Almost. She'd have to be careful, as always; the other mages could bend their wills entirely to hurling destruction, but she always had to spare some Art when in their midst for cloaking herself in male guise. Her Zhentilar warriors respected her, but no women, it seemed, rose high in the robed ranks of the Zhentarim.
That could well change-soon. She had a spell that might handle even Lord Manshoon. More than that, she had one that might just foil spellfire. Gathlarue's smile deepened as she recalled finding the spell: she had discovered a place high atop a leaning, roofless tower in ruined Myth Drannor where a certain word and touch of a certain stone brought a portal into being in midair. The oval, shimmering door had led into some ancient wizard's long-abandoned hideaway. It was a cozy room tucked away in nothingness-a room whose walls were covered with shelves groaning under the weight of spellbooks. More spells than she'd ever have time to learn. Yet she'd taken away enough, if the gods smiled on her, to rule any corner of Faerun she chose. Not that anyone but her knew that, yet.
Gathlarue had learned patience down the years, and now it was an old, comfortable friend. She nodded, sipping the wine, and looked out into the gathering darkness of the forest depths. Her amulet made the drink safe, whatever drugs or poisons Mairara or others might have. added to it. She bent her concentration again to the stone.
Ah-the three had their fire lit and their cooking begun. They'd relax soon and talk. She'd listen and learn, not rush into find death from the maid's spellfire. Even the great Shadowsil had perished in Shandril's flames and Manshoon himself had been forced to flee. No, she'd watch and wait, to strike when the chance shone brightest As she always had.
Gathlarue took another sip of the warmed, spiced wine, and stretched like a languid cat From behind her, across their forest camp, came the faint but unmistakable sounds of Tespril entertaining one of the guards in the deepening night Gathlarue made a face in that direction. Really — the quality of apprentices one was forced to settled for these days.
Delg had produced a rather strong-smelling bundle from the bottom of his pack, and at Shandril's wrinkled nose and raised eyebrow had said only, 'Yes, it's Zhent stuff. From Thundarlun. Owner past needing it. Handy, carrying an axe-everyone should.'
The meat, whatever it had been, made a flavorful stew. Delg tossed liberal handfuls of onions into the little blackened pot. The warm, sharp smell that followed made Shandril think of Gorstag's onion-heavy stews back at The Rising Moon, the inn where she'd grown up. Her eyes were suddenly wet with tears. She'd been happy therehow happy, she hadn't known until too late. Now all that was lost forever; she dared not go back for fear her foes would slaughter her friends and burn the old Moon to the ground. She bit her lip and turned into Narm's arms, burying her face against his chest just before the hot tears came.
'What's wrong, Shan-' Narm began anxiously as she sobbed and shook against him.
Delg stumped up to him, shook his head to stop Narm's words, and reached out one brawny arm to stroke Shandril's heaving back. His stubby fingers moved gently, lovingly, as his other arm took hold of Narm's wrist, and guided the young mage's hand firmly to Shandril's back. Narm obediently began soothing his lady, and the dwarf stepped back, nodding in satisfied silence.
Shandril cried, seeing again the clutching claws of the gargoyles in ruined Myth Drannor, the cruel, mocking smile of the Shadowsil who'd captured her, the chilling eyes of the dragon who'd lived beyond death, and the burning, roasted men she'd left behind her in Thundarlun. Why, oh why, couldn't she just go back to Shadowdale or Highmoon and live in peace among friends-and never see a Zhentarim wizard or Cult of the Dragon fanatic again? Gods hear and answer, she thought, if you have pity-why?
Delg let the fire die low as he stumped around the clearing, peering watchfully into the dimness of the woods around him. It would do the lass good to cry awhile-past time for it, for one so young. He stroked the familiar curves of his axe head as he went, remembering Shandril's anger in battle, her eyes turned to blazing flames as she dealt death to the Zhents. He shook his head to banish those sights from his mind. More power than was good for anyone, this one had-more power than most could carry, and stay good folk.
A little chill went through him as he stopped and looked into the night-and thought about how he might have to kill her, for the safety of all in the Realms. His superiors had been grimly insistent that he never lose sight of that.
It was not the first time he'd had this dark thought. Delg stroked his axe again. It was the first time his mind had envisioned his axe leaping down to cleave Shandril's head, her long hair swirling amid blazing spellfire… the dwarf shook his head angrily and stumped back toward the fire with unnecessary violence. Enough of such fell dreams! They're for folk too idle to pay full heed to what's around them right now…
Shandril lifted bright eyes to him as he came up, and she managed a wavering smile. Delg nodded at her, and asked roughly, 'More stew?'
Narm smiled, shaking his head slightly; Shandril did the same. The dwarf shrugged and sat down beside the fire, shifting the burning branches and adding a few more.
And then there was light where no light should be, touching his face on the side away from the fire. Delg spun, hand going to his axe. Narm and Shandril scrambled to their feet behind him.
In the air above the fallen shadowtop, a patch of light had appeared. It hung at about the height of a tall man's head, an area of spinning, silvery radiance that pulsed and sputtered. As they watched, it brightened and seemed somehow to look at them.
'Be not alarmed,' came a faintly echoing voice from it. A man's voice, sounding somehow dignified and elderly, speaking from a long distance away.
A wizard, no doubt. Whatever the voice said, Delg was alarmed. Damn all magic, anyway! Honest folk couldn't-
'Hold, Shandril of Highmoon!' The voice had grown louder, and stern. 'In the name of Azoun, I bid you make answer to me! I am Vangerdahast, Royal Wizard of Cormyr, and by this magic can only speak to you, not cast magic on you or do any harm to you and yours. Shandril, do you hear me?'
Three pairs of startled eyes met. Delg shrugged. Impulsively, Shandril leaned forward and said, 'I am here, Lord Wizard.' Her voice quavered; for some reason, she felt guilty and weak and in need of approval from this far-off wizard she'd never met. In Highmoon, she'd heard often of the mighty Vangerdahast-and by all accounts, he sounded less good-natured and forgiving than the far mightier Elminster she knew. The patch of radiance pulsed and grew brighter.
'That is good, Lady Shandril. I repeat: I mean you no ill, and this sending of mine can do you no harm.' The light drifted nearer, and Narm's face darkened in suspicion. He raised his hands, ready to cast a spell, and stepped between Shandril and the wizard's glow, waving to Delg to keep watch on the woods around them. The dwarf gave him an approving, mirthless grin and did so.
'What would you, then?' Shandril's voice was steady now, her tears forgotten. It seemed they were under attack once more. Her fingertips tingled as excitement rose within her, and her spellfire awoke.
'I would know what you intend to do within the borders of Cormyr, and where you are bound. More: I must know what befell at Thundarlun, and your part in it.' The light dwindled slightly, danced, and then strengthened again. 'What say you?'
Shandril trembled in sudden suspicion. Just who was listening? Was this really the great Vangerdahast? And who might be listening from the dark woods all round them? She caught Delg's eyes; the dwarf had turned to look at her levelly, his face expressionless. Shandril took a deep breath and made her decision.
'I intend no harm to the folk and land of Cormyr, nor my challenge to the authority or property of the king,' she said flatly. 'I am fleeing enemies who would destroy me-among them, the warriors of Zhentil Keep, who followed me into your land through the Gap and caught up with me at Thundarlun. I can trust no one enough to tell where we are headed, but I assure you that I do not intend to settle or tarry in Cormyr. Let us pass in peace, I ask you.'
'What happened at Thundarlun?' The voice was calm and level.
'Zhentilar troops, on horses, attacked us at Thunder Gap. We escaped them, and got as far as the guard post at Thundarlun before they caught up with us. Their arrows killed all the soldiers and the war wizard there. They set fire to houses and threatened to burn all the village if I did not come out to them. So I did.' Shandril paused for a moment, and then added simply, 'When they were dead, we took what food and drink we needed from the guard post, and went on.'
'You slew them all?'
