Shandril's body burst into bright radiance as the spell engine's energy flooded into her. An arrow in her shoulder glowed, melted, and was gone. She shuddered, still racked with pain-and Fzoul was upon her, snarling, javelin descending, The air flickered suddenly, and Sarhthor was there between them, a dagger in hand.

Fzoul's javelin plunged down-through the wizard's body. He stiffened as it pierced him, drove his dagger weakly into the high priest's neck, and gasped, "For Those Who Harp!"

Mirt stared at Sarhthor, open-mouthed, "A Harper? You?"

Fzoul lurched backward, gasping and tugging at the dagger in his neck.

Shandril pounced on him furiously. Spellfire blazed down her arms as she got both hands on the high priest's throat- His flesh sizzled, and ire screamed, eyes locked on hers. Shandril glared at him, flames rising from her eyes-and into his open mouth she spat a tongue of fire that went down to his vitals.

The high priest shuddered in her grip, clawing feebly at his weapons belt, and Shandril spat more fire, Fzoul's head arched back. He made a horrible rattling sound as spellfire exploded within him, Ribs burst out through his robes, and flames rose from his shattered body as Shandril shook him, still angry, and then shoved him away.

The body of the high priest of the Black Altar crashed to the floor in flames, The raging fire that consumed him was very hungry, Oily smoke rose from the tangled bones, Behind Shandril, Sarhthor staggered upright and gasped bloodily, "Sh-Shandril, listen. Touch my head...Use my life ... and raise a crown of fire-the most powerful spellfire. . . . Shatter towers... Take beholders... Hurry!"

As his words trailed away, the Zhentarim wizard convulsed around the javelin, falling to his knees.

"Do it!" Tessaril groaned from the floor, "He speaks truth! - Astonished, Shandril reached out and touched the wizard's head, They knelt together on the tiles, Sarhthor s eyes, red with pain hut bright with a fierce will, stared steadily into hers, Shandril felt the wizard urge his failing life-energy into her, It flowed through her fingers with an uneven tingling, and red-hued spellfire crawled slowly out of her, enveloping them both in a flickering aura.

The spellfire grew stronger, It brightened to blinding whiteness as the wizard's eyes darkened, He fell back, dead, mouth open and contorted, Shandril looked down at him sadly, then rose from her knees.

Roaring spellflames curled to form a crown around her head as she turned, white tipped and terrible. Her eyes were two leaping flames, spellfire surged out from her in beams that stabbed at the Zhentilar warriors all around the room. Men screamed as they died, but she did not seem to hear.

When no foes remained in the chamber, Shandril walked out into the Spell Court-Many of the Zhents had already fled, hearing and seeing the holocaust within the tower. Those brave or stupid few who had stayed at their posts realized their mistake immediately. Shandril's crown of spellfire lashed out again. A web of fiery rays leapt around the courtyard, felling the warriors there. The power roared out of her-and wherever she looked, men died.

In moments, Spell Court was cleared except for smoldering corpses. Shandril turned toward the nearest wall, her eyes blazing, and blasted the first doorway she found. Inside was a hallway filled with burnt bodies-wizards who'd been watching through slits in the door. no doubt. With roaring spellflames, Shandril sheared away through the corpse pile and stepped into the hall beyond, The heads of many an evil wizard peered out of doors and then hastily vanished. There were shrieks of fear.

Shandril smiled and sent killing spellfire after them, Faerun would be a better place without the Zhentarim. She strode on, sending flames swirling around the walls of every room she came to.

Ahead of her, a door slammed. Shandril sneered at it and let fly, The door and the man hiding behind it were immediately wreathed in spellflames. They turned to outlines of ash and fell-first the door, crumbling away like a torn curtain, and then the outline of the terrified man behind it.

Shandril shivered at what she'd done-and then remembered Delg, and the men of the Company of the Bright Spear who'd fallen before him, Laid low by wizards' spells. Deliberately she walked on, hurling balls of roiling spellfire into rooms right and left.

She came to the end of the hall; stone stairs ascended in a dark spiral, and she went up. The crown of fire still raged around her head and lit the way.

Dark armor gleamed in the light of her flames. A desperate Zhentilar suddenly leaned down from around the curve of the stairs, swinging a heavy morningstar. Spelllight twinkled and pulsed along its length; Shandril threw her hands upward and embraced the spiked end as it came, The weapon smashed her against tire wall. She crashed hard into the stone. Breath hissed out of her in plumes of flame, but still she clung to the weapon. The soldier above tried to tug the morningstar free, but Shandril smiled grimly al him and held on.

The magic of the enspelled weapon surged into her, the metal in her hands glowed white, melted, and ran through her fingers.

Cloaked in rising spellflames, she melted the sword that the terrified Zhentilar now swung at her-and then blasted into his helm, leaving it empty, blackened metal, The headless body fell limply to the stairs and rolled past her. She climbed on, hurling fire in all directions.

Fresh shrieking told her she'd come to another floor full of wizards. Futile spells lashed out, clawing at her in vain attempts to take her life; arrows of magic sizzled into nothingness as they leapt at her; balls of acid hissed into ash; and illusions of snarling dragons and diving beholders lunged at her, thrown by those who had nothing else to fight with, She blasted their upraised, spell-casting hands, the doors they tried to hide behind, and the floor they stood on, sparing none of them.

One overconfident Zhent flung open a door and flashed a sinister smile. Dark beams leapt at Shandril from his leveled wand. The spellfire Shandril unleashed swept away beams, wand, wizard, and all, smashing a hole in the side of the building, Flames rolled out of the fortress in a boiling ball, The torn and smoking contents of the room fell from tire scattering flames and rained down on Spell Court.

Zhentilar warriors had been flooding into the courtyard, frightened officers snarling orders and lashing those who lagged. In awed unison, they stared up at the rolling flames.

Something black and burning fell from the midst of the scattering fire and landed at one warrior's feet, It was a shriveled human hand, smoke rising from the exposed bones of its fingertips, The Zhentarim ring that had adorned one finger was only a melted star of metal now. The Zhentilar warrior looked up at the jagged hole in the side of the fortress, shivered, turned, and started to run.

An officer snarled an order, but the arrow that should have taken the fleeing soldier's life was never fired, The archer, too turned and ran-and then another, and another, until the square was emptying-shouting, fleeing men spilling out into the streets.

An explosion rocked a nearby spire of the citadel, It slowly cracked and fell, to shatter on the stones of the courtyard. Nearby, air old and crumbling balcony was tarred loose by the impact and broke off, Screaming priests tumbled into Spell Court with it- Inside the citadel, Shandril climbed on, A group of desperate wizards took a stand on the stairs, using spells to hurl stone blocks down on her, As Shandril smashed the first few blocks to hot, flying sand, an avalanche of stones thundered down the stairs and swept her away.

Wizards cheered. Shandril cascaded helplessly down the stairs, fetching up against the wall after tumbling a floor or two. Blood ran from her mouth and from a gash on her forehead; her face and arms were dark red with bruises. Finding her feet among life tumbling stones, she snarled and held up her hands, Spellfire blazed; her blood turned to flame, and her cuts sizzled. glowed, and were gone. Then she waved both hands angrily, and a column of spellfire roared up the spiral stair.

In its smoking wake Shandril climbed again, on steps that cracked and groaned with heat. Teeth crunched underfoot as she reached the place where the wizards had been; the only other trace left of them were ashes, spattered thickly on the walls, Shandril saw the outline of an outflung hand, a dark bulk that must have been a spread-eagled body, and a large area of black, oily ashes where many hands and bodies had thudded into the wall together. The smell of cooked human flesh was strong in her nostrils.

She shook her head and climbed on, emerging in a high hallway that led to the next tower of the fortress. She followed it to a high-vaulted room where beholders floated down out of the darkness to hurl futile magic against her. Shandril sent them spinning in flames, They one by one shattered against the walls of their chamber and fell, eyestalks writhing feebly. From there she followed the stink of burning flesh down a passage-and found herself again in Spell Court.

Frightened citizens of the fortress-city were staring in awe at the devastation there, So many of the cruel men who'd lorded it over them lay dead and broken, so suddenly laid low. Carrion birds were already wheeling watchfully in the sky high above.

Shandril surveyed the death she had wrought, then pointed at a few men who were going through the clothing of the sprawled Zhentilar archers.

"You," she said. They looked up, blanched, and fell on their knees, crying for mercy, "I don't want to kill you," she said wearily, "I want your service." She pointed into Wizards' Watch Tower and said, "Inside that place, you'll find three women, a young man, and an older, stouter man who are not clad as Zhentarim. You'll also find the wizard Sarhthor, he's dead. Bring all of them out to me, as carefully as you can-your lives depend on it." She watched them scramble up eagerly, "Oh-and take nothing from their pockets,"

This was done, Mirt and company removed well away from the Tower, Then Shandril raised her hands-and blasted Wizards' Watch Tower, Her fire roared into the open doors of the fore hall and burst out of a hundred windows, The tower shook. Cracks appeared here and there, widening with frightening speed as smoke spewed out of them. There were small green and pink explosions of flame in upper windows as the flames reached magic items there. And then the tower came apart.

The stone spire shifted, flung aside huge pieces of the upper floors, and hurled itself clown into the courtyard below. The rolling sound was like angry thunder. Men in windows around the court stared open-mouthed at the tumbling stone. Most of them were too tired to scream. Others seemed to take some satisfaction in seeing the tower fall. The last of its walls toppled into ruin, and dust rose up as the tortured stones of the courtyard heaved one last time.

Shandril looked around the court, spellflames dancing in her hair, breast heaving, Another turret toppled, It shattered on impact and sent stones bouncing and rolling almost to her feet.

Once the dust settled, she stood back, satisfied-and then frowned, Wizards' Watch Tower had been only one in a forest of gray fortress towers, most of which still stood. She raised her hands to bring the whole lot tumbling down... and then paused: a frightened dunwing was flying past her, calling to a mate it could not find.

Shandril watched it go, sighed, and shook her head. Life went on, towers rose and fell-and who noticed? What difference did it all make? She spread her hands and saw the spellfire rippling along her skin, What good was all this power to hurt and kill and compel? It was empty, Well, at least she could also heal.

Shandril turned to where her companions lay, and spellfire flared in her hands again, Narm's body was still, his lips twisted in a snarl of agony. Shandril looked down at him, and the face of Delg came into her mind.

Her eves blurred with sudden tears, She knelt and kissed those twisted lips gently, and felt them move under hers as spellfire slid slowly out of her. Carefully she held its flow in check, pressing herself against the body of her man, willing his hurts to fade away, Spellfire rushed through him, clearing away burns and clotted blood, scars and contaminated flesh, Narm groaned weakly, shifting under her, and Shandril shared her spellfire, letting it run into him in a pool of fiery force, Narm stiffened.

"Ohh!" he gasped, "Gods, but that burns!" His eyes flew open.

Shandril smiled down into his bruised face and kissed him, taking her spellfire back. Flames leaked around their lips as he smiled in grateful relief from the pain, then hugged her happily.

When Shandril broke free to breathe, Narm grinned up at her, "You've won! You did it!" he said.

Shandril crooked an eyebrow, "We did it," she replied, almost disapprovingly, "Without you-and the others-I'd be so much meat on Fzoul's floor right now."

She sighed and glanced up, A Zhentilar who'd been cautiously approaching across the courtyard turned and fled, Shandril chuckled.

"Fzoul and most of the wizards here- are dead-and I think I'm done with killing Zhents for a bit ... unless they try to bother its again before we leave," She stood up. "How do you feel?"

"Weak, but whole," he said with a smile, He tried futilely to smooth down his hair with his fingers; it stood out straight from his scalp, "I've had enough of a taste of spellfire to know I never want such power" he added, "How are you, Shan?"

Shandril smiled at him, "Never better, lord of my heart." Spellfire danced in her eyes for a moment.

Narm shank away with an involuntary shiver.

Sadness touched Shandril's eyes as they stared at each other. Narm reached out to lay his hand firmly on her arm, "It's not-I don't fear you, my love; it's just the fire-"

"I know," she said softly, "You, at least, don't think of me as a prize to be fought over, or a goddess of fire to be feared."

Narm looked at the motionless forms lying nearby, "Neither do these Harpers, love," he said, She turned to Narm and replied, "Yes, time to wake these dear friends-all but Sarhthor, I fear." She stared at the wizard's sharp features and impulsively bent and kissed his cheek. He did not stir, Sad and sober, Shandril turned to heal her other friends with a kiss,. .

The last tingling of the spellfire left Mirt, and the gentle healing hands withdrew. The Old Wolf growled and tried to struggle to his feet. The world swam, and his knees gave way, He fell back, too weak and dazed to rise yet, ...

Tessaril sighed and fought her own weakness, Dragging herself upright, she leaned on her sword for support, "Come, Lord," she said quietly, extending a hand. Mirt groaned again, and struggled to reach her slim fingers....

"Mono. That was a nice kiss," Belarla said, stretching, as she lay on her back on the flagstones. Shandril watched the wrinkles of pain fading away from the Harper s beautiful face and smiled down at her. Belarla smiled back "Yes, she's much better than most of our clients," a still groggy Oelaerone commented from nearby, She sat idly turning something in her fingers: a few scorched feathers clinging to a blackened wooden shaft-all that was left of the arrow that had nearly claimed her life. "But then they're men ... and what do men know of kissing'"

Belarla rolled up to one elbow. She stiffened and put a warning hand on Shandril's arm. "Speaking of men," she murmured, pointing.

Shandril looked up quickly and saw men with grim faces-priests in the black robes of Bane-coming into the courtyard. The Holy of Bane were more than a score strong, and some of them held glowing staves and maces, A tall man at their head raised his staff, pointed at Shandril and her companions, and shouted, "For the glory of Bane, stay them!"

"Slay them!" thundered thirty throats as one, and the priests loyal to Elthaulin, the New Voice of Bane, followed him forward, With a dark look in her eyes, Shandril rose from the Harpers. Spellfire swirled around her hands and ran swiftly along her hair-and then she sent it lashing out, Elthaulin blazed up in front of her like a dry torch.

Healing took far more spellfire than smiting, Shandril realized wearily. Mast I go nn killing forever? "Halt, men of Bane!" she cried, "Let me be, and I'll leave: you alive. Or strike at me-and taste this!"

Shandril let flames roar up into the sky and forced a savage smile onto her weary lips. The priests-' charge ended, They screamed and pushed at each other in a mad retreat. Shandril followed, grimly determined to make the city safe by nightfall, No, they'd not soon forget Shandril Shessair in this city.

By the time Shandril returned to Spell Court, the sun was setting over the Citadel of the Raven, In the gloaming, she saw winking spell lights beside the cluster of her friends, The lights faded, and a single figure stood where they'd been-the Bard of Shadowdale. Shandril ran joyously to meet Storm, who had begun conversing with Mire and the others.

As Shandril approached, Storm turned and called out warmly, "I wondered when you'd grow tired of devastating the place,"

They hugged each other. "Belarla and Oelaerone send you their heartfelt thanks and their congratulations," Storm said, "Mirt tells me they had to get back to their house, before the customers started to come calling-and before you got them into another fight they might not walk away from."

Shandril had started to laugh, but she fell silent at those set words, She looked past the bard at the body of Sarhthor of the Zbentarim lying still on the flagstones, Shivering she clutched Storms strong, reassuring body harder and quietly told the bard what the wizard had done before he died.

Storm drew back in surprise, staring alternately at Shandril and Sarhthor, "I don't recognize him," she said, "but I don't know all the Harpers in Faerun, after all," Her face darkened, "Come; let's be gone from here before Manshoon regains control,"

"Manshoon?"

Storm smiled ruefully." Manshoon is always less dead than he appears, Elminster's slain him more than once before-quite thoroughly-only to have to do it again a winter later, Manshoon has his secrets," She smiled more broadly and dropped something into Shandril's hand, "And now you do, too."

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, Shan-dril," 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,"'ressaril 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."