They were behind a locked door and inside a warding spell stronger than any she’d ever seen cast before ere Yavarla caught sight of a mirror-and caught her breath, feeling herself on the verge of tears again. The face staring red-eyed back at her in the feeble light of the lone lamp was not hers.
“You have stolen my very self from me,” she gasped.
“Only for now,” the woman murmured from behind her, taking her under the arms as if to keep her from falling. “Sleep now, Yavarla.”
And Yavarla fell down a great dark shaft into an endless rushing abyss of hatefully shouting, then gasping in pain and horror Ambrams, a plunge from which there was no escape… ever…
New Lives, and Strangers to Go With Them
When Yavarla came awake, the light flooding through the filthy window told her it was near highsun, and she was lying in an inn bed answering questions. Whispering long, detailed, involved answers about every Darkway she knew of, and their owners, the names of the high houses that held those gates, and the names and whereabouts within the mansion walls of the chambers that held the flickering portals. Not that she knew much, but she heard herself eagerly spilling forth every hint and rumor and scrap of half-heard possible truth she remembered, and far more than she ever knew she’d remembered.
“You-you are using me,” she gasped then, coming fully awake and staring up into the eyes of… yet another stranger.
A bearded man whose eyes were sometimes as blue as a clear day’s sky, and at other times as silver-gray as a sword drawn in a fog, and most of the time somewhere in between.
“Aye, I am,” he replied gravely, “for it is needful. In return, I offer ye a new life, far from cold Zhentil Keep and its cruel lords and crueler wizards. Somewhere ye’ll never have to face death for slaying thy husband, or feel the sting of Manshoon’s betrayal-before that betrayal kills thee.”
“I… I…” Something welled up in Yavarla then and burst out of her, leaving her weeping as she thrust herself up and bawled at him, “No! Never! I am of the keep, this is my home, this is-Manshoon will never-”
Even as she said it, she knew otherwise. That cold and gently smiling man would break her in an instant if she stood in the way of his most idle whim. He had used her already, far worse than this man she did not know had used her, and-and Tears overwhelmed her again, and she covered her face with her hands and fought to cling to herself through them, fought until rage made her beat her fists on the bed sightlessly and cry, “I know how to do more than weep, damn all Watching Gods, I do!”
“Easy, lass,” the man murmured, touching her cheek gently. The pain that had been there since Ambram’s ring had laid it open vanished, and so did her grief, under a vast wave of weariness, followed by lighthearted cheer, a euphoria that came out of nowhere with the scent of lemons and vague visions of green trees and dappled sunlight and laughter…
“Magic,” she said calmly. “You’re using magic on me.”
“I am. I want ye calm, Yavarla, and happy. Clear-headed to choose.”
Yavarla drew in a deep, tremulous breath and said firmly, “I am calm. I can choose. And unless you intend to be my jailor, I tell you again: Zhentil Keep is my home. I want no new life far from here. I know full well how dangerous it will be, I know I love the First Lord but he loves me not… but I wish to stay. Even if it means my death, I am of the keep.”
“So be it. Ye shall stay. Or rather, return to Wyrmhaven-if there’s still a Wyrmhaven to return to-in a day or two, after I’m done causing a storm that may well sweep ye away, if ye are not kept safe. Think of this, then, as a vacation.”
The light around Yavarla changed, and the bed beneath her became the cold flagstones of a stone floor somewhere in a forest under the open sky, with great old trees looming in a ring around her and stretching off into vast green distances beyond. The bundle of her shimmerweave coverlet lay on her shins, and a tall, beautiful, silver-haired woman was laying aside a harp to rise from rocks and bend over Yavarla in pleasantly surprised greeting. She wore foresters’ leathers, and had none of the wrinkles of age that should go with silver tresses.
“Well met, lady. I am Storm Silverhand. The kettle is just boiling, and there will be hot buttered biscuits very soon. Will you take tea?”
Which was when Yavarla discovered she was ravenous. As she tried to smile and find words of answer, the woman bending over her was hearing other words in her own head.
Storm, this is Yavarla Sarbuckho, of Zhentil Keep. She just slew her husband, with good reason. Give her gentle slumber with thy spells and herbs, and keep her that way for this day and mayhap the next.
Storm smiled, inside her head. Of course, El. If you decide what to do next for once, rather than just rushing out and doing it.
Fair enough, Stormy One. Fair enough.
And it was. Moreover, the biscuits were delicious.
Done by Next Highsun
Thus far, this highsunfeast had gone better than he’d expected. Fzoul Chembryl’s eyes told Manshoon clearly how furious the priest of Bane still was over Manshoon’s seizing of power, but the First Lord’s guest had obviously decided to be civil. For now, at least.
“I’ve never had any intention of deciding everything, and ruling the Brotherhood,” Manshoon said carefully. “I want you to be-need you to be-a full partner in all decisions. So we are met not just to gorge ourselves on this superb cheese and harberry jelly-pray have more, won’t you?-but to decide how to proceed next.”
“In all matters of governance over the keep and the Zhentarim?” Fzoul asked calmly. “Or just in your-pardon me, our-war upon the waylords?”
“All, of course, but let us leave those decisions to later meetings, which I agree to hold at your behest and not mine, when this matter of the waylords is done with. First upon our mutual platter: Sarbuckho, and his defeat of our men at Wyrmhaven.”
“You lost more than a dozen wizards, I’ve heard,” Fzoul commented to the cheese he was slicing. “Let us begin by your trusting me enough to unfold clear truth about all of our losses. How many mages-and just how many warriors and spies can we add to that?”
“Ten and four wizards,” Manshoon said quietly. “Five of accomplishment, the rest ambitious magelings or aging hedge wizards. Three or four spies-I’m still waiting for a certain man to report back to me. Almost twoscore warriors; the total depends on whether or not some recover. Sarbuckho’s men used poisoned quarrels.”
“Lorkus Sneel being that certain man?”
Manshoon nodded. “Do you know something of his fate?”
Fzoul shook his head. “Nothing. Truly. Well, I am for the utter destruction of Sarbuckho and his mansion. Present an example to anyone else contemplating any sort of challenge or resistance to the Brotherhood. Muster all we have for a very public assault in which Wyrmhaven is dashed to rubble. We hurl all our keep-shattering spells, and leave all loyal citizens thinking.”
Manshoon’s sudden smile was as bright as it was genuine. This was precisely what he’d been planning to do, priests or no priests. He liked the entire might of the temple behind it far better than otherwise.
They swiftly and easily agreed that Wyrmhaven’s fall should be accomplished “by next highsun.” Fzoul offered to set his upperpriests on rooftops to smite armsmen sent out to fight the Zhentilar-as well as any of the pitiful remnants of the city watch unwise enough to presume to challenge the authority of the Zhentarim.
It took but a few words back and forth for them to further agree to then sit back and wait for the cowed surviving waylords to suffer the effects of their portals becoming deathtraps. They would, of course, destroy any independent wizards who approached any waylord mansion, not wanting the waylords to be able to hire anyone who might be able to make the Darkways safe again.