Mouths dropped open all down the porch. The blood drained from the herald's face, and he started to say something,
Tessaril held up a hand to forestall the torrent of words she knew was coming, then said, "if I do not come back, tell Azoun I did what I had to do-and that I have always loved him," Her voice trembled, and fell to a whisper, "It has been an honor to serve the Purple Dragon."
She turned away quickly then, before her voice broke, and hurried back inside her tower, She did not want to look even once at the beautiful village around her-in case it should prove to be the last time.
Fzoul found the room he was looking for. He chose a mace, a weighty hammer, and a javelin from the racks around its walls. The weapons hefted well in his hands. Next he turned his attention to the wall, where he knew a secret rune was hidden. The high priest smiled as he found it, pushed and turned the rune-adorned panel, and watched part of the wall swing open.
The niche within held a skull, a mummified hand, and several bottles of brown glass, He chose one bottle, wiped the dust from it, undid the seal, and experimentally licked the yellow liquid within.
The burning sensation on his tongue made him nod with satisfaction; it was still deadly-to others, at least. Over years of careful exposure, he'd built up a resistance to this particular poison. Carefully the high priest anointed the weapons he'd chosen, girded himself about with them, replaced the bottle, and closed the door of its hiding place.
Then he descended to the forehall of the tower, stood on a paving stone that had been enchanted by Manshoon years ago, and spoke one of the words the mage had taught him, An almost inaudible singing sound answered him as the hidden spell engine Manshoon had prepared spun silently out of another plane and into solid existence in Faerim. It could appear only in this place, but Fzoulbeing the spellfire maid's target-was just the bait to bring her here to face it.
Fzoul could not see the spell engine, but he knew that it now filled most of the room behind him: a great wheel that would begin to spin if spells struck it, absorbing the magic to power itself. Manshoon's greatest work. It drank all magic cast at it.
Fzoul smiled tightly, opened the front door of the tower, and waited.
As though on cue, a man appeared in the doorway-a son in dark leathers, a bow slung at his back. He panted briefly, then caught his breath, "You sent for us, Lord?"
"Aye," Fzoul said, looking out at the score of Zhentilar archers gathered there. "Thank you for your promptness; it is appreciated. Do any of you hear any sort of magic item with you? Anything that carries an enchantment?"
One man held up a dagger.
"Leave it outside," Fzoul ordered, "and retrieve it later, To carry it into this chamber could mean your doom," Several other archers hastily divested themselves of small items; Fzoul hid a smile by turning away and saying, "Come!"
In the forehall, he turned to face them, "Ready bows, and conceal yourselves behind the tapestries in this room, and in doorways and entries all around the Spell Court, I want you hidden, mind, and silent until I give the signal, thus. Respond only to this signaclass="underline" other archers will be stationed openly in the court. Orders to them to loose shafts, or their doing so, are not orders for you to fire."
The high priest looked at them coldly. "When your signal does come, you are to fire at the intruders-not to kill, whatever they do, hut only to bring down your targets. I will inform you verbally if there are any changes in these orders once battle begins."
His face melted into a slow, soft smile that held no mirth or friendliness, and he added, "I don't need to warn you what your fate will he if you should happen to send an arrow my way, The wizards of our Brotherhood are running short of people to test new spells on."
He looked around briskly, "Any questions?" Silence, He clapped his hands, "Right-string bows, and hide yourselves! Be ready!"
When they were hidden, Fzoul strolled quickly around Spell Court, nodded his satisfaction, and went hack to the forehall.
Standing not far inside the doors, he drew a deck of cards from a pocket in his robes, and idly began to play a betting game he was fond of, Without other players, he merely dealt two cards off the top of the deck to see what hand Tymora, the goddess of luck-or his own lord, Bane-had given him.
The first two cards were a magician and a priestess, one of the two best hands in the game. Fzoul smiled in satisfaction. The second hand consisted of two priest cards, and his smile faded, They were the weakest hand one could draw. Whoever devised the game had not been fond of priests, he thought darkly, and drew another hand.
This time, he drew the other highest possible hand, and hummed to himself contentedly as he shuffled the deck. He'd barely finished humming that first song when suddenly, figures appeared in Spell Court, very near the Wizards' Watch Tower. Fzoul recognized the slim, curvaceous Lord of Eveningstar; a fat, aging man whom Fzoul knew to be a Lord of Waterdeep; two pleasure-queens of the citadel; the young mage-and his mate, the lass who wielded spellfire. An odd band of heroes, to be sure.
Fzoul smiled tightly and gestured with his free hand, Arrows sang as they flew.
Twenty
CROWN OF FIRE
There is no greater glory in the Realms than winning-or defending-a crown. Never forget that… Even wizards can surprise ye.
Mirt the Moneylender Wanderings With Quill and Sword Year of Rising Mist
Shandril, behind her companions, raised her hands, and spellfire poured out. A bright net of spellflame suddenly surrounded the party. The arrows striking it burst into white pulses of light, hissing, and were gone.
"Come!" she cried, and strode to the door of Wizards' Watch Tower, keeping the bright net of flames behind them all. The Zhentilar soldiers around the edges of the courtyard did not follow, their faces fearful.
From where he stood near the door, Fzoul watched her come, and he knew his own moment of fear, The maid's spellfire seemed stronger than ever. Her eyes blazed like two small stars, and her feet left flaming footprints in the spell-guarded stone, He dragged his glance up from that astonishing sight.and managed to greet her with a polite smile on his face.
"Welcome, Shandril Shessair. I've been waiting for you, Fzoul Chembryl, at your service."
Fzoul willed the playing card in his right hand to melt into its true shape: a wand. It fired, He was still smiling as its radiant bolts leapt out to strike Belarla, Oelaerone, Tessaril-and Narm.
Shandril snarled at him wordlessly, and her spellfire roared out to form another defensive net, She glanced behind her to see if her companions were within her shield of flames, Narm was crumpling to his knees, face twisted in pain, and Tessaril was staggering as she tried to hold a swaying Belarla upright.
Shandril also saw Zhentilar guards in black leather as they stepped out from behind tapestries to block the doorway behind her. Beyond them, the archers whose arrows had greeted their arrival were closing in across Spell Court, bows in their hands.
Anger rose and coiled like spellfire within her, "You're good at trapping things, Zhentarim," she spat angrily, "but let's see if you're any better than Manshoon at holding them." She drew back her hand and hurled a blazing ball of spellfire at Fzoul.
He stood watching calmly as it roared toward him, spitting flames. Then it seemed to swerve sideways, smashing into-a great, shining wheel of translucent force that appeared behind Fzoul. Spellfire splashed furiously along its edge, glowed, and was absorbed.
Fzoul bowed mockingly. "I'm sorry for any humiliation this might cause you, Shandril-but I fear I must ask you to kneel and cast away any weapons you may be carrying. Or die, of course."
Elthaulin strode angrily into the nave of the Black Altar, his soft shoes slipping on the polished marble underfoot. "Neaveil! Oprion!" he called, his voice echoing irreverently in the lofty darkness, Startled heads turned, but he paid them no heed. If Fzoul was going to interrupt devout rituals, Elthaulin could trample on a few meaningless traditions.