Crown of Fire

"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 doesn'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. "Svlune 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 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 litile 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.

Fifteen

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. These 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 bonedeep 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 magical gate and wondered if she'd be able to set 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,