Lord of Stormweather fr-7

by Dave Gross

  The gods smiled upon the Uskevren, at least so far. While a few dear friends and several key members of the household had perished in defense of the family within the past few years, none of his kin had fallen to an assassin's blade.

  Thamalon meant to keep it that way, and for the past ten months he'd been working secretly, tirelessly to that end. If only he could complete the negotiations he'd so carefully crafted, then he would go gently into his final slumber, knowing that his sins and those of his father could be washed from the hands of his children. If he succeeded, he need no longer fear that the lives of his sons and daughters would end upon a rival's blade.

  What infuriated him was that only when he was so close to achieving that goal, one of his foes had hurled him a thousand miles-if not farther-from where he needed to be.

  The rattling chains slowed, and the lift chamber came to a gentle halt. Thamalon listened for a commotion on the other side. If he heard voices, he planned to descend again and hope investigators could not arrive before he fled.

  He heard nothing, so he opened the door. Beyond was a passage similar to the one he'd entered below, and he immediately spied the lever operating what must be from the outside another secret door. He closed the door to the lift behind him and turned the lever all the way down, sending the lift back to its original place.

  The second secret door also opened behind a tapestry. Thamalon blessed his luck that he remained concealed, for he heard sobbing from beyond the fabric. He lay down to peer under the tapestry.

  The room beyond was unlighted, but the moon shone through a breach in the storm clouds and filled the glass chamber with silver light. It curved around the tower to either side from the central spire. Flowers overflowed their vases on low tables between an intimate trio of couches. To one side of them was a small round dais on which stood a stringed instrument that must have been a harp, despite its improbable geometry. On the other side of the furniture was a basin carved of a seamless chalcedony.

  The chamber's sole occupant was a slender elf woman. He knew at a glance that the woman had been starved by illness, or more likely by despair.

  As Thamalon spied upon her, the woman heaved a sigh and sat up. With an economical swipe of her handkerchief, she dried her cheeks and assumed an imperial composure, head erect, eyes firmly forward, focusing on nothing. With a fine brown hand, she replaced the coal-black tresses that had spilled across her face.

  Unveiled, her face was even more youthful than Thamalon had imagined. She appeared even younger than his daughter, except for those wise, dark eyes. She might be twice or thrice Thamalon's age, he reminded himself.

  After a moment, the elf rose and went to the basin. With an arcane pass of her hand, she evoked an image in the air. Miniature clouds formed above the basin, and wild lines of electricity arced between them. Simultaneously, lightning flashed above the dome.

  As the woman observed the image of the sky, Thamalon left the secret passage. He closed the door just as the thunder crashed over the tower, then he slipped out from behind the tapestry.

  In the silence between the thunder, he cleared his throat.

  The woman looked at him, one fine black eyebrow arched.

  "If I am disturbing you, my lady… Malaika…?"

  She didn't reply, but Thamalon took the slight raising of her chin as acknowledgement of her identity.

  He waited a moment more for an invitation to stay. He didn't wish to take her silence for consent, so he tried another tack.

  "Then, alas, I shall have to await rescue. I am afraid I depleted my supplies on the second day of the climb, and my guide perished not five hundred steps below the summit."

  A flicker of concentration smothered Malaika's smile before it could form. Still she didn't speak. She turned back to observe the image she'd conjured.

  As Thamalon approached, he noticed that the woman was even smaller than he had realized. Her thin body gave her only the illusion of height. The crown of her head didn't reach the height of his shoulders.

  Thamalon joined her at the basin. A dark, rippling liquid filled the bowl. Motes of colored bight rose and popped like bubbles on its surface.

  Thamalon looked from the clouds above the basin to those outside. They looked identical in every way but scale.

  Turning back to the basin, Thamalon saw something new. A vast shadow floated through the clouds. Its tip pierced the foggy shroud at last, and vapors trailed from the ridges of its body as it emerged into the clear sky.

  From their vantage, the creature looked less like a whale than a perfectly symmetrical island. From its back sprouted a veritable forest from which glowed tiny red fires. One of the fires winked out, and a barely visible orange thread ran out from the greenery. As the line grew longer, it curved back in the wake of the monstrous creature. A few seconds later, its leading point exploded into a ball of flame.

  "The fools," whispered the elf, her tone urgent and pitiful.

  Before Thamalon could ask a question, lightning leaped from a point near the fireball to strike at the spell's origin. A few seconds later, a nearly identical bolt struck the same spot.

  The elf reached to the basin and plucked at the image of the soaring creature. With her gesture, the vision grew larger. Thamalon could see a tiny image of the Sorcerer, his crimson cloak snapping in the wind. He gripped his winged scepter in one hand. In the other he held a fiery blue ball of spitting lighting. Beside the gargantuan creature, he appeared no larger than a gnat.

  "What is that?" Thamalon asked.

  He pointed to a long green shape emerging from the forest atop the skwalos. From its hunched back rose a pointed fin, beyond which a flatworm of a tail tapered to a ragged little fluke. Its yellow wings were wider than its body was long, and its hind claws were enormous even for the creature's great size. A fleshy, spiral horn sprang from its long skull. The faintest aura of witchfire played along its length.

  "Yrthak," said Malaika.

  Trepidation soured her dulcet voice, and Thamalon wondered whether she feared more for the Sorcerer or for his foes.

  The yrthak cupped its wings and floated steadily down toward its prey. Its eyeless head was split with a crocodilian smile. Between its yellow teeth, its tongue curled up to form a fat pink knob. The creature held its mouth open, as if tasting the storm.

  "He doesn't see it," said Thamalon.

  He watched as the Sorcerer flew toward the surface of the skwalos. From his outstretched fingers, five dazzling sparks raced toward unseen targets beneath the tangle of flora upon the back of the creature.

  The elf's fingers danced above the image, evoking quick views of each successive target of the Sorcerer's spell. Two of the magic missiles struck and slew elf archers crouching amid the shelter of the foliage. Another wounded a white-haired elf and shook him from the concentration of his own evocation.

  Another wave of thunder broke over the tower, shaking the metal casement. A sympathetic vibration set the glass humming all around Thamalon and Lady Malaika.

  The place is called Stormweather for a reason, Thamalon told himself. Still, he counted the paces between his position and the relative shelter of the stairs.

  "No!" Malaika cried.

  She gripped the edge of the basin as the yrthak folded its wings and dived toward the Sorcerer. Even before it reached him, an invisible force shook the Sorcerer's body and tore the cloak from his shoulders. Thamalon heard nothing except the wind and rain, but his teeth ached as if someone had scratched fingernails across a slate.

  The Sorcerer's great helm buckled beneath the force, and his limbs trembled as if in seizure. For an instant, his muscles strained against the attack, but then his arms and legs went slack.

  The Sorcerer fell, and the yrthak dived after him, jaws agape.

  Thamalon felt a grip on his arm. Malaika didn't look at him, but her tiny hand squeezed tighter as they watched the Sorcerer plummet.

  The Sorcerer's arm reached out in a gesture so casual that Thamalon wasn't sure whether
he was conscious of it. Then came a dark, flapping blur, and the crimson cloak few back into its master's grip. With a dancer's graceful flourish, the Sorcerer rolled his shoulders back into his mantle. In the instant he fixed the clasp about his throat, the shapeless fabric billowed out in the fullness of its enchantments.

  The Sorcerer stopped falling so abruptly that the yrthak plunged past him before realizing its prey had recovered. As the creature spread its wings, the Sorcerer was already unleashing a hail of white fire. Fierce meteors shot through the yrthak's wings and tore black rents along its flanks.

  The creature flailed helplessly. Before it could turn its tumble into a glide, a lightning bolt flew from the Sorcerer's fist and sheared away one of its crippled wings.

  The Sorcerer started to pursue his fallen foe, but then he paused and looked all around. He spotted two more yrthak descending from the skwalos. He flew up long before they could reach him, flinging white beams of lightning and red balls of flame at his opponents. One of the fliers blackened and fell, while the other turned its seared back to its foe and plunged into the obscuring clouds.

  Triumphant, the Sorcerer turned back to his original prey. He mirrored the course of the skwalos, shocking its enormous flank with lightning to spur it closer and closer to Castle Stormweather.

  When Lady Malaika looked up through the ceiling, Thamalon followed her gaze to see the terrible silhouette of the skwalos through the glass. He discerned the Sorcerer's location by tracking the white streaks of energy he cast.

  Thamalon turned back to the basin for a better view, hardly noticing that Malaika withdrew. He saw the Sorcerer shake his scepter at the skwalos. From its bright ruby shot a barbed spear. The weapon sank deep into the creature's hide, and immediately a ribbon of red lightning shot down from the wound to the ground. The crackling light persisted even after the initial flash, coruscating in a constant line between earth and sky. It wriggled and contracted, tugging its skyborne prey toward the ground.

  The Sorcerer raised his scepter, and in a hot red flash, another spear appeared above the pulsating ruby. He flew to the other side of the skwalos, alert for further defenders.

  None came.

  He cast the second harpoon, and another red line of energy bound his prey to the ground. Slowly, the skwalos began sinking below the clouds. The Sorcerer followed until Thamalon could see neither of them through the basin's cloudy image.

  He spared a glance through the ceiling windows, but all he could see were dim eruptions of red light through the clouds. The thunder began to subside, leaving only the sound of steady rain upon the glass.

  Malaika sat beside her harp, head bowed as she leaned upon its neck.

  "It's over," he said, thinking it might console the lady.

  "No," she said. "It is only beginning. Soon my lord's servants will catch it with their flensing hooks." Malaika looked at Thamalon as if seeing him for the first time. She said, "You are the traveler."

  "You may call me Nelember," Thamalon said, making a courtly bow.

  "Yet that is not your name."

  He repeated his bow, this time with an apologetic hand over his heart. He didn't question how she perceived his obfuscation.

  She gestured an invitation to sit, and he obeyed, then she rose to stand close to him, looking down into his face. Her eyes searched his features for long seconds. She touched his brow and ran a finger down the straight line of his nose.

  "What secret do you keep from my lord?"

  Thamalon smiled at her remark. He affected a casual tone and said, "What makes you think I have a secret from him?"

  "Because everyone has a secret from the Sorcerer," she said. "That is his curse."

  Where she had seemed at first frail and frightened, she was transformed into a daunting inquisitor. Thamalon feared that she might be the more dangerous of his hosts.

  "What secret do you keep from him?" he countered, already regretting the bluntness of his riposte.

  "Not a one," she replied. "That is my curse."

  "Does he know you weep for his enemies?"

  "Rather say, 'for his victims.' Yes, he knows. Nothing pleases him more than forcing me to call the skwalos, then to watch as he enslaves and butchers them."

  "Are you his prisoner?"

  "No," she said.

  "Then why do you endure it?"

  "Because I remember him as he was," she said, "as a boy whose heart was filled with dreams. You know my curse. My blessing is that I can still remember him as he was, and I can hope that he will become that boy again. Perhaps you will succeed where I have failed these many years."

  "What possible influence could I have over-"

  "You are his father, are you not?"

  Her words came as no surprise to Thamalon, and more than ever he accepted the likelihood that this Sorcerer was the dark reflection of his son, just as Castle Stormweather was a vast shadow of his home. It was a simple puzzle on its face, but he still had no idea of its key.

  Thamalon began to suspect that the woman was somehow reading his thoughts.

  "Did he tell you so?" he asked.

  "No," said Malaika. "I believe he suspects it but is not certain. You humans change so quickly over so short a time. Still, I see you in him. He has your eyes."

  "He does look very much like my eldest son," admitted Thamalon. They could be twins, but he's not Tamlin."

  "Hush!" Malaika glanced urgently at the stairway and said, "Let no one hear you say that name."

  "Let me guess," said Thamalon. "It is forbidden."

  "It is no matter for jest. You have not yet seen what he is capable of doing to those who displease him."

  "Even one he suspects could be his father?"

  "Especially to him. The Sorcerer guards his power jealously. He keeps it secure in a vault beneath the castle."

  "Keeps what secure?"

  "His dreams," she said. "Once constrained, they gave him the power to hunt the skwalos and destroy all who would oppose him."

  "I assure you, I have no designs on his dreams, my lady," said Thamalon. "All I wish is to return safely to my own home and my own family. What possible reason would I have to offend my host by disturbing his precious vault?"

  "Because it is the gate through which he first came to our world," she said, "and opening it is the only way for you to return home."

  CHAPTER 17

  ALLIANCES

  Escevar pinched his nostrils shut with a bloodstained handkerchief.

  "I warned you not to broach the subject so soon," said Tamlin. He suppressed the laughter, but his amusement obviously showed.

  "It's not funny, Deuce," said Escevar. "I think she broke it."

  "Did she at least give you an answer?"

  "She said if you like Brimmer Soargyl so much, you should marry him."

  "Did she like any of the other prospects better?"

  "She refused to hear of them. I think her words were, 'I will not be married off like so much decorative chattel.'"

  "Well, we knew she wouldn't care for the idea. Perhaps she still fancies that Steorf fellow. Give them a few more months, and one of them will tire of the other. Still, now is a much better time. Did you speak with Talbot?"

  Escevar glared at him over the handkerchief.

  "All right, all right," said Tamlin. "Much as I dread the thought of what offspring the great brute might produce, I'll make some time to suggest it to him myself."

  "You had better invite the entire house guard to that conversation. If you can put a leash on him first, so much the better."

  Tamlin sighed. He'd known his siblings wouldn't welcome the thought of socially advantageous marriages, but he'd hoped they would at least consider the idea. It wasn't as if he was unwilling to do the same to ensure the continuance of House Uskevren. Most of his peers had already produced at least an heir and more often two or three. More than ever, it was imperative to show stability, and marriages were the easiest way to reassure the rest of the Old Chauncel.

  If Tamlin
could establish a few new alliances along the way, so much the better.

  "Here," said Escevar, who had put away the handkerchief and revealed his swollen pug nose. He laid a sheaf of parchment atop the books Tamlin had been reading. "These need your signature."

  Tamlin glanced at the new documents-land leases, transportation bonds, pay releases, bills of sale-all of them were important if boring, but they irritated him all the more because they were distractions from his more crucial work.

  "You already balanced these against the treasury?"

  Escevar grimaced and said, "We cannot pay out more until we've received the balance of this month's income, but these are the most urgent issues."

  Tamlin signed them one by one. Impatience turned his usually elegant signature into a ragged scrawl. When he was done, he reached for the sealing wax and nearly knocked over the candle.

  "Here," said Escevar, removing the documents and taking away the candle. "I'll take care of that for you."

  "Remind me to give you a raise," said Tamlin.

  "I gave myself one this morning."

  He wiggled his thumb and pointed to the Uskevren seal on Tamlin's hand.

  "You're the very model of efficiency," laughed Tamlin. He removed the seal from his thumb, but he hesitated before passing it over. "You didn't actually…?"

  "Hopping Ilmater, Deuce! It was just a joke."

  "Sorry," said Tamlin, surrendering the ring. "I guess the lack of sleep is making me jumpy."

  "If you wouldn't insist on having the servants wake you so early, you might get a good night's rest."

  "I know," said Tamlin, "but even with your help, there is still so much to do. Somewhere among these letters must be the clue to my father's disappearance."

  "You still think he's alive somewhere?"

  "Maybe," said Tamlin. "Yes. He must be. And I must find him."

  "And give up all this?"

  With an awkward wave of his own laden hands, Escevar indicated the stacks of documents on Tamlin's desk.

  Such clutter was a new phenomenon in Tamlin's receiving room. Adjacent to his bedchamber, the place usually projected the false impression that Tamlin was meticulously tidy in his business pursuits. The fact was that he'd spent most of his life avoiding exactly such endeavors, so he rarely had any use for the chamber's exquisitely carved writing desk or its bookshelves stocked with histories of the Dalelands, Cormyr, Sembia, and all the most significant states bordering the Moonsea. Except once or twice to pretend he had been engrossed in one of the books before a surprise visit from his father, Tamlin had never read so much as the preface to what he presumed was desperately dry reading.