tmp0

by Unknown

  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 slay 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 lightly. 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 moment 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 eves 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 youand 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."

  "He's taking over Manshoon's items and places of power," Shandril said slowly, "now that I've destroyed Manshoon."

  Tessaril looked sidelong at her and murmured, "Be not so sure Manshoon's gone, Shan. Others have been sure they destroyed him before,"

  Shandril turned, "Then where is he?" Tessaril shrugged. "Perhaps you succeeded, at that. Fzoul's never been this bold before."

  The man in black seemed to suddenly become aware of their scrutiny. He rose and came around the table toward them, his face angry, With glittering eyes, he suspiciously looked their way.

  His hands came up, and Tessaril's face suddenly tightened. She took a wand from her belt and held it in front of Shandril, drawing her back a step from the window,

  White lines of force sprang from Fzoul's hands, spiraling toward them across that far-off room-and then there was a sudden flash of blinding white, The window in front of them suddenly burst asunder, Glass shards flew in all directions, parting in front of Tessaril's wand as if before the prow of a ship.

  In the empty, dark frame, only smoking ruin was left. The two women stood together looking at it for a long moment, and then sighed heavily.

  Amid the broken glass that scrunched underfoot as they moved was something slippery, Shandril bent to look at the floor. Molten glass from the window had already hardened into droplets on the flagstones. A few were rather beautiful; they knelt to look at them together, Tessaril touched one, and then snatched scorched fingers back from it,

  "I'm
sorry about your window," Shandril said as the Lord of Eveningstar sucked her burned fingertips, "But there's nothing to keep me here longer, now, I'd like to strike at this Fzoul right away."

  Tessaril sat up and looked at her gravely, "Shan, you're not ready yet,"

  Shandril nodded, smiled softly, and inclined her head toward the ruined window, "Neither," she said quietly, "is he."

  Sixteen

  BLOOD, BLADES, AND BITTER WORDS

  Some kings sit upon more bloody thrones than this one, mind, When they talk business, 'tis all blood, blades, and bitter words

  Mirt the Moneylender

  Wanderings With Quill and Sword

  Year of Rising Mist

  "Ill-prepared Fzoul may or may not be," the Lord of Eveningstar said quietly. "but if you rush in without plans and swords at your side, you will certainly be ill-prepared-and doomed."

  "I think not," Shandril replied, eyes flashing. "Forgive me, Tess. but that's where you-and Storm, and everyone else except maybe Elminster makes a mistake. You think of going up against Zhentil Keep with an army, That sort of thing the Zhents know well, They've had much practice smashing down such attacks. I'll do much better if I go alone."

  She strode to the bedroom closet and took out her battered pack, The few clothes she had left hung forlornly above it, With a determined air, she started to take them down.

  "Alone? It'll mean your death, Shan." Tessaril shook her head. "Aren't you even going to take Narm and Mirt with you?"

  "No," Shandril said quietly, "You and Storm just gave him back to me-I'm never going to lose him again if I can help it, I'm certainly not going to drag him to his certain death," She turned, a patched and dirt-stained gown in her hands, and added with the ghost of a smile, "And I can't sneak anywhere or do anything agile without a lot of noise if I'm saddled with the Old Wolf."

  An involuntary smile came and went across Tessaril's features, "I'm not sure he'd be pleased to hear that," she said slyly, "Shall I go tell him?"

  "No!" Shandril whirled and took the Lord of Eveningstar by the shoulders, flames leaping in her eyes. "Don't tell any of them, or I'll never be able to go."

  Her hands fell away, and she stepped back, drew a deep breath, and then looked up at the lord.

  "Forgive me, Tess-after all you've done for me, I hate to do this. But I must go, now, while I still have nerve enough. Before Fzoul's arranged things just as he wants them and I'm doomed to die in the thirtieth trap he set for me, or the sixty-fifth ambush, or the-"

  "Shandril," Tessaril said, looking into her eyes, "calm down, and think-is this wise? Well, is it?"

  Spellfire blazed in the depths of Shandril's eyes, which were so close to her that Tessaril gasped, shuddered and drew back, face pinched in pain.

  Shandril gulped, She let go of her and turned her head way, "I'm sorry, Tess-I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm as dangerous to you as to my foes," Tears shone in her eyes as she turned back to the white-faced Lord of Eveningstar. Impulsively, Shandril threw her arms around Tessaril and kissed her, "You must realize, Tess-wisdom is something for priests, and sages, and wizards, and-normal folk. It's no good to me."

  "Are you that lonely, Shan?" Tessaril whispered, holding her.

  Shandril angrily shook tears away and said, "No, Not anymore. You-and Mirt, and Elminster, and Storm, and the knights-and most of all, Narm - have given me friends along my road, That's why I must go up against the Zhentarim now. If I run and hide again, they'll come after you and all my other friends, to draw me out into battle ... like they did to those poor soldiers at Thundarlun."

  She stuffed the gown into her pack in a wadded, wrinkled mass and said angrily, "I have all this power and I can't do anything with it but fend off wizards who toy with me, attacking whenever they feel especially cruel. What good is spellfire if I can't strike at them when I want to?"

  "Shandril," the Lord of Eveningstar whispered. "Be careful, Very careful. The last time I heard words like that, they came from the lips of the sorceress who trapped you in Myth Drannor-Symgharyl Maruel."

  "The Shadowsil?"

  Tessaril nodded, "Whom you slew,"

  Shandril shook her head angrily. "I am not like her, Never, She enjoyed killing,"

  "Do you?"

  Shandril stared at her, white-lipped. Then she bent forward, eyes blazing again. "Get me to that citadel!" she snapped, -Now!"

  "Or?" Tessaril stared sadly into her eyes, "Will you use spellfire on me?" she asked quietly, sitting motionless. "Here I am," she added, gesturing at her breast, "Strike me down." Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes as she added softly, "like the lich lord did,"

  Shandril snarled in frustration, Flames chased briefly around one of her hands as she clenched it into a fist. "No," she said, turning away, "I will not-and you know it." She drew breath, let it out in a shuddering sigh, and then asked quietly, "Must I beg you to help me, Tess?"

  "No," Tessaril said quietly, "I just don't want to lose a friend so quickly. . . . I'll be sending you to your doom." "Please," Shandril hissed, "Just do it!"

  "Why?"

  Shandril swallowed, "For the first time in my life," she said, in a voice that trembled, "I want to be free! Spellfire has ruled me-and I'll never learn to master it unless I use it as and when I want to ... just once." She glared at the Lord of Eveningstar and shouted, "Weren't you ever young? Didn't you ever want to do as you pleased?"

  Tessaril shook her head, "That's no good reason," she said with quiet scorn, "Every child wants to have her own way,"

  "I've another reason. Shandril said coldly, bringing her chin up, "The Zhents killed Delg. My last companion from the Company of the Bright Spear, a Harper who laid down his life for me, I swore to avenge him. And my unborn child. And by the gods, l will!"

  Her shout echoed in the small room, She stared at the Lord of Eveningstar, eyes blazing, panting with emotion, her backpack twisted and forgotten in her hands,

  Tessaril nodded slowly, her eyes grave, "All right," she whispered, voice unsteady. "Stand back, I'll aid you," "You will?"

  Sorrow stole like a shadow across the Lord of Eveningstar's face, "I know what it is like to be ruled by the need for revenge, Shan. You must be set free-as I was, long ago,"

  "You were?"

  Tessaril looked at her, face a white mask, and said in a voice of iron, "I will not say more. We all have our limits," Shandril looked at the lord in sympathy, and then her eyes slowly hardened, "Help me, then-and no more tricks, like your wine,"

  The Lord of Eveningstar lifted her chin, and said, "I'll not betray you, Shan. Ever." She took a deep, trembling breath, managed a little smile, and went on, "I dare not teleport you into so small and crowded a room as the one Fzoul was in-and Wizards' Watch Tower has magical traps built into it to prevent teleportation in or out. I'll send you to the nearest courtyard, Spell Court,"

  She waved a hand, and an image of a tall, many-spired city appeared in midair across the room, In the foreground was a large, flagstone paved open area.

  "Spell Court?"

  Tessaril nodded, "Yes, The entire citadel is linked fortresses and courtyards, Strike quickly, save your fire for Zhents and not their buildings-and when you need to hide, get up into the highest spires you can rind and look for wizards spell-casting chambers, Many have powerful warding spells against magical scrying and also hold stores of healing potions; Zhentarim who've been too bold and gotten hurt run to them when they must,"

  Shandril stared at the scene and said slowly, her voice almost a whisper, "I want to slay at least five wizards and see fear on Fzoul's face-Delg's life must be worth at least that much. Is the large tower Wizards Watch?"

  Tessaril nodded and sighed. "Yes,. Are you certain you want to do this, Shan? Now?"

  Shandril turned and simply nodded.

  Tessaril bowed her head in response. "Go with my share of Tymora's luck, Shan." She raised her hand, murmured a word, and touched Shandril.

  Then Tessaril stood alone in the room with the broken window, her h
ands balled into fists. Before she realized how tightly her trembling hands were clenched, blood was running down her palms from where her nails cut into flesh, She turned and ran as she had never run before, racing back through the rooms of the Hidden House.

  Abruptly, Shandril was somewhere else, Spell Court, yes, by the look of it: a grim, gray courtyard of dusty stones, spired buildings rose all around her, the largest one at her back. She turned and stared up, recognizing the tower she was seeking,

  She strode toward it, ignoring the dark-armored warriors who stood at its gates. They frowned and reached for their swords-and then shrank back away from her, moving hastily sideways along the wall. Shandril stared at their frightened faces and then glanced behind her to see what they were staring at,

  All around her, in a dark and deadly ring, beholders were rising up silently, She'd teleported into a trap, Shandril swallowed hard. Her eyes began to flame. This had been her choice, well enough. "May all the gods damn you," she said, voice trembling. Her words rose into a sudden scream-a scream that spewed fire as red dragons do.

  "Damn you all!" she spat amid flames, Suddenly she was too bright to look at. Flames of death reached out for the eye tyrants around her,

  Torm's tabletop dance in imitation of Elminster came to an abrupt halt as the Lord of Eveningstar burst into the room. "She's gone," Tessaril said, panting, "Gone to kill all the Zhentarim."

  Everyone gaped at her, wide-eyed. Narm stood up so fast his chair bounced on the floor behind him. The young mage stared at the Lord of Eveningstar and shouted, "Why did you let her go?"

  Tessaril Winter looked at him, her eyes dark with sorrow, and said quietly, "I didn't let her go, I sent her there myself,"

  "Spellfire," Torm said bitterly, "She threatened you." Tessaril looked at him and shook her head. `No, She was a caged animal Torm. I had to open the gate and let her out"

  Narm stared at her, face wild, and then burst into tears. "She'll die!" he sobbed, pounding the table with his fists, "She'll die-and I can't sane her!" He looked up at Tessaril through streaming tears and struggled to control his voice, "Where is she?"