Azoun lay back with another sigh and told the moonlit ceiling, 'I might have known.'
Lord Manshoon stopped in midstride, the whirling magic that had brought him to this chamber in Zhentil Keep still dwindling behind him, and snapped, 'Send for the priests! Something has happened-something that has made the Weave itself tremble!'
As wizards scrambled to do his bidding, he murmured, 'So if the wench is dead, who has spellfire now?'
In the Stonelands a cool breeze was quickening, but despite the leaves it rustled and the branches it bent, a swirl of ashes rose and stood against it in the air, whirling up briefly into a shape that might have been an armored dwarf.
The shape turned, peering northwest over the puddled flow of stone that had once been a spire called Irondrake Rock as if straining to see something. No one was there to see the ashen phantom, and after a time it collapsed with a sigh and was gone again.
Peace returned to Delg's Dell, though the breeze blew no more that night.
Oprion Blackstone looked out of a high window in a certain tower of Zhentil Keep and murmured, 'Another scheme fallen to ashes. Manshoon will send his spell-dogs to summon us to parley. What would happen, I wonder, if, I simply refused to come?'
'We'd slay you, of course,' a deep, wet voice said from the air outside a moment before its owner drifted into view from around the tower's curve. 'Many humans are that stupid, of course, but I was hoping we'd weeded out the worst dolts already.'
A second beholder shuddered as it drifted after the first. 'One human she,' it said, 'and so much slaughter of our kind. It will be long before I rid myself of that memory.'
The priest carefully made no comment about seeing the cobbles below awash in beholder blood. He was in no hurry to follow Shandril Shessair into the waiting arms of the gods.
A scrying-spell collapsed back into the surrounding shadows, and a slender hand put down a goblet. 'Well, that was spectacular,' its owner said calmly. 'Perhaps the younglings will return from their misadventures, now that their prize is gone.'
'I think not,' another voice replied. 'Once freedom is tasted…'
Into that place of shadows burst the sudden light of a spell, bringing back those very tasters of freedom far more swiftly than even the most optimistic elder had hoped.
'By the blood of Malaug in us!' one newly returned Malaugrym burst out excitedly, tendrils snaking out toward a handy decanter. 'Did you see?'
'We did,' the owner of the goblet replied politely.
'Indeed,' the second elder agreed, holding up another goblet in a hand that shook more than slightly.
The Red Wizard Thavaun let his spell-guise fall away. Caravan Master Orthil Voldovan would be needed no more.
Surveying the smoking ruin of the camp, he drew in a deep breath and hissed, 'So much for spellfire. Well, at least I'm still alive.'
'Not for more than a breath longer!' came a growl of doom from right behind him.
Arauntar took the wizard by the neck even before Thavaun could stiffen. He closed the fingers of one hairy hand firmly around a Thayan windpipe, batting the mage's frantically darting hands away from belt and pouches with the other.
Throttling Thavaun slowly, the Harper snarled, 'For Orthil Voldovan! For Beldimarr! And-and for Shandril Shessair, damn you and all spell-snakes! I loved that lass! She was worth a hundred Red Wizards, a thousand Thays! She could have ruled all wizards and set the Realms to rights!'
He paused in mid-bellow and panted, looking around at the crawling caravan-men, who stared back at him with wide, frightened eyes. Arauntar flung down the dead, boneless body and added softly, 'Or become the worst tyrant Faerun has ever known.'
He sighed, turned to look at the burning wagons, then shook his head. Turning, he walked alone into the night.
'Like so many other things,' he told the stars, 'we'll never know, now. Another dream snuffed out… and I harp to keep those dreams alight. Fare you well, Shandril Shessair. Rest easy, Bel. Arauntar needs some time alone, now.'
From where she lay unregarded in the darkness, Alustriel Silverhand lifted her head and through bleeding eyes watched the gruff Harper stalk away. It took her some time to gather strength enough to reach out across Faerun and say simply, 'Sister, I need you.'
She called on the Weave, and out of a twinkling of tiny stars stepped a buxom figure in dark leathers.
Storm Silverhand bent over the High Lady of Silverymoon and murmured, 'Mystra defend you, Endue. Who did th-oh. Oh, Bright Lady of us all. Shandril. She's…'
'Gone. Gathered to Mystra,' Alustriel said wearily and pointed past Storm's knee as the bard knelt to hold her. 'Someone else needs you, Sister,' she added, almost fiercely. 'Someone you can help more than anyone else in Faerun. A Harper in need of someone to walk with him for a time.'
Storm turned and looked along Alustriel's pointing arm, to where the dwindling form of Arauntar was striding along in the moonlight.
'My thanks,' she murmured, squeezing the High Lady's shoulder, and rose to follow the man walking alone into the night.
As she went, she cast a spell with a few swift, sure gestures, and tiny star-motes were born out of the darkness around her, shaping themselves into a harp in her hands. Its high, clear notes rose in her wake and went before her. Alustriel saw the Harper slow, then turn to see the source of the music.
He stopped and waited as the tall woman in leathers came striding toward him. Together, walking hip to hip like old friends, they went slowly down into the trees, walking on into the darkness until the harping could be heard no more.
Epilogue
'Shan! Shan!'
The wild cry arose in the cold dawn as if from great depths. Asper, blind and still half-asleep, had to lean over the man writhing under blankets she'd laid over him the night before to make sure the shout that had awakened her had come from his throat.
She stayed to soothe, but Narm Tamaraith sprang to his feet, hurling her aside without even noticing her, to stare wildly around into the mists cloaking the tilted, scorched campground.
The blackened skeletons of wagons leaned crazily here and there. Off in the distance, at the far corner of the camp, stood two intact wagons and a shifting, snorting group of close-hobbled horses, flanked by sleepy-eyed men who gripped drawn swords and stared back at him.
Narm's gaze went reluctantly to where there were no mists, above the rocks, to where a ball of white flame still spun in midair.
'No,' he whimpered, staring at it, as warm and shapely arms embraced him from behind.
'She's gone to Mystra,' Asper said into his ear. 'She… spoke of you, ere she died.'
'No!' Narm screamed. 'Noooo!' He burst into tears and wrenched free, running wildly toward the whirling ball of flame.
'Too high to hurl yourself into,' Asper murmured, pursuing him, 'but a nasty fall from those rocks, if you hurl yourself!'
The young mage promptly stumbled and fell, and she toppled over him. Narm did not rise but lay on his face in a daze.
He did not know how long it was ere he found his feet again, and cared less, but as Narm sobbed and reached again for the softly spinning flames, a fat, unlovely, and unshaven figure wrapped in a blanket trudged up beside him and laid an iron hand on his shoulder.
'Nay, lad,' Mirt growled, 'don't. That's not the way of a hero. Heroes get up and go on, and endure. Heroes
