moonlit moors; men huddled around campfires in high mountain valleys; and a grim place that could only have been Zhentil Keep, Beholders floated menacingly there above a dark altar, where bowls of blood were cast into fires by horn-masked priests clad all in black, A priest they did not know lifted his head and cried some unheard invocafion to Bane.
Shandril shivered at the sight. 'Harm, hold me,' she said softly, trembling, 'I'm afraid, So many folk want us dead.'
Narm put his arms around her and held her tightly, as if the fierceness of his grip could keep enemies from her. He knew he must be strong when she needed him, It was the least he could do.
'No, my lady,' he said firmly into the darkness, 'this is where we live happily ever after, as the tales say,…' 'Tell me one of those tales, my lord,' said Shandril in a small voice. Narm looked up into the darkness overhead- and for just an instant, he could have sworn he saw Elminster's face winking at him, pipe in mouth. He blinked, and it was gone.
Narm cleared his throat, settled his lady's head close beneath his chin, and said firmly, 'Later, First, tell me what you plan for us both in the days ahead. How are you going to use your spellfire to remake Faerun?'
'Well,' she said, in a small, quavering voice that gathered strength and humor as she went on, 'first there're the rest of the Zhentarim to roast-and then the Cult of the Dragon and their dracoliclies. I'd still like to get to Silverymoon-remember? and meet Alustriel. After that… well, we'll see.'
Narm shook his head; his nose told him he was indeed smelling a faint whiff of pipesmoke…
