Thirteen

DARKER DREAMS THAN THIS

Weep not, child-whatever terrors your night dreams hold, someone somewhere in the Realms has faced and fought worse. Wizards who raise monsters from nothing, or twist them from simpler beasts, or call them from far and strange places, you see, are tormented by the evil they work-and all of them dream darker than you can. That is their worst punishment-no matter what horrors keep you awake, all of them must nightly face darker dreams than this.

Laeral of Waterdeep

quoted in Words to an Apprentice Ithryn Halast

Year of the Weeping Moon

You will be subject to my will, Iliph Thraun You will follow and feed only as I direct, and you will challenge no one. You will take care not to be seen or felt by the one you drain. You will…

The voice that Iliph Thraun had come to hate so much in these last few days the voice that had echoed through its being, compelling it with irresistible authority, faded at last-forever stilled. The speaker was dead, and the lich lord was free.

"And," the hollow voice hissed, rising in triumph, "so passes Manshoon of the Zhentarim-and I am free again."

The skull rose so suddenly out of a tangled ravine deep in the Stonelands that a dunwing flying past squawked and shed feathers as it darted away in fear. The skull laughed. The chilling sound trailed behind it as it flew, breaking free of the last, fading traces of Manshoon's control, and racing west-heading for Shandril, filled with hunger.

Thrulgar. the older of the two doorguards, stiffened and brought his spear down, and its tip caught the lamplight in a gleaming arc as it moved.

Azatlim, the guard who stood at the other end of the porch, turned when he saw the flash.

Out of the night, three folk were approaching Eveningstar. A fat, aging rogue with a disquieting look about him; a young man in the robes of a mage; and a bedraggled wisp of a girl in torn clothing. Travelers, aye-but were they fallen afoul of brigands? Were they beggars? Pilgrims-or thieves themselves?

Thrulgar made sure his back was against the double doors that led into the main hall of Tessaril's Tower, braced his spear against the bronze door plates behind him, and cast a quick look down the porch to make sure Azatlim had seen them, too.

Azatlim was hastening toward the tower doors, spear at the ready. Good. This could mean trouble. Thrulgar cast a glance in the other direction, judging just where the alarm gong was in case he had to strike it in a hurry.

Then the three stepped up onto the porch.

"Who are you three, and why come you here by night?"

Thrulgar kept his voice calm and his eyes on the empty hands of the intruders.

The fat man rumbled, "We've come to see Tessaril Winter, Lord of Eveningstar, on a most urgent matter. We cannot wait until morning, and must see her now." When these words were out, the man shut his mouth as if it were a steel trap.

A little silence followed; Thrulgar let it stretch as he peered long and consideringly at the three of them, then said. "You cannot pass. Go up the road, and take rooms at the inn. The lord will see you in the morning."

"We will see her now," the fat man repeated patiently. Thrulgar locked gazes with him and was surprised at the wisdom-and the steel in the eyes that met and held his. He had to muster all his will to pull his gaze free, and shake his head.

"No one disturbs the lord at this hour," he said flatly.

"I do," the big man levelly replied, "just as Azoun does." The Purple Dragons stiffened at that, but their spear points did not come down.

"Go away until morning," Azatlim said. "And take care to speak with respect when you name the king."

"I did," growled the man, "considering-ah, ne'er mind. We must speak with Tessaril, man, and speedily! We’ll not go away, I warn ye."

"You warn me?" Thrulgar repeated, voice rising. "Who are you, stout one, to stand on the soil of Cormyr and 'warn' a Purple Dragon of anything?"

"Guards," the slight lass said quietly, "if you can spare a moment from blustering, look at me."

Two startled sets of eyes did so, but Azatlim was moved to ask, "Why?" in tones that were just on the proper side of a sneer.

'Because of this," she told them evenly, then raised one arm slowly to point at the sky behind her.

Without taking her eyes off the guards, she let flames crawl slowly from her shoulder to her fingertips, and then explode with a sudden roar into a bright pillar of fire, raging skyward. In the next moment, it was gone. She closed her hand and said in the same calm voice, "I'd hate to have to use it on you to get in that door-but I've just used it on Manshoon of the Zhentarim, and he died very easily."

The guards in chain mail stared at her, and their faces grew pale. They hastily yanked down their visors and raised their shields.

"Come ahead, then," Thrulgar's voice came hollowly from within the all-concealing war-helm. It trembled only slightly. "For Azoun we stand, and for Azoun well fall."

The woman hesitated. These men clearly meant her no harm, and she had no love for slaughter. Both their spear points were leveled at tier breast now-and as she waited, one of them reached out and slapped at a gong behind him.

Struck glancingly in frantic haste, the gong made only a sort of clank, but the doors behind the men opened almost immediately. An unshaven man clad only in boots and a flight robe looked out, a drawn sword in his hand. "What befalls here?" he asked, peering over the shoulders of the guards.

"These three demand immediate audience with Lord Tessaril," said Thrulgar without turning around. "The maid threatened us with conjured fire if we didn't let her pass."

"I saw and heard the flames out the windows of my room," the man with the sword said dryly. He straightened. "Outlanders, I am Tzin Tzummer, Herald to the Lord Tessaril and king's man. More guards await within, and I can call on many others if need be. Even using magic, you cannot prevail here by force of arms. Tell me your names, and why you are so set on seeing the lord now."

"I am Mirt," the fat old man said, waving at his companions to keep silent. "and as a Lord of Waterdeep, I demand audience with Lord Tessaril Winter."

The herald frowned. "None know the identities of those who wear the masks of the Lords of Waterdeep, save for the Lord Piergeiron of that city. Anyone could come to this door claiming to be a Lord of Waterdeep. Besides, it's highly unlikely a Lord of Waterdeep would ever come to Cormyr without a large escort, an invitation from the king, and-ah, rather more splendid clothing."

You don't know Waterdeep very well," Mirt murmured.

"Whether I do or not," Tzin Tzummer replied coolly, your claim is not going to move me to let you in, especially given the magic the maid among you wields-all here will resist to the death, if need be. If you'd prefer, one of the guards can escort you to the inn- The Lonesome Tankard, just up the road, there-and see that you get comfortable rooms. Come back in the morning."

Mirt inclined his head. "Reasonable words, herald, yet we can no longer afford to be reasonable. D’you know what this is?" Slowly his hands went to his belt, opened a pouch there, and drew forth a Harper pendant, on its broken chain.

The herald's eyes widened, but he said slowly, "That device is welcome here, as are those who bear it. Yet we serve Azoun here, not the silver harp. Could you not come back in the morning-and unarmed?"

Mirt sighed. "Azoun, is it? Well, then. Hold yet blades back a moment." He turned and waved his companions back off the porch, followed them, and turned as his boots touched the dirt of the road. There, in the full light of the porch lamps, he slowly drew a dagger that glowed – the guards traded glances-and he dropped it pointdown in the earth at his feet. Upending the empty sheath, the old man twisted it in a certain deft, delicate way. Its steel tip slid sideways and open, revealing a tiny cavity; out of this Mirt plucked something and held it up. It was a ring.