"In Azoun's name-," he rumbled formally, holding the ring up between finger and thumb so they could all see it in the flickering light of the lamps, "I ask immediate audience with Tessaril Winter. Lord of Eveningstar."
"A Purple Dragon ring," the herald said wonderingly. "I've never seen one in the hands of an outlander before." "Well, now you have," Mirt said testily, "and no, I didn't steal it. Azoun gave it to me when I guarded his two infant daughters, years ago, when-but that's not for me to tell without his word. Well? What's it to be? Defy Azoun or let us in to talk to Tessar? By the burning lashes of Bane, I've kissed her often enough!"
As the full darkness of night descended softly on Eveningstar, Lord Tessaril Winter lay abed, lounging in the warmth of the dying fire. King Azoun ruled this pretty village through her, and matters both great and small sometimes weighed heavily on her mind. Today, it had been Lord's Court, and she'd had to disentangle several nasty trade disputes and sit through much blustering. She cared nothing for the threats, but the shouting had given her a headache that had taken three hot mugs of soup and much quiet to quell.
She yawned and shook her head ruefully, set aside the spellbook she read every night after she'd used a spell, blew out the lamp, and waited for slumber to take her.
The four chains her bed hung from creaked once as she settled down, and then all was dark and silent. For a time…
The roar of spellfire awakened Tessaril. She sat up in the hanging bed acid looked out tier west window in time to see flames licking at the night sky. Snatching up a wand in one hand and tier sword in the other, she strode to the north window, using the tip of tier scabbarded blade to hook down a robe front a peg along the way.
It was a long way down from her chambers at the top of the tower, and a wizard going into battle should never get out of breath. Tessaril tossed the wand and blade ahead of tier as she vaulted the windowsill, whispering the word that evoked a spell that let her fall the three floors to the ground slowly and gently. By the time her feet touched the grass just outside the tower, she was dressed.
Snatching up wand and blade, Tessaril let herself into the ground floor of the tower through a secret door that would open only for her and trotted to the main hall, shaking the sword free of tier scabbard as she went. She burst out the front door with wand and blade both held high, expecting trouble.
Mirt's words still hung in the air as Lord Tessaril herself strode out into the light. All around her, men stiffened, and the herald said, "Lord, you should not-"
The rest of his words were lost as Tessaril tossed sword and wand aside with a clatter and ran across the porch to kiss the fat man who held the ring. Even in her bare feet, the slim, ash-blond Lord of Eveningstar stood taller than everyone else present, and she moved with fluid grace and a warrior's speed.
Tessaril flung her arms around the old merchant.
"Mirt! Old Wolf, I'd never thought to see you here in Eveningstar! Come in. come in! Who are your friends?" Mirt managed to keep a grin off his face as she dragged him into her tower, through a throng of astonished Cormyrean faces. Narm didn't.
Goblets of wine were in their hands a moment later as Tessaril waved them toward her audience chamber. "Come in here and tell me what business presses you so urgently," she said, making signs to the guards-who scattered in all directions, one darting up the stairs with her sword and wand.
"Teleport me to Zhentil Keep," Shandril burst out. "I… I have to destroy the Zhentarim, now!"
Tessaril smiled. "Some of us have been trying to do that for years," she said, "and they still sit in Zhentil Keep tonight."
Shandril looked at her with eyes that blazed, just for an instant, and fought to control her voice. When the words came out, they were low and angry. "Lady, those snakes killed our friend and have hunted me like game across the Dales. Today, I burned Manshoon to bones and ashes and I want to go after the rest of the Zhentarim before… before my nerve fails me." Her words ended with a sob.
Tessaril stared at her. "You're serious," she said quietly. Then, slowly, she shook her head. "I'd be sending you to your deaths."
Narm looked quickly at Shandril. On the verge of tears, Shandril pleaded, "Please, Lady? Please? I must go now!" Her voice rose. "I can't go on like this, every day, wondering how soon we'll be killed!"
Tessaril looked at her and asked softly, "Are you in the right state of mind, now, to go up against any Zhenarim – and live?"
Shandril glared at her. "By the gods, get me to Zhentil Keep!" she cried, then held up a hand that blazed with spellfire. Around her, men cried out, weapons rang as they were drawn, and she heard running feet approaching.
Tessaril was on her feet facing Shandril, flinging up her hand in a restraining signal. Silence fell.
Shandril looked around at all the scared faces and raised blades and saw the herald holding a sword warningly at Narm's throat. She shook her head wearily and dissolved into tears, turning to Mirt's arms. "I'm sick of all this killing and fighting and running," she sobbed. "When will it all end?"
"It never does, lass," Mirt said softly, holding her. The words summoned to his mind memories of burning cities, spilled blood slowly running out and down stone steps underfoot, and corpses-fields of sprawled, contorted corpses-all around. "It never does."
Mirt and Tessaril exchanged glances, and the Lord of Eveningstar said quietly, "You'd best bring her in and tell me what this is all about. I can see this is going to be one of those evenings when the gods turn us on our heads a time or two…
Storm looked up at the stars sailing endlessly overhead. They glittered softly through a thin veil of scudding clouds. She said, "I can't sleep, Old Mage."
"What's amiss?" A wrinkled hand came out of the darkness to pat her own comfortingly.
"Manshoon. What's he up to, now?" After a moment, she added, "I hate leaving things unfinished."
"Lass," Elminster told her gently, "nothing is ever finished. Do what ye can, when ye can, and go on to the next thing. Some folk never learn that, all their lives long-and never do anything, spending their time worrying away at something they should have set by long ago." Stone sighed. "You're right" She watched the stars for a while, then whispered, "Old Mage, remember when I was young? You used to hold me until I fell asleep, and tell me wondrous tales of when Faerun was new..?"
The old familiar arms went around her, bringing with them the faint reek of old pipesmoke. "Would ye like a story now?"
"Please," she whispered, and covered his hands with her own.
"Well, now," Elminster said slowly. "Ye see those stars, up there? I recall a time when…"
Firespark rode on her shoulders as Tessaril walked silently clown the street toward the Tankard. Her tressym was restless and ill at ease; it answered her only with a wary little mew when she stroked it. The winged cat could smell trouble before she could, so Tessaril went well armed now.
She'd turned the tower over to her three guests for the night, telling them to get some sleep while she went out to 'confer with someone.' All nine of her Purple Dragons were already gathered to guard them, and she'd used a sending to call in war wizards from High Horn. That aid would not be here until midmorning at the earliest. She herself would sit guard over them until the wizards arrived-once she'd told Dunman at the Tankard to alert the local Harpers. If she knew Zhentarim, this night would bring an attack from some fell wizard or other.
Behind her there came a peculiar hissing sound, a groan, and the thud of someone falling.