And as the chorus of "Ayes" rang out, the sun above them shone with sudden brightness, and a beam of golden light touched the coin in Hainan's fingers. There was a flash, and it was gone. Narm, who had secretly doubted the stout cleric's sincerity until that moment, opened his mouth in awe. Rathan spread his empty hands in benediction, stepped forward to take one each of Narm's and Shandril's hands and clasped them together under his own. He stepped back and bowed, and then he was Rathan again, smiling and blinking and looking about for his wineskin.
"Our thanks, Rathan," Shandril said huskily, and he bowed again and said, "Tymora's will, but my pleasure," and made of the formal words the approval and joy of a friend.
Narm spoke then. "My lord Florin," he said to the tall ranger in the scorched and claw-scraped armor, "may we come to Shadowdale for a time, with you all? We have no home, and my lady-no, we are both weary of running and fighting and never knowing rest, or a home. It is much to ask, I know, but-"
"But no more drivel," said Torm unexpectedly. "Of course you will come to the dale… where else would you go?"
Florin looked at him sternly, and then grinned. "In truth, Torm," he said, "I could have put it in no better words myself… you are welcome for as long as you both desire it. I daresay you can study art better in Shadowdale's peace and quiet-relative though that may prove-than out here, as one mage after another hurls it at you."
"Study?" asked Narm faintly, staring at Elminster, who stood puffing his pipe expressionlessly.
"Yes, with Illistyl and I," said Jhessail. "He," she added, nodding at Elminster, "will be studying your bride. It's been a long time indeed since someone last mastered spellfire so ably-and survived its use so well."
Flames flickered red and angry orange in two braziers. They stood in a vaulted stone hall, and between them was an altar of black stone, polished glossy-smooth and shaped like a gigantic throne, forty feet high. At the foot of the Seat of Bane was a much smaller throne, and upon it sat a cold-eyed man with pale brown hair and wan features. His high-cowled robe was deep black and simple, and his hands gleamed with many rings. None living knew his truename, save himself; few knew his common name. He was the High Imperceptor of Bane, and he was very angry.
"Give me good reason," he said coldly to those who knelt before him, "why I should not put you to death. You have failed me. Manshoon was to have received our message at this meeting with his lords. We cannot move against the traitor Fzoul with Manshoon in the city, or we shall know certain defeat. You had the message; you delivered it not. What can you say to stand against this?"
"M-my Lord," said one of those kneeling, hesitantly, "the message was about to be passed on to Manshoon, in a believable manner-and for that, we needed those assembled to be on the topic, or he might well have smelled out our ruse. The meeting was scarce begun, and the fool Kalthas telling all grandly that garrisons across the northlands were wasteful and needless, when Manshoon stood up, all of a sudden, and upset the table and all. He-he began to cry, Dread Lord. He whispered a word, 'Maruel' or something similar, and then summoned a scrying-crystal. He was not even looking at us. He looked into the globe when it came to him-"
"The word of summoning!" the High Imperceptor interrupted sharply. "What was it?"
"Ah-a moment. Dread Lord, it began, 'Zell'… ah, it was 'Zellathorass'! " the kneeling man said triumphantly. The High Imperceptor nodded.
"Rise, and continue," was all he said. Bowing, the man did.
"The-the word he dismissed the globe with, Dread Lord, was 'Alvathair' I do recall. He seemed furious after that and dismissed us. He said, 'Sirs, this meeting is at an end. For your safety, leave at once.' And he called down gargoyles upon us from above, and-and we fled."
"Did you see where Manshoon went?" asked the High Imperceptor eagerly.
"N-no, Dread Lord. He was not seen in the city all the rest of that day." The speaker spread his hands. "We came straight to you, leaving that night, for fear of delivering our message wrongly, once the chance you had directed us to take was lost."
The High Imperceptor nodded shortly. "Well spoken, well recalled. Rise, all of you." When the brief shuffling and rustling had died away again, he looked down at the line of men facing him. "Do any of you have aught else to report?"
One Theln spoke. "Aye, Dread Lord." He was gestured to continue. "I met with a merchant loyal to The Black Lord"-he bowed to the great throne-"who told me of a young girl now on her way to Shadowdale in the company of those who call themselves the Knights of Myth Drannor. This maid can by some means produce spellfire. He said this fire can strike through magical barriers and empty air alike, and is very powerful."
The High Imperceptor was leaning forward on his throne now, interested. At a subtle signal of his hand, an unseen upperpriest behind black tapestries nearby had cast a spell to detect any lies Theln might speak. "They take her to Elminster, no doubt. Very powerful, indeed. If we held this power, we could strike down those who stand opposed to our great Lord"-all save the High Imperceptor bowed again-"and those traitors who were once our brothers, alike. We must try for this spellfire, if this tale be true. This faithful-who is he, and how old his news?"
"One Raunel, a dealer in sausages from the Vilhon Reach. He spoke to me on my way to you, on the road very close. He said he'd spoken with a forester who'd seen the girl and all himself, near the Thunder Peaks, in the late morning yesterday. He met this forester, one Hylgaun, yestereve at a roadside fire they shared."
The High Imperceptor nodded agian, and almost smiled. "You have done well, Theln. You will be rewarded. Go you and call upon the priest Laelar to attend us at once. All of you, leave us."
The last to leave stepped from behind tapestries, bowed, and said merely, "No lies, Dread Lord," as he left. Good. That left only two possible liars in this matter: this Raunel and the one called Hylgaun. It felt true.
When he was alone, the cold-eyed, wan man looked thoughtfully across the empty chamber. "Maruel… Maruel. I know that name." He caught up the great black mace of Bane and hefted its dark and cruel length absently as he pondered. Why could he never remember such things? Why? It could well bring death one day… the wrong detail forgotten, the wrong precaution taken. The High Imperceptor sighed. It had not been a good day.
The black dragon flew heavily and raggedly. Often its wings faltered and it would sink down and to one side or the other, despite Manshoon's commands and curses. Orlgaun was sorely hurt, and might never bear him again. That thought burned in Manshoon's mind, atop his defeat, and he almost turned back in anger to slay with the art he yet held ready.
It was impossible. Orlgaun was flying on the last of its lagging strength now, lower than Manshoon would have preferred. The seemingly endless green of the great Elven Court stretched on beneath them as the dragon flew north and east. Manshoon thought back over the fray and concluded bitterly that he'd probably not slain a single one of those who'd stood against him. Elminster had shielded them at the first, aye, but few could survive he and Orlgaun both, even in passing. That cursed elf, and the ranger with his flying shield! He could feel their blades yet… they'd not live long, when he had that girl in his hands, even if they'd had nothing to do with Symgharyl Maruel's death.