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  here, Lord Wizard." Her voice quavered; for some reason, she felt guilty and weak and in need of

  approval from this far-off wizard she'd never met. In Highmoon, she'd heard often of the mighty

  Vangerdahast-and by all accounts, he sounded less good-natured and forgiving than the far mightier

  Elminster she knew. The patch of radiance pulsed and grew brighter.

  "That is good, Lady Shandril. I repeat: I mean you no ill, and this sending of mine can do you no

  harm." The light drifted nearer, and Narm's face darkened in suspicion. He raised his hands, ready to

  cast a spell, and stepped between Shandril and the wizard's glow, waving to Delg to keep watch on the

  woods around them. The dwarf gave him an approving, mirthless grin and did so.

  "What would you, then?" Shandril's voice was steady now, her tears forgotten. It seemed they were

  under attack once more. Her fingertips tingled as excitement rose within her, and her spellfire awoke.

  "I would know what you intend to do within the borders of Cormyr, and where you are bound. More: I

  must know what befell at Thundarlun, and your part in it." The light dwindled slightly, danced, and

  then strengthened again. "What say you?"

  Shandril trembled in sudden suspicion. Just who was listening? Was this really the great Vangerdahast?

  And who might be listening from the dark woods all round them? She caught Delg's eyes; the dwarf

  had turned to

  look at her levelly, his face expressionless. Shandril took a deep breath and made her decision.

  "I intend no harm to the folk and land of Cormyr, nor my challenge to the authority or property of the

  king," she said flatly. "I am fleeing enemies who would destroy me-among them, the warriors of

  Zhentil Keep, who followed me into your land through the Gap and caught up with me at Thundarlun. I

  can trust no one enough to tell where we are headed, but I assure you that I do not intend to settle or

  tarry in Cormyr. Let us pass in peace, I ask you."

  "What happened at Thundarlun?" The voice was calm and level.

  "Zhentilar troops, on horses, attacked us at Thunder Gap. We escaped them, and got as far as the guard

  post at Thundarlun before they caught up with us. Their arrows killed all the soldiers and the war

  wizard there. They set fire to houses and threatened to burn all the village if I did not come out to them.

  So I did." Shandril paused for a moment, and then added simply, "When they were dead, we took what

  food and drink we needed from the guard post, and went on."

  "You slew them all?"

  "You know what I bear," Shandril said sharply, more cold anger in her tone than she really felt.

  "I do," came the voice. "I do not question your words, but I must know if any Zhentilar still ride free in

  eastern Cormyr."

  "All that I saw are dead," Shandril said wearily, "but again and again they find me with magic-as you

  have done. Zhents may listen to us even now; I feel they are near."

  "How many did you kill? And how many soldiers of Cormyr did you see dead in Thundarlun?"

  Shandril fought down sudden tears, struggling to speak.

  Her voice, when it came, was a fierce whisper. "I don't count the dead any more, wizard. I can't bear

  to!"

  "Have you heard enough?" Narm could no longer contain his anger; his shout echoed back at them

  from the nearest trees.

  "Peace, lad!" Delg said gruffly, and tromped closer to the floating light. "As near as I can tell," he told

  it without introduction, "Shan burned about a score from their saddles at the Gap. That many and a

  dozen more at the hamlet where we fought. I saw near two dozen more Purple Dragons lying dead

  there. And I have a question for you, wizard: Is it Azoun's will that we pass freely through Cormyr, or

  are we going to have to fight every soldier and war wizard we meet? Tell us now-or that's just what

  we'll have to do, for the sake of our own hides."

  The light shimmered. "I cannot speak for the king," it said, after some hesitation.

  Delg bent closer. "He's there with you, though, listening, isn't he?"

  A heavy, waiting silence hung in the glade after those words, and the light slowly grew brighter.

  Then a new voice spoke from it, younger and more melodic-and yet somehow heavier with authority.

  "I am. I have heard of you, sir, and have heard now three voices speaking; how many of you are there?"

  Delg said promptly, "I'm no longer young enough to willingly wear the cloak of a fool. Would you

  make true answer, in our place?"

  "I understand," the king's voice replied. "There is a harp rhyme, known to some, that begins with the

  words `I walked in the woods and dreamt I felt the kisses of maidens'-do you know it?"

  "I do," said DeIg roughly, breathing hard. Narm and Shandril were both aware that a great tension had

  suddenly fallen from the dwarf. "The song is well chosen."

  "I've heard harps, more than once. You have good taste in ballads."

  "Thank you," said King Azoun, and they could tell he meant it Shandril also sensed more than one

  meaning lay behind those two simple words-something only Delg would understand. She glanced at the

  dwarf, but he had turned to peer alertly into the forest about them, his battered, bearded face

  expressionless.

  The king went on. "Word has come to me of all of you, then. Shandril, know that Cormyr has no

  designs upon your powers or person. Yet, I warn you never to forget this: whatever the challenge, I will

  keep peace in my realm, no matter the cost. My knights and armsmen will do what they must to defend

  the good land and folk of Cormyr. We will not seek you, or offer war to you and yours. Pass in peace-

  and let us hope that we can one day meet openly, as friends, and give no thought for battle or danger."

  "Pretty speech," Delg-grunted, in a low voice.

  Shandril rushed to cover the dwarfs words. "I-I thank you, Your Highness. I mean no harm to any in

  Cormyr, and-I hope to know you as a friend, too." She paused for a moment, and added, "I'm growing

  impatient for the day when, gods willing, it won't be a dangerous thing to be my friend."

  The light drifted a little closer to her, sparkled, and then drew back. "If it's any strength to you," the

  king's voice said gently, "I have known that same feeling. Gods smile on you, Shandril of Highmoon.

  You have our blessing to pass through our land."

  "My thanks," Shandril replied. "Farewell."

  As she spoke, the light was already dwindling and fading. She watched until she was sure it was gone

  before sighing her relief.

  Narm turned to embrace her, smiling, but she thrust him aside and ran. She managed to get several

  strides away before she fell on her knees and emptied her stomach into the moss and dead leaves.

  Delg stalked over to stand above her heaving shoulders. As she choked and sobbed, he said dryly,

  "Perhaps it's a good thing we didn't seek the palace in Suzail straight off to have audience with the

  king. His carpets might not be overly improved by your visits."

  Shandril choked and shook and then found herself laughing weakly, still on hands and knees.

  "Shan! Shan? Are you all right?" Narm asked fearfully. Shandril felt the forest damp beneath her paIns

  and the searing ache in her ribs. Despite it all, she smiled.

  "I think I am. Yes." She reached out, got a hand on Delg's belt buckle, and dragged herself upward. The

  dwarf stood like a rock as she climbed up ?him, hand over hand. Upright, she steadied herself, wiped at

  her mouth, and
then brushed some errant hair out of her face. She saw a smile playing at the edges of

  his lips.

  "Thanks, Delg," Shandril said to him and hugged him. "I'm right glad you're with us." She stepped into

  the shady gloom of night under the trees, and they saw her eyes catch flame for a moment before she

  added softly, "I'll be happier still when we reach Silverymoon and the safety and teachings of

  Alustriel." Spellfire danced in her hands for a moment before she added in a frightened whisper, "Help

  me get there-before the Zhents make me too accustomed to killing."

  "Have they begun?" There was cold amusement in Lord Manshoon's voice as they turned through an

  archway guarded by two stiffly alert guardsmen.

  "Of course," Sarhthor replied. "Some took bold leave of me, with grandly sinister half-promises and

  hints of dark plans. Others simply slipped away."

  Together they stepped into a large, empty chamber, then turned sharply right into a dark alcove. Its

  dusty, cobwebbed back wall was an illusion; as they strode through it, Sarhthor added, "You know

  they've started, Lord. Once you spoke of spellfire, you could have forbidden them to seek it-and still

  they'd have tried. Magelings who last this long are ruled by their lust for power, however much they

  might pretend to command wisdom and shrewd reason."

  The two archwizards squeezed past a motionless golem and strolled down the dark passage beyond it to

  a featureless door. Sarhthor drew it open, and Manshoon strode through, his black cloak swirling about

  him.

  The room beyond was small. Two closed doors faced them, and in the center of the room stood a

  wooden plinth; on it lay a small gold key. Manshoon ignored all these features, turning sharply left to a

  door beside the one through which he had entered. He strode forward as if that dark wooden door did

  not exist and as the toe of his boot touched its surface, he vanished, leaving Sarhthor alone in the room.

  The Zhentarim archmage carefully closed the door they had entered through and looked around the

  room. Death awaited those who touched the key or the other two doors, he knew-for he had helped

  arrange it so. Smiling faintly, he followed Manshoon.

  One of his boots left the floor in that dark room deep inside Zhentil Keep as the other clicked down

  onto glass. smooth marble in a grand, high-vaulted chamber in the heart of the Citadel of the Raven. It

  took hurrying warriors two days or more to make the trip they'd just covered in a single step. Sarhthor

  hoped it would never be necessary to reveal the existence of the magical gate to the Zhentilar. They'd

  not be pleased, and he hated unnecessary violence.

  Ahead, Manshoon ignored the faintly glowing tapestries that hung in midair all around, like the vertical

  war banners carried on the spears of Zhentilar horsemen. He looked only for what shouldn't be there-

  and found nothing out of place. He strode across the vast, high hall to stand facing one of the

  elaborately painted windows, then halted, watchful and coldly patient. The window was as large across

  as three stone coffins placed end to end. It depicted a scarlet dragon coiling around the pearly-hued

  moon, its emerald eyes glittering and jaws opened to devour the pale orb.

  Manshoon stood impassively and dispassionately regarding it as Sarhthor made his own way across the

  gleaming marble to stand behind and to one side of the high lord. As he came to a halt, the window

  began to slide aside.

  Their arrival had been watched, as usual.

  Still glowing with false sunlight, the window slid open, revealing a dark hole behind it, like the

  eyesocket of a gigantic skull. Out of that darkness floated two spherical creatures, their dark bodies

  surrounded by sinuously coiling tentacles that turned restlessly to point in one direction and then

  another. From the end of each stalk, a cold, fell eye looked out at the world.

  Each beholder slowly turned on end to gather all ten of its eyestalks in a sinister, watchful cluster: a

  forest of eyes stared at the two Zhentarim wizards as the beholders drifted into the room.

  The eye tyrants floated on in silence until they hung above the wizards, well out of reach and

  comfortably separated from each other. Then they rolled slowly upright, revealing their many-toothed

  mouths and large, central eyes. One was slightly larger than the other.

  "Something is amiss here," the larger one hissed in its deep, echoing voice. "Strange magic is present."

  Manshoon turned wordlessly to Sarhthor, who frowned, shook his head doubtfully, and said, "If you'll

  allow me a few breaths and a spell, Lords . . ."

  "Proceed," three cold voices said together, and the archmage had to hide a smile at how like the eye

  tyrants Manshoon sounded ... how like an eye tyrant he had truly become.

  Slowly and carefully, Sarhthor made the gestures and mutterings of a powerful and thorough detection

  spell. Thousands of tiny motes of light erupted from his robes, swirling around the chamber like a

  school of startled fish, prying into every corner. The conspirators waited patiently as the lights

  swooped, darted, hung in corners, and finally faded away.

  Sarhthor shook his head again. "Many enchantments adorn the tapestries, walls, ceiling, and floor-as

  always, and some of them have been laid so as to shift and change, over time-but as Mystra is my

  witness, I can find no trace of scrying, spies, or magical traps in this place. There are, however, two

  spiders alive here, and a scuttlebug-by your leave?"

  Manshoon nodded, and the beholders blinked all their eyes, once. Sarhthor strode across the floor to

  crush the three intruders underfoot. "Done," he said simply, then walked back to stand with his lord.

  "You called for me with some secrecy," Manshoon said flatly, looking up at the beholders, "and I have

  come. Speak."

  Eyestalks curled, and many glances flickered silently back and forth high above the two men; an

  unspoken agreement was swiftly reached. The smaller beholder drifted slightly lower. "We have

  become increasingly mistrustful of the loyalty of Fzoul and his underlings to any causes and authority

  but their own. Prying priests are everywhere in Zhentil Keep; we dared not meet with you there."

  The other, larger beholder spoke. "We have also," it rumbled coldly, "begun to despair over the

  ineptitude of the current crop of magelings. Many of us would like to see wizards firmly in Control of

  our Brotherhood again, wielding spellfire so as to rule or destroy the priests. But most of the lesser

  wizards lack the self-control to govern themselves, let alone control anything else."

  "Aye, this spellfire is the key," said the smaller eye tyrant eagerly. "If you are to keep our support,

  Manshoon, your hand must come to wield it, or hold a firm grip on whoever does."

  The High Lord of Zhentil Keep shrugged. "Tell me how, with the losses we've suffered so far trying to

  seize spellfire, I am to ensure our wizards will be powerful enough to win it at last-and still be strong

  enough to tame the priests."

  The rumbling reply sounded a little triumphant, and somehow amused. "With the unlooked-for aid we

  have brought you. Meet Iliph Thraun, a lord among fiches, as you are a lord among men."

  Something small and white moved in the dark opening from whence the beholders had come. It turned

  and rose. A yellowed human skull drifted into view, looking down at the two wizards.

  Both of them stared expressionlessly up at it, thi
nking the same old saying of Faerun: surprises seldom

  grow more welcome as one gets older.

  The skull drifted to a halt in midair, floating below the two beholders. Two pale, flickering points of

  light hung in its dark sockets; its gaze was cold but somehow eager as it looked down at the two mages.

  "Well met," it said formally, in hollow tones punctuated by the faint clattering of its teeth. "In life, long

  ago, I had the power of spellfire. I can drain it from this Shandril, if I can catch her asleep."

  "And if she wakes before you are done?"

  The skull drifted closer. "Once enough of her spellfire is gone, the lass will lose control over what is

  left. She will become a wild wand whenever she unleashes spellfire-a menace to allies and those she

  holds dear. Soon she will destroy them . . . and, in the end, herself."

  Lord Manshoon nodded slowly. "I thank you, lich lord. Your powers may bring victory for us all." His

  words held the finality of a farewell.

  As the skull made a polite reply, the smaller beholder turned and drifted a little way toward it.

  Obediently, the skull drifted out through the opening it had entered by. When it was gone, Manshoon

  calmly asked the beholders, "What good is this? I trade a young, reckless girl who scarce knows how to

  use spellfire for an old, wise, mighty-in-Art lichnee who is sure to defy my orders? Where's the gain in

  that?"

  The larger beholder's mouth crooked in a slow smile. "In becoming a lich, this Thraun used a flawed

  process; its unlife is maintained by magical energies provided by magelings whom it tutors, then

  destroys when they grow too powerful. It feeds on certain spells cast for it-if you modify them in the

  right way, you or any wizard can command the lich lord with absolute precision."

  The other beholder spoke. "Would you know these magics?"

  "Of course." Manshoon did not even look at Sarhthor as he added, "Speak freely."

  "The energy can come from any of the spells that drain lifeforce, or from those that create fire or

  lightning. Thraun needs them modified so their effects form a sphere, the energies spiraling to its heart-

  where this lich lord waits. If you work a governance over undeath and a masking charm employing the