Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [140]
His face paled, then, as if he was seeing more in the Black Hand than a carving, and his voice deepened into the echoing tunes of prophecy, "No struggle is ever done; no matter is ever closed, As long as gods and men strive on Toril, there is no 'forever,'"
"I must go now, lass," Elminster's voice came again, "There are others who'd speak with ye, though,"
Another, rougher voice came from the tankard. "Shandril? Lass?"
Shandril was up out of Narm's arms in a rush, reaching toward the tankard. "Gorstag?" she cried, and happy teats wet her cheeks.
"Aye, lass; gods smile on you, Lureene has a word for you, too-"
The voice changed again, "Shan! Are you well?"
On her knees before the tankard. Shandril laughed, "Very happy, Lureene. Safe in hiding, both of us, and with a babe on the way,"
"Good! Give it a kiss for me-and mind you stop at two babes, Shan: the gods give us only two hands to hold them with, Keep smiling, little one."
"My thanks," Through her tears, Shandril was seeing again Tire Rising Moan, the inn where she'd grown up.,.. the place she'd run away from so long ago. So long-and so few actual days ago,
"Fair fortune, lass," the tankard said gruffly.
"You fare well, too, Gorstag," Shandril replied almost fiercely. "Both of you!"
And then, before her eyes, the tankard shattered with the sound of a ringing bell, its shards dancing on the stones, Tessaril shook her head, "That magic eats away at whatever is the focus for farspeaking," she said. "I'm surprised it held together this long." She leaned forward to touch Shandril's shoulder. "No harm has befallen any of them," she said reassuringly. "The magic just overwhelmed the tankard,"
Mitt looked at its ruins, then sadly surveyed the empty depths of his bottle. "Is there more to be had anywhere about?"
Tessaril indicated a door. "I took the liberty of bringing in a keg of ale, a little while back," Her nose wrinkled, "About the time I knew you'd be coming,"
Mirt threw her a look as he shambled toward the door, She smiled sweetly and added, "On a shelf on the left, you'll find a selection of tankards for the rest of us to use. You're welcome,"
Still on her knees nn the floor, Shandril found herself laughing helplessly. By the gods! Did they never stop teasing each other? And a small voice inside her promptly asked: Why should they?
"Oprion Blackstone?" the cold voice said in derisive surprise. "The priesthood of the Dread Lord flourishes indeed,"
Option scrambled up. How had anyone passed the guards and locks to reach this room? And that voice, He spun around, and his face went as white as polished bone. "Manshoon!" he gasped, when he could speak. – You're alive!" He stared at the High Lord of Zhentil Keep, looking up and down, and then turned away in confusion, "I'm-I'm delighted."
Manshoon's smile was crooked, "You mean, you're surprised I still have clones left."
Oprion stuttered for a moment, and then said rather desperately, "No, no. But when so much time had passed, we-"
"Assumed you were finally rid of me, Have you raised Fzoul yet?"
Oprion's mouth dropped open. "W-Why?"
"He's thrice the administrator you'll ever he-and a capable schemer, too, if not my equal. The Brotherhood needs him, I hear you've been rather careless with ourah, human resources, since 1 was last here, Sarhthor, Elthaulin, and about two hundred others, as I recall; the list made both long and distressing reading,"
Oprion's hand tensed as he eyed a sideboard and the magical mace that lay upon it, It winked back at him, brimming with power, Mageslayer was its name; Fzoul had told him what it could do, His gaze flickered away from it, and Manshoon smiled,
"Is it to be war between us, then?" Manshoon's voice was soft and level; he might have been asking what color cloak his colleague intended to wear, Oprion's wintry gaze met his own silently for a long time. and then the priest shook his