He let it fall and dived back beneath his bench. Peering out from under it, through a mist of pain, Chess saw Manshoon gloating openly, his smile wide as he looked around him at the ruin, the moaning men, and the three menacing beholders.
Then the First Lord’s triumphant sneer slid into a look of astonishment. Overhead, the largest beholder had turned stealthily. Rays had lashed out from its eyestalks to rend its two fellows.
One burst apart, spattering the stunned priests and Zhentarim mages below with its gore. The other spun through the air, blazing and torn apart, to crash down in ruin atop a group of wizards, crushing them to screaming pulp.
The lone remaining beholder floated slowly across the chamber. Manshoon hurled a spell at it, but the death he sent was repulsed. Lord Chess cowered under his bench as the dark, awesome bulk halted just above him, eyestalks swiveling.
“Enough lawless killing,” it hissed in a deep and terrible voice that left the Hall in sudden silence. “Let order be restored. All magic shall cease, or I shall slay those who launch it. Let all Councilors who are able to do so return to their seats. That means all, Manshoon.”
The First Lord of Zhentil Keep paused in the midst of frantic spellcasting, hastily-erected defensive spells flashing and glowing around him as his hands faltered, and cast a glare up at the eye tyrant in which hatred and fear warred with each other—and fear won. For now.
* * * * *
The second vote, with the beholder hanging dark and menacing above the thoroughly terrified Councilors, was not. even close. The First Lord’s requested special powers were denied and, at the bidding of the eye tyrant, Lord Chess was named Watchlord of the Council—his own vote stripped from him along with all power to order about any armed man of Zhentil Keep, but his will in establishing the business of the Council made supreme, to stop anyone from overthrowing the Council and establishing sole rule over the city. Even ambitious archmages.
More than a few eyes in that chamber saw that the face of the supposedly impartial High Priest of Bane was white with anger. There was a general hiss of fury at his deceit when Manshoon strode around the ring of benches to lean over him and murmur a few words. The price of the uncloaking was high, but the words needed to be said.
“Make no defiance,” Manshoon breathed, his face a calm mask. “This is good for the stability of the city. I was close with Chess once, and can be again—enough, at least, to make him move at our bidding.”
Whatever reply Fzoul might have made, eyes still dark and ugly with rage, was lost in the cold, hissing tones of the beholder, who had descended to hang close above the two men.
“It is hoped among my kind,” the eye tyrant said with deep sarcasm, “that the events of today have taught you both the folly of villainy, and how those who deal in evil ways are changed by their own dealing, and not for the better. The violence you chose to employ should have made your lesson as clear and as painful for you both as it has been to the rest of this Council, not least those who’ve died this day.” The beholder began to rise, its eyestalks still trained in a deadly array upon the two men, and added almost bitterly, “But the curse of humans seems to be the nimbleness with which they forget.”
Manshoon straightened, opening his mouth. His expression foretold words of proud defiance, but the beholder drifted straight toward the shattered window it had burst in by at his bidding, such a short time ago. As it disappeared from view, it roared its parting words loudly enough that they echoed about the Hall. “Behave yourself with rather more subtlety in future, Manshoon, if you expect to continue to enjoy our support!”
The Councilors, frozen in their seats in fear of what the First Lord might do in his rage, watched in silence as Manshoon stared up at the window, face composed, for what seemed a very long time. Then he smiled thinly, raised one hand in what might have been a salute—or a wave of dismissal—and quietly turned and walked out of the Hall. Wordlessly, the surviving Zhentarim rose from their benches and followed him, their dark cloaks sweeping out like the moving backs of so many determined, marching ants.
Lord Chess watched them go and finally let out a shaky breath that he’d been holding for a long time. As he rose, found his now-cool blade, and made his own way out, he was careful not to look over at where Fzoul Chembryl still sat.
* * * * *
There was awe and terror in the streets of Zhentil Keep when a beholder of gigantic size drifted, dark and silent, over the rooftops of the city in the brightness of highsun. It ignored the screaming, scrambling folk below, and threaded its way between spires and high turrets across the city. Its deliberate route took it at last into the clustered towers of a high, grand stone castle, where it paused by a certain window.
Then its spherical body erupted into a puff of smoke, the panes of that window were drawn open by an invisible force, and a robed, bearded man stepped out of the heart of that smoke onto the sill of the window—and in. Behind him, the smoke fell away from the window and drifted away, fading into nothingness.
* * * * *
It had been a long wait, and Lord Amandon was breathing raggedly as the high window of his bedchamber squealed open and the chill northern breeze came in. The surface of his scrying-crystal misted over in an instant.
Etreth was already starting forward, his own sword ready in his hand, as the white-bearded old man with the challenging gaze stepped through the window and strode down empty air. “Well met, Rorst Amandon,” he said in a voice that managed to be both dry and deep at the same time.
“Welcome, Elminster,” the old lord managed to gasp.
Etreth came to a. halt, open-mouthed, then seemed to remember that he held a sword. Elminster looked at him with a smile and said, “Put that toy away,” in tones that were not unkindly.
“I’ve—not time left to waste words,” Lord Amandon gasped, struggling to speak clearly. “That was well done, Lord Mage. My thanks. I’m glad I lived to see it.”
Elminster bowed. “It was good ye did—and I’m sure ye appreciated what I did for Zhentil Keep more than either Manshoon or Fzoul.”
Rorst managed a smile as Etreth stared from one of them to the other, mouth still open, sword forgotten in his hand. “I did not want Manshoon dead, whatever he may have done to me,” the old lord said, eyes on Elminster’s. “Zhentil Keep needs a strong leader, to hold it against its growing foes, but I did want him held back from becoming a tyrant over a fortress-city.” His breath faltered. “Even evil men can be useful.”
“Aye,” Elminster said, watching him with something rather like sadness in his eyes. “I salute ye, Lord. It has been an honor to do battle against ye, all these years.”
Lord Amandon bowed his head, where he lay propped against his pillows, and said faintly, “And now I fear it is ended, Elminster. Farewell, Etreth. My thanks—and all my wealth—is yours.” He turned his head from smiling into the eyes of his servant one last time, to sweep his gaze across his broadsword to the portrait of Lady Amandon. Elminster’s eyes followed his.
Through welling tears Etreth saw the white-bearded mage lift a hand and murmur some words, his face very gentle.
A moment later, the face in the painting seemed to turn, see her lord, and smile. Then she was stepping forward, a figure outlined in faint white fire, face radiant with welcome, as she extended welcoming arms to her lord.
“Desil,” Lord Rorst quavered, tears in his own voice. “Oh, Desil!” He raised his wasted arms with surprising speed, reaching for her.
As she came to him, the old noble struggled up from the bed to meet her—and fell headlong, crumpling to the carpets without a sound.
The radiant figure hung above him for a moment, looking down with a smile, then faded away. Etreth made a convulsive movement toward his lord, then checked and looked up at Elminster. Both men knew Lord Amandon was dead.