Crown of Fire

Sarhthor shook his head again. "Many enchantments adorn the tapestries, walls, ceiling, and floor-as always, and some of them have been laid so as to shift and change, over time-but as Mystra is my witness, I can find no trace of scrying, spies, or magical traps in this place. There are, however, two spiders alive here, and a scuttlebug-by your leave?"

Manshoon nodded, and the beholders blinked all their eyes, once. Sarhthor strode across the floor to crush the three intruders underfoot. "Done," he said simply, then walked back to stand with his lord.

"You called for me with some secrecy," Manshoon said flatly, looking up at the beholders, "and I have come. Speak."

Eyestalks curled, and many glances flickered silently back and forth high above the two men; an unspoken agreement was swiftly reached. The smaller beholder drifted slightly lower. "We have become increasingly mistrustful of the loyalty of Fzoul and his underlings to any causes and authority but their own. Prying priests are everywhere in Zhentil Keep; we dared not meet with you there."

The other, larger beholder spoke. "We have also," it rumbled coldly, "begun to despair over the ineptitude of the current crop of magelings. Many of us would like to see wizards firmly in Control of our Brotherhood again, wielding spellfire so as to rule or destroy the priests. But most of the lesser wizards lack the self-control to govern themselves, let alone control anything else."

"Aye, this spellfire is the key," said the smaller eye tyrant eagerly. "If you are to keep our support, Manshoon, your hand must come to wield it, or hold a firm grip on whoever does."

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep shrugged. "Tell me how, with the losses we've suffered so far trying to seize spellfire, I am to ensure our wizards will be powerful enough to win it at last-and still be strong enough to tame the priests."

The rumbling reply sounded a little triumphant, and somehow amused. "With the unlooked-for aid we have brought you. Meet Iliph Thraun, a lord among fiches, as you are a lord among men."

Something small and white moved in the dark opening from whence the beholders had come. It turned and rose. A yellowed human skull drifted into view, looking down at the two wizards.

Both of them stared expressionlessly up at it, thinking the same old saying of Faerun: surprises seldom grow more welcome as one gets older.

The skull drifted to a halt in midair, floating below the two beholders. Two pale, flickering points of light hung in its dark sockets; its gaze was cold but somehow eager as it looked down at the two mages.

"Well met," it said formally, in hollow tones punctuated by the faint clattering of its teeth. "In life, long ago, I had the power of spellfire. I can drain it from this Shandril, if I can catch her asleep."

"And if she wakes before you are done?"

The skull drifted closer. "Once enough of her spellfire is gone, the lass will lose control over what is left. She will become a wild wand whenever she unleashes spellfire-a menace to allies and those she holds dear. Soon she will destroy them… and, in the end, herself."

Lord Manshoon nodded slowly. "I thank you, lich lord. Your powers may bring victory for us all." His words held the finality of a farewell.

As the skull made a polite reply, the smaller beholder turned and drifted a little way toward it. Obediently, the skull drifted out through the opening it had entered by. When it was gone, Manshoon calmly asked the beholders, "What good is this? I trade a young, reckless girl who scarce knows how to use spellfire for an old, wise, mighty-in-Art lichnee who is sure to defy my orders? Where's the gain in that?"

The larger beholder's mouth crooked in a slow smile. "In becoming a lich, this Thraun used a flawed process; its unlife is maintained by magical energies provided by magelings whom it tutors, then destroys when they grow too powerful. It feeds on certain spells cast for it-if you modify them in the right way, you or any wizard can command the lich lord with absolute precision."

The other beholder spoke. "Would you know these magics?"

"Of course." Manshoon did not even look at Sarhthor as he added, "Speak freely."

"The energy can come from any of the spells that drain lifeforce, or from those that create fire or lightning. Thraun needs them modified so their effects form a sphere, the energies spiraling to its heart where this lich lord waits. If you work a governance over undeath and a masking charm employing the name `Calauthas' in your modifying incantations, you can control Thraun from a distance-an absolute control that compels the lich lord's nature. If you choose to do this through a lesser mage whose mind you control, you can even command the lich lord without its knowing who you are."-

"So Thraun, who doubtless intends to destroy us all when it regains spellfire, becomes our helpless pawn. A nice twist." The High Lord of Zhentil Keep took two thoughtful paces across the gleaming marble, and then looked up again.

"The time to use Thraun is not yet," he said. "To gather our mages or to have the lich lord widely seen will arouse Fzoul's suspicions. If you agree, I'll send a mageling to serve Thraun, a wizard this lich lord believes it can easily destroy-but one whose mind I control. We tell Thraun our difficulties in capturing Shandril continue, and it's best not to reveal a lich lord whom others may fear and attack, unless we have the maid in hand."

"I have noticed," the larger beholder observed, "that the priests of our Brotherhood regard all undead as things to be either their slaves or swiftly destroyed."

Manshoon nodded. "That is why there have always been very few liches in the Brotherhood." He began to pace again. "If Thraun grows restive, or Shandril eludes us for too long, we allow it to go after her-exerting our control only when necessary."

The beholders drifted toward the dark hole, and the false window began to slide out over it again. "We are agreed," the larger eye tyrant said simply. "This meeting ends."

"We are agreed," the two wizards echoed, "and this meeting ends." They stood together in silence and watched the dragon window settle back into place.

Manshoon looked at Sarhthor. "Useful news."

"If kept secret, Lord. As it shall be." Their eyes met for a long moment-dark, steady eyes set in expressionless faces.

Then Manshoon nodded and turned away. They strode together across the marble to where the unseen gate waited to take them back to the High Hall of Zhentil Keep.

"One thing occurs to me," Sarhthor said thoughtfully, a pace or two before Manshoon would have vanished. The high lord looked back at him silently.

"Others use this place besides us," the wizard said. "If I were to leave a tracing spell behind to record changes in Art, we'd know precisely what castings had been done here between our meetings. No spying magic could escape our notice."

Manshoon was already nodding. "Do it." He turned away and disappeared.

Left alone in the chamber, Sarhthor took a few steps back the way he had come, and then cast a spell with quick, precise movements. A faint, sparkling radiance seemed to gather out of nowhere to coil around his wrists and then leap outward in all directions, streaming away until it faded back into nothingness. Wearing the faintest of smiles, the wizard looked slowly around the chamber, turned on his heel, took a few strides, and vanished in his turn. Silence fell.

Then the marble floor seemed to ripple and flow, like the farthest tongues of water that waves throw up onto the sands of a beach. Gathering in one corner behind a tapestry, the ripples rose up smoothly into a man-sized pillar, spun for a moment, and sharpened into the form of a tall, thin, bearded man in plain, rather shabby, homespun robes.