Crown of Fire

Myrintara laughed again and left them to a screen at the back of her huge boudoir. Behind it, another archway led into her wardrobe, Shandril had never seen so many clothes in one place before-racks and racks of them, some hanging on wooden forms that dangled from the ceiling on chains. She stared around as Myrintara took them briskly through the corridor of clothes into dimness at the back of the room. There, for the first time, they found a few discarded chairs, with folded draperies piled atop them. Beyond was a small, plain door, Myrintara swung it open; it led into a small, dusty, empty closet.

"My quick way out," she said with a smile. "Touch the back wall and you'll be taken to my favorite i

"We can force ourselves to be content with that," Mirt assured her sagely, "I'd kiss ye farewell, Myrin, but ye might catch something," He waved at her, and stepped into the closet, The others followed.

The world seemed to blink for a moment, then Shandril found herself standing on a grassy bank with trees all around her. The sun was high and warm; it was just before highsun.

"Where are we?" Belarla asked before Shandril could, Mirt waved an expansive hand. "Step around those trees, ladies, and cross the road."

They all went together, Shandril found herself looking at the village of Eveningstar, at the spot where the overland roads met, by the bridge over the River Starwater. Across the way rose the friendly, ramshackle bulk of The Lonesome Tankard, its signboard creaking slightly in the breeze.

"Ah, the Tankard," Belarla said with pleasure, "Well, Myrintara certainly knows the good places to stay."

"A hot bath," was all Oelaerone said, fishing around for her purse in the bodice of her soaked, stained, ruined gown.

Mirt chuckled. "We've business with Tessaril, ladies," he said. "My thanks-perhaps well talk, this even or on the morrow."

The Harper pleasure-queens rolled their eyes, "Just don't knock on our doors and demand aid or a rescue," Belarla said. "We've done our share for a tenday or so."

"Or so, indeed," Oelacrone echoed. "Gods smile, you two," They waved farewell, crossed the road, and went into the Tankard.

As they went up the road together, Shandril tried not to smell the reek coming off them both. She looked at Mirt curiously and asked, "Why didn't you stay with Myrintara, Old Wolf?"

Mirt looked at her sidelong, "I was young and restless, lass, Besides," he added, "did ye not notice-she never stops laughing! In bed, at table, in the bath-my ears grew sore, in the end."

Shandril stared at him-and then started to laugh helplessly.

Mirt looked hurt, "I don't look that fu

One of the guards looked at them, peered a second time, and then turned and called "They're back! And-" He staggered hastily out of the way as a white-faced Narm and a broadly smiling Storm charged out of the tower to embrace the two, heedless of the stench and dirt Narm kissed Shandril repeatedly. "Gods, I was scared, Shan. Are you all right?"

Shandril found herself suddenly crying into his chest. "I-I don't know," she managed to say, between happy sobs.

"Well. come in, and we'll find out," Tessaril said from the doorway, and wrinkled her nose, "And you can both have a bath-or three."

Nineteen

SPELLSTORM COMING

Dragons, lad? Let me sleep… no, I'm not impressed-not even if the sky was full of 'em, I've seen a spellstorm, lad and I'd have to see gods walking the Realms to top that.

The character Nimrith the Old Warrior, in the play Much Ado in Sembia Malarkin Norlbertusz of Ordulin Year of the Prince

Tessaril's bathroom was surprisingly luxurious. Shandril sighed blissfully as the warm, scented water sluiced away the filth of the citadel's sewers, She ran weary fingers back through her hair, opened her eyes, and found Belarla gri

"What made you choose to become Harpers?" Shandril asked curiously.

Belarla smiled. The two Harpers had been delighted at Tessaril's invitation. Across the room, Oelaerone was soaping her hair with quick, expert motions. She flung her head back to keep soap out of her eyes, turned, and said, "We wanted a taste of adventure."

"Adventure? But you're"-Shandril fumbled for words for a moment-"pleasure-queens." Belarla raised an eyebrow, "Any task grows boring, Shan, if you do it over and over again." With a contented sigh she settled back down into the water and added, "How can we make others excited and give pleasure if we're not excited and enjoying it ourselves?" She nodded at the floor they'd entered the baths by, "-Tessaril casts spells, We're pleasure-queens; we work magic of another sort."

"And who's to say which of us makes the most changes in Faerun?" Tessaril put in as she swung the door open, hung her robe by it, and joined them.

A moment later, Shandril was groaning in satisfaction as the Lord of Eveningstar scrubbed at the small of her back. Tessaril looked over at Belarla, and drew down her brows in a mock frown. "Going to the Tankard when you could have come straight here to me! I'm hurt."

Belarla spread her hands. "Lady-oops, Lord; I'll never get used to that-you have a lovely bath, here, My heartfelt thanks. We needed a dip in the river first, though. and a horse trough-and Dunman's i

Tessaril chuckled, "So," she said to Shandril, as her skillful fingers kneaded knots and sore spots on the maiden's back, "are you going to tell me what happened in the citadel?"

"Start with the beholders," Oelaerone teased, soap ru

"Well," Shandril said, taking a deep breath, "I'm going back."

The echoing chorus of groans that greeted this was so loud the servants came ru

Sarhthor and Fzoul wearily turned away from the watery scrying disc. The high priest gestured, and there was a collective gasp from the white-faced, exhausted underpriests as they released their concentration.

The disc collapsed, Water crashed to the floor, and smoke rose where it hit some of the runes, Sarhthor and Fzoul strode through the resulting sparks and dancing radiances without even looking down. The wizard wiggled a finger, and a pair of stools glided out from the corners of the room. The two rulers of the Brotherhood sat down, not happily.

"We lost all trace very suddenly," Sarhthor said.

Fzoul nodded grimly. "Someone aiding her, more likely-has used magic to cloak her." He turned to the underpriests, who leaned wearily against the walls of the room, and demanded angrily, "Why hasn't the roused might of the citadel brought Shandril to us yet? This is our fortress, not an open city-no one here should defy us." He glared around at them. "Thousands of Zhentilar, scores of priests-and we haven't even brought her to bay, cornered somewhere?"

Priests traded unhappy glances and spread their hands helplessly, not daring to speak.

"Must I do everything myself?" Sarhthor and Fzoul snarled in unison, They stopped and looked at each other in the sudden silence. Then, very slowly, they traded cold smiles, and strode to the door together.

"Are you resolved then, lass?" "I am," Shandril said firmly. Narm looked at her with pleading eyes. "You've killed Manshoon and other Zhentarim galore and half a hundred beholders. Isn't it time to stop?"

He looked around Tessaril's audience chamber for support, but found none, Mirt sat with a friendly arm about each of the Harper pleasure-queens. Tessaril was behind her desk-and Shandril sat on it in their midst. Her long hair tossed behind her as she shook her head and leaned forward.