Shandril looked down, In her hand was a small silver harp on a chain. She touched it in wonder, Its tiny strings stirred in a mournful, somehow proud time.

"If you both don't mind," Storm added softly, "Mirt wants to give Delg's badge to Narm. You're both Harpers now,"

Epilogue

Lighting crashed and staggered across the sky far to the east. The guard watched it, thankful for the momentary entertainment. No duty post in Zhentil Keep was more mind-numbing than;his one, He hefted his halberd wearily and yawned. Rubbing his cheek, he watched lightning crack the dome of night again, and was briefly thankful that the storm was far off; otherwise he'd have to huddle against the door of the crypt to keep dry. Hours to go until dawn.

"Gods deliver me from this everlasting boredom," he muttered,

"The gods have heard you, fool-to your cost."

The guard tried to spin, but the hand that clasped his neck was very strong, Struggling wildly, he glimpsed the crypt's doorway, dark and open, but he couldn't see his attacker. He didn't need to. Fear lashing his heart, the guard went down into the last darkness, and he knew who had killed him.

Manshoon looked down at the sprawled body. "Yawning when you were supposed to be guarding my future is a crime punishable by death, Had I forgotten to warn you of that? Life is so unfair."

He carefully closed the door of the crypt, glancing at the four bodies lying ready there… four? Gods, he'd best be preparing others; how many had he gone through now? He turned away to start the long walk home across Zhentil Keep. The way was long, and the boots this body wore had started to crumble; he walked slowly, thankful that the storm had emptied the night streets, The few guards who saw him carefully looked away; Manshoon passed them with a grim smile.

Fzoul obviously hadn't known about all of his crypts. Sloppy work, unfortunately typical of the more devout or ostensibly devout-side of the Brotherhood. He looked up at the spires of the Black Altar as a lightning flash outlined them, and nodded.

"I have a score to settle there." There were advantages to staying dead for a tenday or so-it gave traitors time to show their true colors, get their hands properly dirty and their plans half-hatched… Smashing them then was most satisfying, He was looking forward to it.

He turned away. The High Tower beckoned, He needed a bath, a drink, and a warm body beside his in bed, before dawn. Far the first time, Manshoon wondered why he had ever begun to strive for more than such things… after all, what more could a man achieve? He shrugged and put such thoughts from his mind, He'd feel more himself in the morning.

Shandril and Narm lay curled up together in front of the crackling fire, a bearskin rug soft and warm around them, Narrn glanced up at the walls and ceiling and said thankfully, "Well, at least this room hasn't grown any new doors or corners tonight-"

Shandril chuckled softly, took her own look at the Hidden House around her, and said, "I don't know… I think I've almost grown used to it," She reached out and turned Narm's chin until his eyes met hers, and then asked quietly, "Don't you think it would make a great home for us? The Zhents would never find us here."

"That was my suggestion, too," a calm voice agreed, and I still think it's a good one."

Norm and Shandril turned their heads in surprise, A moment later, Shandril leapt up out of the furs to embrace their visitor.

Tessaril winked at Narm. "I come bearing gifts," "Though not baring them as much as certain folk," Mirt grunted, stepping into view behind her and eyeing Shandril's naked form, still pressed against the lord of Eveningstar. Shandril stuck her tongue out at him. Narm got up, holding the rug around him, and cleared his throat. "Er-welcome! Will you have wine?"

Mirt swung a huge battle into view from behind his back and grinned at him.

"Thank ye, lad. I will," he said, striding forward. He'd brought his own huge pewter tankard, carrying it in the same large, hairy hand that held the bottle, The Old Wolf lowered himself to the floor with a grunt, stretched out on the rug before the fire. wheezed, snatched the fur from Narm's startled grasp, and draped it over himself coyly.

"0h, Shandril," ire trilled in mimicry of a young suitor, "I'm over here! You can come back and lie down by the fire now."

Shandril looked at him, the firelight dancing on her smooth curves, and then walked deliberately to him, turned a corner of the furs over the Old Wolf's face, and sat firmly on him. "So, what gift?" she asked, ignoring the muffled protests from beneath her.

Mirt started to reach his hands up to tickle her, but Narm grabbed them and ended up on the floor wrestling with the Old Wolf. Though her seat started to jerk back and forth beneath her, Shandril sat serenely atop the shifting and curling bear rug. Mirt's muted voice roared, "Don't break my bottle!"

At that, Tessaril looked up from her belt pouch, She took in the scene, put her hands on her hips, and whooped with laughter. When her mirth had died, the Lord of Eveningstar extended a hand and drew Shandril to her feet. Then, lips quirked in a wry smile, she plucked the bearskin out of the struggling pile and put it around Shandril. "This gift is somewhat serious," Tessaril said, "so we'd best calm the Old Wolf down a bit."

Narm, who'd found himself in a headlock several moments earlier and was now unable to get free agreed as audibly as possible.

When some order had been restored, Tessaril drew forth a sparkling gem from her belt pouch, "This is your gift," she said, "but I advise you not to touch it, or even keep it on your person-you can probably be traced by it, and there may be worse things magic can work through it. I've had the stone tested by the strongest wizards of Cormyr, and we think it's safe for you to see it. Remember: don't touch it!"

Shandril looked at her quizzically,

"It's a speaking stone," Tessaril said, releasing the gem. It floated in the air by itself, turning slightly, innocently winking back the light at them all, "It came to me in Eveningstar-borne by a merchant who'd come from Zhentil Keep,"

In the silence that followed her words, she stretched

forth a forger and touched the stone, Light winked within it, and then a voice spoke, cold and clear and very close, as if the speaker were in the room with them,

"To Shandril Shessair, greetings from Manshoon, and a promise: I and those I command will make no further moves against you and yours. Nor will we try again to gain spellfire. You may well mistrust this promise, but I assure you I'll keep it."

The light in the stone died, and the gem sank slowly to the floor, landing on the rug without a sound.

The stunned group stared down at it in silence, and then Tessaril bent over, took it up, and pocketed it. Shandril shook her head. "I know I'll never be able to trust those words, but-somehow-I believe him, When he said that, he meant it."

"Being killed can have that effect on ye," Mirt rumbled. "What puzzles me is how Sarhthor-Harper or no-knew about this' crown of fire' bit."

Tessaril looked up, "He was a Harper indeed, Mirt: High lady Alustriel confirmed it, She tutored him in the Art and recruited him, years ago, but no longer knew if he held himself a Harper or followed his own path of power and evil. At Manshoon's command, Sarhthor did a lot of research on spellfire, devouring entire libraries of spell-lore. In a diary kept in Candlekeep, he read the same passage I have: 'If someone freely gives his lifeforce to a wielder of spellfire, it powers the spellfire to truly awesome heights, causing a crownlike halo of flame around the spellfire-hurler.' "

Mirt looked at her, "This happened before? Someone willingly gave his life for a brighter flame?" He shook his shaggy head, "Ah, well, I suppose there's no shortage of crazed-wits in Faerun."