with hunger.
Thrulgar. the older of the two doorguards, stiffened and brought his spear down, and its tip caught the lamplight in a gleaming arc as it moved.
Azatlim, the guard who stood at the other end of the porch, turned when he saw the flash.
Out of the night, three folk were approaching Eveningstar. A fat, aging rogue with a disquieting look about him; a young man in the robes of a mage; and a bedraggled wisp of a girl in torn clothing. Travelers, aye-but were they fallen afoul of brigands? Were they beggars? Pilgrims-or thieves themselves?
Thrulgar made sure his back was against the double doors that led into the main hall of Tessaril's Tower, braced his spear against the bronze door plates behind him, and cast a quick look down the porch to make sure Azatlim had seen them, too.
Azatlim was hastening toward the tower doors, spear at the ready. Good. This could mean trouble. Thrulgar cast a glance in the other direction, judging just where the alarm gong was in case he had to strike it in a hurry.
Then the three stepped up onto the porch.
'Who are you three, and why come you here by night?'
Thrulgar kept his voice calm and his eyes on the empty hands of the intruders.
The fat man rumbled, 'We've come to see Tessaril Winter, Lord of Eveningstar, on a most urgent matter. We cannot wait until morning, and must see her now.' When these words were out, the man shut his mouth as if it were a steel trap.
A little silence followed; Thrulgar let it stretch as he peered long and consideringly at the three of them, then said. 'You cannot pass. Go up the road, and take rooms at the inn. The lord will see you in the morning.'
'We will see her now,' the fat man repeated patiently. Thrulgar locked gazes with him and was surprised at the wisdom-and the steel in the eyes that met and held his. He had to muster all his will to pull his gaze free, and shake his head.
'No one disturbs the lord at this hour,' he said flatly.
'I do,' the big man levelly replied, 'just as Azoun does.' The Purple Dragons stiffened at that, but their spear points did not come down.
'Go away until morning,' Azatlim said. 'And take care to speak with respect when you name the king.'
'I did,' growled the man, 'considering-ah, ne'er mind. We must speak with Tessaril, man, and speedily! We’ll not go away, I warn ye.'
'You warn me?' Thrulgar repeated, voice rising. 'Who are you, stout one, to stand on the soil of Cormyr and 'warn' a Purple Dragon of anything?'
'Guards,' the slight lass said quietly, 'if you can spare a moment from blustering, look at me.'
Two startled sets of eyes did so, but Azatlim was moved to ask, 'Why?' in tones that were just on the proper side of a sneer.
'Because of this,' she told them evenly, then raised one arm slowly to point at the sky behind her.
Without taking her eyes off the guards, she let flames crawl slowly from her shoulder to her fingertips, and then explode with a sudden roar into a bright pillar of fire, raging skyward. In the next moment, it was gone. She closed her hand and said in the same calm voice, 'I'd hate to have to use it on you to get in that door-but I've just used it on Manshoon of the Zhentarim, and he died very easily.'
The guards in chain mail stared at her, and their faces grew pale. They hastily yanked down their visors and raised their shields.
'Come ahead, then,' Thrulgar's voice came hollowly from within the all-concealing war-helm. It trembled only slightly. 'For Azoun we stand, and for Azoun well fall.'
The woman hesitated. These men clearly meant her no harm, and she had no love for slaughter. Both their spear points were leveled at tier breast now-and as she waited, one of them reached out and slapped at a gong behind him.
Struck glancingly in frantic haste, the gong made only a sort of clank, but the doors behind the men opened almost immediately. An unshaven man clad only in boots and a flight robe looked out, a drawn sword in his hand. 'What befalls here?' he asked, peering over the shoulders of the guards.
'These three demand immediate audience with Lord Tessaril,' said Thrulgar without turning around. 'The maid threatened us with conjured fire if we didn't let her pass.'
'I saw and heard the flames out the windows of my room,' the man with the sword said dryly. He straightened. 'Outlanders, I am Tzin Tzummer, Herald to the Lord Tessaril and king's man. More guards await within, and I can call on many others if need be. Even using magic, you cannot prevail here by force of arms. Tell me your names, and why you are so set on seeing the lord now.'
'I am Mirt,' the fat old man said, waving at his companions to keep silent. 'and as a Lord of Waterdeep, I demand audience with Lord Tessaril Winter.'
The herald frowned. 'None know the identities of those who wear the masks of the Lords of Waterdeep, save for the Lord Piergeiron of that city. Anyone could come to this door claiming to be a Lord of Waterdeep. Besides, it's highly unlikely a Lord of Waterdeep would ever come to Cormyr without a large escort, an invitation from the king, and-ah, rather more splendid clothing.'
You don't know Waterdeep very well,' Mirt murmured.
'Whether I do or not,' Tzin Tzummer replied coolly, your claim is not going to move me to let you in, especially given the magic the maid among you wields-all here will resist to the death, if need be. If you'd prefer, one of the guards can escort you to the inn- The Lonesome Tankard, just up the road, there-and see that you get comfortable rooms. Come back in the morning.'
Mirt inclined his head. 'Reasonable words, herald, yet we can no longer afford to be reasonable. D’you know what this is?' Slowly his hands went to his belt, opened a pouch there, and drew forth a Harper pendant, on its broken chain.
The herald's eyes widened, but he said slowly, 'That device is welcome here, as are those who bear it. Yet we serve Azoun here, not the silver harp. Could you not come back in the morning-and unarmed?'
Mirt sighed. 'Azoun, is it? Well, then. Hold yet blades back a moment.' He turned and waved his companions back off the porch, followed them, and turned as his boots touched the dirt of the road. There, in the full light of the porch lamps, he slowly drew a dagger that glowed — the guards traded glances-and he dropped it pointdown in the earth at his feet. Upending the empty sheath, the old man twisted it in a certain deft, delicate way. Its steel tip slid sideways and open, revealing a tiny cavity; out of this Mirt plucked something and held it up. It was a ring.
'In Azoun's name-,' he rumbled formally, holding the ring up between finger and thumb so they could all see it in the flickering light of the lamps, 'I ask immediate audience with Tessaril Winter. Lord of Eveningstar.'
'A Purple Dragon ring,' the herald said wonderingly. 'I've never seen one in the hands of an outlander before.' 'Well, now you have,' Mirt said testily, 'and no, I didn't steal it. Azoun gave it to me when I guarded his two infant daughters, years ago, when-but that's not for me to tell without his word. Well? What's it to be? Defy Azoun or let us in to talk to Tessar? By the burning lashes of Bane, I've kissed her often enough!'
As the full darkness of night descended softly on Eveningstar, Lord Tessaril Winter lay abed, lounging in the warmth of the dying fire. King Azoun ruled this pretty village through her, and matters both great and small sometimes weighed heavily on her mind. Today, it had been Lord's Court, and she'd had to disentangle several nasty trade disputes and sit through much blustering. She cared nothing for the threats, but the shouting had given her a headache that had taken three hot mugs of soup and much quiet to quell.
She yawned and shook her head ruefully, set aside the spellbook she read every night after she'd used a spell, blew out the lamp, and waited for slumber to take her.
The four chains her bed hung from creaked once as she settled down, and then all was dark and silent. For a time…
The roar of spellfire awakened Tessaril. She sat up in the hanging bed acid looked out tier west window in time to see flames licking at the night sky. Snatching up a wand in one hand and tier sword in the other, she strode to the north window, using the tip of tier scabbarded blade to hook down a robe front a peg along the way.
It was a long way down from her chambers at the top of the tower, and a wizard going into battle should never get out of breath. Tessaril tossed the wand and blade ahead of tier as she vaulted the windowsill,
