Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [97]
Narm lay sprawled on the floor, face gray. hands spread in a last, futile effort to help her.
Shandril looked at him once and then buried herself in Storms embrace. It was all over; Narm dead, Delg gone, her dreams shattered, Manshoon's slaying only a passing satisfaction, this place and her newfound friends here destroyed, even Elminster laid low… how could the gods be so cruel?
Shandril was sobbing bitterly against Storm's chest when priests in the robes of Lathander burst up the stairs into the room, led by a soot-smudged Tessaril and a pair of Purple Dragon guards with frightened, grim faces and drawn swords.
Storm, in her burnt leathers. knelt with arms around the sobbing wielder of spellfire. She nodded at Tessaril in recognition and then said quietly, "There is nothing you can do here, now; all of you save Lord Tessaril, please leave us."
Tessaril gestured silently to her soldiers in confirmation of these orders, and the men obediently filed back down the stairs. Their shocked expressions told Storm what the room around her must look like to those who hadn't seen the battle.
When they were gone, Storm reached out to pat Tessaril's shoulder in thanks and said quietly,
"Shandril, there is something we must do."
The Lord of Eveningstar looked down, unsmiling. She shuddered and reached out her hands.
Storm shook Shandril until she looked up through her bitter tears. The bard stared into her eyes and said, "There's a chance we can save your Narm. Only a chance. We need your aid."
Shandril nodded numbly, and the two women took hold of her hands and formed a kneeling ring around Narm's body They laid their free hands on her husband's chest.
Then Storm looked up and said gravely, "We need your power, little one-slowly and steadily at first.
Then give as more, carefully, and we shall see if your spellfire matches the fabled fire of old."
White-faced and trembling, Shandril nodded. Tears rained from her cheeks as the spellfire slowly curled down her arms.
As they knelt together over Narm, his body began to glow.
"The collective performance of the Brotherhood thus far has been a source of some amusement,"
Xarlraun said, its deep voice cutting across the chamber, "but hardly effective."
The beholder floated above the human Zhentarim gathered in the room. Deep in its shadow, Fzoul replied, "Aye. Manshoon is dead."
"For how long, this time?"
"Forever, we believe." Fzoul blinked his newly healed eyes, but was unable to keep a smile entirely from his face. "He may find it difficult to come back from death without any bodies to possess."
"He had six or seven waiting."
"Aye." Fzoul bowed. "Unfortunately for our esteemed high lord, 'had' is the correct word."
"I see," the beholder said softly, drifting away. "The price of spellfire grows high indeed."
Fzoul nodded. "I've ordered Sarhthor to call our magelings back from pursuing spellfire. Brotherhood trading concerns have been neglected, and immediate steps should be taken. Certain trade officials in Melvaunt, Ordulin, oral Priapurl, for example, have lived too long."
"Undoubtedly," said the beholder. It sounded amused. "Is the hunt for spellfire over then?"
"Rather than becoming an attractive addition to our power, spellfire could well become the doom of the entire Brotherhood. It would certainly have done so, the way Manshoon was going about it. Its capture became his private obsession."
Fzoul paused and looked around the chamber-at the upperpriests and Sarhthor, at the head of the surviving, senior mages. His mouth tightened as he recalled Manshoon's traitor agent, Ghaubhan Szaurr. He wondered briefly if the wizards had discovered his own agents among their ranks.
"Nonetheless, spellfire is too important to ignore. At the very least, we must destroy its source-how much longer can one young girl have such luck, after all?-or prevent our rivals in Mulmaster, Thay, Calimshan, and the Cult of the Dragon from seizing it. With or without us. the hunt for spellfire will continue."
Fzoul turned