"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."
"How do you know that?" Regrar protested, grounding his shovel and leaning on it. "There's nothing more official than telling the King directly, and if all they were doing was cuddling and cooing, what did he need the map for? Even our Dragon must do something besides rutting and hoisting goblets-he likes women who can talk and have wits to match his own, or better!"
"Bah, she doesn't talk policy and make reports!" said. another voice. "The woman's a snake!"
Another Highknight who'd been silent until now spoke up. "Whether she is or she isn't, I know what the spell was about, and the priestesses. She took them to the Tombgate and sent someone else a skull-token that will take them to its far end."
"She's setting up some sort of meeting there," Forold said thoughtfully, "but why?"
The flames of the brazier suddenly blazed up green, then white and purple, growing brighter. "Blood of the Dragon! Someone's scrying us!" Regrar snarled. "Where's that War Wizard? Get him, quickly!"
Korthauvar looked sharply at Hlael, who hastily hissed a word and slashed his hand through the smoke in front of him. In a matter of moments the scrying-spell collapsed, the smoke fading to half-seen curls… then nothing.
The two wizards exchanged glances. "The Tombgate," Hlael murmured. "Old Hesperdan will know where it leads, if anyone outside Candlekeep does."
"If Hesperdan doesn't," Korthauvar said grimly, "Tessaril Winter does."
Stiff and uncomfortable in ill-fitting, much-mended leather armor and trying hard to look like the seasoned guards they weren't, Narm and Shandril exchanged brief glances through the slits in their cavernous helms and shifted their crossbows to more comfortable positions on their shoulders.
"More comfortable" was a laughable term, given the bone-jarring bouncing and pitching of the laden wagons crashing up, over, and through ruts. They both stood on high platforms that jutted out around the drovers' heads-platforms they shared with lumpy sacks and bundles that had been lashed down with enough ropes and straps to make them resemble the web-bundled prey of some very energetic spider.
Around them, half-hidden by the thick dust. Voldovan's real guards raced about on their leaping, plunging mounts, holding their saddles easily amid the tumult and glaring hard-eyed at everything and everyone. Orthil's caravan was just leaving Scornubel-and the guards wanted very much to leave the city's grasping hands and swift swindles behind. Twice Narm saw blades half-drawn warningly as local lads raced in to snatch at things or men pushing carts tried to get in the way of the caravan-whether to steal, stage an accident, or try to trade, he could only guess.
They'd both been posted on "ready wagons," Voldovan's oldest and most leaky conveyances. Below and behind them, the steep-sided wagon beds were crammed with spare wheels and axles, boards and buckets and mallets, all wedged in with spare carrychests and barrels of water, with haybales thrust atop everything. Spare weather-sheets of old, patched ship sails were lashed down several layers deep over the arched tops of both wagons, and everything stank of fish oil, sheepfat grease, and old sweat.
Their request to go disguised in armor had vastly amused Voldovan-and pleased him, for their presence on the ready wagons freed up two of his real guards for outrider duty, rather than-as he put it-"a-wasting them to stand as targets when they could be doing something useful!"
Shandril had even drawn comfort from the leering pair of grizzled guards who'd hung extra plates of armor to clang and clatter down Shandril's front, and smeared greasy fingers around her jaw to make her look unshaven and "more've a man, har har!" One of them had taken care to lean close and momentarily pluck out the tiniest silver harp on a chain that she'd ever seen, and introduced himself baldly as "Arauntar."
The other had sent her staggering with an adjusting slap at the shoulder-plates her breastplates were hanging from and announced grandly, "Beldimarr, at yer service-hands an'jaws an' I've one o' them little trinkets, too!"