buildings, where I don't feel quite so watched.'
Tessaril stretched, sighed-gods, what a magnificent man, even after all these years! — and tied the sash at her waist with a flourish. If she knew Azoun, his 'just going down to fetch a map and a bottle' would bring him back with a Highknight or two in tow, and food. He always seemed to work up a hunger in this room, somehow…
She smiled wryly at that and kicked one of her boots out of sight, under the bed. The Beldragon lamp would cast the best light onto any map unfurled on the big table. She fetched it, reached a wooden skewer into the fire to light it with, positioned the lit lamp just so, and scooped up four Purple Dragon badges from her writing table to serve as map-corner weights.
The garderobe door opened just as she was setting them down, and Azoun stepped out-in a grand court tunic and breeches, no less. He was alone and emptyhanded, and when he looked at her, there seemed to be a question or an uneasiness brewing in his eyes.
She knew her own eyes had widened, and she hastened to soften whatever impression the startled-rather than welcoming-expression on her face must have made by saying eagerly, 'Back so soon for more, my lord? I'm surprised you can still get through that little window!'
'I'm worried,' Azoun said in a strange voice, 'about this Shandril. She's a danger to all of us-not so much her, but all the folk seeking her, who bring their swords and spells to menace fair Cormyr, striking out whenever any of our folk or laws or walls stand in their paths. Where have you hidden her?'
His voice almost sounded like someone else…
Tessaril's eyes narrowed, and she took a swift step back. 'Azoun?'
His hands reached for her with dizzying speed-on arms that lengthened into ropy, snakelike tentacles!
They swooped after her as she ducked away, around behind the table. One tentacle shot under it, thrusting at Tessaril, but she'd gained the handful of moments she needed. Hissing forth a spell, she vaulted up onto the table, rolled across it kicking at an eel-like arm that came snatching after her, found the floor on the far side-and the wand hanging in its sheath where she'd left it.
Behind her, her spell flung a vicious ring of lightnings around her foe, and left the thing that was not Azoun snarling and writhing in the heart of a crackling ring of restlessly leaping bolts.
By then she had hold of the wand-for a moment or two, ere the last ragged force of Tessaril's own spell was flung back at her.
Faerun flashed blindingly around the Lady Lord of Eveningstar, and it felt like she'd been slapped across the face with the flat of a swordblade.
There was a deafening crashing sound in her ears as the magic broke over her, then the fainter, deeper crash of her shoulders smashing into her bookshelf and rocking it back against the wall. A cluster of tallglasses shattered somewhere above her and rained down their shards in front of her as she rebounded, breathless and staggering, and saw her wand spinning away from her numbed fingers… even as a small forest of tentacles stabbed at her…
There were times in Tessaril Winter's life when the gods were pleased to slow things to a crawl, so she could enjoy- or endure-them to the utmost. So it was that after the breathless whirling moments of being hurled back by her own magic, striking her shelves with force enough to break one shoulder-she could feel the sickening searing of bone grinding against bone, now-things became very quiet for a time, and very slow.
The shapeshifter was a thing of horror now, Azoun's features halt-melted into gray-brown, mottled shapelessness, the semblance of magnificent royal boots incongruously retained beneath a thicket of writhing, reaching tentacles-and now, off' to her right, the real Azoun was coming back up the stairs with a large, loosely rolled map of the Stonelands in one hand and two wine bottles clutched between the long, strong fingers of the other. There was a Highknight following behind him, carrying a domed platter from which steam streamed in enthusiastic plumes-bringing a strong scent of roast bustard with it.
'By Boldovar's bloody beard!' the King snarled. Things began to move swiftly again before Tessaril's eyes. Very swiftly. Bottles and platter thumped to the furs, swords flashed out, and men leaped forward through a fresh, whirling forest of tentacles. Tessaril ran after her wand-straight at the shapeshifting monster-and she had a glimpse of Azoun snarling and batting away swarming tentacles.
The Highknight plunged in front of his King, hacking with his blade like a madman, and the tentacles closed over him in an eager, writhing storm. Tess struggled against a thickening tangle of tentacles, trying desperately to snatch up the wand before the shapeshifter did.
The Highknight gave a desperate, gurgling cry, somewhere under the surging, shifting flesh that enveloped him-and a horrible wet splintering of bone followed.
Tessaril knew what that sound meant and felt no surprise at all when the man's head thumped to furs right beside her straining hand, bounced up into several questing tentacles, then thumped again to the floor and rolled away somewhere unseen, leaving a glistening trail of blood across the Lady Lord's fingers.
With a wordless roar of anger Azoun sprang into the air to reach over flailing tentacles and run his blade right through the head of his false double.
Blood spurted, the shapeshifter squalled, and tentacles whipped about in a frenzy, shattering the lamp, hurling Tessaril across the floor in a helpless tumble, and driving Azoun back along the stairhead rail in a confusion of curses and creaking wood.
The wand! Tessaril struggled to claw herself to a stop and get free of the encumbrances of her gown and her own hair, to see where the wand of lightnings now lay ere the shape-shifter did.
There was a slithering sound, the garderobe door banged open amid more slitherings, and the room was suddenly empty of tentacles.
Empty of… battle. Azoun was panting against the rail with his sword in hand and his fine tunic torn half off his body. Her wand lay alone and forlorn on the tangled furs, a headless Highknight was sprawled across the head of the stairs, his sword not far from his hand, and over in a corner the man's staring head lay amid the shards of her lamp. No flames, thank the gods.
She looked wildly around the room, past the wreckage of the big table. No flames anywhere-and not three paces away, the covered platter still steamed merrily.
With a groan, Tessaril struggled to her feet, shrugged her robe back onto her shoulders-gods, the pain! — and darted barefoot for her wand. Snatching it up, she raced to the garderobe.
It was empty, the window hanging down crazily from its frame.
'Tess,' the King growled, 'come away from there. I'll not have you killed chasing after some beast! Whence came it? Have you seen it before?'
Tessaril ran to Azoun and hugged him fiercely. His arm tightened around her shoulder, and she couldn't help but scream.
There was a frantic thudding of boots and the clang and thunder of armor striking against walls and railings, as Highknights came pounding up the stairs with blades drawn.
'Shapeshifter!' Azoun snapped, ere the questions could begin. 'It went out the window-and, mind: It already knows how to take my shape quite well!'
Highknights plunged into the tiny privy-room. Wood splintered as someone burst right out the window frame without slowing, there was a curse and a scraping of boots on stone and roof tiles, and man after man followed after.
Two Highknights lingered, swords out and eyes hard as they looked at Tessaril and around at the ruins of her room. 'We're fine,' Azoun told them curtly, and jerked his head toward the stairs in an unmistakable order. Reluctantly- and not before giving the Lady Lord parting looks of cold promise-the knights went downstairs.
Azoun sighed and stepped away from Tessaril. 'I didn't want to even ask this,' he said to the stair rail, 'but you did shelter Shandril Shessair in the Hidden House. Is she there yet? Where have you hidden her?' At his last words, the King brought his head up and looked at her sharply.
Tessaril gave him a crooked smile, and said softly, 'She's half Faerun away from here by now, my Dragon- and that's all I'll say.'
Azoun looked into her eyes for a long moment, expression grim-and then bowed. 'I'm sorry, Tess. I trust you… but the next time Manshoon of the Zhentarim comes skulking nigh Eveningstar, call on me, won't you? I don't want to lose the best Lord I have!'
'Azoun,' Tessaril murmured, 'hold me. Please. Just hold me.'
