"A gate or portal, of course," Hlael agreed, "but of those that she might possibly send them through, we've only used three-and I know there are that many again in Suzail and Marsember, probably one in the King's Forest, and two or even as many as six in Westgate or thereabouts. If she didn't go through with them, we can't trace them even if they dance back and forth through one of our three."
"So we look at the three we can, and hope she did. If we find nothing, it's back to spies and farscrying-for a month or two, if it takes that long. It's not as if we dare turn to anything else, uut-there! Hah^First blood, first try! Tombgate!"
Hlael shook his head in delighted disbelief. It had been long odds, indeed, with them able to trace so little-only gates he and Korthauvar had passed through, and only Tessaril Winter because they had some of her blood from clothing cut off her by a Zhentilar warrior who'd tried to slay her while she was riding the roads, and failed. And yet-and yet, by Bane and Mystra both!
The most recent passage through Tombgate had been by three living creatures, one of them Tessaril.
"Narm Tamaraith and Shandril Shessair," Korthauvar said slowly. "It must be!"
"So we-?"
"So we make sure, if we want to keep our heads. Scornubel is the place to look, if they are the two we seek-but first to make sure of that. The same blood will serve us, if we use that spell you traded to me last year…"
"To eavesdrop on Lady Lord Tessaril Winter," Hlael said smugly. "Let me cast this one; your weavings so far this day must've impressed Divine Mystra herself!"
He opened his spellbook, plucked up the stained scrap of undertunic that was their link to the distant Cormyrean officer, and cast his spell. Almost immediately he reeled back, wincing, as the scrying smoke that had begun to rotate around him roared up in a sudden flash of light and vanished.
"She's with the King," he said grimly, "and has strong shielding spells up around them both."
Korthauvar's grin was not quite a leer. "Exchanging state secrets, no doubt."
"So do we wait for them to finish? He might tarry for the morrow or even longer!"
The taller Zhentarim shook his head, stroking the dagger-like edges of beard that ran sleekly along the edge of his chin to end in two tufts. "We gamble," he said slowly. "Yonder I've a tallchest full of unwashed tankards, bloodstained dressings, and scraps of clothing, hacked-off scraps of leather war-harness. Kindly avert your eyes."
He strode to one of several looming tallchests of dark wood on the far wall, touched it in certain places while mumbling certain things, and stepped back as its door swung open. A row of shallow drawers was revealed; he slid open the fourth, selected three scraps of cloth, and said, "These belong to Highknights who almost gave their lives for their King but escaped us. I only hope one of them is with Azoun now-and that if he is, he knows something useful. Surely Lady Winter couldn't just slip off to take two people through a gate without a Highknight noticing-prying is what they do."
Hlael worked his spell again, and the whirling smoke promptly rolled up the wall that he was facing, scattered wild twinklings and swirlings of all hues of light, and twisted into a dark, — moonlit sight of booted feet lit at ankle height by shuttered lanterns. The lanterns were set in a ring on weed-choked, now trampled ground, and the unmistakable sound of picks and shovels striking buried stones rang out repeatedly.
"Quietly, blades, quietly! You want an admiring audience?"
"The sentinels will signal if anyone draws close enough to hear," someone replied disgustedly. "If your shovelwork is so much quieter, you're welcome to wield this shovel."
"We'll need those stones piled, after, to keep the wolves from digging him up. Pluck them aside," a low voice growled.
"Wolves? What's to keep curious villagers from having a look? Lads at play, and suchlike?"
"Old Meg's ghost, and fear of the wild things of the Stonelands-Zhent wizards, and the like."
Korthauvar and Hlael exchanged unlovely grins.
"Old Meg?"
"A local witch, or so folk hereabouts think. Her hut was about four strides that way, and in Eveningstar they'll swear to you that the whole gorge is haunted, this spot right here worst of all!"
"Don't start," another of the Highknights said disgustedly, dumping another shovel-load of dirt beside his lantern. Next to that light sat a small brazier, also hooded, where a fitful fire licked up from charcoal. "You can tell us all what horrible things she'll do to us when we're done and emptying flasks back at the Lady's Tower."
"I know why the King comes up here," a new voice said, from the other side of the deepening grave, and waited for the various grunts and chuckles to rise and then die away again, "but why now? He was ah, entertaining those four sisters from Tantras not two nights ago and seemed quite taken with them, too-and they with him. Why this sudden run right the way up the kingdom into the cold shadow of the Stonelands, to Tessaril's arms? Is she that good?"
There were just a few chuckles this time and one firm whisper: "Yes."
"No, Regrar, this can't be just the King in rut! He was frowning and tossing back his head the way he does when there's something troublesome on his mind, all the way up here. If I'm ever to do a decent job of guarding the Dragon, I have to know a lot more than I do now. Is this usual? Does he drop everything and come riding up here often?"
"Often enough, lad, often enough-and Daervin here isn't the first of us to be buried in this gorge, either-though there's never been any hint of shapeshifters before! Yet you've seen things clear enough. Azoun comes to Tessaril often, not just for her arms and her bed but as we do when we seek out old friends, men we trust, to rest easy and talk over our cares and the ongoing ruin of Faerun, and put our feet up. This ride, now, was a little different; something was eating at him. Forold?"
The low voice spoke again. "I spoke with Delmar, one of our eyes here. Vangerdahast came to Eveningstar and met with Tessaril. All manner of striding monsters and strange apparitions were seen around Eveningstar in the hours following his arrival-and they were hunted down by the Royal Magician when he came out of the Lady's Tower again, and blasted to dust and smoke."
"Old Vangey didn't look any too happy, if y'ask me," another Highknight muttered.
Forold growled a wordless agreement and asked, "Isn't it deep enough yet? We're not digging a well, you know-and Daervin's a little past complaining!"
"Patience, old blade," Regrar grunted, as a shovel rang off a rock. "Slow going, this end: Mother Chauntea left all the rocks from yon fields right here, it seems,"
"Well, lad," Forold continued, "No sooner had Vangey taken himself off back to Suzail in a cloud of spellsmoke, with a face like old sour iron, then Tessaril was seen leading two fat priestesses of Chauntea-strangers, not seen in Eveningstar before, nor arriving, either-a little way up Eveningstar Gorge. She returned alone."
"And?"
"And promptly went to her chambers, where she cast a strong magic that involved murmuring a message over something very small that vanished when the spell was done."
"Sending a token afar, with a message on it." They could all hear the frown in Regrar's voice. "A report to the King?"
"Nay, we were already a-horse and on the way," another Highknight said grimly. "She was reporting to someone else."
"The Zhentarim?" Regrar asked. "Renegade nobles of the realm?"
"She'll bear watching, will our Tessaril," Forold said calmly. "Anyone bedding the King must know far more than she should. I've been suspicious of her for some time. All these Harpers who come tramping through here-she certainly doesn't report their visits officially."