"I understand," the king's voice replied. "There is a harp rhyme, known to some, that begins with the words `I walked in the woods and dreamt I felt the kisses of maidens'-do you know it?"
"I do," said Delg roughly, breathing hard. Narm and Shandril were both aware that a great tension had suddenly fallen from the dwarf. "The song is well chosen."
"I've heard harps, more than once. You have good taste in ballads."
"Thank you," said King Azoun, and they could tell he meant it Shandril also sensed more than one meaning lay behind those two simple words-something only Delg would understand. She glanced at the dwarf, but he had turned to peer alertly into the forest about them, his battered, bearded face expressionless.
The king went on. "Word has come to me of all of you, then. Shandril, know that Cormyr has no designs upon your powers or person. Yet, I warn you never to forget this: whatever the challenge, I will keep peace in my realm, no matter the cost. My knights and armsmen will do what they must to defend the good land and folk of Cormyr. We will not seek you, or offer war to you and yours. Pass in peace and let us hope that we can one day meet openly, as friends, and give no thought for battle or danger."
"Pretty speech," Delg-grunted, in a low voice.
Shandril rushed to cover the dwarfs words. "I-I thank you, Your Highness. I mean no harm to any in Cormyr, and-I hope to know you as a friend, too." She paused for a moment, and added, "I'm growing impatient for the day when, gods willing, it won't be a dangerous thing to be my friend."
The light drifted a little closer to her, sparkled, and then drew back. "If it's any strength to you," the king's voice said gently, "I have known that same feeling. Gods smile on you, Shandril of Highmoon. You have our blessing to pass through our land."
"My thanks," Shandril replied. "Farewell."
As she spoke, the light was already dwindling and fading. She watched until she was sure it was gone before sighing her relief.
Narm turned to embrace her, smiling, but she thrust him aside and ran. She managed to get several strides away before she fell on her knees and emptied her stomach into the moss and dead leaves.
Delg stalked over to stand above her heaving shoulders. As she choked and sobbed, he said dryly, "Perhaps it's a good thing we didn't seek the palace in Suzail straight off to have audience with the king. His carpets might not be overly improved by your visits."
Shandril choked and shook and then found herself laughing weakly, still on hands and knees.
"Shan! Shan? Are you all right?" Narm asked fearfully. Shandril felt the forest damp beneath her paIns and the searing ache in her ribs. Despite it all, she smiled.
"I think I am. Yes." She reached out, got a hand on Delg's belt buckle, and dragged herself upward. The dwarf stood like a rock as she climbed up?him, hand over hand. Upright, she steadied herself, wiped at her mouth, and then brushed some errant hair out of her face. She saw a smile playing at the edges of his lips.
"Thanks, Delg," Shandril said to him and hugged him. "I'm right glad you're with us." She stepped into the shady gloom of night under the trees, and they saw her eyes catch flame for a moment before she added softly, "I'll be happier still when we reach Silverymoon and the safety and teachings of Alustriel." Spellfire danced in her hands for a moment before she added in a frightened whisper, "Help me get there-before the Zhents make me too accustomed to killing."
"Have they begun?" There was cold amusement in Lord Manshoon's voice as they turned through an archway guarded by two stiffly alert guardsmen.
"Of course," Sarhthor replied. "Some took bold leave of me, with grandly sinister half-promises and hints of dark plans. Others simply slipped away."
Together they stepped into a large, empty chamber, then turned sharply right into a dark alcove. Its dusty, cobwebbed back wall was an illusion; as they strode through it, Sarhthor added, "You know they've started, Lord. Once you spoke of spellfire, you could have forbidden them to seek it-and still they'd have tried. Magelings who last this long are ruled by their lust for power, however much they might pretend to command wisdom and shrewd reason."
The two archwizards squeezed past a motionless golem and strolled down the dark passage beyond it to a featureless door. Sarhthor drew it open, and Manshoon strode through, his black cloak swirling about him.
The room beyond was small. Two closed doors faced them, and in the center of the room stood a wooden plinth; on it lay a small gold key. Manshoon ignored all these features, turning sharply left to a door beside the one through which he had entered. He strode forward as if that dark wooden door did not exist and as the toe of his boot touched its surface, he vanished, leaving Sarhthor alone in the room.
The Zhentarim archmage carefully closed the door they had entered through and looked around the room. Death awaited those who touched the key or the other two doors, he knew-for he had helped arrange it so. Smiling faintly, he followed Manshoon.
One of his boots left the floor in that dark room deep inside Zhentil Keep as the other clicked down onto glass. smooth marble in a grand, high-vaulted chamber in the heart of the Citadel of the Raven. It took hurrying warriors two days or more to make the trip they'd just covered in a single step. Sarhthor hoped it would never be necessary to reveal the existence of the magical gate to the Zhentilar. They'd not be pleased, and he hated unnecessary violence.
Ahead, Manshoon ignored the faintly glowing tapestries that hung in midair all around, like the vertical war banners carried on the spears of Zhentilar horsemen. He looked only for what shouldn't be there and found nothing out of place. He strode across the vast, high hall to stand facing one of the elaborately painted windows, then halted, watchful and coldly patient. The window was as large across as three stone coffins placed end to end. It depicted a scarlet dragon coiling around the pearly-hued moon, its emerald eyes glittering and jaws opened to devour the pale orb.
Manshoon stood impassively and dispassionately regarding it as Sarhthor made his own way across the gleaming marble to stand behind and to one side of the high lord. As he came to a halt, the window began to slide aside.
Their arrival had been watched, as usual.
Still glowing with false sunlight, the window slid open, revealing a dark hole behind it, like the eyesocket of a gigantic skull. Out of that darkness floated two spherical creatures, their dark bodies surrounded by sinuously coiling tentacles that turned restlessly to point in one direction and then another. From the end of each stalk, a cold, fell eye looked out at the world.
Each beholder slowly turned on end to gather all ten of its eyestalks in a sinister, watchful cluster: a forest of eyes stared at the two Zhentarim wizards as the beholders drifted into the room.
The eye tyrants floated on in silence until they hung above the wizards, well out of reach and comfortably separated from each other. Then they rolled slowly upright, revealing their many-toothed mouths and large, central eyes. One was slightly larger than the other.
"Something is amiss here," the larger one hissed in its deep, echoing voice. "Strange magic is present." Manshoon turned wordlessly to Sarhthor, who frowned, shook his head doubtfully, and said, "If you'll allow me a few breaths and a spell, Lords…"
"Proceed," three cold voices said together, and the archmage had to hide a smile at how like the eye tyrants Manshoon sounded… how like an eye tyrant he had truly become.
Slowly and carefully, Sarhthor made the gestures and mutterings of a powerful and thorough detection spell. Thousands of tiny motes of light erupted from his robes, swirling around the chamber like a school of startled fish, prying into every corner. The conspirators waited patiently as the lights swooped, darted, hung in corners, and finally faded away.