“Why not? ’Tis our turn, after years of listening to your fulminations,” Torm returned wickedly. A hush fell as the curious waited to see if he would forthwith become a frog.
Elminster merely chuckled. “True enough. My turn to listen and be entertained.”
Visibly disappointed that Torm had escaped frogdom, Florin and Lanseril refilled their flagons and strolled about the chamber.
Shandril frowned. “Is this converse not the way to do things?”
“Well,” Lanseril told a decanter, “Few have sense enough to talk beforehand. Most are in too much hurry to rush into battle—or trust secrets only with themselves.”
“Never think jaw-wagging’s bad or necessary,” Rathan agreed. “ ’Tis one of the most important things priests do.”
“Well said,” Torm put in. “Such talk’s as needed as the sword in an ordered life—and the deeds of kings. ’Twas the sage Mroon who defined the famous Circle of Diplomacy: ‘Why talk but to end the fighting? Why fight but to end the talking?’ ’Tis as true today as a thousand years ago.… Well, Old Mage? Did I remember, or did I not?”
“Ye did … perhaps the first thing I’ve told thee ye have managed to recall rightly,” Elminster said severely. “But enough banter. It helps not these good people to decide, and grants them but weariness and lost time!”
“Aye,” Florin agreed. “We should unfold the Realms to you so you can choose your best route.”
“Danger, ye’ll find,” Elminster out in dryly, “lies on every hand. We’ll tongue-tour now, but also make thee a map on soft hide. Were I ye, I’d seek Silverymoon or Neverwinter or the Moonshaes. Ye must, I think, leave these lands about the Sea of Fallen Stars, at least for a time. The South is no hiding place for thee. Go west, and find fortune.”
Jhessail nodded. “Whatever you choose, do so quickly and quietly. Those who’d slay you are looking for you.”
“Lord Marsh.” The voice was cold. Its red-haired owner turned from a many-paned window inset with rubies. Fzoul Chembryl, High Darkpriest of Bane and Master of the Black Altar, laid even colder eyes on his visitor, extending a hand that bore a black, burning banestone.
Lord Marsh Belwintle knelt, kissed it, and rose, keeping his face impassive. The slave trade was too profitable to jeopardize it with a quarrel. Marsh did not love this priest. One day there would come a reckoning between them—and if Tymora smiled, Fzoul would serve Bane more eternally than he did now.
“I’ve called you here to discuss the matter of spellfire, in light of the continued absence of Lord Manshoon,” Fzoul said, striding away. “The others are here already.”
“Too often, matters of state devour time,” Marsh replied, following Fzoul across a drafty bridge—a railless span of stone where one misstep meant a killing fall to a stone floor twenty fathoms below. They went to a high chamber Marsh had not seen before, wherein assembled senior Zhentarim. They nodded coldly to him as he entered. He half-bowed to them and took the sole empty seat.
The chairs of Sashen, Kadorr, and Ilthond had been removed. So had Fzoul’s own, for he now sat in Manshoon’s high-curved seat. Marsh wondered what had happened to the others, but decided it would be safer not to inquire. He little liked the Black Altar, with its priests and traps and guardian creatures, and liked this chamber less, with its air of a prepared trap. The last seat, indeed!
“I’ll waste no time on pleasantries,” Fzoul began. “Manshoon is yet absent. Our strongest magic can’t find him, nor has he been seen. He can, of course, block or lead astray most spells, but we’ve no reason to believe he does now. I fear, fellow lords, that Manshoon is dead.”
He received no answer but silence; this conclusion was no surprise.
“This may not be so,” Fzoul continued, “but we’ve waited for his reappearance too long. We must act on one matter, at least, without further delay. If Manshoon likes not our actions upon his return, I shall bear responsibility. The pressing matter is spellfire. Legendary, very rare, and one who can wield it has emerged. I wish to know your minds about spellfire.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then the wizard Sememmon leaned forward. “The last wielder of spellfire before this Shandril was the incantatrix Dammasae, who spent her youth in Thunderstone. Is it mere coincidence that two bearers of spellfire have arisen in the southern Dragonreach near the Thunder Peaks, or are they related by blood?”
Fzoul leaned forward. “A most intriguing question! Has anyone knowledge on this matter?”
Sarhthor shrugged. “They could be mother and daughter; the years allow of it. But, with respect, what does it matter? Dammasae is long dead, as is her husband. This offers us no hilt with which to wield Shandril.”
“Aye,” Casildar agreed. “Her lover Narm is the means to move Shandril to our bidding. What I want to know is the strength of his Art. How easy a hilt to grasp is he?”
Sememmon shrugged. “He’s been in Shadowdale long enough for Elminster to teach him much. If that’s befallen, I can’t say. Yet I doubt his Art can be overly terrifying: Marimmar the Mage Most Magnificent was his tutor until recently!” The mages chuckled dryly.
The priest Zhessae frowned. “Is mastery of Art needed to wield spellfire?”
There were shrugs.
“I doubt it,” Fzoul said. “This maid had no known skill at Art before using spellfire against the dracolich Rauglothgor. Interestingly, the keep she destroyed was the Tower Tranquil—once home of the archmage Garthond, husband of the incantatrix Dammasae.”
“Does that mean,” the mage Yarkul asked, excited, “spellfire may be contained in an item or process left in the tower by Dammasae? Which, in turn, argues that other wielders of spellfire could be created!”
“There have been several wielders of spellfire active at the same time before; it’s not an ability the gods give to only one being at a time. An item or ritual is possible. Against that, one must place the strong likelihood that Dammasae never visited the Tower Tranquil,” Fzoul replied.
Casildar said carefully, “That still leaves open the question of what actions, if any, we should now take.”
“We must control the maid, or destroy her. Her spellfire threatens us all!” Ashemmi burst out. The curly-bearded mage’s earring chimed as he snapped his head around to glare at Fzoul. “We can’t afford to sit idle. What if Mulmaster or Maalthiir of Hillsfar gains spellfire? Even if Shadowdale uses it only to aid their friends in Daggerdale, it will set our plans back. If someone sets out to destroy us with it, we could fare far worse!”
“Aye, well said,” Casildar agreed. “We must move. But how? Our armies?”
“I prefer not to whelm our hosts in Manshoon’s absence,” Fzoul said. “Shadowdale need merely spread the rumor that we’ve mastered spellfire—and Cormyr, Sembia, Hillsfar, and all will strike together against us. No, we must move more quietly, my lords. Yet as Casildar says, we must move. What say you?”
“Our assassins?” Yarkul suggested.
Zhessae sighed. “The replacements are poorly trained, yet,” the priest murmured. “Even strengthened by our lesser brothers of Bane and the magelings, I fear they’d anger Shadowdale more than harm it.”
“Aye,” Sarhthor agreed disgustedly, in his deep voice. “I recall the disasters of our going that way before.”
“Yes,” Sememmon put in. “We’ve all seen what happens when we send the magelings. Everyone wants to be the hero, to make his name among us. Reckless and foolish, they overreach themselves and fall. Elminster is no foe to be mastered by a mageling.”
“Are you suggesting we go in force, ourselves?” Ashemmi asked. “Leaving aside our personal peril, does that not leave Zhentil Keep undefended? Surely the High Imperceptor has heard of Manshoon’s absence. Will he not strike against you, Fzoul, and all of us?” His words fell into a deepening silence.
“No doubt,” Fzoul agreed coldly, “he will try. But the Black Altar, and Zhentil Keep about it, are not undefended.” He waved a hand.
From behind a curtain far down th
e chamber floated Manxam. The beholder was old and vast and terrible. Lichen grew on its nether plates, and its eyestalks were scarred and wrinkled with age. Its central eye turned to survey them all as it drifted closer. In the depths of that dark-pupiled, bloodshot orb, each man saw his own death and worse. A deep, burbling hiss came from its toothy maw; its ten smaller eyestalks moved restlessly as Manxam the Merciless came to the table. The eye tyrant hovered above its center, rolling over in slow, awful majesty until its ten small eyes hung just above them. At least one looked at each man there.
“I feel we can all be persuaded,” Fzoul said without a trace of a smile, “to reach consensus now.”
The beholder did not blink.
Nervously Sememmon cleared his throat. “What do you propose?”
Fzoul said steadily, “The most powerful mages here should go forthwith to Shadowdale and do whatever’s necessary to capture or destroy Shandril—Elminster or no Elminster. As we’re not sending weak or incompetent magelings, as you’ve so correctly advised against, I’ve every confidence you shall return with spellfire … if you return at all.”
Sememmon, Ashemmi, and Yarkul went white and silent. Only Sarhthor looked unsurprised. He merely nodded. Sememmon glanced up to find that Manxam had silently rolled over again so that its central eye, the one that foiled magic, gazed at them all.
The reason for seating the mages together around one end of the table was now all too apparent. Manxam and Fzoul were too far away for both to be caught in a time-stop spell, and no other magic would allow Sememmon to ready a wand. Certainly he couldn’t smite both—nor was there a great chance of besting Fzoul here, in his temple. Against Manxam, the mage stood almost no chance. Sememmon doubted he could even escape if he tried to flee. Perhaps if he, Ashemmi, Yarkul, and Sarhthor worked together, with spells planned beforehand, they might have a chance. If Casildar and Zhessae, and any number of priests hiding behind the tapestries, were ready to aid Fzoul, that slim chance was … none.
“It certainly seems the right thing to do, Brother Fzoul,” Sememmon said slowly. “However, I feel uneasy in undertaking such a mission without even a single priest of Bane to pray for our success and aid us with the god’s will. What say you, Lord Marsh, as one who neither serves Bane nor works Art?”
Weaken them by one priest, Sememmon thought, and cut that one down as a warning to Fzoul. And if we win spellfire, we’ll come back and try it on one of the beholders.
Had Fzoul done something to Manshoon? Or perhaps Manshoon was behind this, to rid himself of all his most powerful rivals. If not, and he did return, would Fzoul tell him all the mages had denounced him and gone off to act as they pleased?
Lord Marsh rubbed his jaw and frowned at the tabletop, avoiding both the calm scrutiny of the beholder and the icy stares of Fzoul, Casildar, and Zhessae. It was a long time before he looked up. “I must concur with you, Brother Sememmon. We’ve always won our greatest gains by careful use of all three of our strengths: the favor of great Bane; the versatile Art of mages; and the might of Zhentilar swords. It might go ill were we to neglect more than one of those strengths.” He spread his hands as if apologizing for pointing out the obvious. “Without magical aid, our warriors can’t reach Shadowdale in time to capture the spellfire maid, certainly not in numbers enough without alarming our foes. We must, therefore, forego force-of-arms. It would be foolish to abandon also the strength of Bane in this matter. Moreover, the warriors under me, and probably many underpriests and magelings, would think the same—and seriously question our collective wisdom!” Marsh sat back, looked directly at Fzoul, and toyed with a bauble at his throat, which most at the table knew to be an enchanted explosive globe.
Sememmon almost smiled. The hard-faced warrior lord, it seemed, bore no love for the Master of the Black Altar.
The eye tyrant hung over them, silent and terrible.
Ignoring it, Sarhthor rubbed his hands. “Well, I’m for such a strike, and the sooner the better. Spellfire must be ours.”
Sememmon nodded in calm agreement even as he raged inwardly. Was the fool actually that simple and enthusiastic? Or was he working with Fzoul? Nay, listen to the way his words were spoken—the little soft twists at the end of each, flashing like daggers turning over! Sarhthor was telling Fzoul, openly and cuttingly, that he knew Fzoul’s game and thought little of it.
“I’m so glad we were able to come to an understanding so quickly,” Fzoul said, his voice like an assassin’s dagger being wiped clean on velvet.
The deep voice of the beholder rolled out from overhead, “Consider well the nature of your understanding.”
As Sememmon looked up to meet Manxam’s many gazes, he took sudden satisfaction in the fact that Fzoul had to be more upset at the eye tyrant’s comment than any of the rest of them; its disapproval was aimed directly at him. Sememmon nodded again, and saw all of the other mages nodding, too.
He left that chamber feeling almost satisfied, despite the danger ahead.
The moon scudded through tattered gray clouds. Amid the spires of the city, the air was cold and still. Fzoul stood on a high balcony of the Black Altar and smiled up at Selûne. Strong magic protected him from attack by Art, and none but servants of Bane could enter the courtyard below.
The mages would have no choice. No doubt they’d slaughter Casildar, but he was too ambitious anyway, and his death was a small price to pay for the destruction of Manshoon’s spell hurlers. The Zhentarim would serve Fzoul at last.
Even if Manshoon did return, he’d find himself isolated, with only upstart magelings—all too eager to betray him for their own advancement—to stand with him against the loyal of Bane who served Fzoul. The beholders cared not which humans they dealt with, so long as their wants were met. Zhentil Keep would be his.
Until someone took it from him.
Fzoul never noticed the wizard eye floating above and behind him, keeping carefully out of sight among the spires. No eye could have seen its invisible owner, regarding him from the dark window of a tower nearby.
A commotion rose in the courtyard below as warrior-priests of the High Imperceptor crept over the wall—and were met by alert and waiting underpriests. Fzoul leaned forward and cast a spell that unleashed a whirl-storm of deadly black blades down into the growing fray below, caring nothing for the fate of his own acolytes. Let them see Bane the sooner.
Sememmon heard the screams and clash and clatter of many razor-sharp blades below. One of the attackers boiling over the temple wall cast magical light on the scene. Bloody slaughter filled the yard.
Sememmon leaned out swiftly before Fzoul could leave the balcony and struck with the most brutish of his magical rings, snarling as he forced more Art out of it than ever before. He did not aim directly at the Master of the Black Altar—Fzoul would be well protected—but struck instead at the balcony.
It shivered, cracked as if struck by a battering ram, crumbled, and fell, into the shrieking and death below, seeming to descend with awful slowness. Sememmon intently watched Fzoul’s plunge. The priest had no time to employ snatch-to-safety magic—unless he managed to do so after the first blade had sliced crimson across his red mane of hair. A falling chunk of stone blocked Sememmon’s view moments before the shattered balcony reached the crowded courtyard.
Sememmon turned in satisfaction, resolving that the attack on Shadowdale would begin and end with the destruction of Casildar—at least until the spellfire maid was out from under the eye of Elminster.
He never noticed another wizard eye floating just above the dark window.
That eye was gone, however, some six breaths later, when a great, round shadow drifted out of the Black Altar’s depths, its many eyestalks coiling and writhing like a nest of serpents. Then the slaughter really began.
Two priests rushed at each other along a narrow alley. Green flames flickered around the wrists of one, brightening with fearful speed. The other cursed softly and shot out a hand that became a black tentacle. The stabbing tendril was counte
red, inches from the other priest’s throat, by a tendril of his own.
“Is that you, Brother?” The priest with green fire hissed.
“Yes, Sintre,” the other murmured, withdrawing his tentacles. “A-hunting spellfire—as you are.”
“We need it, Architrave—our spells couldn’t slay those two Blood-kin we met. We need something more!”
“Yes—a sword to slice Dhalgrave! I’ve no desire to end my days in torment, on my knees before the Shadowmaster High.”
Sintre gasped. “Brother, take care! He rules the shadows not because he’s loved—his Doomstars can slay any of us!”
Architrave laughed, and a tentacle held forth something dead and dull under her nose. It seemed a gem with no sparkle. Dull and dark, it drank the light. “Recognize this?”
“No,” Sintre told him honestly.
Architrave whisked it back into hiding. and laughed again—a cold, cruel sound that reminded Sintre of the Great Dhalgrave. “Malaug the Founder made the Doomstars, and he came from Faerûn. I found one of his lairs.”
“No!” Sintre gasped, excitement leaping cold inside her.
“Yes,” her brother exulted. “And this gem was once a Doomstar, no doubt left behind by the Founder because it’s drained. What if spellfire could set it aflame once more? A Doomstar Dhalgrave doesn’t know about, used against him … and there’ll be a new Lord of the Shadows!”
He was still laughing as he turned and raced away down the alley, leaving Sintre to stare after him and shiver in foreboding.
The night was cold. Overhead, Selûne sliced the clouds. Shandril shut the windows against the chill and sat on the bed, facing Narm, her eyes dark and beautiful. “Well, my lord?”
Narm shrugged and spread his hands. “What do you want, my lady?”
“To be happy. With you. Free of fear. Free to walk as we will, neither cold nor hungry. To have friends. I care little about all the rest.”
“Simple enough,” Narm agreed wryly, and they both laughed. “Right, then, we go west, as they all say. But advice be damned, let us go by way of the Rising Moon and Thunder Gap, so you may see Gorstag once more. What say?”
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