Crown of Fire

Sixteen Blood, Blades, and Bitter Words

“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—make 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—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 hers that Tessaril gasped, shuddered, and drew back, face pinched in pain.

Shandril gulped. She let go of her and turned her head away. “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, I 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 find 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 hands 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 save her!” He looked up at Tessaril through streaming tears and struggled to control his voice. “Where is she?”

Torm snatched up a goblet. “Drink this, Narm! You’ll feel better.”

Storm shook her head. “It’s not the universal cure you think it is, Torm.” The bard put her arms comfortingly on Narm’s shoulders, but the young mage seemed not to feel them.

“Where is she?” Narm almost screamed, and then went on, voice trembling, “We must go to her. Now!”

Storm looked at the Lord of Eveningstar. “Have you spells enough?”

Torm asked quickly, “And what should I do?”

“Belt up before any more time’s wasted,” Mirt said roughly, “and ye, Tess, go and get me one or two o’ them healing potions ye keep stowed away. Hurry!”

They all looked at him, and then Tessaril nodded and rushed out. Mirt drew his sword and slashed at the air. The blade gleamed in the light.

Narm’s reddened eyes followed it, and the young mage clenched his jaw. “What’s your plan?”

The Old Wolf grinned at him but said nothing. Then Mirt’s smile turned rather grim as he brought out the notched and battered axe that had been Delg’s. He hefted it in his other hand. “Where’re those potions?” he bellowed.

Tessaril ran in, hair streaming behind her in her haste. “Here,” she gasped, thrusting two steel vials into his hand. Mirt jammed them into his belt, sighed heavily, and gestured at Narm. “Guard him here, lass.”

Tessaril nodded, and came forward to kiss him. “Guard yourself, Old Wolf,” she said, eyes bright. “I’d like to see you—alive—again.”

Mirt laughed, accepted her quick peck on his grizzled cheek, and said, “Ye will, lass. Ye will.

“If I’ve got to die,” he roared at them all, “I’d like to have a kiss to remember, at the last. Pray to Tymora for me!”

Torm spread his arms pleadingly. “Kiss me, Old Wolf,” he trilled in mocking imitation of a swooning maiden. “Oh, kiss me!”

Mirt glared at him and backhanded his almost empty goblet off the table. It sailed into Torm’s face. The thief was still sputtering when the old merchant bowed to them all, murmured something, and vanished.

Narm looked around the room and said grimly, “Can everyone here cast a teleport spell except me?”

Storm gathered him into her arms. “That was no teleport, Narm. Do you remember the gem Shandril found in Tethgard—the rogue stone?”

Narm nodded, frowning, tears still bright on his cheeks. “Delg and Mirt knew something about it that they weren’t telling.”

“Undoubtedly,” Storm said dryly. “Mirt put it there for her to find. It was prepared by Khelben the Blackstaff and linked to a spell that many a thief has used down the years, which lets one who speaks the right words teleport to wherever the stone is, long after the spell is cast Mirt’s at Shandril’s side right now.”

Narm looked at her and asked very softly, “And why not me?”

“You’d be killed, idiot,” Torm told him, “unless you’ve learned a god’s ransom of spells since I saw you last. Those Zhentarim’d blast you to ash before you could draw breath to cast your first spell.”

Narm stared at him.

“Blunt,” Storm told the young mage gently, “but true.”

“Besides, you can’t follow her until I memorize another teleport spell,” Tessaril said, “and I’m reluctant to do that.”

“Why not?” Narm almost screamed.

Tessaril turned her back. “I won’t send you to certain death,” she said, voice trembling.

“You sent Shan!”

“I—couldn’t stop her, Narm. I can stop you.”

Narm stared at her back, fresh tears on his face. “Let me be with Shan!” he cried in anguish. “Please!”

Sadly, Tessaril shook her head and turned to meet his gaze with dark eyes that held tears of their own. “Shandril and Mirt can both withstand far more than you can, Narm. You’d wind up a hostage in Fzoul’s hands, one he could use to compel Shandril to surrender. Then spellfire would be his, after all.”

Narm’s eyes blazed. Abruptly he whirled away from her gaze to stamp the length of the chamber and back again. “I should be there!” he protested and turned away again.

“Gods look down damnation,” he cursed. Then he pivoted slowly to face the Lord of Eveningstar again. “There’s another reason, isn’t there?” he asked softly, almost whispering.

Tessaril nodded. “Shandril may fall under Fzoul’s control, or be twisted by Zhentarim magic—or spellfire itself—once she uses it in unbridled anger rather than to defend. If she becomes something akin to a Zhentarim, we must try to control her power by using you as hostage to her good behavior.” She turned away, sighed, and said to the wall, “As Manshoon would have.”

Mirt saw swirling mists for a moment, and then his boots struck something hard. Flagstones. He staggered, and waved his weapons out of habit. They struck nothing.

He stood in a courtyard somewhere in the Citadel of the Raven—he could see raven banners flapping overhead. There were folk screaming and running through the courtyard nearby, and the ground suddenly heaved underneath him. Mirt crouched to keep his balance. He watched in amazement as flagstones rippled and heaved, as if a giant wave were passing underneath them.

All around him soldiers were fleeing, running away from a lone figure standing not far away, near the gates of a tall tower. Shandril, of course; the spell on the gem was set to deliver him about twenty paces from her. Mirt’s eyes widened as he saw what she was fighting: a ring of beholders.

Ye gods! Couldn’t the lass just have a nice, comfortable fight with half-a-dozen evil archmages? Or a dragon or two? Liches, now—aye, liches were good, even mind flayers ….

The Old Wolf was running toward her by then, boots skidding on the broken flagstones of the courtyard. What use he’d be to her, the gods alone knew; he could barely see the lass now, outlined in a white halo of fire. Streamers of spellfire lashed out from it—and beholders died, or reeled back in a shower of sparks, blackened and burning.

The beholders drifted above her like angry dragons, baffled. They were used to foiling the magic of foes with the large eyes in their bodies—but spellfire tore through their anti-magic fields as if nothing were there. They had magic of their own that lashed out from the snakelike eyestalks writhing atop their bodies. But spellfire drained away or boiled into nothingness the rays from their eyes, and it stabbed out at them in return. When their own disintegrating gazes were not brought to bear quickly enough, spellfire lashed through their defenses, and they died.

The Old Wolf’s ears were ringing by the time he got close to her; the din of shrieking, air-ripping, crashing magic was incredible. A particularly violent spellblast shook the courtyard and threw him to his knees—and that saved his life. A beholder that would have crushed him with its fall crashed down in front of him instead, body blazing. Mirt got a good whiff of the reek of burning beholder, and was violently, uncontrollably sick. As he raised his head, the eye tyrant’s body plates shattered from the heat within, and their darkened shards bounced past him.

Mages of the Zhentarim saw Mirt, a lone man in the midst of that field of ruin and magical chaos, but they could not have done anything to aid or attack him, even if they’d known who he was: a whirling spellstorm had begun to form over the courtyard, created by the struggle between magic and spellfire. Mages who tried to cast spells screamed, their minds burned to cinders—or they watched in horror as their magic went wild, creating misshapen flowers or rains of frogs or worse.

Spell-lightning arced repeatedly from the gathering storm cloud to the tallest spires of the citadel around, humming and crackling. Men plunged to their deaths from those heights, cooked alive, or fell into piles of bone and ash where they stood. And still the battle raged on.

Such a mighty outpouring of wild magic had to go somewhere—and it did:

Far to the west of the citadel, near the Border Forest, a great meadow of red-petaled flowers quivered, bowed slowly in a spreading ripple that washed from one end of the scarlet field to the other, and then straightened again. One after another, the flowers all quietly turned blue.

In the woods near the shaking citadel, along the foot of the Dragonspine Mountains, a small tree tore itself up bodily, scattering soil in all directions, and shot up into the sky. The branches of the trees around it splintered and crackled and were utterly destroyed by its passage. A startled satyr who looked up through the newly created clearing saw the tree heading west high in the air, tumbling and spinning as it went.

One of the smaller towers along the south wall of the citadel simply vanished. With a groan like a dying dragon, another citadel tower grew a crack as wide as a man’s hand from top to bottom. At the same time, smoke billowed suddenly out of the highest windows of Wizards’ Watch Tower, followed by stray bolts of lightning, shadowy apparitions, and many-hued, winking spell-sparks. Startled Zhentilar warriors, arming hastily in their barracks, found themselves floating near the ceiling, their flesh glowing a brilliant blue.

One of the flagpoles overlooking Spell Court toppled suddenly, sizzling from end to end with lightning. Beside it, a beholder suddenly caught fire and spun away into the sky northward. A moment later, the horizon was lit by a brilliant burst of flame as the distant beholder exploded.

Wheezing, Mirt found his feet again and lumbered across the courtyard. The aura of spellfire around Shandril was noticeably feebler now. She still stood tall and proud, hair lashing her shoulders as if a high wind raged around her, arms raised to hurl spellfire. Her eyes were two raging flames.

A horrible bubbling sound came to Mirt’s ears from overhead. It erupted from a beholder that hung, smoking, in midair, its glazed eyes rolling wildly about on writhing, cooked eyestalks.

Mirt ran on. At the edges of the courtyard, now, he could see many armored Zhentilar soldiers coming out of doors and rushing about wildly. They began hacking at folk who fled past them toward those same doorways. Through the archways that led off Spell Court, Mirt saw soldiers pursuing citizens off down the streets, their swords raised. He began to wish Khelben had never given him that rogue stone.

There came crashing sounds from overhead, as if huge wine bottles were bursting. The Old Wolf looked up and saw balls of lightning forming in midair and streaming in all directions. The leaping lightning struck two beholders and drove them into each other. They reeled apart, and Shandril cut one of them in half with a ragged, faltering bolt of spellfire. Mirt looked on anxiously. She staggered as she brought both hands together and pointed them at the last eye tyrant, and for the first time in his long life, Mirt the Moneylender heard a beholder scream.

Shandril stood alone in the courtyard, her hands smoking, as the last of the beholders crashed to the earth in flames.

“Magnificent, lass! I’ve never seen such power. Well done!” Like a joyful buffalo, Mirt galloped toward Shandril through the wreckage of beholder bits and fallen stones.

She turned and looked at him, and it was a moment before her dull eyes lit with recognition. Shandril smiled wanly, lifted a hand that trembled—and then her eyes went dark, and she fell to the ground in a limp and sudden heap.

Mirt’s old legs got him there a breath or two later. Shandril lay on her face on the stones. Mirt rolled her over; she was still breathing. Thank the gods!

Then he heard shouts, and the clank and clatter of metal. He looked up from Shandril’s crumpled form, then slowly all around.

The Old Wolf crouched at the center of a grim, closing circle of Zhentilar warriors. Their drawn blades flashed as they came, and Mirt saw teeth flash in smiles of relief as they realized they’d not have to fight the maid who brought down beholders.

Well, perhaps he shouldn’t have thanked the gods all that loudly. The Old Wolf snarled his defiance, beard bristling, and waved his saber at them. None of them turned and fled. Mirt sighed, straightened, and then just waited as they slowly closed in.

Narm paced back and forth under Storm’s watchful eye. “I wish I was with her, right now. I feel so helpless!” he burst out, hurling the words at Tessaril.

She sat at the far end of the chamber, staring at nothing. Her hands were in her lap, and they trembled.

“Lord Tessaril,” Narm said again, urgently, striding nearer.

Storm got up, a warning in her eyes, and blocked his path to the Lord of Eveningstar.

They both heard Tessaril say softly, “I know just how you feel, Narm. Go with Torm and get a good meal into you, whether you feel hungry now or not. Come back when you’re done—and I’ll have your teleport spell ready.”

Narm could hardly believe he’d heard her say the words. “Thank you! Thank you!”

“I can’t let one go, and then build a cage around its mate,” Tessaril said softly, “but you may not thank me so fervently in the end, Narm—nor may that end be far off.”

Narm bowed to her and said, “That’s a chance I’ll take, Lady—one all who live must take. My thanks for giving me the freedom to take it.”

As he and Torm went out, Storm and Tessaril watched the young mage go. Then they looked at each other; new respect for Narm Tamaraith shone in both their gazes.