Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

She stuffed the gown into her pack in a wadded, wrinkled mass and said angrily, “I have all this power —and I can’t do anything with it but fend off wizards who toy with me, attacking whenever they feel especially cruel. What good is spellfire if I can’t strike at them when I want to?”

“Shandril,” the Lord of Eveningstar whispered. “Be careful. Very careful. The last time I heard words like that, they came from the lips of the sorceress who trapped you in Myth Drannor—Symgharyl Maruel.”

“The Shadowsil?”

Tessaril nodded. “Whom you slew.”

Shandril shook her head angrily. “I am not like her. Never. She enjoyed killing.”

“Do you?”

Shandril stared at her, white-lipped. Then she bent forward, eyes blazing again. “Get me to that citadel!” she snapped. “ Now! ”

“Or?” Tessaril stared sadly into her eyes. “Will you use spellfire on me?” she asked quietly, sitting motionless. “Here I am,” she added, gesturing at her breast. “Strike me down.” Unshed tears glimmered in her eyes as she added softly, “Like the lich lord did.”

Shandril snarled in frustration. Flames chased briefly around one of her hands as she clenched it into a fist. “No,” she said, turning away, “I will not—and you know it.” She drew breath, let it out in a shuddering sigh, and then asked quietly, “Must I beg you to help me, Tess?”

“No,” Tessaril said quietly. “I just don’t want to lose a friend so quickly …. I’ll be sending you to your doom.”

“Please,” Shandril hissed. “Just do it!”

“Why?”

Shandril swallowed. “For the first time in my life,” she said, in a voice that trembled, “I want to be free! Spellfire has ruled me—and I’ll never learn to master it unless I use it as and when I want to … just once.” She glared at the Lord of Eveningstar and shouted, “Weren’t you ever young? Didn’t you ever want to do as you pleased?”

Tessaril shook her head. “That’s no good reason,” she said with quiet scorn. “Every child wants to have her own way.”

“I’ve another reason,” Shandril said coldly, bringing her chin up. “The Zhents killed Delg. My last companion from the Company of the Bright Spear, a Harper who laid down his life for me. I swore to avenge him. And my unborn child. And by the gods, I will! ”

Her shout echoed in the small room. She stared at the Lord of Eveningstar, eyes blazing, panting with emotion, her backpack twisted and forgotten in her hands.

Tessaril nodded slowly, her eyes grave. “All right,” she whispered, voice unsteady. “Stand back. I’ll aid you.”

“You will?”

Sorrow stole like a shadow across the Lord of Eveningstar’s face. “I know what it is like to be ruled by the need for revenge, Shan. You must be set free—as I was, long ago.”

“You were?”

Tessaril looked at her, face a white mask, and said in a voice of iron, “I will not say more. We all have our limits.”

Shandril looked at the lord in sympathy, and then her eyes slowly hardened. “Help me, then—and no more tricks, like your wine.”

The Lord of Eveningstar lifted her chin, and said, “I’ll not betray you, Shan. Ever.” She took a deep, trembling breath, managed a little smile, and went on. “I dare not teleport you into so small and crowded a room as the one Fzoul was in—and Wizards’ Watch Tower has magical traps built into it to prevent teleportation in or out. I’ll send you to the nearest courtyard, Spell Court.”

She waved a hand, and an image of a tall, many-spired city appeared in midair across the room. In the foreground was a large, flagstone-paved open area.

“Spell Court?”

Tessaril nodded. “Yes. The entire citadel is linked fortresses and courtyards. Strike quickly, save your fire for Zhents and not their buildings—and when you need to hide, get up into the highest spires you can find and look for wizards’ spell-casting chambers. Many have powerful warding spells against magical scrying and also hold stores of healing potions; Zhentarim who’ve been too bold and gotten hurt run to them when they must.”

Shandril stared at the scene and said slowly, her voice almost a whisper, “I want to slay at least five wizards and see fear on Fzoul’s face—Delg’s life must be worth at least that much. Is the large tower Wizards’ Watch?”

Tessaril nodded and sighed. “Yes. Are you certain you want to do this, Shan? Now?”

Shandril turned and simply nodded.

Tessaril bowed her head in response. “Go with my share of Tymora’s luck, Shan.” She raised her hand, murmured a word, and touched Shandril.

Then Tessaril stood alone in the room with the broken window, her hands balled into fists. Before she realized how tightly her trembling hands were clenched, blood was running down her palms from where her nails cut into flesh. She turned and ran as she had never run before, racing back through the rooms of the Hidden House.

Abruptly, Shandril was somewhere else. Spell Court, yes, by the look of it: a grim, gray courtyard of dusty stones. Spired buildings rose all around her, the largest one at her back. She turned and stared up, recognizing the tower she was seeking.

She strode toward it, ignoring the dark-armored warriors who stood at its gates. They frowned and reached for their swords—and then shrank back away from her, moving hastily sideways along the wall. Shandril stared at their frightened faces and then glanced behind her to see what they were staring at.

All around her, in a dark and deadly ring, beholders were rising up silently. She’d teleported into a trap.

Shandril swallowed hard. Her eyes began to flame. This had been her choice, well enough. “May all the gods damn you,” she said, voice trembling. Her words rose into a sudden scream—a scream that spewed fire as red dragons do.

“ Damn you all! ” she spat amid flames. Suddenly she was too bright to look at. Flames of death reached out for the eye tyrants around her.

Torm’s tabletop dance in imitation of Elminster came to an abrupt halt as the Lord of Eveningstar burst into the room. “She’s gone,” Tessaril said, panting. “Gone to kill all the Zhentarim.”

Everyone gaped at her, wide-eyed. Narm stood up so fast his chair bounced on the floor behind him. The young mage stared at the Lord of Eveningstar and shouted, “ Why did you let her go?”

Tessaril Winter looked at him, her eyes dark with sorrow, and said quietly, “I didn’t let her go. I sent her there myself.”

“Spellfire,” Torm said bitterly. “She threatened you.”

Tessaril looked at him and shook her head. “No. She was a caged animal, Torm. I had to open the gate and let her out.”

Narm stared at her, face wild, and then burst into tears. “She’ll die! ” he sobbed, pounding the table with his fists. “She’ll die—and I can’t save her! ” He looked up at Tessaril through streaming tears and struggled to control his voice. “Where is she?”

Torm snatched up a goblet. “Drink this, Narm! You’ll feel better.”

Storm shook her head. “It’s not the universal cure you think it is, Torm.” The bard put her arms comfortingly on Narm’s shoulders, but the young mage seemed not to feel them.

“Where is she?” Narm almost screamed, and then went on, voice trembling, “We must go to her. Now! ”

Storm looked at the Lord of Eveningstar. “Have you spells enough?”

Torm asked quickly, “And what should I do?”

“Belt up before any more time’s wasted,” Mirt said roughly, “and ye, Tess, go and get me one or two o’ them healing potions ye keep stowed away. Hurry! ”