Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [14]
The garderobe door opened just as she was setting them down, and Azoun stepped out – in a grand court tunic and breeches, no less. He was alone and empty-handed, and when he looked at her, there seemed to be a question or an uneasiness brewing in his eyes.
She knew her own eyes had widened, and she hastened to soften whatever impression the startled – rather than welcoming – expression on her face must have made by saying eagerly, "Back so soon for more, my lord? I'm surprised you can still get through that little window!"
"I'm worried," Azoun said in a strange voice, "about this Shandril. She's a danger to all of us – not so much her, but all the folk seeking her, who bring their swords and spells to menace fair Cormyr, striking out whenever any of our folk or laws or walls stand in their paths. Where have you hidden her?"
His voice almost sounded like someone else…
Tessaril's eyes narrowed, and she took a swift step back. "Azoun?"
His hands reached for her with dizzying speed – on arms that lengthened into ropy, snakelike tentacles!
They swooped after her as she ducked away, around behind the table. One tentacle shot under it, thrusting at Tessaril, but she'd gained the handful of moments she needed. Hissing forth a spell, she vaulted up onto the table, rolled across it kicking at an eel-like arm that came snatching after her, found the floor on the far side – and the wand hanging in its sheath where she'd left it.
Behind her, her spell flung a vicious ring of lightnings around her foe, and left the thing that was not Azoun snarling and writhing in the heart of a crackling ring of restlessly leaping bolts.
By then she had hold of the wand – for a moment or two, ere the last ragged force of Tessaril's own spell was flung back at her. Faerun flashed blindingly around the Lady Lord of Eveningstar, and it felt like she'd been slapped across the face with the flat of a swordblade.
There was a deafening crashing sound in her ears as the magic broke over her, then the fainter, deeper crash of her shoulders smashing into her bookshelf and rocking it back against the wall. A cluster of tall glasses shattered somewhere above her and rained down their shards in front of her as she rebounded, breathless and staggering, and saw her wand spinning away from her numbed fingers… even as a small forest of tentacles stabbed at her…
There were times in Tessaril Winter's life when the gods were pleased to slow things to a crawl, so she could enjoy – or endure – them to the utmost. So it was that after the breathless whirling moments of being hurled back by her own magic, striking her shelves with force enough to break one shoulder – she could feel the sickening searing of bone grinding against bone, now – things became very quiet for a time, and very slow.
The shapeshifter was a thing of horror now, Azoun's features halt-melted into gray-brown, mottled shapelessness, the semblance of magnificent royal boots incongruously retained beneath a thicket of writhing, reaching tentacles – and now, off to her right, the real Azoun was coming back up the stairs with a large, loosely rolled map of the Stonelands in one hand and two wine bottles clutched between the long, strong fingers of the other. There was a Highknight following behind him, carrying a domed platter from which steam streamed in enthusiastic plumes – bringing a strong scent of roast bustard with it.
"By Boldovar's bloody beard!" the King snarled.
Things began to move swiftly again before Tessaril's eyes. Very swiftly. Bottles and platter thumped to the furs, swords flashed out, and men leaped forward through a fresh, whirling forest of tentacles. Tessaril ran after her wand – straight at the shapeshifting monster – and she had a glimpse of Azoun snarling and batting away swarming tentacles.
The Highknight plunged in front of his King, hacking with his blade like a madman, and the tentacles closed over him in an eager, writhing storm. Tess struggled against a thickening tangle of tentacles,