Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

Mirt looked at her. “This happened before? Someone willingly gave his life for a brighter flame?” He shook his shaggy head. “Ah, well, I suppose there’s no shortage of crazed-wits in Faerûn.”

The tankard in front of him grew a mouth, and in the dry tones of Elminster, it said, “And few, indeed, are better able to speak of craziness than Mirt of Waterdeep.”

Mirt had flung the nearly empty tankard away—and the old sword on his hip had made it into his hand—before he growled, “Elminster?”

The tankard landed with a clang, rolled over, and stopped. “None other,” it said with dignity. “How many archmages do ye throw around, anyway?”

“Elminster!” Shandril leaned forward to peer at the tankard. “Have you—recovered? How are you?”

The tankard looked somehow testy. “Aye, forget about me for days, lass, and then recall old Elminster as if he were a favorite puppy—or some disease—ye’d forgotten ye had. I’m doing just fine, thank ye all, not dead yet.”

Narm laughed. “He hasn’t changed.”

“More respect, youngling,” the tankard growled.

“Elminster,” Shandril said eagerly, “we’re going to have a baby.” Her face clouded over for a moment, and she added quietly, “Again.”

Mirt looked at her. “Aye, and tankard or no, this calls for a toast or three! Mind ye not fight over its naming, now—if it’s a boy, call it after me, not him.” He jerked his head toward the stein on the floor.

The tankard spoke again. Shandril was surprised to hear how soft and gentle Elminster’s voice could be when he dropped his testy blustering. “It’s not a boy, Old Wolf. I know already that thy babe will be a girl, Shandril. The blessing of Mystra upon ye and Narm—and upon her.”

“Thanks, Old Mage,” Shandril said, touched.

“Ye’ll both be needing it—and Narm, too,” Elminster added, in his customary sharper tones. “For in the visions Mystra sends me, I’ve seen that thy lass will have the power of spellfire, too.”

Oprion Blackstone sat alone in a high, locked chamber in the Black Altar, staring into a scrying bowl as Fzoul had taught him to do. His false Manshoon speech sounded even better to his ears now than when he’d laid the enchantment, but that accursed Tessaril had put the speaking stone back in her pouch—so he could see nothing of what was happening in the Hidden House. Making the stone burn its way out of the pouch now would certainly be a mistake.

He could, though, hear everything. Oprion raised his head to stare at the carved Black Hand of Bane that hung on the wall, and he said to it grimly, “And that child will be mine. If need be, I’ll take the form of a younger man and woo it. For I will have spellfire for my own, whatever befalls gods and men in the days ahead. The gods have twisted humors, indeed, to give a silly, soft slip of a girl such power. Spellfire will be mine.”

His face paled, then, as if he was seeing more in the Black Hand than a carving, and his voice deepened into the echoing tones of prophecy. “No struggle is ever done; no matter is ever closed. As long as gods and men strive on Toril, there is no ‘forever.’ ”

“I must go now, lass,” Elminster’s voice came again. There are others who’d speak with ye, though.”

Another, rougher voice came from the tankard. “Shandril? Lass?”

Shandril was up out of Narm’s arms in a rush, reaching toward the tankard. “ Gorstag? ” she cried, and happy tears wet her cheeks.

“Aye, lass; gods smile on you. Lureene has a word for you, too—”

The voice changed again. “Shan! Are you well?”

On her knees before the tankard, Shandril laughed. “Very happy, Lureene. Safe in hiding, both of us, and with a babe on the way.”

“Good! Give it a kiss for me—and mind you stop at two babes, Shan: the gods give us only two hands to hold them with. Keep smiling, little one.”

“My thanks.” Through her tears, Shandril was seeing again The Rising Moon , the inn where she’d grown up …. the place she’d run away from so long ago. So long—and so few actual days ago.

“Fair fortune, lass,” the tankard said gruffly.

“You fare well, too, Gorstag,” Shandril replied almost fiercely. “Both of you!”

And then, before her eyes, the tankard shattered with the sound of a ringing bell, its shards dancing on the stones.

Tessaril shook her head. “That magic eats away at whatever is the focus for farspeaking,” she said. “I’m surprised it held together this long.” She leaned forward to touch Shandril’s shoulder. “No harm has befallen any of them,” she said reassuringly. “The magic just overwhelmed the tankard.”

Mirt looked at its ruins, then sadly surveyed the empty depths of his bottle. “Is there more to be had anywhere about?”

Tessaril indicated a door. “I took the liberty of bringing in a keg of ale, a little while back.” Her nose wrinkled. “About the time I knew you’d be coming.”

Mirt threw her a look as he shambled toward the door.

She smiled sweetly and added, “On a shelf on the left, you’ll find a selection of tankards for the rest of us to use. You’re welcome.”

Still on her knees on the floor, Shandril found herself laughing helplessly. By the gods! Did they never stop teasing each other? And a small voice inside her promptly asked: Why should they?

“Oprion Blackstone?” the cold voice said in derisive surprise. “The priesthood of the Dread Lord flourishes indeed.”

Oprion scrambled up. How had anyone passed the guards and locks to reach this room? And that voice. He spun around, and his face went as white as polished bone. “Manshoon!” he gasped, when he could speak. “You’re alive!” He stared at the High Lord of Zhentil Keep, looking up and down, and then turned away in confusion. “I’m—I’m delighted.”

Manshoon’s smile was crooked. “You mean, you’re surprised I still have clones left.”

Oprion stuttered for a moment, and then said rather desperately, “No, no. But when so much time had passed, we—”

“Assumed you were finally rid of me. Have you raised Fzoul yet?”

Option’s mouth dropped open. “W-Why?”

“He’s thrice the administrator you’ll ever be—and a capable schemer, too, if not my equal. The Brotherhood needs him. I hear you’ve been rather careless with our—ah, human resources, since I was last here. Sarhthor, Elthaulin, and about two hundred others, as I recall; the list made both long and distressing reading.”

Oprion’s hand tensed as he eyed a sideboard and the magical mace that lay upon it. It winked back at him, brimming with power. Mageslayer was its name; Fzoul had told him what it could do. His gaze flickered away from it, and Manshoon smiled.

“Is it to be war between us, then?” Manshoon’s voice was soft and level; he might have been asking what color cloak his colleague intended to wear.

Oprion’s wintry gaze met his own silently for a long time, and then the priest shook his head with careful slowness. “No. We work together—as always. It is the best way.”

Manshoon nodded. “Perhaps, one day, with trust,” he murmured.

Oprion looked at him sharply, but said nothing.

There was a faint smell of pipesmoke in the air, but neither of them recognized it for what it was.

“Be damned to trotting back an’ forth all night!” Mirt growled, coming back into the room with the keg on his shoulder. He staggered as he came; it wasn’t a hand-keg, but a barrel almost as large around as he was.

Shandril looked at Tessaril. “You think we’ll drink all that? Lords of Cormyr must be optimists, indeed!”

Tessaril looked at her dryly. “No,” she replied, “I think Mirt will drink all that—if we want any, we’d best pull a tankard each now, before it’s gone.” She watched Mirt, wheezing and grunting, set the keg onto a couch. “Tankards, Old Wolf?” she called.