Agannor snored like handfuls of gravel sliding down a shield.
Bey was slower and deeper, like the call of a distant and melancholy war horn.
Florin, however, lay silent, because he was awake. Again.
Too full of that strange tingling to get back to sleep. It was with him always now, a faint singing by day but a louder whispering by night. He couldn’t make out the words, no matter how hard he strained, but somehow felt no evil, nor threat to him. “The favor of Holy Mielikki,” Hawkstone had murmured, just for him to hear. “Given to you, lad, to blaze within you until Our Lady of the Forest comes to touch you herself.”
And that was all the great ranger had said. He’d gone in with them to the table, but a bare two breaths later, when Florin—who very much wanted to talk to his former tutor, about the tingling and so many other things—had looked for him in all the scrapings of chairs and the king’s jovial words and servants scurrying to set out dishes, Hawkstone was simply gone.
Vanished, as if the very air had swallowed him, without anyone else seeming to notice his absence or even remark on his being there in the first place. They’d said nothing, any of them, about Florin receiving the favor of Mielikki. Whatever it was.
The tingling was growing inside him now, as if responding to his attention. What was it?
Oh, he’d talked to Doust and Semoor about it, and even Jhessail for a moment or two. When he mentioned it, they remembered it—vaguely, speaking words without interest or emotion, as if discussing something overheard about someone they knew not—but had nothing useful to say. Or even to suggest, beyond going to see a cleric of Mielikki. Which obvious deed he was already eager to do—if he ever found one. Those who’d come to Espar had been wanderers, as was the way of rangers and druids, and he’d never met a “treecloak,” as the druids called the clerics of all the woodgods in Cormyr. Yet it sounded very much as if the goddess herself was going to visit him. And “touch” him, whatever that meant. It must mean some sort of change or awakening in him, though, or why would Hawkstone have brought this power that now tingled within him to wait for it?
Unless he was entirely wrong, and it was something unknown.
Florin’s long sigh of bewilderment roused Agannor to snorting confusion, but the son of Hethcanter Falconhand and Imsra Skydusk slid down it a long, long way, deep and dark, until morning.
“Get in here,” Jhessail hissed, hauling Doust into the room. “We’ll have half the inn up if you stand out there—and they’re sure to want to know why you’ve come visiting and we’re so upset. One word spills out about wraith-nightmares and half Cormyr will be telling the other half that we’re cursed, and should be turned away from their doors, shunned, and all the rest of it.”
“Wraith-nightmares! S-so you dreamed the same thing!” Doust stammered, as they bundled him inside.
Martess set the unhooded lantern down on the wide shelf that crossed the back of the room, plucked up the sheet to cover herself again, and gave the priestling of Tymora a level look. “We did. Now just why did your dream bring you here, to the two of us? Or rather, to come as silent as a thief, then just stand there? Were you planning to hold up yon passage wall until morning?”
Doust blinked at Jhessail, suddenly aware that aside from her boot socks, she wore very little. Jhessail spread her hands unconcernedly, then pointed at Martess. “There’s only the one sheet, and I have my socks, so she has it.”
Doust sat down hastily on the floor and turned his back on them. The two women exchanged glances then got back into bed; the air was cold.
“I’m waiting,” Martess said. “How long does it take you to invent answers?”
“I’m not … forgive me. I dreamed that a wraith-thing—shapeless but it could see me, and rear up, and it was evil—was slithering like a snake, and, well, flowing some of the time, too. It came into my room, slithered around Stoop, then reared up and looked at me. It gave me a sneer, then went out under the door again. I put on my boots—our room is so cold that we both slept in our clothes—and went after it, but in my head I could see where it was going. It came here, and I reached to take down the passage-lamp and burned my hand on it. That’s when I realized I was awake. I left the lamp and hurried down to your door as swift as I could, and was standing there wondering what to do when you … opened up.”
Jhessail looked at Martess, who said slowly and distinctly, “Tluin. Gods-hrasting, stlarning—tluin. Tluin.”
Jhessail sighed. “I feel the same way, but cursing’s going to help us not at all. What was it? And did it do anything, to any of us? I don’t want to ride into danger thinking one of my friends, riding beside me, is really an evil monster inside, just waiting for the best chance to slay the rest of us.”
“Is that what it really was, d’you think?” Doust asked. “What if it was, say, a sign from the gods?”
“Surely the gods, being so greater than mortals, could craft a sign we could understand,” Martess said sharply. “Otherwise, what good is it? Do they think we’re going to go running to a random priest and ask what it meant? We know we’d only get his guess, and might not follow it, so what good would that do the god? If a dream isn’t a means of shoving us into doing or not doing certain things, why go to the trouble of crafting it?”
Doust nodded. “And which god sent it?”
Jhessail sighed. “None of this talk of ours matters. We’ve no way of knowing it’s to do with the gods or not. What if it’s a ghost that haunts this inn? Or a prowling monster? Or spell-sent by a wizard to hunt for something? It could be none of these things; we just don’t know. Now, if the gods want us to do something, they can tell us. Plainly. Otherwise, all this guessing is just that: our guessing. Or a priest’s guessing—and hear me well: I’m not spending the rest of my life wondering if I should do thus and so in accordance with someone else’s guesses. Guesses that could very well be wrong. And they will be someone else’s guesses, because I’m not wasting any time trying to guess anything.”
She ran out of breath and fury at the same time, and stopped abruptly. In the silence that followed, Doust and Martess said the same thing, in untidy unison: “Well said.”
It was a far later time than Tessaril Winter, the Lady Lord of Eveningstar, was accustomed to dining. Or to receiving smiling young Wizards of War alone in her bedchamber, for that matter.
Nevertheless, her room at the top of her tower was the most private and secure place she knew of in Eveningstar, and Vangerdahast’s spy was obviously starving. She filled his tallglass again—glowfire, and a particularly fine vintage—and earned a bright smile of thanks.
The cheese, nutbread, and spicy pickles were delicious. Peasant fare, but she liked them, and kept them to hand in jars and stone coffers in her closet. Her cooks had taken to sleeping in the kitchen and pantry, and she’d rather they not know of young Malbrand’s visit. The food gave their little chat something of a blanketfeast air, as if they were gallivanting together in a forest. Like a certain young noble lady and a handsome local forester, it seemed.
“These Swords must be something, if the Zhentarim are this worried about them,” Tessaril commented, helping herself to cheese and shaking her head ruefully. She’d known she’d be unable to resist, once the viands were out and she could see and smell them.
The war wizard nodded. “They won their charter by saving the king’s life, and ride now with the young Lady Narantha Crownsilver, much against the wishes of her parents.”
“Hmm. Am I to detain the lady?”
“Neither the Crown nor the royal magician have sent instructions. Lord and Lady Crownsilver will send instructions, likely howled loudly—but they don’t know she’s still with them. Yet.”
Tessaril smiled. “I like adventurers. Matchless entertainment.”
Malbrand rolled his eyes.
Tessaril snorted. “Stop that. And tell me of this saving of Az—of His Majesty’s life.”
The young mage was beginning to get over his awe of her and embarrass
ment at being served a meal by a lady lord of the realm clad only in a nightrobe, not two strides from her bed. He leaned forward eagerly. “Of course.”
Sipping glowfire and lifting his brows to her in appreciative salute—which she returned, silently raising her own glass—he asked, “Now, where to begin? Ah, I suppose with …”
The next morning dawned slow and chill, a reluctant sun slowly brightening an Eveningstar beset with the drifting smoke of thick ground mists. The dew had been heavy, and most folk busied themselves indoors, awaiting the warmer full sun.
Apothecaries, however, are desired in haste or not welcomed at all. The wooden box of his satchel rode heavily on Maglor’s hip, its shoulder strap creaking, as he strode along the village roads. Old Mother Naura wanted clearthroat syrup for her ailing youngest, Beldrak’s old wounds were stiffening and needed deepfire liniment, and—
Two rose-robed figures came striding out of the mists toward him, talking together in low tones. Ah, yes. The other brave farers forth in any sort of weather: priests of the House of the Morning, on holy business bent.
“Fair morning,” Maglor greeted them heartily. He was not loved at the temple, he knew. Though the priests of Lathander weren’t known for selling little bottles that soothed and healed, he was probably seen as a major reason for their lack of that particular source of easy coins.
“Fair morning, Master Maglor,” one replied briskly, deep-voiced. Hamdorn the Hand-Wringer, that would be, the large, florid, balding man who comforted grieving folk of Eveningstar with empty platitudes and soothing nothings.
Which meant the other priest would be Hamdorn’s nigh-constant companion, Claerend. The two conducted much of the temple’s daily dealings with the village, and so would be a good way to begin darkening the reputations of these Swords. Right now, before they’d even been seen in Eveningstar.
A few fell falsehoods, hints of “involvements” and “they say that,” would be a solid beginning. When he was done delivering bottled comfort, a visit to the Lady Lord of Eveningstar to impart similar tidings—as a frowningly troubled apothecary, passing on what he thought she should know, overheard from gossipy passing merchants—would be a second step of even greater solidity. Solid coin, solid progress; Maglor liked solid things.
He rubbed his hands as the priests drew nearer and a plume of wet mist slid away to confirm their identities, and asked, “Have you heard the latest? Seems the king’s decided to rid himself of some troublesome sorts and have another go at the Haunted Halls, at one stroke. He’s granted a charter to a band of younglings who call themselves ‘the Swords of Eveningstar’—not that they’ve ever set boot in our fair village yet, mind—and ordered them up here, to play at being adventurers! I’m thinking we’d all best be alert, lest more than a few chickens start to go missing, if you catch my drift …”
Hamdorn and Claerend stopped dead and leaned forward, interest clear on their faces.
Maglor hid a grin. Solid progress.
Jhessail was starting to get used to the constant creak of saddle-leather and jingling of bits and bridle-rings, but she suspected the ache in her thighs was only going to get worse. By the furrows on her roommate’s brow, Martess was feeling the same pain.
“Not used to riding, hey?” Agannor had asked with a friendly grin, spurring past her on his way to the front, back when they’d been leaving the inn yard. In his wake, Bey had looked away and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Strengthens the thighs!” Well, at least he hadn’t delivered those words with the delighted leer Semoor would have wrapped them in. Dhedluk was a full day’s ride ahead, halfway to Eveningstar, but the road ran through deep forest and the sun seemed in no hurry, so the mists would cling and roll along it for most of their way.
“ ’Ware outlaws,” the grizzled leader of a patrol of king’s foresters had said, coming into Waymoot as they were riding out. The mist had beaded the ranger’s beard with water, droplets that hung along his jaw like jewels. “This—and full night—are when they’re at their worst. Show those swords of yours, and wear the shields.”
Agannor and Bey, looking seasoned and formidable in the best armor and weaponry among the Swords, had gone to the fore. With a silent jerk of her head and firm hand on the bridle of his horse, Islif had taken Semoor with her to the rear—largely to keep him away from all the lasses and so curb his tongue a trifle, Jhessail suspected.
The rest of the Swords were strung out between, riding in pairs … though, as she’d expected, Doust was falling back now, to join Semoor. Those two were as thick as—
Hmm. Now, was or was not Pennae a professional thief? And if she was, what sort of trouble would that land them all in, and how soon? Islif had firmly chosen to room with Pennae last night, and hadn’t said anything much this morn, but perhaps a word or two …
Alongside, Martess was riding quietly. Jhessail liked her, thus far at least. She kept to herself, but watched the world alertly from under those arresting black brows. Just as eye-catchingly ivory skin—she seemed to own only high-collared gowns and tunics of black, dark blue, and purple, that made her look bone-pale. Black eyes, that ink-black long hair; if she’d been aggressive or insolent or acted sinister, she’d be the sort folk would be quick to call a “witch.” Slender, petite, child-sized—and still largely a mystery.
Not that many of the Swords would give much thought to who and what Martess Ilmra really was, when they had Pennae purring and jesting all over the place in skin-tight black leathers, with a coiled whip riding one of her hips. Just now she was riding with Florin, and when she wasn’t leaning close to say something tart or chuckle, she was running nimble fingers along his thigh, or striking poses in her saddle that best displayed her to his polite glances—small but nicely curved bells of which much could be readily seen, as she seemed to have forgotten to lace up most of the front of her leathers this morn. Oh, yes, that one was going to be trouble.
Jhessail sighed. Then she shrugged, smiling a little. A few days ago her troubles had been rooted in trying to think of a way out of Espar, and a waiting life of marriage into drudgery; at least she now had a fresh new set to ponder.
Chapter 12
TROUBLE TRAVELS NORTH
And when at last Prince Rarvarrick came to the Dread Door and struck mightily with his fist upon it, setting up a great storm of boomings and crashings, a tiny door within the door did open, and out from it thrust a head with no body, that floated in the air where most severed heads would have fallen, and spake unto him: “Thou art too late by a night, puissant prince. For, behold: the foe you seek hath flown. I am bid to say unto you: ‘Trouble Travels North.’ Make of this what you will, for being but a lonely head with no body, all that befalls is as one to me.”
Thaele Summermore
The Roisterings of Bold Prince Rarvarrick
published in the Year of the Grimoire
Let the favor of the Morninglord touch us all,” the patriarch of the temple intoned with dignity. Then Charisbonde sat back in the tallest and most ornate of the chairs in the rose-hued alcove, and asked less formally, “Now what occasions such haste, you two?”
“News of adventurers, soon to arrive in Eveningstar,” Claerend began.
“From Maglor, to us, just now,” Hamdorn put in.
Charisbonde glanced at the man who sat beside him. Myrkyr, Bright Banner of the temple, returned that look, then leaned forward in his chair to ask, “The Swords of Eveningstar?”
“Yes!” Claerend sounded relieved, rather than startled, that the two priests who led the House of the Morning knew of the adventurers already. “The apothecary said they were … less than trustworthy. That the king had chartered them to be rid of them, and sent them here to scour out the Haunted Halls.”
“And that all in Eveningstar had best beware thefts and worse, once they were here,” Hamdorn added.
Charisbonde and Myrkyr exchanged looks and nodded.
“Brothers,” Patriarch Charisbonde told them gently, “I would ask you
not to place any credence in words said by the apothecary. He serves Zhentil Keep, and whispers at their will.”
Hamdorn and Claerend blinked at him, clearly astonished.
“Then—” Claerend cleared his throat, visibly steeling himself to dare to say what he asked next. “Then why haven’t we denounced him long since? So dark is that brotherhood that he’d be hounded out and away from our midst, and so much the better. We can physic all Evenor at half the prices Maglor charges—without worry that this ointment or that pain-quaff might be poisoned, to do dirty Zhent dark-work.”
“We have at least reported his allegiance to the Crown?” Hamdorn looked anxious. The patriarch nodded.
Myrkyr rubbed his mustache in the back and forth manner that meant he was choosing his words carefully. “We await the right time,” he told Claerend. “Violence always births new things, but the Morninglord is best pleased with splendid new beginnings.”
Patriarch Charisbonde Trueservant stirred in his chair. “Of one thing I can promise you,” he said, rising to signify that this interruption of his midmorning prayers was at an end. “By our hands or others, Maglor will be dealt with very soon.”
“ ’Twould be best,” Islif said firmly, “if you two bosom chortling holy men did not ride together this day, dispensing your usual jests and airy comments. Not until we know our new friends rather better.”
“Agreed, Liff,” Semoor said quickly. “Clumsum here just wants a swift word with me.”
“And I’d prefer you listen in, too,” Doust told Islif, in a low murmur. “This concerns us all, and prudence, and—”
“Just say whatever you came back here to say,” Islif said curtly, in a voice as low as his.
“Well, then: I think we two should pray to our respective gods for guidance.”
“Regarding?” Islif’s voice was cool. “You’re not going to try to decide where the Swords go and what we do in accordance with what you claim the gods want, are you?”
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