Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

Sarhthor shrugged. “A formidable weapon, something of almost irresistible power—but not something to tear apart the Brotherhood over.”

Fzoul leaned back. “Oh? Tell me, then, what—in your view—are the more important matters facing the Brotherhood now.”

Sarhthor nodded. He went to the row of chairs along one side of the room and picked one up. Though it was large and heavy, the slightly built wizard lifted it as if it were made of paper.

Fzoul’s eyes narrowed. Sarhthor met the high priest’s gaze mildly, carried the chair to the table, and without invitation, sat down opposite Fzoul.

“First,” the wizard said calmly, “we must foil Thay’s growing influence in Calaunt and Westgate.”

“First?” Fzoul’s voice was silky.

Sarhthor looked at him expressionlessly and said, “You told me to state my view. If you’d prefer to fence, Fzoul, I can oblige.”

Fzoul held his gaze for a long, chilly time, then silently waved him to continue.

Sarhthor inclined his head and went on. “Then there’s the matter of Maalthiir of Hillsfar. If he were dead, we could take advantage of instability there to place a large number of agents—and slay those Mulmaster has established there.”

The wizard shrugged. “I’d also like to see more of the soft word and hidden agreement in the way we work in days ahead—and fewer marching armies and indiscriminate spell-hurling. We’re making enemies at far too fast a rate, and making too many rulers uncomfortable. I don’t want to see armies from several realms besieging our walls in a year or two.”

Fzoul nodded slowly. “This is more sense than I’ve heard from the mouth of a wizard of the Brotherhood in several winters.”

Sarhthor nodded, the ghost of a smile on his face. “They’re all too eager to topple towers and twist the world overnight, aren’t they?”

Fzoul lifted his lip in a cruel parody of a smile. “Exactly. I’m hoping we can see eye to eye on more things, Sarhthor, than your predecessor and I ever did. It would be a pleasure to work together to make the Brotherhood great for once rather than spending our best energies in fighting each other, wizards against priests, and cabal against cabal.”

Sarhthor smiled thinly. “I’m sure it’s afforded the Great Lord Bane—and foes such as Elminster—much entertainment over the years.”

Fzoul’s smile vanished at those words, but he said only, “Say on.”

Sarhthor shrugged. “I’d like to build Zhentil Keep into something greater than a fortress of fear, Fzoul—an empire ruling all Dragon Reach and the Moonsea. Whatever our individual dreams, there’ll be more room for ambitious Brothers who wear the robes of Bane or who walk as wizards to find their own desires fulfilled if we grow larger and more powerful. I know Great Lord Bane wants to see such an empire loyal to him, because I’ve heard your underpriests chanting the Words of Bane often enough. The sorcerers under me provide you with wilder magic than other priesthoods can match—we need each other.”

Fzoul’s face was grim, but there was a light in his eyes as he asked, “What, then, do you think we should do first?”

Sarhthor did not quite smile. “Well,” he said ….

Narm came into the hall of mirrors in the Hidden House, went to where Shandril sat, and bent over her. “What’re you eating? It smells wonderful.”

With an impish smile, Shandril looked up at him over her shoulder, shifted what she was chewing to one cheek, and replied, “Fried snake.”

Narm choked.

Mirt chuckled wickedly across the table and said, “Well done, Shan. Ah, to see wizards wearing that sort of expression more often.” He lifted his own steaming plate to Narm and said, “Cooked it meself, lad—try it; ’tis good!”

Ignoring Narm’s expression of disgust, the old merchant went on jovially, “One must have the right sort of snake, of course, and prepare it just so … or it’s best to stay with chicken instead, roasted with almonds. That comes close to the same taste, but falls short.”

“I’m certain you’re right,” Narm said in a voice that indicated nothing of the sort. Then the young mage peered suspiciously at Mirt. “Where’d you get the snake, anyway? I’m sure Tessaril doesn’t have them stacked up in her larder.”

Mirt smiled at him and pointed at a door. “I found it in one of the rooms—the one with the bones an’ open graves ….”

Narm wandered away, waving dismissive hands at the proffered plate and looking rather green.

“Mirt! Stop it!” Tessaril’s voice was reproving. “I’ve brought friends to visit.” From behind her, Storm grinned at Mirt, eyes twinkling.

“Mmm,” Mirt said in welcome, holding his rejected plate of fried snake up toward her. “The Bard of Shadowdale—and me without anything to plug my ears.”

Storm stuck her tongue out at him and took the plate. Out from behind her stepped a familiar figure that made Shandril squeal with delight and bounce up from the table.

“Elminster!” she cried. “Are you well?”

A flicker of a smile crossed the bearded face as Shandril threw her arms around him and embraced him tightly.

Warm, avid lips met hers, and she pulled her head back, startled. “ You’re not Elminster!”

“No,” Torm said with a grin as his magical disguise melted away, “but there’s no need to stop giving me that sort of enthusiastic welcome; I’m much prettier than he is.”

Shandril whirled free of his arms and flounced away; the punch she threw in the process left Torm doubled over and breathless.

Narm hooted with laughter at the sight and asked, “Why the disguise?”

“Torm’s been fooling a dozen or so Zhentarim into thinking Elminster’s enjoying a quiet rest in Shadowdale,” Storm told him, and looked teasingly at the thief. “It’s been a terrible strain on Torm, though; he hasn’t been able to get in any philandering, robbing cradles, or lightening purses for almost a tenday now.”

The chorus of mock-sympathetic groans was momentarily deafening; Torm hung his head just long enough to drift close to Mirt and deftly snatch a bottle of wine from the Old Wolf’s grasp.

Tessaril pursed her lips and wiggled a finger; the bottle promptly shot up out of Torm’s fingers and curved down smoothly in a return journey to Mirt’s hand. The Old Wolf chuckled, saluted her, and drank. As usual, he didn’t bother with a glass.

“Tess,” Shandril said in a low voice amid the general hilarity, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I’m getting very restless here.” She grinned. “Am I healed enough, yet?”

The Lord of Eveningstar smiled at her. “I think you are,” she replied, “and I’ve something to show you.” Tessaril led her through several rooms into the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedroom Shandril had adopted during her stay in the Hidden House. There, she indicated a window.

Shandril looked at her curiously. “I’ve looked out it many times,” she said, “but it always shows the same thing.” She turned to the window—and saw the scene she expected to see.

It was winter outside the panes she was looking through. She could feel the cold coming off the glass. She was looking at a crossroads, somewhere, with high banks and bare-limbed trees all around. As always, there was snow, falling softly and endlessly. In its midst, where the roads met, stood a leaning stone marker with letters up and down the sides. Whenever Shandril stared at the stone pillar, she had the curious impression it was looking back at her.

She turned to Tessaril. “That’s what I always see …. Where is it?”

“Another world entirely,” her hostess replied softly. “But that’s not what I want you to see. Have you ever tried to picture someone while standing at this window?”