Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [139]
"To Shandril Shessair, greetings from Manshoon, and a promise: I and those I command will make no further moves against you and yours. Nor will we try again to gain spellfire. You may well mistrust this promise, but I assure you I'll keep it."
The light in the stone died, and the gem sank slowly to the floor, landing on the rug without a sound.
The stunned group stared down at it in silence, and then Tessaril bent over, took it up, and pocketed it.
Shandril shook her head. "I know I'll never be able to trust those words, but-somehow-I believe him, When he said that, he meant it."
"Being killed can have that effect on ye," Mirt rumbled. "What puzzles me is how Sarhthor-Harper or no-knew about this' crown of fire' bit."
Tessaril looked up, "He was a Harper indeed, Mirt: High lady Alustriel confirmed it, She tutored him in the Art and recruited him, years ago, but no longer knew if he held himself a Harper or followed his own path of power and evil. At Manshoon's command, Sarhthor did a lot of research on spellfire, devouring entire libraries of spell-lore. In a diary kept in Candlekeep, he read the same passage I have: 'If someone freely gives his lifeforce to a wielder of spellfire, it powers the spellfire to truly awesome heights, causing a crownlike halo of flame around the spellfire-hurler.' "
Mirt looked at her, "This happened before? Someone willingly gave his life for a brighter flame?" He shook his shaggy head, "Ah, well, I suppose there's no shortage of crazed-wits in Faerun."
The tankard in front of him grew a mouth, and in the dry tones of Elminster, it said, "And few, indeed, are better able to speak of craziness than Mirt of Waterdeep."
Mirt had flung the nearly empty tankard away-and the old sword on his hip had made it into his handbefore he growled, "Elminster?"
The tankard landed with a clang, rolled over, and stopped, "None other," it said with dignity, "How many archmages do ye throw around, anyway?"
"Elminster!" Shandril leaned forward to peer at the tankard, "Have you-recovered? How are you?"
The tankard looked somehow testy, "Aye, forget about me for days, lass, and then recall old Elminster as if he were a favorite puppy-or some disease-ye'd forgotten ye had. I'm doing just fine, thank ye all, not dead yet," Nartu laughed, "He hasn't changed,"
"More respect, youngling," the tankard growled, "Elminster," Shandril said eagerly:, "we're going to have a baby." Her face clouded over for a moment, and she added quietly, "Again,"
Mirt looked at her, "Aye, and tankard or no, this calls for a toast or three! Mind ye not fight over its training, now-if it's a boy, call it after me, not him," He jerked his head toward the stein on the floor.
The tankard spoke again, Shandril was surprised to hear how soft and gentle Elminster's voice could be when he dropped his testy blustering. "It's not a boy, Old Wolf, I know already that thy babe will be a girl, Shandril. The blessing of Mystra upon ye and Narm-and upon her."
"Thanks, Old Mage," Shandril said, touched.
"Ye'll both be needing it-and Narm, too," Elminster added, in his customary sharper tones, "For in the Visions Mystra sends me, I've seen that thy lass will have the power of spellfire, too."
Oprion Blackstone sat. alone in a high, locked chamber in the Black Altar, staring into a scrying bowl its Fzoul had taught him to do. His false Manshoon speech sounded even better to his ears now than when he'd laid the enchantment, but that accursed Tessaril had put the speaking stone back in her pouch-so he could see nothing of what was happening in the Hidden House, Making the stone burn its way out of the pouch now would certainly be a mistake.
He could, though, hear everything. Option raised his head to stare at the carved Black Hand of Bane that hung on the wall, and he said to it grimly, "And that child will be mine, If need be, I'll take the form of a younger man and woo it, For 1 will