Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [90]
"Teleport me to Zhentil Keep," Shandril burst out. "I… I have to destroy the Zhentarim, now!"
Tessaril smiled. "Some of us have been trying to do that for years," she said, "and they still sit in Zhentil Keep tonight."
Shandril looked at her with eyes that blazed, just for an instant, and fought to control her voice. When the words came out, they were low and angry. "Lady, those snakes killed our friend and have hunted me like game across the Dales. Today, I burned Manshoon to bones and ashes and I want to go after the rest of the Zhentarim before… before my nerve fails me." Her words ended with a sob.
Tessaril stared at her. "You're serious," she said quietly. Then, slowly, she shook her head. "I'd be sending you to your deaths."
Narm looked quickly at Shandril. On the verge of tears, Shandril pleaded, "Please, Lady? Please? I must go now!" Her voice rose. "I can't go on like this, every day, wondering how soon we'll be killed!"
Tessaril looked at her and asked softly, "Are you in the right state of mind, now, to go up against any Zhen-arim – and live?"
Shandril glared at her. "By the gods, get me to Zhentil Keep!" she cried, then held up a hand that blazed with spellfire. Around her, men cried out, weapons rang as they were drawn, and she heard running feet approaching.
Tessaril was on her feet facing Shandril, flinging up her hand in a restraining signal. Silence fell.
Shandril looked around at all the scared faces and raised blades and saw the herald holding a sword warningly at Narm's throat. She shook her head wearily and dissolved into tears, turning to Mirt's arms.
"I'm sick of all this killing and fighting and running," she sobbed. "When will it all end?"
"It never does, lass," Mirt said softly, holding her. The words summoned to his mind memories of burning cities, spilled blood slowly running out and down stone steps underfoot, and corpses-fields of sprawled, contorted corpses-all around. "It never does."
Mirt and Tessaril exchanged glances, and the Lord of Eveningstar said quietly, "You'd best bring her in and tell me what this is all about. I can see this is going to be one of those evenings when the gods turn us on our heads a time or two…
Storm looked up at the stars sailing endlessly overhead.They glittered softly through a thin veil of scudding clouds. She said, "I can't sleep, Old Mage."
"What's amiss?" A wrinkled hand came out of the darkness to pat her own comfortingly.
"Manshoon. What's he up to, now?" After a moment, she added, "I hate leaving things unfinished."
"Lass," Elminster told her gently, "nothing is ever finished. Do what ye can, when ye can, and go on to the next thing. Some folk never learn that, all their lives long-and never do anything, spending their time worrying away at something they should have set by long ago." Stone sighed. "You're right" She watched the stars for a while, then whispered, "Old Mage, remember when I was young? You used to hold me until I fell asleep, and tell me wondrous tales of when Faerun was new…?"
The old familiar arms went around her, bringing with them the faint reek of old pipesmoke. "Would ye like a story now?"
"Please," she whispered, and covered his hands with her own.
"Well, now," Elminster said slowly. "Ye see those stars, up there? I recall a time when…"
Firespark rode on her shoulders as Tessaril walked silently clown the street toward the Tankard. Her tressym was restless and ill at ease; it answered her only with a wary little mew when she stroked it.
The winged cat could smell trouble before she could, so Tessaril went well armed now.
She'd turned the tower over to her three guests for the night, telling them to get some sleep while she went out to 'confer with someone.' All nine of her Purple Dragons were already gathered to guard them, and she'd used a sending to call in war wizards from High Horn. That aid would not be here until midmorning at the earliest. She herself would sit guard over them until the wizards arrived-once she'd told Dunman