“Old Mage,” Storm whispered, “are you—all right?”
“Of course I’m not all right,” Elminster replied as the bard rushed toward him. He tried to rise, and then reeled back, fires rising from his body. “Stay back!” he ordered Storm weakly, waving a hand. “There’s still enough spellfire in me to kill ye!”
The Old Mage groaned, then raised his head, cleared his throat, and said testily, “Must I do everything, look ye? Can no one else save the Realms this time?” He seemed to be speaking not to the two women, but to someone else. Though no one answered him, Elminster nodded as though satisfied.
He thumped a flagstone with his fist and tried to rise. Halfway upright, he grunted, stiffened, and sank back down. Flames tumbled out of his mouth in a little, rolling puff. He fell back full length on the blackened flagstones, fires flickering here and there along his body. Then there was a sudden whirlwind of blue-white flame where the Old Mage lay—and he vanished, leaving the bare floor behind.
Shandril made a small, startled sound in her throat. The two women stared at the empty place where Elminster had been, and then at each other. Storm shook her head.
“Gods … to see the Old Mage so hurt; does your power challenge the gods, Shan?”
Shandril turned to her and began to cry. “No, Storm. No. If it did, I’d still have my Narm!”
Narm lay sprawled on the floor, face gray, hands spread in a last, futile effort to help her.
Shandril looked at him once and then buried herself in Storm’s embrace. It was all over; Narm dead, Delg gone, her dreams shattered, Manshoon’s slaying only a passing satisfaction, this place and her newfound friends here destroyed, even Elminster laid low … how could the gods be so cruel?
Shandril was sobbing bitterly against Storm’s chest when priests in the robes of Lathander burst up the stairs into the room, led by a soot-smudged Tessaril and a pair of Purple Dragon guards with frightened, grim faces and drawn swords.
Storm, in her burnt leathers, knelt with arms around the sobbing wielder of spellfire. She nodded at Tessaril in recognition and then said quietly, “There is nothing you can do here, now; all of you save Lord Tessaril, please leave us.”
Tessaril gestured silently to her soldiers in confirmation of these orders, and the men obediently filed back down the stairs. Their shocked expressions told Storm what the room around her must look like to those who hadn’t seen the battle.
When they were gone, Storm reached out to pat Tessaril’s shoulder in thanks and said quietly, “Shandril, there is something we must do.”
The Lord of Eveningstar looked down, unsmiling. She shuddered and reached out her hands.
Storm shook Shandril until she looked up through her bitter tears. The bard stared into her eyes and said, “There’s a chance we can save your Narm. Only a chance. We need your aid.”
Shandril nodded numbly, and the two women took hold of her hands and formed a kneeling ring around Narm’s body. They laid their free hands on her husband’s chest.
Then Storm looked up and said gravely, “We need your power, little one—slowly and steadily at first. Then give us more, carefully, and we shall see if your spellfire matches the fabled fire of old.”
White-faced and trembling, Shandril nodded. Tears of fire rained from her cheeks as the spellfire slowly curled down her arms.
As they knelt together over Narm, his body began to glow.
“The collective performance of the Brotherhood thus far has been a source of some amusement,” Xarlraun said, its deep voice cutting across the chamber, “but hardly effective.”
The beholder floated above the human Zhentarim gathered in the room. Deep in its shadow, Fzoul replied, “Aye. Manshoon is dead.”
“For how long, this time?”
“Forever, we believe.” Fzoul blinked his newly healed eyes, but was unable to keep a smile entirely from his face. “He may find it difficult to come back from death without any bodies to possess.”
“He had six or seven waiting.”
“Aye.” Fzoul bowed. “Unfortunately for our esteemed high lord, ‘had’ is the correct word.”
“I see,” the beholder said softly, drifting away. “The price of spellfire grows high indeed.”
Fzoul nodded. “I’ve ordered Sarhthor to call our magelings back from pursuing spellfire. Brotherhood trading concerns have been neglected, and immediate steps should be taken. Certain trade officials in Melvaunt, Ordulin, and Priapurl, for example, have lived too long.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the beholder. It sounded amused. “Is the hunt for spellfire over then?”
“Rather than becoming an attractive addition to our power, spellfire could well become the doom of the entire Brotherhood. It would certainly have done so, the way Manshoon was going about it. Its capture became his private obsession.”
Fzoul paused and looked around the chamber—at the upperpriests and Sarhthor, at the head of the surviving senior mages. His mouth tightened as he recalled Manshoon’s traitor agent, Ghaubhan Szaurr. He wondered briefly if the wizards had discovered his own agents among their ranks.
“Nonetheless, spellfire is too important to ignore. At the very least, we must destroy its source—how much longer can one young girl have such luck, after all?—or prevent our rivals in Mulmaster, Thay, Calimshan, and the Cult of the Dragon from seizing it. With or without us, the hunt for spellfire will continue.”
Fzoul turned and pointed at a certain mage as if coming to a sudden decision. Let them all think him as headstrong and arbitrary as Manshoon; it would lead to traitors revealing themselves before their plans were ready. The wizard Beliarge was too ambitious by far—and capable, too. It would be best to eliminate him now.
“You are our next chance, Beliarge. This Shandril is weaker now than she has ever been—and word has come to me that Elminster and the Harpers are no longer guarding her. All you need overcome is the Lord of Eveningstar, a woman who thinks herself something of a wizard. I’m sure you can prevail against the likes of her.”
Sarhthor stirred, but said nothing. Beliarge bowed and smiled.
With cold pride, the High Priest of the Black Altar looked around the chamber. At last the Brotherhood was under his command. It would be best not to make the same mistakes Manshoon’s arrogance had led him into. He gave them all a cold smile and asked, “Is there counsel anyone here would like to add? Ideas, disputes, or other business? I would like everyone to speak freely, without fear of reprisal—for we are truly a Brotherhood, not a tyranny.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Sarhthor spoke. “There is one thing more: a report from one who survived the failed attempt for spellfire in the Stonelands.”
Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “I did not know anyone had survived.”
Sarhthor nodded and gestured, dismissing a spell. The features of a mage standing behind him flowed and shifted—and Fzoul found himself looking at a woman who must have been stunningly beautiful before she became so burned and disheveled. Now she looked like a victim of a leprous infection that had eaten cruelly at her. Bristles of short hair adorned one side of that ruined head and locks hung long and silky down the other. Someone in the room hissed in revulsion.
“Who are you?” Fzoul asked briskly. Frightened eyes met his for a moment.
“Tespril, Lord. I’m—I was apprenticed to Gathlarue.”
Fzoul nodded. Gathlarue the Wonder Wizard, he’d heard that one called, who thought women should rule the Brotherhood but was so feeble-witted that she thought she could conceal her gender from her fellow Zhentarim. She’d led the attack at Irondrake Rock, hadn’t she?