”
“My thanks.” Through her tears, Shandril was seeing again The Rising Moon, the inn where she’d grown up … the place she’d run away from so long ago. So long—and so few actual days ago.
“Fair fortune, lass,” the tankard said gruffly.
“You fare well, too, Gors
tag,” Shandril replied almost fiercely. “Both of you!”
And then, before her eyes, the tankard shattered with the sound of a ringing bell, its shards dancing on the stones.
Tessaril shook her head. “That magic eats away at whatever is the focus for farspeaking,” she said. “I’m surprised it held together this long.” She leaned forward to touch Shandril’s shoulder. “No harm has befallen any of them,” she said reassuringly. “The magic just overwhelmed the tankard.”
Mirt looked at its ruins, then sadly surveyed the empty depths of his bottle. “Is there more to be had anywhere about?”
Tessaril indicated a door. “I took the liberty of bringing in a keg of ale, a little while back.” Her nose wrinkled. “About the time I knew you’d be coming.”
Mirt threw her a look as he shambled toward the door.
She smiled sweetly and added, “On a shelf on the left, you’ll find a selection of tankards for the rest of us to use. You’re welcome.”
Still on her knees on the floor, Shandril found herself laughing helplessly. By the gods! Did they never stop teasing each other? And a small voice inside her promptly asked: Why should they?
“Oprion Blackstone?” the cold voice said in derisive surprise. “The priesthood of the Dread Lord flourishes indeed.”
Oprion scrambled up. How had anyone passed the guards and locks to reach this room? And that voice. He spun around, and his face went as white as polished bone. “Manshoon!” he gasped, when he could speak. “You’re alive!” He stared at the High Lord of Zhentil Keep, looking up and down, and then turned away in confusion. “I’m—I’m delighted.”
Manshoon’s smile was crooked. “You mean, you’re surprised I still have clones left.”
Oprion stuttered for a moment, and then said rather desperately, “No, no. But when so much time had passed, we—”
“Assumed you were finally rid of me. Have you raised Fzoul yet?”
Oprion’s mouth dropped open. “W-Why?”
