Shandril stared at the scene and said slowly, her voice almost a whisper, "I want to slay at least five wizards and see fear on Fzoul's face-Delg's life must be worth at least that much. Is the large tower Wizards Watch?"
Tessaril nodded and sighed. "Yes,. Are you certain you want to do this, Shan? Now?"
Shandril turned and simply nodded.
Tessaril bowed her head in response. "Go with my share of Tymora's luck, Shan." She raised her hand, murmured a word, and touched Shandril.
Then Tessaril stood alone in the room with the broken window, her hands balled into fists. Before she realized how tightly her trembling hands were clenched, blood was running down her palms from where her nails cut into flesh, She turned and ran as she had never run before, racing back through the rooms of the Hidden House.
Abruptly, Shandril was somewhere else, Spell Court, yes, by the look of it: a grim, gray courtyard of dusty stones, spired buildings rose all around her, the largest one at her back. She turned and stared up, recognizing the tower she was seeking.
She strode toward it, ignoring the dark-armored warriors who stood at its gates. They frowned and reached for their swords-and then shrank back away from her, moving hastily sideways along the wall. Shandril stared at their frightened faces and then glanced behind her to see what they were staring at.
All around her, in a dark and deadly ring, beholders were rising up silently, She'd teleported into a trap, Shandril swallowed hard. Her eyes began to flame. This had been her choice, well enough. "May all the gods damn you," she said, voice trembling. Her words rose into a sudden scream-a scream that spewed fire as red dragons do.
"Damn you all!" she spat amid flames, Suddenly she was too bright to look at. Flames of death reached out for the eye tyrants around her.
Torm's tabletop dance in imitation of Elminster came to an abrupt halt as the Lord of Eveningstar burst into the room. "She's gone," Tessaril said, panting, "Gone to kill all the Zhentarim."
Everyone gaped at her, wide-eyed. Narm stood up so fast his chair bounced on the floor behind him. The young mage stared at the Lord of Eveningstar and shouted, "Why did you let her go?"
Tessaril Winter looked at him, her eyes dark with sorrow, and said quietly, "I didn't let her go, I sent her there myself."
"Spellfire," Torm said bitterly, "She threatened you." Tessaril looked at him and shook her head. `No, She was a caged animal Torm. I had to open the gate and let her out."
Narm stared at her, face wild, and then burst into tears. "She'll die!" he sobbed, pounding the table with his fists, "She'll die-and I can't sane her!" He looked up at Tessaril through streaming tears and struggled to control his voice, "Where is she?"
Torm snatched up a goblet. "Drink this, Narm! You'll feel better."
Storm shook her head. "It's not the universal cure you think it is, Torm" The hard put her arms comfortingly on Narm's shoulders, but the young mage seemed not to feel them.
"Where is she?" Narm almost screamed, and then went on, voice trembling, "We must go to her, Now!"
Storm looked at the Lord of Eveningstar. "Have you spells enough?"
Torm asked quickly, "And what should I do?"
"Belt up before any more time's wasted," Mirt said roughly, "and ye, Tess, go and get me one or two o' them healing potions ye keep stowed away, Hurry!"
They all looked at him. and then Tessaril nodded and rushed out, Mint drew his sword and slashed at the air. The blade gleamed in the light.
Narm' s reddened eyes followed it, and the young mage clenched his jaw. "What's your plan?"
The Old Wolf grinned at him but said nothing. Then Mirt's smile turned rather grim as he brought out the notched and battered axe that had been Delg's. He hefted it in his other hand. "Where're those potions?" he bellowed.
Tessaril ran in, hair streaming behind her in her haste, "Here," she gasped, thrusting two steel vials into his hand, Mirt jammed them into his belt, sighed heavily, and gestured at Narm. "Guard him here, lass."
Tessaril nodded, and came forward to kiss him, "Guard yourself, Old Wolf," she said, eyes bright "I'd like to see you-alive-again."
Mirt laughed, accepted her quick peck on his grizzled cheek, and said, "Ye will, lass. Ye will."
"If I've got to die," he roared at them all. "I'd like to have a kiss to remember, at the last, Pray to Tymora for me!"
Torm spread his arms pleadingly. "Kiss me, Old dolt," he trilled in mocking imitation of a swooning maiden. "Oh, kiss me!"
Mirt glared at him and backhanded his almost empty goblet off the table. It sailed into Torm's face. The thief was still sputtering when the old merchant bowed to them all, murmured something, and vanished.
Narm looked around the room and said grimly, "Can everyone here cast a teleport spell except me?"
Storm gathered him into her arms, "That was no teleport, Narm. Do you remember the gem Shandril found in Tethgard-the rogue stone?"
Narm nodded, frowning, tears still bright on his cheeks. "Delg and Mirt knew something about it that they weren't telling."
"Undoubtedly," Storm said dryly. "Mirt put it there for her to find, It was prepared by Khelben the Blackstaff and linked to a spell that many a thief has used down the years, which lets one who speaks the right words teleport to wherever the stone is, long after the spell is cast. Mirt's at Shandril's side right now"
Narm looked at her and asked very softly, "And why not me?"
"You'd be killed, idiot," Torm told him, "unless you've learned a god's ransom of spells since I saw you last. Those Zhentarim'd blast you to ash before you could draw breath to cast your first spell."
Narin stared at him.
"Blunt," Storm told the young mage gently, "but true," "Besides, you can't follow her until I memorize another teleport spell," Tessaril said, "and I'm reluctant to do that."
"Why not?" Narm almost screamed.
Tessaril turned her back. "I won't send you to certain death," she said, voice trembling.
"You sent Shan!"
"I-couldn't stop her, Narm. I can stop you."
Narm stared at her back, fresh tears on his face, "Let me be with Shan!" he cried in anguish, "Please!"
Sadly, Tessaril shook her head and turned to meet his gaze with dark eyes that held tears of their own. "Shandril and Mirt can both withstand far more than you can, Norm. You'd wind up a hostage in Fzoul's hands, one he could use to compel Shandril to surrender, Then spellfire would be his, after all."
Narm s eyes blazed, Abruptly he whirled away from her gaze to stamp the length of the chamber and back again. "I should be there!" he protested and turned away again.
"Gods look down damnation," he cursed, Then he pivoted slowly to face the Lord of Eveningstar again. "There's another reason, isn't there?" he asked softly, almost whispering.
Tessaril nodded, "Shandril may fall under Fzoul's control, or be twisted by Zhentarim magic-or spellfire itself-once she uses it in unbridled anger rather than to defend. If she becomes something akin to a Zhentarim, we must try to control her power by using you as hostage to her good behavior." She turned away, sighed, and said to the wall, "As Manshoon would have."
Mirt saw swirling mists for a moment, and then his boots struck something hard, Flagstones, He staggered, and waved his weapons out of habit. They struck nothing.
He stood in a courtyard somewhere in the Citadel of the Raven-he could see raven banners flapping overhead. There were folk screaming and running through the courtyard nearby, and the ground suddenly heaved underneath him, Mirt crouched to keep his balance, He watched in amazement as flagstones rippled and heaved, as if a giant wave were passing underneath them.