Crown of Fire

Fifteen In the Hidden House

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 bone-deep 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 see 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.

She saw nothing through the oval of light except the other side of the room she stood in. Shandril sighed—and then froze, hardly daring to breathe, as a man’s back appeared in front of her. The dark figure of the Zhentarim, striding out of nothingness beyond the gate into the room with her. He turned his head to look about, and she saw his cruel smile. In a moment he’d turn and see her. She glided forward.

It was hideously easy.

He turned, almost touching her. His eyes lit up as he saw her, he started to smile—and she thrust the sword up, into his throat.

Beliarge of the Zhentarim choked and sputtered. His eyes bulged, and as Shandril tore her blade free, blood rained everywhere. With futile fingers, the wizard clawed the air and his throat, the rings on them powerless to save him. Blood spattered on the floor and on Shandril. Some sprinkled the oval radiance of the gate—and it rippled like water and disappeared. The Zhentarim staggered, fell clutching at his gullet, made a horrible gurgling sound as he kicked at the floor, and then went limp.

Shandril was alone again. She shivered.

For a moment she stared down at the rings on his fingers, but decided she did not want to touch those bloodied hands or search him for anything else, either. Using a corner of his robes to wipe the worst of the blood from her arms and the sword, she looked around the room once more, sighed, and walked to the hallway. She was not going to stand here beside a dead Zhent …. The gods alone knew what spells might be set off by his death. Elminster had warned her about that once. Even the magical gate was likely trapped somehow to keep Storm and Tessaril from coming through, or Shandril from returning.

So where had the good fortune of the gods landed her now? A short flight of steps led down into the hallway, and from where they ended the passage ran straight and narrow to the remote distance, from which she now glimpsed some sort of light. Dark rectangles lined its walls—shuttered windows? No … paintings.

Shandril went toward the light, glancing up at the pictures as she passed. They were hard to see in the dimness, but the first few seemed to be portraits of noble folk, staring haughtily out of the frames at her. Then she came to one that was blank, as if nothing had ever been painted on it. The picture after that was covered with a sort of fluffy white mold that smelled of old, long-dead, spices. All that showed through it of the portrait beneath were two large and piercing dark eyes.

Shandril shuddered at their glare and walked on. The next painting was bare—except for a large, dark stain near its bottom. Shandril drew back. The stain surrounded a slit in the canvas; it looked as if someone had thrust a sword through the painting. From that gash, the darkness ran down the wall, like blood flowing to the floor.

A small sound came from back down the hallway behind her. A scraping sound, like a boot at a careless step. It echoed slightly around her. Shandril looked back—but the hall was empty.

Silence fell. When she stepped forward again, the echo returned. Her own footfalls were now reverberating through the hall, though she’d walked down the first stretch of it without raising any echoes. Magic? A trick of the air? Or was someone really pursuing her? Shandril frowned again. What was this place?

She stopped, looked back again, and decided the likelihood of pursuit was all too possible. She turned and went on again toward the light she’d been heading for—the end of the hall, a small, lit area where there were three closed doors. The warm yellow radiance seemed to be coming from the walls; she couldn’t see any torches or lanterns. The dark-paneled wooden doors looked old—and all the same. None bore any marks or labels, and no sound came from behind any of them.

After a moment, Shandril took firm hold of the cold brass knob of the door on her left, turned it, and pushed. The door opened into darkness. Something small and winged whirred out past her head, circling her for a frightening moment, and then was gone down the hallway. Shandril looked at where it had come from, but the room was too dark to see anything. She listened. Nothing. She closed the door and turned to the portal on its right.

It opened into a dim, dusty room with a worn wooden floor. As she looked in, the light inside seemed to grow stronger. The room stretched off to her left; she saw ceiling beams and a confusing array of crates, barrels, and boxes covered with draped cloth.

She closed the door and tried the center one. It opened easily, revealing dark emptiness. Cold night breezes wafted in around her; the doorsill seemed to be on the edge of a cliff, with jagged rock walls descending on her left to black depths far below. What looked like a village lay in the distance beneath her, judging by the number of scattered fires and points of lamplight. The scene looked like the view from the edge of the Stonelands, a view she’d seen not so long ago—but in the dark night, the cliff might have been anywhere. On an impulse, she dug a copper coin out of a slit in her belt and tossed it through the door. It dropped, bounced off rock somewhere nearby with a tiny clinking sound, and was gone. The cliff, at least, was real—and there was no sign of any rope, or steps, or safe way down.

Shandril closed the door.

Behind her, the scraping sound came again. She spun around—to see the Zhentarim wizard walking slowly and confidently down the hall toward her. There was no blood on him; he looked unhurt and very much alive. He smiled at her as he came. “Well met, Shandril Shessair,” he said lightly. “You bear a sharp sword, I see. Shall we try it against my spells?”

His smile was steady and confident. Fear touched Shandril. Trembling, she hurriedly opened the door on the right again—but the crates and dusty cloths were gone. This time, the door opened into a brilliantly lit hall of polished marble and hanging candle clusters.

Shandril swallowed. Cold sweat ran down her back. If she stepped through that door, would she ever find her way out again?

She looked back down the dark hallway to see how close the Zhent had come—and found herself staring at a stone wall that hadn’t been there before, blocking the hall only a few paces away. The carved stone face of a lion stood out in relief in its center, and seemed to smile mockingly at her.

Despite the wall, she could hear the scraping sound of the wizard’s boots coming nearer, somewhere on the other side of the stones. He was striding confidently, not slowing or seeming uncertain about his way. She tossed another coin—and it vanished into the lion’s smile without a sound. An illusion.

There was no Narm or Mirt or anyone else here to help her now. Whether she lived or died was up to her. Damn all Zhent wizards! Shandril took a deep breath, turned back to the well-lit marble hall, and went in, sword ready.

The marble hall was large and empty. It stretched away for many paces on all sides, dwarfing Mourngrym’s feast hall in Shadowdale. The ceiling was lost in darkness high overhead, and the polished floor gleamed under her boots. Shandril hurried forward, trying to get as far away from the door—and the wizard pursuing her—as possible.

There was a hint of movement on either side as Shandril hurried past, as if phantoms were locked together in stately dances—but whenever she looked directly to either side, where she thought she’d seen movement, all was still.

The hall was wider and longer than any room Shandril had ever seen—probably larger than the hall she’d run through in the dark in Myth Drannor—but now she could see its other end. Stairs led up to a dais there, and a single dark door. She was about halfway there when the music began.

Soft, sweet piping and harping. Intricate and mournful—and like nothing she’d ever heard before. She looked all around, but no musicians were to be seen. The music seemed to wash around her, coming from everywhere and nowhere. A trick sent by the wizard—or something else? Far behind her, she heard the door where she’d entered swing open, and the scrape of boots sounded again on marble.

Shandril set her teeth and strode on. The music faded as she reached the steps. By the time she had ascended to the top and looked back along the hall, all was silent—except for the sounds of the striding wizard. He was coming toward her, a small figure in the distance, and Shandril knew he was smiling. She could feel it.

Behind the approaching wizard, the hall had changed. At that end now were stone pillars and archways, brilliantly lit by flickering torches, which showed her at least four stone-lined passages running off at various angles. They certainly hadn’t been there when she’d come into the hall.

Shandril sighed and turned back to the door in front of her. At least it hadn’t changed on her—yet.

It opened easily, but made a long groaning sound. The room beyond was dark except for a small glowing sphere that hovered just within—a sphere about as big across as a shield … magic, no doubt. Shandril studied it narrowly for a moment, looked back at the steadily approaching wizard, and then shrugged and stepped into the room.

The glowing area flared around her, growing both bright and purplish. The radiance seemed to have no source, but clung to her as she walked on, and revealed faint aspects of the room. She was in a long, narrow, low-ceilinged chamber crowded with chairs, chests, and cabinets. As she peered ahead, the outlines of the dark furniture seemed to flow and shift for a moment, as though they sometimes held other shapes. Behind her, the darkness closed in again.

The room ended in a white door. Shandril opened it—and leapt back as it swung open to reveal a hissing, coiling mass of snakes. The writhing serpents filled a small cubicle lit by a ruby-red glow, their entwined, slithering bodies piled atop each other in a wriggling heap taller than Shandril herself.

Sweating, she slammed the door, encountering rubbery resistance for one horrifying moment. As its lock clicked shut, many similar clicking sounds came from around her. Shandril turned in her little purple glow, and saw other doors shining palely in the darkness. She was sure they had not been there before.

She heard the wizard’s boots scraping on the marble outside the room. In sudden panic, she ran to one of the shining doors and wrenched it open. Beyond lay a short hall containing a small table and a shabby green carpet.

She ran down it and whirled through another door to find herself in a small, musty, octagonal room. All of its eight walls were doors. She opened one, and cold mist eddied out, rising off black water that lapped at the other side of the doorsill and ran back into starlit darkness. She could not see the other shore of what seemed to be a huge lake. As she looked out, mist damp on her cheeks, a strange, ululating cry echoed from far away across the water. Shandril shut the door hastily and stepped back.

Another door, to her left, opened by itself. She screamed and jumped away—but nothing emerged. Keeping her eyes on that door, she backed hastily away, found another door behind her, and opened it.

Now she was looking into a hall hung with old tapestries. At its far end, there was moonlight—coming from where, she couldn’t tell—gleaming on something that moved. Armor! A man in a full suit of plate armor stepped away from the wall as she watched, and he walked to a door. Shandril made a small sound of surprise.

The armored figure whirled around. It took a slow step toward her, then reached up and raised its visor—showing the dark, empty interior of its helm. Abruptly it turned away, walked to another wall, and took up a stance there, hand on spear, as if it had never moved.

Shandril stepped back out of the hall into the octagonal room of many doors, and looked around warily. The door that had opened by itself before was closed again now—and several of the other doors had changed their sizes and shapes; they were no longer identical.

Breathing quickly, Shandril opened a door at random—and found herself face-to-face with the Zhentarim mage, his hand already extended to open the door from his side. He laughed, and brought his other hand up, reaching forward—

She slammed the door on him, hard. It smashed into his arm with a solid thud. Shandril snatched open the next door without waiting to find out how badly she’d hurt the wizard. The chamber beyond was fiery. She tried the next. The moment she saw a room with a floor in the proper place beyond the doorsill, she fled through it.

This room was small and bare, furnished only with a stool and a single door at the far end. Shandril ran to it and plucked it open in breathless haste, her sword up and ready this time.

“Well met, Shan!” The merry voice on the other side of the door was accompanied by a slim, curving sword that deflected her own blade deftly aside. Then its owner tumbled out, swept her close, and kissed her heartily.

Shandril found herself in the arms of Torm, Knight of Myth Drannor and Engaging Rogue. Behind him loomed the large, bearlike form of Rathan Thentraver, priest of Tymora. She blinked at them, dumbfounded.

“Hey! Save some o’ her kisses for me, ye sly dog,” Rathan rumbled, lurching into the room to tap Torm’s shoulder.

Torm broke free of Shandril to draw breath, then grinned back at his fellow knight. “Why?” he asked innocently. “You’ve a good reason?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Shandril, who still stood dazed. If Torm hadn’t kissed her, she’d have thought him some phantom conjured by this place. Perhaps he was some sort of magically disguised monster …. The young thief swept her back into an embrace. “What brings you here?” he asked cheerfully. “And where’s Narm?”

Shandril’s answer was lost in the sound of the door behind her opening. They all turned in time to see the Zhentarim raise his hands. The wizard wore a wolfish grin.

“By the luck of the Laughing Lady,” Rathan said in delight, “he’s got golden eyes!” An amulet at the priest’s throat winked with sudden light.

In response to the priest’s words, the wizard’s smile fell away in an instant. Shandril watched in horror as the face beneath twisted and bulged, shifting into something fanged and horrid. The man—if it was a man—charged them, waving hands that, as he came, stretched impossibly into long, raking claws.

“Nice nails, too,” Rathan observed, drawing a mace from his belt and hefting it as he met the rushing monster.

Torm whirled away from Shandril and waved grandly at the open door he’d come in by. “Your way lies clear before you, Lady,” he said. “I look forward to a chance to taste your sweet lips again when next we meet—hopefully at an occasion of rather more leisure—”

“Are ye going to fight, Torm?” Rathan demanded, smashing his mace into something that reeled back and promptly grew tentacles. “Or are ye just going to talk us all to death?”

Torm turned back to the fray, plucking something that looked like a gilded rose from his belt. Shandril watched him bound toward the monster, calling briskly, “Next dance, please!”

Rathan struggled amid clinging, tightening tentacles, and bellowed to her, “Run, lass! Through that door—look for banners, and ye’ll be safe!”

Shandril shook her head, still astonished by the speedy appearance of the knights. Then Torm swung the fragile-looking rose at the monster—and the room exploded in golden light.

Pulses of radiance spun ever faster and brighter around the three struggling forms. Shandril shaded her eyes against the brilliance, and thought she saw Torm’s blade thrust right through the still-changing monster before the knights and the thing faded amid a cloud of rushing golden light … and she was alone again.

The room was suddenly empty—and very quiet. All that remained to mark the passage of the knights were a few golden rose petals. Shandril stared down at them and swallowed. Then, holding her sword ready, she went to the open door Rathan had bid her use.

It led into another many-sided room of doors. There were six this time. Shandril sighed again and opened one at random. The scene beyond was one of cold, blowing snow, somewhere wintry with mountains in the distance—and the sprawled, gnawed bones of a recently slain orc lying right in front of her. It still clutched a cruel black scimitar. Shandril heard something growling in the distance, and she hastily closed the door.

Banners, Rathan had said. Shandril gently opened the next door to the right. The room it opened into was choked with banners. They hung everywhere, almost touching, and the air was thick with their dust and old smells. Shandril recognized none of them, but she did think one—a black Wyvern on purple silk faded almost to pink—was very striking. Another displayed three golden crowns on a royal blue field. It caught her eye because some old enchantment made the crowns move, each one winking in and out by itself to reappear in different spots. Shandril watched it warily as she stepped into the room.

It was small and square; behind the banners she found another door. Opening it, she found a short, featureless hall with another door at the other end. Shandril shrugged and entered. She’d gone three paces into the room when a sudden thought struck her; she turned back and opened the door again, hoping to find Deepingdale’s colors among the banners. But the room was empty now, a place of dark, polished floors and cobwebs in the corners. She shuddered and closed the door again very carefully.

“Tessaril,” she said aloud, almost crying in fear and frustration, “what have you done to me?”

As she spoke, the door at the other end of the hall swung open. Beyond lay the grand hall, with the Zhentarim she’d slain lying dead on the floor and Tessaril standing beside him. The Lord of Eveningstar’s soot-smudged face broke into a smile at the sight of her.

Shandril ran to her—and then came to an abrupt halt. “Tessaril?” she asked suspiciously, her sword up. “Is that really you?”

The Lord of Eveningstar smiled. “Yes, Shandril.” Then her smile turned a little sad, and she added, “I can tell wandering in my House has unsettled you.”

Shandril rolled her eyes. “Just a touch … what is this place?”

Tessaril slipped past her blade and hugged her reassuringly. “This is the Hidden House,” she said softly. “It’s been here a very long time—since the towers of Myth Drannor stood tall and proud and new, at least.”

Shandril glanced at the room around them. That old? “Who made it?”

Tessaril shrugged. “An archmage of very great power … some tales say Azuth himself.”

“ ‘Some tales’? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Few folk know that it is anything more than a tale—and very few know how to get to it. These days, it serves as my refuge. Sometimes I hide important things here for Azoun. Sometimes those who are hurt—or hunted—spend time here.”

Shandril looked down at the bloody corpse of the man she’d slain. “If he died when I thought I killed him,” she said slowly, “who was chasing me?”

Tessaril stroked her cheek reassuringly. “A shapeshifting being that Torm and Rathan are after. Did Elminster ever tell you about the Malaugrym?”

Shandril frowned at her. “I—I think so, in Shadowdale. Very briefly. He said I must beware ‘Those Who Watch,’ but we were interrupted then, and he never told me more.”

Tessaril nodded. “They’re very dangerous. Certainly too powerful for Torm and Rathan.” Shandril’s face grew pale, and the Lord of Eveningstar patted it. “Don’t worry—did they fight it with what looked like a golden rose?”

Shandril nodded.

Tessaril smiled. “That’s a mazetrap I gave them,” she said. “It’ll whirl them all away into separate mists, tearing them apart even if they’re clawing at each other. It’ll be awhile before the Malaugrym can find you again.”

Shandril looked at her. “Find me?”

“It’s after your spellfire, like everyone else on Toril,” Tessaril said lightly, then added more seriously, “There’s not much you can do about the Masters of Shadow—except use your spellfire on anything that has golden eyes … really gold, like shining metal, I mean.”

Shandril sighed and looked down at the dead Zhentarim again. Then she lifted her head, wearing a determined look. “All right.”

Tessaril chuckled. “That’s the spirit, Shan.” She gently took the sword from Shandril’s hands and laid it on a nearby chest. “How did you like my House?”

Shandril looked at her. “When you’re alone, it’s … frightening.”

Tessaril nodded. “It can be. Those who don’t know the words to say can get lost and wander endlessly, or step through a gate into a far more dangerous place than this—or than Zhentil Keep, for that matter.”

“How did you 6nd it?”

“I didn’t; I was given custody of it when I took the lordship of Eveningstar. The only easy entrance to find is the one you came by, and it opens only from the room you came from. The Hidden House is part of the wardship of the Lord of Eveningstar. Those who don’t know that—including most noble families of Cormyr—have always been puzzled by the high rank given to this post. They usually put it down to Azoun and my being very old friends.”

Tessaril smiled and waved a hand. In response, a bearskin rug rippled in through a doorway that had not been there before, glided to a smooth stop by Shandril’s feet, and settled to the floor. An instant later, two large and soft chairs glided in through the door after it, and arranged themselves on the rug, facing each other.

The Lord of Eveningstar sank into one of them, drew her feet up under her, and waved at Shandril to sit in the other. “This place once belonged to the legendary sorceress Phaeryl, in the days of Netheril.”

Shandril nodded. “I’ve heard of her—she bred dragons.”

“That’s the one. No one knew where Phaeryl’s lost abode lay; most thought it was somewhere in the Stonelands, and more than one band of greedy adventurers clambered all over the Haunted Halls looking for it. By chance, a warrior of the Harpers stumbled on the entrance you used, too many years ago to want to keep count of. She’s a friend of mine, and we explored this place together. It was a lot of fun.”

“Fun?” Shandril’s tone was disbelieving.

“We learned a lot, talking to the ghosts—”

Shandril’s expression told the lord what she thought of that experience.

Tessaril shook her head in mock reproof and went on: “—and we got to see a lot of faraway places, and put on the most amazing gowns; you’ve no idea what crazy things folk used to wear. Oh, and we used to play hide and seek here. We were young, then. Later, we played it with our suitors.”

Shandril rolled her eyes and in response heard the deep warm sound of Tessaril chuckling.

“I didn’t like it, much, wandering around here alone,” the Lord of Eveningstar added softly. “It would have been much worse, though, if a Malaugrym had been chasing me.”

Then Tessaril made a clucking sound and waved a hand. Almost immediately, two dark figures in armor—Shandril stiffened involuntarily—clanked into the room, picked up the Zhent’s body, and walked out. Empty helms gaped, the visors raised; these suits of armor, too, were empty.

“My guards,” Tessaril explained. “They would offer you harm only if I willed them to.” Her face changed. “I’m sorry your first taste of the House was fleeing a Zhent and a Malaugrym. The Zhentarim was not supposed to be able to follow you, but I was overconfident. His spells were stronger than Storm or I could resist; I’m glad you slew him when you did, or we’d be standing there like statues still.”

She stretched in her chair, looked around at the hall of oval mirrors, and said, “Though if you have to hide from anyone, this is the best place I know of to do it in.”

“How so?” Shandril asked, “I’d always be afraid I’d open a door and find myself face-to-face with someone I thought I’d slipped away from, six rooms back.”

Tessaril smiled at her. “Yes, the doors do not always open into the same rooms you have found behind them before.” Her smile changed, touched by sympathy. “You’ve already found that out, I see.”

She made a peculiar wriggling gesture with her fingers, and a cabinet nearby swung open. A bottle and two glass flagons floated out of it, heading for her hands.

There’s a much greater benefit to this place,” the Lord of Eveningstar said as she poured a glass of frosty-cold green wine and handed it to Shandril. “I can feel the presence of any intruder and where they’re lurking.”

“Me, for instance?”

Tessaril grinned. “We’re going to get along fine, Shan. I hope you’ll have patience enough to stay here for a bit in hiding while you and Narm and Mirt all get fully healed. There’s even a place where you can safely hurl spellfire and make sure you’ve built it to its height before you venture out again to face the Zhentarim.”

Shandril sipped the wine and found it warm and very good. She drank deeply and said, “Thanks, Lord Tessaril. I accept.”

Tessaril chuckled again. “Call me ‘Tess,’ please—and think about one other thing.” Her face grew serious again. “A wielder of spellfire may find fewer hiding places in all vast Faerûn than she expected. This is one of them. Think of it when you’re looking for a home; neither Azoun or I will try to command you if you choose to stay here. We consider it one of Cormyr’s treasures—but not part of Cormyr.”

Shandril looked at her in disbelief. “Here?”

“I’m not expecting you to prefer it to freely roaming Faerûn,” Tessaril replied. “I’m suggesting it as the best refuge I know.”

“Umm,” Shandril said, resting her chin on her glass and staring at the opposite wall. The painting on it obligingly flickered and changed shape.

Tessaril held out the bottle to refill Shandril’s glass. “Narm and Mirt both seem all right,” she said. “The priests of Lathander are in awe of you, by the way, over what you did to Narm. Storm’s gone back to Shadowdale, we’ve not seen the Old Mage again, and we’ve not seen or heard anything more from the Zhentarim. I’ve spoken with Vangerdahast—without revealing that any of you were still here—and he’s of the opinion that you fought something called a ‘lich lord,’ more powerful at sorcery than most archmages living today. He’s mightily impressed with you, too.”

Shandril smiled wearily. “So’s everyone else I meet—but then they usually try to kill me.” She was suddenly very tired, and felt something moving through her fingers. She looked down—in time to see the glass fall from her hand.

Shandril watched it shatter on the floor, stared at the bouncing fragments dully, and then raised slow and angry eyes to look at Tessaril. Flames leapt in them as she said bitterly, “You put something in the wine. I trusted you, too.”

“I hope you’ll go on trusting me, Shan,” Tessaril said sadly as she got up and put her arms around Shandril. “Now you need to sleep—or you’ll soon kill yourself. You’ve been hurling spellfire without rest or food or water. Each time you call on it, it’s eating you inside to get its energy. Rest now; you’re safe here.”

The last thing Shandril felt was a gentle kiss on her cheek. She fell asleep wearing a curious expression. To Tessaril, it looked as if she was trying to frown, but smiling in relief.

“Well?” Fzoul slowly turned from the papers he’d been studying and raised cold eyes to fix Sarhthor with a challenging gaze.

The sorcerer looked back at him expressionlessly. “He failed. Through our spell-link, I felt him die.”

Fzoul studied the wizard’s stony face. “You’re no more surprised than I am.”

Sarhthor shrugged. “He was an overconfident, arrogant fool. One more we’re better off without.”

“You don’t approve of cruelty or pride?” Fzoul asked flatly.

The sorcerer seemed almost to smile. “I see no reason to laud villainy just because the Brotherhood uses might and pays no heed to the moral judgments of others. If I have a flaw, it should be something I work against to make me better in the service of the Brotherhood—not something I take pride in and show to all as a weakness of the Brotherhood, ready to be taken advantage of.”

Fzoul nodded. “Wisely said.” He paused, toying with the tiny skull carved from Iliph Thraun’s thighbone. The high priest leaned forward. “Tell me, Sarhthor—what are your own thoughts on this matter of spellfire?”

Sarhthor shrugged. “A formidable weapon, something of almost irresistible power—but not something to tear apart the Brotherhood over.”

Fzoul leaned back. “Oh? Tell me, then, what—in your view—are the more important matters facing the Brotherhood now.”

Sarhthor nodded. He went to the row of chairs along one side of the room and picked one up. Though it was large and heavy, the slightly built wizard lifted it as if it were made of paper.

Fzoul’s eyes narrowed. Sarhthor met the high priest’s gaze mildly, carried the chair to the table, and without invitation, sat down opposite Fzoul.

“First,” the wizard said calmly, “we must foil Thay’s growing influence in Calaunt and Westgate.”

“First?” Fzoul’s voice was silky.

Sarhthor looked at him expressionlessly and said, “You told me to state my view. If you’d prefer to fence, Fzoul, I can oblige.”

Fzoul held his gaze for a long, chilly time, then silently waved him to continue.

Sarhthor inclined his head and went on. “Then there’s the matter of Maalthiir of Hillsfar. If he were dead, we could take advantage of instability there to place a large number of agents—and slay those Mulmaster has established there.”

The wizard shrugged. “I’d also like to see more of the soft word and hidden agreement in the way we work in days ahead—and fewer marching armies and indiscriminate spell-hurling. We’re making enemies at far too fast a rate, and making too many rulers uncomfortable. I don’t want to see armies from several realms besieging our walls in a year or two.”

Fzoul nodded slowly. “This is more sense than I’ve heard from the mouth of a wizard of the Brotherhood in several winters.”

Sarhthor nodded, the ghost of a smile on his face. “They’re all too eager to topple towers and twist the world overnight, aren’t they?”

Fzoul lifted his lip in a cruel parody of a smile. “Exactly. I’m hoping we can see eye to eye on more things, Sarhthor, than your predecessor and I ever did. It would be a pleasure to work together to make the Brotherhood great for once rather than spending our best energies in fighting each other, wizards against priests, and cabal against cabal.”

Sarhthor smiled thinly. “I’m sure it’s afforded the Great Lord Bane—and foes such as Elminster—much entertainment over the years.”

Fzoul’s smile vanished at those words, but he said only, “Say on.”

Sarhthor shrugged. “I’d like to build Zhentil Keep into something greater than a fortress of fear, Fzoul—an empire ruling all Dragon Reach and the Moonsea. Whatever our individual dreams, there’ll be more room for ambitious Brothers who wear the robes of Bane or who walk as wizards to find their own desires fulfilled if we grow larger and more powerful. I know Great Lord Bane wants to see such an empire loyal to him, because I’ve heard your underpriests chanting the Words of Bane often enough. The sorcerers under me provide you with wilder magic than other priesthoods can match—we need each other.”

Fzoul’s face was grim, but there was a light in his eyes as he asked, “What, then, do you think we should do first?”

Sarhthor did not quite smile. “Well,” he said ….

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 stay 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 tightly.

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 eyes 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 you—and 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.”