“Your spies in the court at Suzail and among the war wizards?”
“Reported nothing,” Fzoul replied. “So far as we know, Shandril does not have the backing of Azoun—nor is he trying to gain spellfire for himself. He may not even know that it is within his borders.”
There was a faint shriek from outside the chamber, and then another, louder one. The eye tyrant turned. “Sacrifices? At this time, Fzoul?”
“No,” the priest replied. “We understand it is customary for you to feed about now, each day.”
The beholder’s eyestalks began to whip and coil sinuously in evident pleasure. “My thanks for this courtesy,” it said, drifting eagerly forward.
An instant later, they heard curses, sobs, and struggling noises just outside the chamber—and then a naked man was hurled into the sanctum, cartwheeling in the air. In the doorway, they saw a flash of moving metal from the staff that had struck him. It was still trailing motes of magical light as it withdrew.
Some of those same sparkling points of light clung to the body of the terrified man, who did not fall to the ground, but drifted to a halt in the air close to Fzoul.
The man saw the beholder looming over him, shrieked in terror, and lunged away, soaring through the air toward the doorway he had come in by.
“Sporting,” said the beholder, as the man flew away, into the light spilling from the passage beyond.
An instant later, he struck an invisible barrier with a crash. The snapping of bones could be clearly heard, and the man sagged limply, drifting toward the ground.
“Not too sporting,” Fzoul replied with amusement. At his words, the captive’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed with hatred, and he dived through the air, snarling as he swooped down at the unmoving high priest.
He never got there. An eye flared, and he was dragged inexorably sideways toward the waiting maw of the eye tyrant. Its jaws snapped; fine droplets of blood rained down, and the legless body jerked and spasmed in midair.
Xarlraun eyed the limp, hanging man disappointedly, then drifted in to gulp him whole. “I expected a better fight,” it said between crunching noises.
“The next one may be better,” Fzoul said smoothly.
The beholder belched, shaking the chamber and making Fzoul’s stomach churn and his eyes sting. It licked its lips, considering. That one had drunk much sherry, not long ago.” Then it leaned toward the priest, and said in silky warning, “You won’t be foolish enough to try poisoning any of these morsels, will you?”
“Of course not,” said Fzoul. “That sort of behavior is beneath me.” His tones were calm, even scornful, but a sudden dampness glistened on his forehead.
Outside the chamber, the screaming began again. The beholder listened and then said, “I’ll eat again when we’re done. Please give the necessary orders—and have all the priests who are listening just outside withdraw, as well.” Its voice sounded coldly amused.
As the high priest came back from the doorway, the beholder spoke again. “Go on, Fzoul. I’ll regard the map if I feel the need. Your aerial spies found no trace of the spellfire wielder and assumed she’d gone to cover in the Hullack Forest.”
“Aye,” Fzoul said. “Manshoon felt that if magic was to succeed against spellfire at all, it must be by new spells devised to deal with spellfire or by some combination of spells or manner of attack that we, as experienced workers-with-Art, had missed seeing. I agree with this view. We had already sent out a summons to all our magelings, to a meeting in the High Hall. When they met, Manshoon invited them to go out and seize spellfire by whatever means they chose.”
“Filling the field with a score or more of wild, ruthless, half-tutored mages? Was that wise?” The beholder drifted closer, fixing several disapproving eyes on the priest.
“It was necessary,” Fzoul said, trying not to sound apologetic. “Our magelings need a weeding. We’d like some of them tested and all of them given experience, and there are one or two who have developed or found spells we’d like to see in action—before their owners have time to plan and properly prepare for an assault on us. The stability of the Brotherhood is better served if we remain in control of it for some time to come.”
“So your force from the Stonelands is lost in the north reaches of Hullack Forest, various magelings are wandering all over the map, and Shandril’s disappeared from view—in a sovereign realm with its own powerful band of organized wizards. This is your plan?” Its deep voice purred with sarcasm as it drifted lower.
Fzoul stepped back despite himself, but continued flatly, “The force under Karkul Memrimmon laid a trap for Shandril, which she fought her way out of. Evidently thinking herself free of enemies, she camped and practiced hurling her spellfire for hours. After dark, Karkul’s force surrounded her and attacked.”
“And were slaughtered in their turn?” The beholder sounded amused.
“Well, yes—a few fled, but Karkul, the upperpriest, and the rest fell. Shandril had to destroy a fair stretch of forest to do this and now, we believe, has exhausted her spellfire again—with two magelings moving in on her.”
“Three I know of,” Xarlraun corrected.
Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have sources unknown to me,” he said, his voice a soft challenge.
The beholder seemed to smile. “Have you any more of those flying bites?”
Fzoul nodded. “I’ll see.” He strode to the door of the sanctum, gave curt orders, indicated a guard at random, and returned to the beholder.
“Tell me more of your plans, should this Shandril escape from the Hullack Forest,” the eye tyrant ordered.
Fzoul quelled a flash of anger and nodded, face expressionless. “Our agents in Arabel have orders to do whatever it takes—even revealing their loyalties by making open war in the city—to prevent Shandril from moving farther west into Cormyr. We hope to drive her to the Stonelands or Tilverton, where our forces are stronger. At that time, the more powerful members of the Brotherhood will take an active part in trying to seize spellfire—with the very real reward of rising to lead us all if they gain it.”
“And what if you do gain it? What use is this power to blast men to ashes?”
“We see—” Fzoul began as the terrified guard, cursing and shouting, was catapulted naked into the chamber. When he saw Fzoul, he began to plead, offering money, mistresses, information about hidden treasure caches and the doings of Fzoul’s rivals—Fzoul turned his back and walked away.
The temple guard flew at the high priest from behind, hands outstretched to grasp Fzoul’s neck. The beholder watched with interest. When Fzoul made no move, it reluctantly reached out with its eye-powers to prevent murder. The diving guard tore through the map image, scattering it into sparkling nothingness—and then was tugged aside, jerking and thrashing as a fish struggles in a net.
Fzoul turned his head and smiled up at the eye tyrant. “My thanks,” he said. “Primarily we are interested in spellfire to avoid having it fall into the hands of our enemies. If it is lost to all, we will not be utterly devastated. If it falls into the hands of foes, we may be utterly destroyed.”
The high priest turned to meet Xarlraun’s central eye directly. The guard was trying to flee, now, darting back and forth as ten eyestalks turned and twisted to follow him. The beholder rumbled, “Proceed. Tell me what the Brotherhood would do with spellfire.”
“If we did gain spellfire,” Fzoul responded, “we would use it first to enforce discipline in the ranks of the Brotherhood, until obedience was absolute. Here”—he waved at the sanctum around them—“we suspect Manshoon means to make us utterly loyal to him, whatever our god’s commands.”