None of the three wore smiles this day. None had been eager to enter the dark, tangled forest. It stretched on for miles, sprawling over most of eastern Cormyr, a wild and forbidding place. Foresters and hunters seldom ventured far into its dim depths. Long before night stole up to cast its cloak over Cormyr, the three had come to the end of the last, fading forest trail-and plunged on into the trackless, shady depths of the heart of Hullack Forest.

"We can't see far enough or move fast enough for my liking," Delg said, axe in hand. He glared at the trees all around them in the gathering gloom. "I'm beginning to hold the opinion that we'd have done better to have stayed on the road and faced whatever your enemies had left to hurl at us."

"I'm beginning to hold the opinion," Narm replied in a low voice, "that your words are wiser now than when you led us off the road."

"Belt up, lad" Delg put little anger behind his words; he peered tensely around them as if expecting an immediate attack.

"Wherever wisdom lies," Shandril said softly, "we can't find our way back now. We must go on. Night comes swiftly-we daren't travel blindly about in it, for I've heard of boars and worse hunted here. We must find a place to rest, before dark."

"Aye. A safe place," Delg grunted. "A place one of us can defend while the others sleep. A place with rock at our backs is best."

"Assuredly," Narm agreed. "I'm sure I've several such places just lying about here, somewhere… now where did I leave them, I wonder? Cou-"

"You," Shandril told him severely, "have been listening to the nimble tongue of Torm too much of late. Let's hurry, ere the light fails entirely: we must seek high ground and hope we find a cliff, or perhaps a cave."

"One without a bear," Delg added, hastening on in the gathering darkness. They could hear him puffing as they hurried on over leaves and tangles of fallen, mossy logs. More than once he slipped or stumbled and broke branches underfoot with dull cracking sounds. "I never liked forests," he added gloomily on the heels of a particularly hard fall.

Shandril and Narm both chuckled. They were climbing a tree-clad slope toward a place of slightly greater brightness in the deepening twilight; a glade, perhaps, or rocky height where trees grew more thinly. The forest around them was coming alive with mysterious rustlings and eerie, far-off hoots and baying calls. The three hurried onward and upward over tumbled stones, racing to find a refuge before nightfall caught up with them.

The trees thinned, and then the weary travelers came to an open space. Looking up, Narm saw stars winking overhead in the gathering night. A huge shadowtop tree had toppled here, perhaps a season ago, its vast trunk smashing aside smaller saplings to clear a little space in the thick, tangled forest. The three wanderers looked around for a moment, met each other's eyes, and nodded in unison. This place would have to do.

Delg caught Narm's elbow. "Gather firewood," he said. 'You and me. One each side of her, while Shan unpacks. Don't make noise you don't have to."

"A fire?" Narm said. "Won't that draw anyone who's searching-"

"They've magic, lad," Delg told him dryly. -They could find us if we stuffed leaves in our hair and stood like trees 'til morning. The big beasts, too – an' the smaller ones'll come to look, but not dare approach too near. We may as well have some comfort."

"Dear, dear," Gathlarue said, not very far away, as she looked into her softly glowing crystal, where three tiny shapes moved and spoke. Her slim lips crooked in a little smile. "I was so looking forward to seeing you stuff leaves into your mouth, Sir Dwarf. Now I'll have to stare at your fire-and looking into dancing flames always makes me sleepy"

"Wine, Lady?" Gathlarue's older apprentice stood over her, a dark shape against the trees that rose all around them. The slim, raven-haired girl held a silver-harnessed crystal decanter in her hands.

Gathlarue looked up at her, smiled, and took the goblet she offered. "My thanks, precious one. You know my needs so well."

Mairara twisted her mouth in a wordless, affectionate reply, bent to kiss her, and glided softly away. Gathlarue grinned faintly into her scrying globe; the blood-spell she had woven long ago let her listen to the thoughts of both her apprentices whenever she chose, unbeknownst to them. For all her kisses and kindnesses, Mairara meant to work her a painful death one day soon.

Before that day came, Gathlarue meant to use her well. To rise in the ranks of the Zhentarim would take more magic than Gathlarue could wield alone. A few days back, while in Zhentil Keep, she'd seen afresh all the cruel striving that would oppose her. The magelings had been gathered to hear Manshoon, and so much cruelty and aroused magic had hung barely in check in that room that the smell of it had almost made her afraid.

Almost. She'd have to be careful, as always; the other mages could bend their wills entirely to hurling destruction, but she always had to spare some Art when in their midst for cloaking herself in male guise. Her Zhentilar warriors respected her, but no women, it seemed, rose high in the robed ranks of the Zhentarim.

That could well change-soon. She had a spell that might handle even Lord Manshoon. More than that, she had one that might just foil spellfire. Gathlarue's smile deepened as she recalled finding the spell: she had discovered a place high atop a leaning, roofless tower in ruined Myth Drannor where a certain word and touch of a certain stone brought a portal into being in midair. The oval, shimmering door had led into some ancient wizard's long-abandoned hideaway. It was a cozy room tucked away in nothingness-a room whose walls were covered with shelves groaning under the weight of spellbooks. More spells than she'd ever have time to learn. Yet she'd taken away enough, if the gods smiled on her, to rule any corner of Faerun she chose. Not that anyone but her knew that, yet.

Gathlarue had learned patience down the years, and now it was an old, comfortable friend. She nodded, sipping the wine, and looked out into the gathering darkness of the forest depths. Her amulet made the drink safe, whatever drugs or poisons Mairara or others might have. added to it. She bent her concentration again to the stone.

Ah-the three had their fire lit and their cooking begun. They'd relax soon and talk. She'd listen and learn, not rush into find death from the maid's spellfire. Even the great Shadowsil had perished in Shandril's flames and Manshoon himself had been forced to flee. No, she'd watch and wait, to strike when the chance shone brightest As she always had.

Gathlarue took another sip of the warmed, spiced wine, and stretched like a languid cat From behind her, across their forest camp, came the faint but unmistakable sounds of Tespril entertaining one of the guards in the deepening night Gathlarue made a face in that direction. Really – the quality of apprentices one was forced to settled for these days.

Delg had produced a rather strong-smelling bundle from the bottom of his pack, and at Shandril's wrinkled nose and raised eyebrow had said only, "Yes, it's Zhent stuff. From Thundarlun. Owner past needing it. Handy, carrying an axe-everyone should."

The meat, whatever it had been, made a flavorful stew. Delg tossed liberal handfuls of onions into the little blackened pot. The warm, sharp smell that followed made Shandril think of Gorstag's onion-heavy stews back at The Rising Moon, the inn where she'd grown up. Her eyes were suddenly wet with tears. She'd been happy therehow happy, she hadn't known until too late. Now all that was lost forever; she dared not go back for fear her foes would slaughter her friends and burn the old Moon to the ground. She bit her lip and turned into Narm's arms, burying her face against his chest just before the hot tears came.