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 bone-deep 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 see 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 the room with her. He turned his head to look about, and she saw his cruel smile. In a moment he’d turn and see her. 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 came to one that was blank, as if nothing had ever been painted on it. The picture after that was covered 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 winged whirred out past her head, circling her for a frightening moment, and then was gone down the hallway. 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 belt 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 lit hall of polished marble and hanging candle clusters.
Shandril swallowed. Cold sweat ran down her back. If she stepped through that door, 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.