by Unknown
"Again?" Then the blood drained from Shandril's face, and she whispered, "What's happened to my baby?" "The skull's draining," Storm said gently, "was too much for the life inside you. Iliph Thraun killed your
unborn child."
Shandril stared at her in horror. "Gods aid me." Her words were so faint that they could scarcely be heard. Wordlessly, the women embraced her. Thev stood pressed together for a long time, but Shandril did not cry. For now, at least, she had no tears left.
At last, Shandril sank back and looked down at Narm, who lay breathing quietly, his face no longer gray. She sighed, and her lip trembled. She bit it, and then stood up, lifting her chin.
"Well," Shandril said, "at least I have my Narm again." She looked around at the cracked, blackened walls, and added, "And another score to settle with those of Zhentil Keep."
The air in front of her flickered, and suddenly a man in dark robes stood there, rings gleaming on his hands. He bowed and smiled at them. "A nice cue, that. Thank you. Beliarge of the Zhentarim, at your service," he said.
Storm's eyes blazed. She shoved Shandril away, and dived for her sword. Beliarge watched her with a mirthless smile, as his fingers moved in the intricate gestures of a spell.
Tessaril stepped forward suddenly and caught hold of Shandril. Turning the startled maid around, she hissed a word. A floating, shimmering, upright oval of light appeared in the air in front of Shandril-and she felt Tessaril's hands at her back, shoving her through it.
Abruptly the stone-lined chamber disappeared, and she was somewhere else. Somewhere dark, where she'd never been before.
In Tessaril's Tower, Storm whirled up from the floor, long sword in hand.
The Lord of Eveningstar had raised her hands to cast a spell at the smiling intruder. Her face sharpened in anger.
The Zhentarim smiled politely at them both and crooked a finger. The spell he'd cast took effect-and both women froze, unable to move.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, ladies," he said, bowing. "I hope you enjoy my litile achievement; a more powerful holding spell than I think you'll find anywhere else. If I didn't have more pressing concerns, I'd tarry and get to know you both better-but my business is with Shandril Shessair, and since your gate helped her leave so abruptly before my spell was done ... "
He stepped forward and twisted the sword from Storm's grasp. Choosing a place where her leathers were burned away, he idly drew- a scarlet line across her belly with the keen tip of the blade.
Storm's eyes glittered at him in helpless anger. "The spell won't let you go free, no matter what I do, you see?" Beliarge said pleasantly, holding up the blade in front of the bard's nose so she could see her own blood glistening on it.
"I could carve my name in you both with a dagger, and take quite a lot of time and trouble over it, too, without your being able to move, or even make a sound. Were I a cruel man, I could toss you down the stairs-or even out a window-and you'd land all rigid. It shatters bones like glass, I'm told." He sighed theatrically. "Spellfire, however, is more important even than this, so I must leave you. Perhaps we'll have an opportunity to spend some time-truly enjoyable, leisure time-together, in the future."
With cruel fingers, he pried open Tessaril's mouth and put the bloody tip of the blade between her teeth. Supporting the naked steel lightly on his fingers, the wizard
yanked Storm into place at the other end of the blade. A moment later, the hilt was deep in her own mouth, the quillons just in front of her lips.
With a satisfied smile, the Zhentarim mage stepped back and surveyed the two helpless women and the blade suspended between them. He waved them a cheery farewell, favored them with one last cruel grin ... and stepped through the gate.
Fifteen
IN THE HIDDEN HOUSE
All of us need a hidden, private place, a little refuge all our own where we can shut out the cares of the world for a while, It's why we build play-huts when we're young and love-nests when we're old-but those can be lost forever if the love fails. These of us wise enough or lucky enough to have such a place as we grow older will keep our wits longer and laugh more than others.
Laeral of Waterdeep
quoted in Words to an Apprentice Ithryn Halast
Year of the Weeping Moon
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 bonedeep 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 set 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 die room with her, Lie turned his head to Look about, and she saw his cruel smile.
In a moment he'd turn and see. 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 carne to one that was blank, as if nothing had ever been painted on it, The picture after that was cove
red 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 cringed whirred out past her head, circling her for a frightening moment, and then was gone down the hall. 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 bell 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 ht hall of polished marble and hanging candle clusters.
Shandril swallowed, Cold sweat ran down her back. If she stepped through that floor, 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 Shandrl 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, corning 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 al 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, lowceilinged 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 tit 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 hug
e lake, As she looked out, mist damp on her cheeks, a strange, ululating cry echoed from far away across the crater. 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 tapes. At its far end, there was moonlight-coming from somewhere, she couldn't tell-gleaming on something that. 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 nowand 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.