Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

“Hey! Save some o’ her kisses for me, ye sly dog,” Rathan rumbled, lurching into the room to tap Torm’s shoulder.

Torm broke free of Shandril to draw breath, then grinned back at his fellow knight. “Why?” he asked innocently. “You’ve a good reason?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Shandril, who still stood dazed. If Torm hadn’t kissed her, she’d have thought him some phantom conjured by this place. Perhaps he was some sort of magically disguised monster …. The young thief swept her back into an embrace. “What brings you here?” he asked cheerfully. “And where’s Narm?”

Shandril’s answer was lost in the sound of the door behind her opening. They all turned in time to see the Zhentarim raise his hands. The wizard wore a wolfish grin.

“By the luck of the Laughing Lady,” Rathan said in delight, “he’s got golden eyes!” An amulet at the priest’s throat winked with sudden light.

In response to the priest’s words, the wizard’s smile fell away in an instant. Shandril watched in horror as the face beneath twisted and bulged, shifting into something fanged and horrid. The man—if it was a man—charged them, waving hands that, as he came, stretched impossibly into long, raking claws.

“Nice nails, too,” Rathan observed, drawing a mace from his belt and hefting it as he met the rushing monster.

Torm whirled away from Shandril and waved grandly at the open door he’d come in by. “Your way lies clear before you, Lady,” he said. “I look forward to a chance to taste your sweet lips again when next we meet—hopefully at an occasion of rather more leisure—”

“Are ye going to fight, Torm?” Rathan demanded, smashing his mace into something that reeled back and promptly grew tentacles. “Or are ye just going to talk us all to death?”

Torm turned back to the fray, plucking something that looked like a gilded rose from his belt. Shandril watched him bound toward the monster, calling briskly, “Next dance, please!”

Rathan struggled amid clinging, tightening tentacles, and bellowed to her, “ Run , lass! Through that door—look for banners, and ye’ll be safe!”

Shandril shook her head, still astonished by the speedy appearance of the knights. Then Torm swung the fragile-looking rose at the monster—and the room exploded in golden light.

Pulses of radiance spun ever faster and brighter around the three struggling forms. Shandril shaded her eyes against the brilliance, and thought she saw Torm’s blade thrust right through the still-changing monster before the knights and the thing faded amid a cloud of rushing golden light … and she was alone again.

The room was suddenly empty—and very quiet. All that remained to mark the passage of the knights were a few golden rose petals. Shandril stared down at them and swallowed. Then, holding her sword ready, she went to the open door Rathan had bid her use.

It led into another many-sided room of doors. There were six this time. Shandril sighed again and opened one at random. The scene beyond was one of cold, blowing snow, somewhere wintry with mountains in the distance—and the sprawled, gnawed bones of a recently slain orc lying right in front of her. It still clutched a cruel black scimitar. Shandril heard something growling in the distance, and she hastily closed the door.

Banners , Rathan had said. Shandril gently opened the next door to the right. The room it opened into was choked with banners. They hung everywhere, almost touching, and the air was thick with their dust and old smells. Shandril recognized none of them, but she did think one—a black Wyvern on purple silk faded almost to pink—was very striking. Another displayed three golden crowns on a royal blue field. It caught her eye because some old enchantment made the crowns move, each one winking in and out by itself to reappear in different spots. Shandril watched it warily as she stepped into the room.

It was small and square; behind the banners she found another door. Opening it, she found a short, featureless hall with another door at the other end. Shandril shrugged and entered. She’d gone three paces into the room when a sudden thought struck her; she turned back and opened the door again, hoping to find Deepingdale’s colors among the banners. But the room was empty now, a place of dark, polished floors and cobwebs in the corners. She shuddered and closed the door again very carefully.

“Tessaril,” she said aloud, almost crying in fear and frustration, “what have you done to me?”

As she spoke, the door at the other end of the hall swung open. Beyond lay the grand hall, with the Zhentarim she’d slain lying dead on the floor and Tessaril standing beside him. The Lord of Eveningstar’s soot-smudged face broke into a smile at the sight of her.

Shandril ran to her—and then came to an abrupt halt. “Tessaril?” she asked suspiciously, her sword up. “Is that really you?”

The Lord of Eveningstar smiled. “Yes, Shandril.” Then her smile turned a little sad, and she added, “I can tell wandering in my House has unsettled you.”

Shandril rolled her eyes. “Just a touch … what is this place?”

Tessaril slipped past her blade and hugged her reassuringly. “This is the Hidden House,” she said softly. “It’s been here a very long time—since the towers of Myth Drannor stood tall and proud and new, at least.”

Shandril glanced at the room around them. That old? “Who made it?”

Tessaril shrugged. “An archmage of very great power … some tales say Azuth himself.”

“ ‘Some tales’? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Few folk know that it is anything more than a tale—and very few know how to get to it. These days, it serves as my refuge. Sometimes I hide important things here for Azoun. Sometimes those who are hurt—or hunted—spend time here.”

Shandril looked down at the bloody corpse of the man she’d slain. “If he died when I thought I killed him,” she said slowly, “who was chasing me?”

Tessaril stroked her cheek reassuringly. “A shapeshifting being that Torm and Rathan are after. Did Elminster ever tell you about the Malaugrym?”

Shandril frowned at her. “I—I think so, in Shadowdale. Very briefly. He said I must beware ‘Those Who Watch,’ but we were interrupted then, and he never told me more.”

Tessaril nodded. “They’re very dangerous. Certainly too powerful for Torm and Rathan.” Shandril’s face grew pale, and the Lord of Eveningstar patted it. “Don’t worry—did they fight it with what looked like a golden rose?”

Shandril nodded.

Tessaril smiled. “That’s a mazetrap I gave them,” she said. “It’ll whirl them all away into separate mists, tearing them apart even if they’re clawing at each other. It’ll be awhile before the Malaugrym can find you again.”

Shandril looked at her. “Find me?”

“It’s after your spellfire, like everyone else on Toril,” Tessaril said lightly, then added more seriously, “There’s not much you can do about the Masters of Shadow—except use your spellfire on anything that has golden eyes … really gold, like shining metal, I mean.”

Shandril sighed and looked down at the dead Zhentarim again. Then she lifted her head, wearing a determined look. “All right.”

Tessaril chuckled. “That’s the spirit, Shan.” She gently took the sword from Shandril’s hands and laid it on a nearby chest. “How did you like my House?”

Shandril looked at her. “When you’re alone, it’s … frightening.”

Tessaril nodded. “It can be. Those who don’t know the words to say can get lost and wander endlessly, or step through a gate into a far more dangerous place than this—or than Zhentil Keep, for that matter.”