Crown of Fire ss-2 Read online

  Sarhthor fell silent The men around the table knew his slim, graceful form would remain as still and as patient as stone until he wished to move a finger or change his expression. Right now, as the silence stretched, his calm, keen-eyed face was-as usual-expressionless. It might have been carved from the same gray stone as the pillar behind his seat. Sarhthor's dark eyes, however, glittered with cruel amusement, a look familiar to many seated there. They were the most ambitious and daring of the apprentice magelings of the Zhentarim, and had all been trained or inspected by this man. Many long, tense breaths were drawn as quietly as possible in the dimly lit cold as the wizards sat and waited, trying not to show their fear, their personal hatreds of each other-and their mounting impatience.

  At length, one of the seated men spoke. "Teacher Sarhthor, we have come to hear High Lord Manshoon's will of us, and to serve. May we know his plans?" Sarhthor smiled. "But of course, Fimril. Lord Manshoon will tell you what you are so eager to hear." He added a little smile, and then let it slide slowly and coldly into calm inscrutability. In the mounting silence, the men around the table regarded his face for a long time, trying to match the calm, unreadable expression Sarhthor wore. Some came close to succeeding.

  Someone coughed, and heads turned, glaring. The heavy silence returned and slowly grew old. Sarhthor sat at the end of the table as though he was the tomb statue of some dead king and watched them all with cold patience. Finally one of the magelings stirred in his seat. He was a handsome, fine-featured man whose upswept beard was scented and adorned with small, highly polished moonstone teardrops. They glistened here and there among his beard's curled hairs as he spoke. "I am patient, Teacher, but also curious. Where is the high lord?"

  "Why, here, as it happens," said a new voice, full and rich and only gently menacing. Heads turned all down the table.

  At the far end of the table from Sarhthor sat a regal, dusky man robed in black and dark blue. A moment before, there had been no man and no chair in that spot. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep smiled at all the turning heads. Before him on the table sat a serving platter covered with a silver dome, steam rising gently from around its edges.

  "I've only now escaped from the pressing business of governing this great city" — the voice dipped only slightly in silken irony "- to meet with you all. Well met. I trust the patience taught by Sarhthor and wise others among us has kept you all occupied, and I beg you to excuse my not offering you any of my evenfeast I am" — his voice dipped in soft menace — "hungry this night."

  Then the Lord Manshoon flashed his teeth at them all in a smile that shone very white, and he uncovered the platter before him. Wisps of richly scented steam rose from the deep red ring of firewine sauce. It lay in a channel in the platter, surrounding the lord's evening meal: a dark, slithering heap of live, glistening black eels from the Moonsea, lying on a bed of spiced rice. A slim, jeweltopped silver skewer appeared in the lord's hand from the empty air before him- Smoothly, he stabbed the first coiling, twisting eel, and dipped it delicately in the hot sauce.

  "Despite my apparent ease," Manshoon said, waving his laden skewer as he looked down the table, "our Brotherhood — nay, the world entire — remains in peril. You have all heard of the recent commotion among our fellows of the Black Altar, and of the matter of spellfire."

  He paused for a moment. The silence of the listening Zhentarim wizards had changed subtly, and Manshoon knew he had their keen interest now. He smelled the sharp edge of their fear as they faced him and tried to look unmoved and peerless and dangerous. He almost chuckled.

  "That matter remains unresolved. A young lady by the name of Shandril walks Faerun somewhere south and west of us, guarded only by a dwarf and her mate — a knave by the name of Narm, who is weaker in Art than the least among you has been in some years. This Shandril alone commands spellfire, imperfectly as yet. She seeks training from Harpers and can expect some Harper aid along her way."

  The quality of the listeners' silence changed again at the mention of the Harpers. Manshoon smiled and, with slow bites, emptied his cooling skewer.

  "Sarhthor will tell those of you who are professionally interested all about the known strengths and subtleties of spellfire. Such professional interest will be exhibited only by those who have volunteered for the dangerous but fairly simple task of seizing or destroying this Shandril, and bringing what remains of her in either case here to this hall.

  "You all know that something wild and uncontrolled has crept into the Art of late. This chaos may or may not be linked with spellfire — but it prevents us from surrounding the maid and overwhelming her with spells. We can, however, take her deep in the wilderlands, where we can act unobserved, and the unintended effects of such a confrontation can be curbed without much loss or concern.

  "All knowledge of her powers and anything you learn or take from her will be placed entirely at the disposal of the Brotherhood. Hold nothing back. Those who fail to exhibit such probity will earn an immediate and permanent reward. Those who merely fail against the girl Shandril will have as many chances as they feel they need to impress us. We will be watching. As always." His eyes smiled merrily at them as he devoured the head of an eel, touched the bowl casually, and vanished with it in a flickering instant.

  The end of the table was utterly empty again. Only faint wisps of spiced steam remained behind, curling in slow silence.

  The magelings stirred, shoulders visibly relaxing here and there down the table. Heads turned, throats were cleared — but these stirrings came to a hushed halt an instant later as Sarhthor's purring voice came again from the near — darkness at the other end of the table.

  "So who here volunteers to seize or destroy spellfire for us? Yield me your names, or" — he smiled faintly — "recall urgent business elsewhere and take your leave of this place… and also, I fear, of the Lord Manshoon's favor." He looked around, meeting the wary eyes of several wizards too brave or foolish to look away. "Your patience we have seen this night. We have also taught you to be decisive; show me the result of that teaching now."

  In the clamor that followed, a smile slowly appeared and crawled across Sarhthor's face like an old and very lazy snake. But as each man there volunteered, Sarhthor's eyes met theirs briefly and bleakly, like a sudden, icy lance-thrust in a night ambush. In his dark gaze, the magelings saw that he expected them to die in this task. Sarhthor felt he owed them at least that honesty.

  "What's wrong with you, then?" Delg asked, drawing himself up as much as his four battered feet of height allowed. The dwarf stood over Shandril, beard bristling as he squinted down at her. A pan of fried onions, mushrooms, and sausages sizzled in his hand. "Or don't you like an honest pantry?'

  Shandril smiled wanly up at him from the bed of cloaks and furs she'd shared with Narm, and she raised a warding hand.

  "I'm seldom hungry these mornings." Her slim face was as white as the snowcaps of the Thunder Peaks behind her. She shuddered and looked away from Delg's steaming pan, wondering if she'd ever arrive at far-off Silverymoon. To reach it, they still had to cross half of Faerin. The ruined village of Thundarlun was only a day behind them, and even draining the fallen war wizard's wand had not fully restored the spellfire that smoldered within her.

  On the other hand, twenty more Zhentilar would ride and slay no more; she'd left them twisted bones clad in ashes. Shandril shivered as she heard the screams again. Then Delg brought the pan so close to her nose that its sizzle jolted her back to the chilly morning. She pulled away from the smell, biting her lip to keep from gagging. She clutched the furs closer around herself.

  "Well, why?" the dwarf demanded, frowning fiercely. "Are you ill?"

  "No'" Narm said gently from behind him, "she's with child."

  The dwarf almost fell as he lurched and tottered about speedily to face the young mage. "She's what?" he demanded. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

  Shandril giggled. "We are married, Delg," she added sweetly.

  "Aye. But-but-what of the b
abe, with you hurling spellfire about, an' all?"

  "I-" Shandril began, then fell silent, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness. The dwarf saw something almost desperate in her eyes, and he whirled about again to face Narm. The young wizard also spread his hands anxiously but said nothing. Then he shrugged.

  "You don't know," said the dwarf heavily. "You truly don't know what you'll give birth to after all this hurling fire and collapsing and hurling fire again…" Delg let his words trail away as he looked at them both challengingly, but the two young humans were silent.

  The dwarf sighed heavily and tossed up his arms in resignation. Mushrooms and sausages left the pan to soar into the air, still steaming.

  Narm leapt forward but missed catching one. Most of the others landed on Delg's head or back in the pan. The dwarf stood a moment more, looking down at Shandril and shaking his head. Sausages shifted in his tousled hair. "Ah, well," he said, rather sadly. "Ah, well…"

  Narm brushed off the sausage he had picked up. "Delg Hammerhand," he asked softly between bites, "have you been so lucky — sorry, favored of Clanggedin — as to have gone your entire life through always knowing exactly what you're doing and what the right thing to do is and what everything means and the consequences of all?"

  Delg glared at him, beard bristling. "D'you mock me, lad? Of course not."

  "Well, then," Narm said mildly, "you will understand how we feel, doing our best with what the gods have given us, beset by foes and wandering lost in the wilderness, far from aid and wise advice. Uh, save yours."

  Shandril laughed helplessly. Delg turned back to look at her, sighed theatrically, rolled his eyes for good measure, and said, "Right. I stand corrected. Thy panfry awaits, great lord." He bowed to Narm, waving with the pan at a nearby rock. "If you'll be seated, herewith we two can sate our hunger and discuss how best to feed your lady without having her spewing it all back at us."

  The morning sun shone down bright and clear through the trees of Shadowdale, leaf-shadows dappling the rocks on the rising flanks of Harpers' Hill. Storm's blade flashed back its brightness as she slid the steel edge along the whetting stone. The Bard of Shadowdale sat thoughtfully under a tree, putting a better edge on her old and battered long sword. She kept silent, for that was the way Elminster seemed to want it, this morn.

  The Old Mage stood looking east, whence a cool breeze was rising. His eyes flashed as blue as the sky as he raised the plain wooden staff he bore, and the staff seemed to glow for a moment in answer. The wind rose, and the wizard's long white beard and mane stirred with the rustle and dance of the leaves all around. Elminster was muttering things under his breath, using his old and deep voice, and Storm knew that her sister, on her throne in far-off Aglarond, heard them and was whispering words back. None other was meant to hear them. Storm took care that she did not, for that was the way she was.

  Elminster stopped speaking and smiled. The wind died away again, and birds rose from the trees around, twittering. The Old Mage stared eastward, unmoving. Storm watched him, frowning a little. She knew him well enough to see the sadness hidden behind his eyes. The Old Mage stood silent and motionless for long minutes.

  When Storm began to grow stiff and the edge on her sword threatened to become brittle and over-sharp, she slid her shining blade softly into its sheath and went to him.

  Elminster turned to her thoughtfully. "I thought," he said slowly, his eyes very blue, "I'd put such love behind me, long ago. Why do I keep finding it again? It makes the times apart from her" — he turned away to stare into the green shadows under the trees — "lonely indeed."

  Storm put a hand on his arm. "I know. It's a long walk back from Harpers' Hill. That's why I came."

  In silence one old, long-fingered hand closed over hers and squeezed his thanks, and together they went down the twisting trail through the trees.

  "Ready? We'd best be off, then. Even with spellfire to fell our foes, it's a long way to Silverymoon, an' we're not out of the Zhents' reach yet." As he spoke, Delg hoisted a pack that bulged with food, pots, and pans onto his shoulders.

  Shandril put on her own pack, but said softly as she came up beside the dwarf. "No… we haven't any spellfire to fell our foes. I'm not going to use it again."

  Delg's head jerked around to look up at her, but it was Narm who spoke, astonished. "Shan? Are you crazed?"

  "What — why?"

  His lady's eyes were moist when she looked up at him, but her voice was flat with determination.

  "I'm not going to go through my life killing people. Even Zhents and others who wish me ill. It's… not right. What would the Realms be like if Elminster walked around just blasting anyone he chose to?"

  "Very much as it is now for you — if everyone he met tried to kill or capture him," Narm said with sudden heat. "Folk have more sense than to attack the mightiest archmage in all the Heartlands."

  "But not enough to leave alone one maid who happens to have spellfire — "the gift of the gods.'" Shandril's tone made a cruel mockery of that quotation. She looked away into the distance — "I… hate all this. Having folk hate me… fear me… and always feeling the fire surging inside…"

  "You're not the first maid who's been afraid of things, you know," Delg said.

  Shandril's head snapped up. "Afraid?"

  "Aye, afraid," the dwarf said softly. "You're afraid of what you wield. Afraid of how good it feels to use it, I should say… and of what you might do with it-and become in the doing."

  "No!" Shandril said, shaking her head violently. "That's not it at all!" She raised blazing eyes to glare into his own. "How can you know what I feel?"

  The dwarf shrugged. "I've seen your face when you're hurling spellfire. One look is enough."

  Shandril stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed, and then buried her face in her hands. The small, twisted sound of a despairing sob escaped between her fingers, and they saw her shoulders shake.

  Then Narm's arms were around her. "Shan, love," he said soothingly, trying to calm her. "Shan-easy, now. Easy. We both love you. Delg's telling truth, as he sees it… and truth's never an easy thing to hear. Shan?"

  His lady said nothing, but her sobs had died away, and Narm knew she was listening. He kissed the top of her head, stroked her shoulders soothingly, and said, "I know how you feel. We both do… and we… know well how hard it is for you to use spellfire. But our lives depend on it. We'll both die if you refuse to wield it — or hang back from using it until too late. Our foes won't wait for you to wrestle with any decisions." He stroked the hair back from her temples, and then added quietly, "And I'd hate to die because you chose a Zhentarim over me."

  Shandril stiffened in his embrace. Narm caught Delg's eyes, saw the dwarf's expressionless nod of approval, and went on firmly, "That's what you'll be doing, you see, if you don't use spellfire as fast as Delg draws his axe or I work a spell — you'll be choosing the life of a Zhent wizard over ours." He smoothed her hair, and added softly, "And then you'll be alone before you die."

  "Which won't be long after, if I know Zhents," the dwarf grunted. He lumbered forward and dealt Shandril's rear a gentle blow. "Come on, lovejays. You can cry while you walk, lass; we haven't time for you to stand here and find all the wrinkles in your soul. Zhents are after us — and the gods alone know who else — so we must be on our way. Unless, of course, you're really fond of this particular spot… as the site of your grave."

  Shandril raised stony eyes to glare at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. Delg nodded approvingly. "That's right, lass — hate me, just so long as you do it. while you're moving. On!"

  "My spells and my love are yours," Narm said quietly. "Use them as you will… all I ask is that you use spellfire when we need it."

  Unspeaking, Shandril looked at him and nodded. Narm smiled. His lady reached out, took hold of his chin, pulled it close, and kissed him firmly. Then she sighed, turned, and set off in the direction Delg had been heading. The man and the dwarf exchanged silent glances, then fo
llowed.

  Elminster was still melancholy when he reached his tower. A handful of days ago he'd watched Shandril Shessair and her half-trained lad Narm set out from the dale, heading for Silverymoon in the North… and, the Old Mage feared, for their deaths. Even with all the Knights of Myth Drannor misdirecting agents of the Cult, the Brotherhood, Thay, and the gods alone knew who else, Narm and Shandril were probably doomed.

  Aye, doomed. Elminster of Shadowdale might have commanded the experience great age brings, as well as magics powerful enough to tear apart castle keeps and dragons alike-but such things did not give him any right to tell young folk what to do or to shape their lives for them. Even though the girl commanded spellfire with power enough to rival Elminster, he could not directly intercede. Perhaps his hands were tied especially because she held such power.

  The choice had been their own, the trail theirs to take, the consequences their tutors… and the chances of their making it alive to Silverymoon slim. Very slim… even if a certain Old Mage raised a hand to aid them from time to time. Aid them, but not dictate their fate. That would hurt, too, when in the end he heard whatever doom had claimed them.

  This sort of dilemma had come up too many times over too many years. It grew no easier to take. Not for the first time, Elminster felt the weight of Mystra's burden and wished he could just grow old as other folk did, laying aside all cares as he sank into gray, endless twilight. Or perhaps he could call out one of his mightiest foes and go down fighting, hurling spells linked to spells and sealed with his own life energy in one last magnificent spellbattle that would reshape the Realms anew, it would give folk such as Shandril a new morning to walk into, fearless and happy, a new world before them.

  Maudlin fool. The death such a spellstorm would cause! Entire realms shattered-folk and trees alike twisted for years to come… no. Get out and have a pipe and think more useful thoughts.

  As always, Elminster's feet led him to the rocks beside his pool. Their familiar ledges, smoothed by his backside over many hours of sitting, were solid and reassuring beneath him as he looked out across the still waters and made smoke.