“Weak, but whole,” he said with a smile. He tried futilely to smooth down his hair with his fingers; it stood out straight from his scalp. “I’ve had enough of a taste of spellfire to know I never want such power,” he added. “How are you, Shan?”
Shandril smiled at him. “Never better, lord of my heart.” Spellfire danced in her eyes for a moment.
Narm shrank away with an involuntary shiver.
Sadness touched Shandril’s eyes as they stared at each other. Narm reached out to lay his hand firmly on her arm. “It’s not—I don’t fear you, my love; it’s just the fire—”
“I know,” she said softly. “You, at least, don’t think of me as a prize to be fought over, or a goddess of fire to be feared.”
Narm looked at the motionless forms lying nearby. “Neither do these Harpers, love,” he said.
She turned to Narm and replied, “Yes, time to wake these dear friends—all but Sarhthor, I fear.” She stared at the wizard’s sharp features and impulsively bent and kissed his cheek. He did not stir. Sad and sober, Shandril turned to heal her other friends with a kiss ….
The last tingling of the spellfire left Mirt, and the gentle healing hands withdrew. The Old Wolf growled and tried to struggle to his feet. The world swam, and his knees gave way. He fell back, too weak and dazed to rise yet ….
Tessaril sighed and fought her own weakness. Dragging herself upright, she leaned on her sword for support. “Come, Lord,” she said quietly, extending a hand. Mirt groaned again, and struggled to reach her slim fingers ….
“Mmm. That was a nice kiss,” Belarla said, stretching, as she lay on her back on the flagstones. Shandril watched the wrinkles of pain fading away from the Harper’s beautiful face and smiled down at her. Belarla smiled back.
“Yes, she’s much better than most of our clients,” a still groggy Oelaerone commented from nearby. She sat idly turning something in her fingers: a few scorched feathers clinging to a blackened wooden shaft—all that was left of the arrow that had nearly claimed her life. “But then—they’re men … and what do men know of kissing?”
Belarla rolled up to one elbow. She stiffened and put a warning hand on Shandril’s arm. “Speaking of men,” she murmured, pointing.
Shandril looked up quickly and saw men with grim faces—priests in the black robes of Bane—coming into the courtyard. The Holy of Bane were more than a score strong, and some of them held glowing staves and maces. A tall man at their head raised his staff, pointed at Shandril and her companions, and shouted, “For the glory of Bane, slay them!”
“Slay them!” thundered thirty throats as one, and the priests loyal to Elthaulin, the New Voice of Bane, followed him forward.
With a dark look in her eyes, Shandril rose from the Harpers. Spellfire swirled around her hands and ran swiftly along her hair—and then she sent it lashing out. Elthaulin blazed up in front of her like a dry torch.
Healing took far more spellfire than smiting, Shandril realized wearily. Must I go on killing forever? “Halt, men of Bane!” she cried. “Let me be, and I’ll leave you alive. Or strike at me—and taste this!”
Shandril let flames roar up into the sky and forced a savage smile onto her weary lips. The priests’ charge ended. They screamed and pushed at each other in a mad retreat Shandril followed, grimly determined to make the city safe by nightfall.
No, they’d not soon forget Shandril Shessair in this city.
By the time Shandril returned to Spell Court, the sun was setting over the Citadel of the Raven. In the gloaming, she saw winking spell lights beside the cluster of her friends. The lights faded, and a single figure stood where they’d been—the Bard of Shadowdale. Shandril ran joyously to meet Storm, who had begun conversing with Mirt and the others.
As Shandril approached, Storm turned and called out warmly, “I wondered when you’d grow tired of devastating the place.”
They hugged each other. “Belarla and Oelaerone send you their heartfelt thanks and their congratulations,” Storm said. “Mirt tells me they had to get back to their house, before the customers started to come calling—and before you got them into another fight they might not walk away from.”
Shandril had started to laugh, but she fell silent at those last words. She looked past the bard at the body of Sarhthor of the Zhentarim lying still on the flagstones. Shivering, she clutched Storm’s strong, reassuring body harder and quietly told the bard what the wizard had done before he died.
Storm drew back in surprise, staring alternately at Shandril and Sarhthor. “I don’t recognize him,” she said, “but I don’t know all the Harpers in Faerûn, after all.” Her face darkened. “Come; let’s be gone from here before Manshoon regains control.”
“Manshoon?”
Storm smiled ruefully. “Manshoon is always less dead than he appears. Elminster’s slain him more than once before—quite thoroughly—only to have to do it again a winter later. Manshoon has his secrets.” She smiled more broadly and dropped something into Shandril’s hand. “And now you do, too.”
Shandril looked down. In her hand was a small silver harp on a chain. She touched it in wonder. Its tiny strings stirred in a mournful, somehow proud tune.
“If you both don’t mind,” Storm added softly, “Mirt wants to give Delg’s badge to Narm. You’re both Harpers now.”
Epilogue
Lighting crashed and staggered across the sky far to the east. The guard watched it, thankful for the momentary entertainment. No duty post in Zhentil Keep was more mind-numbing than this one. He hefted his halberd wearily and yawned. Rubbing his cheek, he watched lightning crack the dome of night again, and was briefly thankful that the storm was far off; otherwise he’d have to huddle against the door of the crypt to keep dry. Hours to go until dawn.
“Gods deliver me from this everlasting boredom,” he muttered.
“The gods have heard you, fool—to your cost.” The guard tried to spin, but the hand that clasped his neck was very strong. Struggling wildly, he glimpsed the crypt’s doorway, dark and open, but he couldn’t see his attacker. He didn’t need to. Fear lashing his heart, the guard went down into the last darkness, and he knew who had killed him.
Manshoon looked down at the sprawled body. “Yawning when you were supposed to be guarding my future is a crime punishable by death. Had I forgotten to warn you of that? Life is so unfair.”
He carefully closed the door of the crypt, glancing at the four bodies lying ready there … four? Gods, he’d best be preparing others; how many had he gone through now? He turned away to start the long walk home across Zhentil Keep. The way was long, and the boots this body wore had started to crumble; he walked slowly, thankful that the storm had emptied the night streets. The few guards who saw him carefully looked away; Manshoon passed them with a grim smile.
Fzoul obviously hadn’t known about all of his crypts. Sloppy work, unfortunately typical of the more devout—or ostensibly devout—side of the Brotherhood. He looked up at the spires of the Black Altar as a lightning flash outlined them, and nodded.
“I have a score to settle there.” There were advantages to staying dead for a tenday or so—it gave traitors time to show their true colors, get their hands properly dirty and their plans half-hatched …. Smashing them then was most satisfying. He was looking forward to it.
He turned away. The High Tower beckoned. He needed a bath, a drink, and a warm body beside his in bed, before dawn. For the first time, Manshoon wondered why he had ever begun to strive for more than such things … after all, what more could a man achieve? He shrugged and put such thoughts from his mind. He’d feel more himself in the morning.