The Lord of Eveningstar must be dead.

Dead… or less a loyal friend than she'd seemed.

Without moving or opening her eyes properly, Shandril tried to peer through lowered lashes at all of the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedchamber around her.

Someone was standing at the foot of the bed. No, two someones.

"Shan," came a low, gentle voice she knew, from one of them. "Shan, I know you're awake. Please do nothing hasty-let there yet be peace between us."

Tessaril! Treachery!

With a wild shriek Shandril flung herself into the air, using spellfire to propel herself aloft out of a tangle of the sleeping-furs blazing up in flames. Narm cursed as he ducked and twisted away from them.

A wizard had been glaring down at Shan as she slept. He was shorter and much stouter than Elminster, with a high, wrinkled forehead, knowing eyes, and a beard streaked with black, gray, and white hairs, doing battle together on his chin. He had a jowly face, bristling eyebrows, many years on his shoulders, rich garments, and an imperious look. Shandril hated him on sight. Tessaril Winter was standing at his side, a drawn sword in her hand, its slender blade glowing with awakened magic.

"Traitor!" Shandril spat at her, pointing with a finger that flamed with spellfire. The palm of her other hand filled with searing flames, ready to hurl, as she turned to the wizard and snarled, "Mutter one word of a spell-just one-and I'll blast you to ashes, whoever you are!"

The old wizard nodded very slightly and said nothing.

The Lady Lord of Eveningstar shook her head sadly. "Did I not tell you I'd never betray you, Shan? I meant it. I always mean what I say."

"How can I trust that, when one spell from him and we could be dead?" Shandril growled, wrestling her fury down so no more of the room around would be burned.