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gone.
Elminster stood looking into the last of the flames, his old face
expressionless.
"\bu did that, did you not?" Tbrm asked, awed. "That wasn't... her/'
"Aye, I did it, though not alone, and aye, it was her. So she was one summer
before any of ye here but Merith was born. Her spirit lingered. I shaped an
illusion, and she came into it to bid me all of you good-bye." The mage
turned
to Rathan. "Thy holy water, good brother?"
Rathan nodded and stepped forward, unclasping a flask from his belt
reverently.
A scorched smell from The Sha-dowsil's fireball hung about his clothing and
he
moved with the careful stiffness of the newly healed. At the mage's gesture,
the
flames of the pyre sank and died, and Ratnan doused the charred bones from
head
to foot. Gray smoke rose and slowly drifted away.
Then Elminster removed his cloak, and Florin and Lan-
seril stepped forward to lay the bones upon it as soon as they were cool.
Jhessail joined her voice with the old mage's in a prayer to Mystra. When it
was
done, Elminster caught his cloak up in a bundle and said, "All well, friends?
Rathan? Torm? Ye took it the worst, if memory serves."
"Well enough," the cleric replied, and Ibrm agreed with a terse, "Yes."
Elminster nodded.
"Well, get thy treasure and let us see to Shandril. I would be gone from here
as
soon as she can safely travel wyrms who are not as dead as they should be
seem
to have a distressing habit of showing up here to visit." With that, the old
mage rose with his bundle and went over to Shandril, puffing on his pipe
thoughtfully. "I wonder just who shall call upon us next?" he said aloud,
Page 97
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looked
down at the bundle be bore, and shook his head suddenly.
Outside, the afternoon sun was bright upon the towers and parapets of Zhentil
Keep. Within the Tbwer High of Manshoon, lord of that city, all was dark save
for a circle of glass-globed candles in a corner of the high-paneled feasting
hall. No grand company had feasted there for twenty winters.
Beneath the tinted, flickering light was a small circular table and about it
the
high lords of the Keep sat in council. Lord Kalthas, general of the armies of
Zhentil Keep north of the Moonsea, spoke at ease, purring from beneath his
sandy
moustache, flagon of amber wine comfortably by his hand.
"Defending the empty wastes of Thar is not the problem," he said smugly, "now
that the lich Arkhigoul is no more. The Citadel is strong, and I see no need
to
weaken our forces by placing small garrisons here and there on various frozen
rocks in the east. If something comes over the mountains from Vaasa, let it
come. We can move in strength when any such foe has committed itself to a
long
journey and a particular target, and crush any invasion at our leisure. The
riders of Melvaunt can slow down any major assault long enough for us to
muster
patrols in from all Daggerdale and the Teshen lands. Why defend a week's cold
ride of barren rocks and snow? Any fool . . ." The deep boom of a bell
echoed somewhere in the darkness above them.
There was a sudden squeal of wood as the dark-robed figure of Manshoon, first
Lord of the Keep, who had been sitting in languid boredom on one side of the
table, rose suddenly. Table, papers, ink and quills, crystal decanters, and
ornate metal flagons all crashed together to the floor. More than one noble
lord, chair and all, went to the flagstones with them.
"My Lord!" gasped Lord Kalthas in protest, wiping wine from his fur-trimmed
doublet. His words fell into tense silence and died away as their speaker
realized his peril. "What means this?"
But Manshoon was not even looking at him. White-faced, he stared into the
air,
his voice quavered. "Symgharyl Maruel," he whispered, blinking away a tear.
Lord
Chess gasped aloud; more prudent nobles gaped in silence. None had ever
before
seen Manshoon cry or show any sign of weakness (or as one lord had once put
it,
"humanity").
Then the moment passed, and a coldly furious Manshoon snapped,
"Zellathorass!"
At his command, a globe of crystal swooped into view on the stairs, danced
sideways in the air like a questing bat, and darted over to spin in the air
before him. Manshoon seized it and peered into its depths, where a light
kindled
and grew.
He was silent for a moment, and his handsome face grew as cold and hard as
drawn
steel as he saw something that the other lords could only guess at. Then he
released the globe, which began to spin slowly, said "Alvathair" softly, and
watched it vanish back the way it had come. His mouth tightened.
He turned to face them all. "Sirs" he said curtly, "this meeting is at an
end.
For your safety, leave at once." He crooked a finger, and horribly grinning [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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