Crown of Fire

Two Much Talk, and Even Some Decisions

Their last glimpse of Thunder Gap, far behind, was blocked by dark, sinister winged shapes in the sky. Narm watched them flapping out of the mountains, found his mouth suddenly dry, and swallowed with some difficulty.

“Delg,” he managed to croak. The dwarf did not even turn to see where he was pointing.

“I’ve been ignoring them,” Delg told him sourly. “It’s easiest.”

“Ignoring them? That’s all?” Shandril asked incredulously, looking back at the dark, hunting shapes as they grew ever larger, ever closer.

“You’ve a bright scheme of some sort, lass?” The dwarf’s tone was sharp as he hastened on, an errant skillet banging on metal somewhere inside his pack.

“Well, we’ve got to hide,” Shandril said hotly. “I haven’t spellfire enough to—”

“That’s why I’ve been saving my breath and not stopping to look back,” the dwarf said in dry tones. “It brings the trees closer, as fast as I can make them move …. See the little dip ahead there? It’s a ravine: the branches’ll be thick, and there’ll be a stream to hide our own noises—arguing with wise dwarves, for instance ….”

Narm and Shandril exchanged glances, then hurried after the dwarf toward the ravine he’d indicated. Only after they had reached cover did any of them speak again.

“What are they?” Narm’s voice was low. He’d never seen such ugly things before—huge, fat, scaled things with bat wings, claws, and horselike heads that ended in two probing, twisting snouts. Each snout held sharp jaws; even down here Narm could smell the rotting reek of their breath.

“Foulwings,” Delg said. “Well named, aye?”

Narm watched the heavy, ungainly things flap over them, wheel, and dart this way and that, searching along the road and the edges of the forest for signs of a maid, her man, and a dwarf. He shivered as a foulwing turned overhead, and the head of the robed and hooded rider pivoted, scanning the forest. For a moment it seemed that the foulwing rider looked right at him. Fear rose in Narm. Frantically he searched his mind for some spell that wouldn’t reveal their location to the foes above.

And then the foulwing wheeled in the air, belching and snorting angrily as its rider struck it cruelly with a metal goad. In the man’s other hand, a wand glinted for a moment before he flew onward, out of sight. His companions, some ten or twelve others, followed afterward.

“Who rides foulwings?” he asked, trying to sound calm.

“Evil folk,” Delg said brightly. When Narm looked at him in disgust, the dwarf added a savage grin. Narm folded his arms and waited for further explanation.

Delg rumbled, “If you must know, lad: the Zhents; the Cult of the Dragon; I’ve heard the Red Wizards of Thay do, too; I saw the private army of a lich riding ’em once, in the Vilhon—and the tavern-talk in Suzail, when last I was there, had some lord or other of Westgate using them, in league with a pirate. For all I know, half the rich merchants in Sembia keep ’em as pets.”

“If they’re as common as all that, why’ve I never heard of them before?” Narm protested.

Delg rolled his eyes. “D’you know how many folk I’ve heard say that down the years, lad? Most of ’em had been adventuring longer than you have, too—and the things they hadn’t met with before killed ’em just as dead as if they’d been old friends. Had you seen or heard of spellfire before you met with your lady? D’you think I could stand in the midst of it, protesting I’d never heard of it before, and thereby escape being burned?”

Narm opened his mouth to reply, but another voice spoke first: Shandril could move very quietly when she wanted to. They’d left her lying silent and still under spread cloaks in the ravine—but neither Narm or Delg was surprised to find her beside them on their perch on a low, gnarled bough of an old phandar tree. Her eyes smoldered a little as she asked softly, “Could these foulwing riders be the darker, greater foes Elminster warned us about back in Shadowdale, do you think?”

Narm spread his hands. “He never said enough about Those Who Watch’ to tell us how to recognize them.”

Delg shrugged, and added, “I’d rather not call those bat-horses down to ask.” He squinted up at them and asked, “Does it matter? Whoever they are, they’re bold enough to fly openly into Cormyr in broad daylight. Just one of those foulwings could tear all of us apart if it catches Shan by surprise, with no spellfire ready. It’s the forest for us, from now on.”

And so it was that the only known wielder of spellfire and her companions turned off the road into the vast and deep Hullack Forest. They rested after several hours of struggling through thick stands of duskwood. While they sat, Shandril managed to eat some cheese, preceded by some rather old milk, and followed by some rather wine-strong broth. Delg insisted on doing all the cooking. “I’d probably starve if I left the food to you or your husband there” was the gentle way he put it when she’d protested. Shandril was just as glad not to handle their provisions—too much had been salvaged from the ruin of Thundarlun, bringing memories of its slaughter back into her mind. She was growing tired of the killing—and of seeing fear in the eyes of folk she was fighting for, or alongside, when they looked at her.

None of the three wore smiles this day. None had been eager to enter the dark, tangled forest. It stretched on for miles, sprawling over most of eastern Cormyr, a wild and forbidding place. Foresters and hunters seldom ventured far into its dim depths. Long before night stole up to cast its cloak over Cormyr, the three had come to the end of the last, fading forest trail—and plunged on into the trackless, shady depths of the heart of Hullack Forest.

“We can’t see far enough or move fast enough for my liking,” Delg said, axe in hand. He glared at the trees all around them in the gathering gloom. “I’m beginning to hold the opinion that we’d have done better to have stayed on the road and faced whatever your enemies had left to hurl at us.”

“I’m beginning to hold the opinion,” Narm replied in a low voice, “that your words are wiser now than when you led us off the road.”

“Belt up, lad!” Delg put little anger behind his words; he peered tensely around them as if expecting an immediate attack.

“Wherever wisdom lies,” Shandril said softly, “we can’t find our way back now. We must go on. Night comes swiftly—we daren’t travel blindly about in it, for I’ve heard of boars and worse hunted here. We must find a place to rest, before dark.”

“Aye. A safe place,” Delg grunted. “A place one of us can defend while the others sleep. A place with rock at our backs is best.”

“Assuredly,” Narm agreed. “I’m sure I’ve several such places just lying about here, somewhere … now where did I leave them, I wonder? Cou—”

“You,” Shandril told him severely, “have been listening to the nimble tongue of Torm too much of late. Let’s hurry, ere the light fails entirely: we must seek high ground and hope we find a cliff, or perhaps a cave.”

“One without a bear,” Delg added, hastening on in the gathering darkness. They could hear him puffing as they hurried on over leaves and tangles of fallen, mossy logs. More than once he slipped or stumbled and broke branches underfoot with dull cracking sounds. “I never liked forests,” he added gloomily on the heels of a particularly hard fall.

Shandril and Narm both chuckled. They were climbing a tree-clad slope toward a place of slightly greater brightness in the deepening twilight; a glade, perhaps, or rocky height where trees grew more thinly. The forest around them was coming alive with mysterious rustlings and eerie, far-off hoots and baying calls. The three hurried onward and upward over tumbled stones, racing to find a refuge before nightfall caught up with them.

The trees thinned, and then the weary travelers came to an open space. Looking up, Narm saw stars winking overhead in the gathering night. A huge shadowtop tree had toppled here, perhaps a season ago, its vast trunk smashing aside smaller saplings to clear a little space in the thick, tangled forest. The three wanderers looked around for a moment, met each other’s eyes, and nodded in unison. This place would have to do.

Delg caught Narm’s elbow. “Gather firewood,” he said. “You and me. One each side of her, while Shan unpacks. Don’t make noise you don’t have to.”

“A fire?” Narm said. “Won’t that draw anyone who’s searching—”

“They’ve magic, lad,” Delg told him dryly. “They could find us if we stuffed leaves in our hair and stood like trees ’til morning. The big beasts, too—an’ the smaller ones’ll come to look, but not dare approach too near. We may as well have some comfort.”

“Dear, dear,” Gathlarue said, not very far away, as she looked into her softly glowing crystal, where three tiny shapes moved and spoke. Her slim lips crooked in a little smile. “I was so looking forward to seeing you stuff leaves into your mouth, Sir Dwarf. Now I’ll have to stare at your fire—and looking into dancing flames always makes me sleepy.”

“Wine, Lady?” Gathlarue’s older apprentice stood over her, a dark shape against the trees that rose all around them. The slim, raven-haired girl held a silver-harnessed crystal decanter in her hands.

Gathlarue looked up at her, smiled, and took the goblet she offered. “My thanks, precious one. You know my needs so well.”

Mairara twisted her mouth in a wordless, affectionate reply, bent to kiss her, and glided softly away. Gathlarue grinned faintly into her scrying globe; the blood-spell she had woven long ago let her listen to the thoughts of both her apprentices whenever she chose, unbeknownst to them. For all her kisses and kindnesses, Mairara meant to work her a painful death one day soon.

Before that day came, Gathlarue meant to use her well. To rise in the ranks of the Zhentarim would take more magic than Gathlarue could wield alone. A few days back, while in Zhentil Keep, she’d seen afresh all the cruel striving that would oppose her. The magelings had been gathered to hear Manshoon, and so much cruelty and aroused magic had hung barely in check in that room that the smell of it had almost made her afraid.

Almost. She’d have to be careful, as always; the other mages could bend their wills entirely to hurling destruction, but she always had to spare some Art when in their midst for cloaking herself in male guise. Her Zhentilar warriors respected her, but no women, it seemed, rose high in the robed ranks of the Zhentarim.

That could well change—soon. She had a spell that might handle even Lord Manshoon. More than that, she had one that might just foil spellfire. Gathlarue’s smile deepened as she recalled finding the spell: she had discovered a place high atop a leaning, roofless tower in ruined Myth Drannor where a certain word and touch of a certain stone brought a portal into being in midair. The oval, shimmering door had led into some ancient wizard’s long-abandoned hideaway. It was a cozy room tucked away in nothingness—a room whose walls were covered with shelves groaning under the weight of spellbooks. More spells than she’d ever have time to learn. Yet she’d taken away enough, if the gods smiled on her, to rule any corner of Faerûn she chose. Not that anyone but her knew that, yet.

Gathlarue had learned patience down the years, and now it was an old, comfortable friend. She nodded, sipping the wine, and looked out into the gathering darkness of the forest depths. Her amulet made the drink safe, whatever drugs or poisons Mairara or others might have added to it. She bent her concentration again to the stone.

Ah—the three had their fire lit and their cooking begun. They’d relax soon and talk. She’d listen and learn, not rush in to find death from the maid’s spellfire. Even the great Shadowsil had perished in Shandril’s flames—and Manshoon himself had been forced to flee. No, she’d watch and wait, to strike when the chance shone brightest. As she always had.

Gathlarue took another sip of the warmed, spiced wine, and stretched like a languid cat. From behind her, across their forest camp, came the faint but unmistakable sounds of Tespril entertaining one of the guards in the deepening night. Gathlarue made a face in that direction. Really—the quality of apprentices one was forced to settled for these days …

Delg had produced a rather strong-smelling bundle from the bottom of his pack, and at Shandril’s wrinkled nose and raised eyebrow had said only, “Yes, it’s Zhent stuff. From Thundarlun. Owner past needing it. Handy, carrying an axe—everyone should.”

The meat, whatever it had been, made a flavorful stew. Delg tossed liberal handfuls of onions into the little blackened pot. The warm, sharp smell that followed made Shandril think of Gorstag’s onion-heavy stews back at The Rising Moon, the inn where she’d grown up. Her eyes were suddenly wet with tears. She’d been happy there—how happy, she hadn’t known until too late. Now all that was lost forever; she dared not go back for fear her foes would slaughter her friends and burn the old Moon to the ground. She bit her lip and turned into Narm’s arms, burying her face against his chest just before the hot tears came.

“What’s wrong, Shan—” Narm began anxiously as she sobbed and shook against him.

Delg stumped up to him, shook his head to stop Narm’s words, and reached out one brawny arm to stroke Shandril’s heaving back. His stubby fingers moved gently, lovingly, as his other arm took hold of Narm’s wrist, and guided the young mage’s hand firmly to Shandril’s back. Narm obediently began soothing his lady, and the dwarf stepped back, nodding in satisfied silence.

Shandril cried, seeing again the clutching claws of the gargoyles in ruined Myth Drannor, the cruel, mocking smile of the Shadowsil who’d captured her, the chilling eyes of the dragon who’d lived beyond death, and the burning, roasted men she’d left behind her in Thundarlun. Why, oh why, couldn’t she just go back to Shadowdale or Highmoon and live in peace among friends—and never see a Zhentarim wizard or Cult of the Dragon fanatic again? Gods hear and answer, she thought, if you have pity—why?

Delg let the fire die low as he stumped around the clearing, peering watchfully into the dimness of the woods around him. It would do the lass good to cry awhile—past time for it, for one so young. He stroked the familiar curves of his axe head as he went, remembering Shandril’s anger in battle, her eyes turned to blazing flames as she dealt death to the Zhents. He shook his head to banish those sights from his mind. More power than was good for anyone, this one had—more power than most could carry, and stay good folk.

A little chill went through him as he stopped and looked into the night—and thought about how he might have to kill her, for the safety of all in the Realms. His superiors had been grimly insistent that he never lose sight of that.

It was not the first time he’d had this dark thought. Delg stroked his axe again. It was the first time his mind had envisioned his axe leaping down to cleave Shandril’s head, her long hair swirling amid blazing spellfire … the dwarf shook his head angrily and stumped back toward the fire with unnecessary violence. Enough of such fell dreams! They’re for folk too idle to pay full heed to what’s around them right now ….

Shandril lifted bright eyes to him as he came up, and she managed a wavering smile. Delg nodded at her, and asked roughly, “More stew?”

Narm smiled, shaking his head slightly; Shandril did the same. The dwarf shrugged and sat down beside the fire, shifting the burning branches and adding a few more.

And then there was light where no light should be, touching his face on the side away from the fire. Delg spun, hand going to his axe. Narm and Shandril scrambled to their feet behind him.

In the air above the fallen shadowtop, a patch of light had appeared. It hung at about the height of a tall man’s head, an area of spinning, silvery radiance that pulsed and sputtered. As they watched, it brightened and seemed somehow to look at them.

“Be not alarmed,” came a faintly echoing voice from it. A man’s voice, sounding somehow dignified and elderly, speaking from a long distance away.

A wizard, no doubt. Whatever the voice said, Delg was alarmed. Damn all magic, anyway! Honest folk couldn’t—

“Hold, Shandril of Highmoon!” The voice had grown louder, and stern. “In the name of Azoun, I bid you make answer to me! I am Vangerdahast, Royal Wizard of Cormyr, and by this magic can only speak to you, not cast magic on you or do any harm to you and yours. Shandril, do you hear me?”

Three pairs of startled eyes met. Delg shrugged. Impulsively, Shandril leaned forward and said, “I am here, Lord Wizard.” Her voice quavered; for some reason, she felt guilty and weak and in need of approval from this far-off wizard she’d never met. In Highmoon, she’d heard often of the mighty Vangerdahast—and by all accounts, he sounded less good-natured and forgiving than the far mightier Elminster she knew. The patch of radiance pulsed and grew brighter.

“That is good, Lady Shandril. I repeat: I mean you no ill, and this sending of mine can do you no harm.” The light drifted nearer, and Narm’s face darkened in suspicion. He raised his hands, ready to cast a spell, and stepped between Shandril and the wizard’s glow, waving to Delg to keep watch on the woods around them. The dwarf gave him an approving, mirthless grin and did so.

“What would you, then?” Shandril’s voice was steady now, her tears forgotten. It seemed they were under attack once more. Her fingertips tingled as excitement rose within her, and her spellfire awoke.

“I would know what you intend to do within the borders of Cormyr, and where you are bound. More: I must know what befell at Thundarlun, and your part in it.” The light dwindled slightly, danced, and then strengthened again. “What say you?”

Shandril trembled in sudden suspicion. Just who was listening? Was this really the great Vangerdahast? And who might be listening from the dark woods all round them? She caught Delg’s eyes; the dwarf had turned to look at her levelly, his face expressionless. Shandril took a deep breath and made her decision.

“I intend no harm to the folk and land of Cormyr, nor any challenge to the authority or property of the king,” she said flatly. “I am fleeing enemies who would destroy me—among them, the warriors of Zhentil Keep, who followed me into your land through the Gap and caught up with me at Thundarlun. I can trust no one enough to tell where we are headed, but I assure you that I do not intend to settle or tarry in Cormyr. Let us pass in peace, I ask you.”

“What happened at Thundarlun?” The voice was calm and level.

“Zhentilar troops, on horses, attacked us at Thunder Gap. We—escaped them, and got as far as the guard post at Thundarlun before they caught up with us. Their arrows killed all the soldiers and the war wizard there. They set fire to houses and threatened to burn all the village if I did not come out to them. So I did.” Shandril paused for a moment, and then added simply, “When they were dead, we took what food and drink we needed from the guard post, and went on.”

“You slew them all?”

“You know what I bear,” Shandril said sharply, more cold anger in her tone than she really felt.

“I do,” came the voice. “I do not question your words, but I must know if any Zhentilar still ride free in eastern Cormyr.”

“All that I saw are dead,” Shandril said wearily, “but again and again they find me with magic—as you have done. Zhents may listen to us even now; I feel they are near.”

“How many did you kill? And how many soldiers of Cormyr did you see dead in Thundarlun?”

Shandril fought down sudden tears, struggling to speak. Her voice, when it came, was a fierce whisper. “I don’t count the dead any more, wizard. I can’t bear to!”

“Have you heard enough?” Narm could no longer contain his anger; his shout echoed back at them from the nearest trees.

“Peace, lad!” Delg said gruffly, and tromped closer to the floating light. “As near as I can tell,” he told it without introduction, “Shan burned about a score from their saddles at the Gap. That many and a dozen more at the hamlet where we fought. I saw near two dozen more Purple Dragons lying dead there. And I have a question for you, wizard: Is it Azoun’s will that we pass freely through Cormyr, or are we going to have to fight every soldier and war wizard we meet? Tell us now—or that’s just what we’ll have to do, for the sake of our own hides.”

The light shimmered. “I cannot speak for the king,” it said, after some hesitation.

Delg bent closer. “He’s there with you, though, listening, isn’t he?”

A heavy, waiting silence hung in the glade after those words, and the light slowly grew brighter.

Then a new voice spoke from it, younger and more melodic—and yet somehow heavier with authority. “I am. I have heard of you, sir, and have heard now three voices speaking; how many of you are there?”

Delg said promptly, “I’m no longer young enough to willingly wear the cloak of a fool. Would you make true answer, in our place?”

“I understand,” the king’s voice replied. “There is a harp rhyme, known to some, that begins with the words ‘I walked in the woods and dreamt I felt the kisses of maidens’—do you know it?”

“I do,” said Delg roughly, breathing hard. Narm and Shandril were both aware that a great tension had suddenly fallen from the dwarf. “The song is well chosen. I’ve heard harps, more than once. You have good taste in ballads.”

“Thank you,” said King Azoun, and they could tell he meant it. Shandril also sensed more than one meaning lay behind those two simple words—something only Delg would understand. She glanced at the dwarf, but he had turned to peer alertly into the forest about them, his battered, bearded face expressionless.

The king went on. “Word has come to me of all of you, then. Shandril, know that Cormyr has no designs upon your powers or person. Yet, I warn you never to forget this: whatever the challenge, I will keep peace in my realm, no matter the cost. My knights and armsmen will do what they must to defend the good land and folk of Cormyr. We will not seek you, or offer war to you and yours. Pass in peace—and let us hope that we can one day meet openly, as friends, and give no thought for battle or danger.”

“Pretty speech,” Delg grunted, in a low voice.

Shandril rushed to cover the dwarf’s words. “I—I thank you, Your Highness. I mean no harm to any in Cormyr, and—I hope to know you as a friend, too.” She paused for a moment, and added, “I’m growing impatient for the day when, gods willing, it won’t be a dangerous thing to be my friend.”

The light drifted a little closer to her, sparkled, and then drew back. “If it’s any strength to you,” the king’s voice said gently, “I have known that same feeling. Gods smile on you, Shandril of Highmoon. You have our blessing to pass through our land.”

“My thanks,” Shandril replied. “Farewell.”

As she spoke, the light was already dwindling and fading. She watched until she was sure it was gone before sighing her relief.

Narm turned to embrace her, smiling, but she thrust him aside and ran. She managed to get several strides away before she fell on her knees and emptied her stomach into the moss and dead leaves.

Delg stalked over to stand above her heaving shoulders. As she choked and sobbed, he said dryly, “Perhaps it’s a good thing we didn’t seek the palace in Suzail straight off to have audience with the king. His carpets might not be overly improved by your visits.”

Shandril choked and shook and then found herself laughing weakly, still on hands and knees.

“Shan! Shan? Are you all right?” Narm asked fearfully.

Shandril felt the forest damp beneath her palms and the searing ache in her ribs. Despite it all, she smiled.

“I think I am. Yes.” She reached out, got a hand on Delg’s belt buckle, and dragged herself upward. The dwarf stood like a rock as she climbed up him, hand over hand. Upright, she steadied herself, wiped at her mouth, and then brushed some errant hair out of her face. She saw a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

“Thanks, Delg,” Shandril said to him and hugged him. “I’m right glad you’re with us.” She stepped into the shady gloom of night under the trees, and they saw her eyes catch flame for a moment before she added softly, “I’ll be happier still when we reach Silverymoon and the safety and teachings of Alustriel.” Spellfire danced in her hands for a moment before she added in a frightened whisper, “Help me get there—before the Zhents make me too accustomed to killing.”

“Have they begun?” There was cold amusement in Lord Manshoon’s voice as they turned through an archway guarded by two stiffly alert guardsmen.

“Of course,” Sarhthor replied. “Some took bold leave of me, with grandly sinister half-promises and hints of dark plans. Others simply slipped away.”

Together they stepped into a large, empty chamber, then turned sharply right into a dark alcove. Its dusty, cobwebbed back wall was an illusion; as they strode through it, Sarhthor added, “You know they’ve started, Lord. Once you spoke of spellfire, you could have forbidden them to seek it—and still they’d have tried. Magelings who last this long are ruled by their lust for power, however much they might pretend to command wisdom and shrewd reason.”

The two archwizards squeezed past a motionless golem and strolled down the dark passage beyond it to a featureless door. Sarhthor drew it open, and Manshoon strode through, his black cloak swirling about him.

The room beyond was small. Two closed doors faced them, and in the center of the room stood a wooden plinth; on it lay a small gold key. Manshoon ignored all these features, turning sharply left to a door beside the one through which he had entered. He strode forward as if that dark wooden door did not exist—and as the toe of his boot touched its surface, he vanished, leaving Sarhthor alone in the room.

The Zhentarim archmage carefully closed the door they had entered through and looked around the room. Death awaited those who touched the key or the other two doors, he knew—for he had helped arrange it so. Smiling faintly, he followed Manshoon.

One of his boots left the floor in that dark room deep inside Zhentil Keep as the other clicked down onto glass-smooth marble in a grand, high-vaulted chamber in the heart of the Citadel of the Raven. It took hurrying warriors two days or more to make the trip they’d just covered in a single step. Sarhthor hoped it would never be necessary to reveal the existence of the magical gate to the Zhentilar. They’d not be pleased, and he hated unnecessary violence.

Ahead, Manshoon ignored the faintly glowing tapestries that hung in midair all around, like the vertical war banners carried on the spears of Zhentilar horsemen. He looked only for what shouldn’t be there—and found nothing out of place. He strode across the vast, high hall to stand facing one of the elaborately painted windows, then halted, watchful and coldly patient. The window was as large across as three stone coffins placed end to end. It depicted a scarlet dragon coiling around the pearly-hued moon, its emerald eyes glittering and jaws opened to devour the pale orb.

Manshoon stood impassively and dispassionately regarding it as Sarhthor made his own way across the gleaming marble to stand behind and to one side of the high lord. As he came to a halt, the window began to slide aside.

Their arrival had been watched, as usual.

Still glowing with false sunlight, the window slid open, revealing a dark hole behind it, like the eyesocket of a gigantic skull. Out of that darkness floated two spherical creatures, their dark bodies surrounded by sinuously coiling tentacles that turned restlessly to point in one direction and then another. From the end of each stalk, a cold, fell eye looked out at the world.

Each beholder slowly turned on end to gather all ten of its eyestalks in a sinister, watchful cluster: a forest of eyes stared at the two Zhentarim wizards as the beholders drifted into the room.

The eye tyrants floated on in silence until they hung above the wizards, well out of reach and comfortably separated from each other. Then they rolled slowly upright, revealing their many-toothed mouths and large, central eyes. One was slightly larger than the other.

“Something is amiss here,” the larger one hissed in its deep, echoing voice. “Strange magic is present.”

Manshoon turned wordlessly to Sarhthor, who frowned, shook his head doubtfully, and said, “If you’ll allow me a few breaths and a spell, Lords …”

“Proceed,” three cold voices said together, and the archmage had to hide a smile at how like the eye tyrants Manshoon sounded … how like an eye tyrant he had truly become.

Slowly and carefully, Sarhthor made the gestures and mutterings of a powerful and thorough detection spell. Thousands of tiny motes of light erupted from his robes, swirling around the chamber like a school of startled fish, prying into every corner. The conspirators waited patiently as the lights swooped, darted, hung in corners, and finally faded away.

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 scuttle-bug—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 liches, 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 Faerûn: 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.

Elminster of Shadowdale dusted himself off, looked around with a critical eye at the glowing tapestries, and then stared thoughtfully up at the dragon window. Scratching his beard, he grunted, “’Tis high time, indeed … for certain folk to set down their harps and get their hands dirty. Again. Just as it’s time old Elminster got walked all over, again. ’Tis not the first time, this tenday, the world’s needed saving.”