Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [109]
Shandril whirled free of his arms and flounced away; the punch she threw in the process left Torm doubled over and breathless, Narm hooted with laughter at the sight and asked, "Why the disguise?"
"Torm's been fooling a dozen or so Zhentarim into thinking Elminster's enjoying a quiet rest in Shadowdale," Storm told him, and looked teasingly at the thief, – It's been a terrible strain on Torm, though; he hasn't been able to get in any philandering, robbing cradles, or lightening purses for almost a tenday now."
The chorus of mock-sympathetic groans was momentarily deafening; Torm hung his head just long enough to drift close to Mirt and deftly snatch a bottle of wine from the Old Wolf's grasp, Tessaril pursed her lips and wiggled a finger; the bottle promptly shot up out of Torm's fingers and curved down smoothly in a return journey to Mirt's hand. The Old Wolf chuckled, saluted her, and drank, As usual, he didn't bother with a glass.
"Tess," Shandril said in a low voice amid the general hilarity, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I'm getting very restless here," She grinned. "Am I healed enough, yet?"
The Lord of Eveningstar smiled at her, "I think you are," she replied, "and I've something to show you," Tessaril led her through several rooms into the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedroom Shandril had adopted during her stay in the Hidden House, There, she indicated a window.
Shandril looked at her curiously. "I've looked out it many times," she said, "but it always shows the same thing," She turned to the window-and saw the scene she expected to see, It was winter outside the panes she was looking through, She could feel the cold coming off the glass, She was looking at a crossroads, somewhere, with high banks and bare-limbed trees all around. As always, there was snow, falling softly and endlessly, In its midst, where the roads met, stood a leaning stone marker with letters up and down the sides, Whenever Shandril stared at the stone pillar, she had the curious impression it was looking back at her.
She turned to Tessaril. "That's what I always see. Where is it?"
"Another world entirely," her hostess replied softly. "But that's not what I want you to see, Have you ever tried to picture someone while standing at this window?"
Shandril stared at her, and then looked at the window and frowned.
Snow swirled outside the glass for a moment and seemed to turn to fog-and then, through a slowly widening gap in the smoky swirling, she saw Gorstag and Lureene sitting wearily in the taproom of The Rising Moon, Hot mugs stood by their hands, and they were smiling at each other, Lureene's bare feet-dirty, as usual-were propped one on each of Gorstag's massive shoulders, and he was gently and deftly massaging one of her calves with his powerful hands. Shandril smiled, and found her eves full of tears.
Tessaril put a hand on her shoulder. "They're well and happy, yes." She stroked Shandril's hair gently,
"Are you sorry you ever left the Moon?"
Shandril looked up at her, "Once I would have answered you very differently, but-no, I'm not sorry,"
She laughed shortly, "I always wondered what adventure would be like, and what the other Dales looked like… and now I know."
Tessaril nodded, "Look out my window again," she said softly. Shandril saw a very different scene this time.
It was a large but dark chamber with stone walls, A man in a black, high-collared robe sat at a table of ebony marble and seemed to speak to someone who wasn't there. His hands were clasped: Shandril realized suddenly that he was praying, She turned to Tessaril in wonder, "Who is he?"
"If you plan to have any dealings with the Zhentarim," Tess told her, "you'll be facing the wits of this man: Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of the Black Altar, the temple of Bane in Zhentil Keep-and leader of the Zhentarim at present, Watch him for a few days, please, before you leave the Hidden House, If you really must walk into the lair