Shandril watched the black-robed man. “Where is he?” she asked softly.
“Someplace that surprises me a little,” Tessaril replied. “He’s not in Zhentil Keep at all—but instead in the Citadel of the Raven, well to the north. It’s a huge fortress that the Zhents took over by trickery years ago. The room you’re looking at is one I usually see when spying on Manshoon. It’s in Wizards’ Watch Tower.” She smiled. “Some folk of the citadel call it the Old Fools’ Tower.”
“He’s taking over Manshoon’s items and places of power,” Shandril said slowly, “now that I’ve destroyed Manshoon.”
Tessaril looked sidelong at her and murmured, “Be not so sure Manshoon’s gone, Shan. Others have been sure they destroyed him before.”
Shandril turned. “Then where is he?”
Tessaril shrugged. “Perhaps you succeeded, at that. Fzoul’s never been this bold before.”
The man in black seemed to suddenly become aware of their scrutiny. He rose and came around the table toward them, his face angry. With glittering eyes, he suspiciously looked their way.
His hands came up, and Tessaril’s face suddenly tightened. She took a wand from her belt and held it in front of Shandril, drawing her back a step from the window.
White lines of force sprang from Fzoul’s hands, spiraling toward them across that far-off room—and then there was a sudden flash of blinding white. The window in front of them suddenly burst asunder. Glass shards flew in all directions, parting in front of Tessaril’s wand as if before the prow of a ship.
In the empty, dark frame, only smoking ruin was left. The two women stood together looking at it for a long moment, and then sighed heavily.
Amid the broken glass that scrunched underfoot as they moved was something slippery. Shandril bent to look at the floor. Molten glass from the window had already hardened into droplets on the flagstones. A few were rather beautiful; they knelt to look at them together. Tessaril touched one, and then snatched scorched fingers back from it.
“I’m sorry about your window,” Shandril said as the Lord of Eveningstar sucked her burned fingertips. “But there’s nothing to keep me here longer, now. I’d like to strike at this Fzoul right away.”
Tessaril sat up and looked at her gravely. “Shan, you’re not ready yet.”
Shandril nodded, smiled softly, and inclined her head toward the ruined window. “Neither,” she said quietly, “is he.”
Sixteen
Blood, Blades, and Bitter Words
Some kings sit upon more bloody thrones than this one, mind. When they talk business, ’tis all blood, blades, and bitter words.
“Ill-prepared Fzoul may or may not be,” the Lord of Eveningstar said quietly, “but if you rush in without plans and swords at your side, you will certainly be ill-prepared—and doomed.”
“I think not,” Shandril replied, eyes flashing. “Forgive me, Tess, but that’s where you—and Storm, and everyone else except maybe Elminster—make a mistake. You think of going up against Zhentil Keep with an army. That sort of thing the Zhents know well. They’ve had much practice smashing down such attacks. I’ll do much better if I go alone.”
She strode to the bedroom closet and took out her battered pack. The few clothes she had left hung forlornly above it. With a determined air, she started to take them down.
“Alone? It’ll mean your death, Shan.” Tessaril shook her head. “Aren’t you even going to take Narm and Mirt with you?”
“No,” Shandril said quietly. “You and Storm just gave him back to me—I’m never going to lose him again if I can help it. I’m certainly not going to drag him to his certain death.” She turned, a patched and dirt-stained gown in her hands, and added with the ghost of a smile, “And I can’t sneak anywhere or do anything agile without a lot of noise if I’m saddled with the Old Wolf.”
An involuntary smile came and went across Tessaril’s features. “I’m not sure he’d be pleased to hear that,” she said slyly. “Shall I go tell him?”
“No!” Shandril whirled and took the Lord of Eveningstar by the shoulders, flames leaping in her eyes. “Don’t tell any of them, or I’ll never be able to go.”
Her hands fell away, and she stepped back, drew a deep breath, and then looked up at the lord.
“Forgive me, Tess—after all you’ve done for me, I hate to—to do this. But I must go, now, while I still have nerve enough. Before Fzoul’s arranged things just as he wants them and I’m doomed to die in the thirtieth trap he set for me, or the sixty-fifth ambush, or the—”
“Shandril,” Tessaril said, looking into her eyes, “calm down, and think—is this wise? Well, is it?”
Spellfire blazed in the depths of Shandril’s eyes, which were so close to hers that Tessaril gasped, shuddered, and drew back, face pinched in pain.
Shandril gulped. She let go of her and turned her head away. “I’m sorry, Tess—I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m as dangerous to you as to my foes.” Tears shone in her eyes as she turned back to the white-faced Lord of Eveningstar. Impulsively, Shandril threw her arms around Tessaril and kissed her. “You must realize, Tess—wisdom is something for priests, and sages, and wizards, and—normal folk. It’s no good to me.”
“Are you that lonely, Shan?” Tessaril whispered, holding her.
Shandril angrily shook tears away and said, “No. Not anymore. You—and Mirt, and Elminster, and Storm, and the knights—and most of all, Narm—have given me friends along my road. That’s why I must go up against the Zhentarim now. If I run and hide again, they’ll come after you and all my other friends, to draw me out into battle … like they did to those poor soldiers at Thundarlun.”
She stuffed the gown into her pack in a wadded, wrinkled mass and said angrily, “I have all this power—and I can’t do anything with it but fend off wizards who toy with me, attacking whenever they feel especially cruel. What good is spellfire if I can’t strike at them when I want to?”
“Shandril,” the Lord of Eveningstar whispered. “Be careful. Very careful. The last time I heard words like that, they came from the lips of the sorceress who trapped you in Myth Drannor—Symgharyl Maruel.”
“The Shadowsil?”
Tessaril nodded. “Whom you slew.”
Shandril shook her head angrily. “I am not like her. Never. She enjoyed killing.”
“Do you?”
Shandril stared at her, white-lipped. Then she bent forward, eyes blazing again. “Get me to that citadel!” she snapped. “Now!”
“Or?” Tessaril stared sadly into her eyes. “Will you use spellfire on me?” she asked quietly, sitting motionless. “Here I am,” she added, gesturing at her breast. “Strike me down.” Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes as she added softly, “Like the lich lord did.”
Shandril snarled in frustration. Flames chased briefly around one of her hands as she clenched it into a fist. “No,” she said, turning away, “I will not—and you know it.” She drew breath, let it out in a shuddering sigh, and then asked quietly, “Must I beg you to help me, Tess?”
“No,” Tessaril said quietly. “I just don’t want to lose a friend so quickly …. I’ll be sending you to your doom.”