by Ed Greenwood
Broglan nodded in satisfaction, his face momentarily losing a little of its worried look. “I could not have put it any better. The manner of death is exactly our prime concern—though we should not, of course, admit that to anyone. Officially, we are here because the security of the realm demands that the death of any noble be investigated—and the violent death of any heir brings wizards of war to the scene.
“Please bear in mind that the dowager lady we met in the courtyard is precisely the type to go running to the king with complaints no matter what happens. Let’s not be stupid enough, or allow ourselves to be goaded far enough, to give her anything reasonable to complain about. Let her make herself ridiculous. Don’t give her any chance to make us look the fools.”
He tossed his belt to the floor and undid the sash to let his overrobe fall open. “Now, the baths await. See to your rooms and baggage—and gentlesirs all, let us be very clear: this situation could hold peril, so I’ll tolerate no pranks. Save your nasty magics for other folk, not your fellow mages.”
Without another word, Broglan strode to the bath chamber. Insprin followed, and they heard the metal lids clatter up as the two older mages uncovered the heated baths.
With one accord the four younger war wizards turned to the heap of baggage and started pulling and tossing satchels and crates aside.
“So, laddies—pleased to be here?” Lhansig cooed in mimicry of a gushing matron, batting his eyebrows.
“Thanks to Mother Laspeera,” Corathar said savagely, “I’ll have to miss the Six Harpists concert, just to cool my heels in this backwater. Thank you, Mother Inthré!”
Murndal smiled. “I remember when she still called herself Laspeera Naerinth, before she married her mysterious man.”
“Oh, yes. Do we still know nothing about him?”
“Well, he keeps to her quarters all the time—and I do mean all the time—cloaked and masked. The mask, they say, changes his features constantly, so that none know what he truly looks like. He can cast spells, but wears a blade. Some say he’s a Harper, some—”
“I know, I know,” Hundarr broke in sarcastically. “Some say he’s a Red Wizard, some a Zhentarim, some a Halruaan outcast, and a few are even proposing he’s a lich from long-lost Netheril. They say such things about every recluse in this land who knows a few light spells!”
Murndal sighed. “Yes, but this one does spend time scrying and working on spells. I’ve seen glimpses of the first and smelled and heard the less successful forays of the second. He’s a powerful mage, all right, but he can’t be a lich! Can you see Laspeera going to bed with a dead man? Or some sort of well-spoken, magically adept monster? I don’t think so!”
“We’re not here to think,” Corathar said sharply. “That’s the problem. We’re always sent to places to look impressive and scare the chitlins out of folk, so they’ll think—think twice, that is, about doing naughty things ever again.”
“Well, I think we look very impressive,” Lhansig joked, turning a cartwheel. “By the gods—you were all upside down, for just an instant there! How do you mages do that?”
Hundarr rolled his eyes. “Must you?” He turned to one of the doors. “If you must play such tricks, turn a few of those cartwheels in your bath—and call us in to watch, first!”
“One of these days Lhansig’ll trip over his own tongue,” Murndal murmured. “I wonder if we’ll all be there to watch then?”
* * * * *
The wine and the roast boar had both been good, very good. They almost made up for having to listen to the barbs of the old Dowager Lady Daggertongue.
Lhansig chuckled and shook his head as he strode to the jakes—they probably called it a garderobe here, just to seem more sophisticated. It was the same brittle, empty way that Hundarr strove to be sophisticated. Lhansig rolled his eyes and hummed “I’ve Always Been A Lady Fair” as he shouldered his way through the door.
A single lamp was guttering, and the place wasn’t any too well lit. The sea-serpent-mawed bowl he was seeking ought to be around here … yes. He contentedly fumbled with the laces of his codpiece—and so never saw the hand that drove his head forward against the wall, hard.
Lhansig Dlaerlin reeled back, dazed. Deft hands plucked his tunic up and over his head, blinding him. He was struggling to draw breath when two very sharp things burst through the cloth and into his eyes … and there was no longer any need to scream.
White fire surged through the brain of the man who was always smiling and joking, and he opened his mouth in a last, soundless laugh as all he had ever been was sucked away. It did not take long.
Quick hands laid a silver harp pin on the wizard’s breast—and then whimsically plucked up his unlaced codpiece and perched it on Lhansig’s nose. It was a gesture worthy of the man, after all.
* * * * *
“Great gods above!” Broglan gasped, rising from the body, looking old and sick as well as worried. “The effrontery of this!”
The somber circle of shocked faces around him remained silent. Insprin, on his knees by Lhansig’s motionless form, looked up and said quietly, “Nothing my Art can find.”
“Then put his codpiece back and cover him,” Broglan said in sudden, savage anger, face going red, “before one of the guards comes in here, and the jest spreads all over the keep!”
“S-Some jest,” Corathar said, white to the lips.
“Death is never far away, lad,” Insprin said almost absently. Corathar turned a glare of mingled hatred and fear down at the older wizard. Not seeing it, the veteran mage added, “This was a clear warning to us.”
Broglan looked down again at Lhansig’s eyeless, staring skull. The flesh had been burned away, leaving the death-grin of the bones beneath. He shivered. “Even the Harper badge told us nothing?”
Insprin shook his head, and plucked the pin from Lhansig’s breast. One of the younger mages drew in his breath, as if expecting deadly magic to be unleashed—but nothing happened. Insprin shot a reassuring look in that direction, and mutely held up the badge.
It gleamed in front of Broglan’s nose in the flickering candlelight, and he took hold of it. “Why a Harper badge?”
“One who was slain here—Hornblade—” Murndal said, “his was found on him, the seneschal said.”
Broglan Sarmyn frowned, looking worried again. “This must be the work of Storm Silverhand. We were warned about her for good reason. She must be here already, lurking in the keep!”
He strode to the door, and then turned and snapped grimly, “Insprin, inform the seneschal and the boldshield about Lhansig’s … demise. Have the Purple Dragons search the Haunted Tower. I’ll go to farspeak the royal magician.”
Three
STANDING STONES AND AUSPICIOUS ARRIVALS
The wards flickered one last time before settling down to a steady glow. Satisfied, Broglan Sarmyn seated himself at the table, sighed, and unwrapped the bundle he’d laid there. Black velvet unfolded into a circle with a diamond-shaped cushion at its center. On its puffed softness lay a flat-bottomed but spherical chunk of glossy black obsidian as large as Broglan’s fist.
He took a deep breath, glanced around the room warily, and tapped the stone with a finger, murmuring a certain word under his breath.
The stone quivered and slowly lifted away from its cushion, wavering up into the air to hang above the table at about the level of Broglan’s nose.
Broglan stared at it less than happily, the worry lines on his forehead deep again, and said, “Broglan Sarmyn, speaking from Firefall Keep. Lord High Wizard?”
“I hear you,” the royal magician’s voice rasped from the stone. It sounded sharp—but then, through speaking stones, it always did. “What news?”
“One of my team has been slain, presumably by the same creature or magical attack that killed the Lord Summerstar and the Harper agent,” Broglan said heavily. “Lhansig Dlaerlin is no more—and we’re no wiser as to how it was done. A Harper pin was left on his chest for us to find, and the body was arr
anged in such a way to mock us.”
“Burned out, and barred to all magic, as before?”
“Aye.” It was a measure of how upset Broglan Sarmyn was that he forgot to use any of Vangerdahast’s titles. His next words made that agitation very clear. “What should I do?”
The stone turned slowly in the air and emitted a sound that might have been a sigh. “I can’t spare the time just now to investigate,” the distant Vangerdahast said bluntly, “and I’m leaving this in your capable hands. I realize this is something that could kill you all—and baffle Laspeera, myself, Elminster, and every last one of his ex-apprentices, for all I know. I won’t tell you anything grandly foolish about knowing you’ll pull through, and such nonsense. Just do the best you can, Broglan. If you have to flee from the place or bring Firefall Keep crashing down, do so. Try to stop short of butchering the entire Summerstar clan, if at all possible.”
“I—I’m heartened to know that you understand,” Broglan said hesitantly. “I have just two more questions. Firstly, how far can I trust the local boldshield, Ergluth Rowanmantle?”
“Absolutely, so long as you do nothing he sees as a threat to the realm. The man is loyal through and through, and is far more … perceptive than most Purple Dragon commanders. Next question.”
Broglan took a deep breath—this was it, there was no ducking the matter now—and plunged right in. “It looks like we’re going to have a senior Harper who also happens to be of the Seven Sisters on our hands, here, any moment now. Storm Silverhand is named prominently in Athlan Summerstar’s will.”
“Did he deed the vale to her, or just the keep?”
“Neither—quite,” Broglan replied. “There’s nothing that diminishes the authority of the crown of Cormyr … but she is guaranteed freedom to arrive, leave, dwell, and hunt in the vale as she pleases, unless or until a subsequent royal decree deems otherwise. I think Athlan was aiming to protect his lands and kin by surrounding them with a Harper training facility, if anything happened to him.”
“You think he knew he was going to die soon,” Vangerdahast asked, “and specifically how, or at whose hand?”
“It’s impossible to say. It feels like he was just being cautious—unusually cautious, for one so young.”
“Indeed,” the royal magician agreed. “As for Storm—watch her. There’s not a lot any of us can do to stop her. Just be polite to her, and watch.”
“But what if she’s our murderer?”
“Why would she slaughter some back-country noble in another land? Use your head, man—if Storm took any interest in Summerstar at all, it’s because he was mixed up in something the Harpers didn’t approve of … slaving, dealing with the Zhentarim, or the like. All the more reason to be wary. Doesn’t this Firefall Keep have a haunted quarter, or something?”
“A ‘Haunted Tower,’ Lord,” Broglan replied.
“And what better way for someone at the keep to hide—or explain away—funny goings-on? ‘You didn’t really see that—it was ghosts!’ ”
“I see where you’re leading, Lord. It could be someone striking out against Lord Athlan because he uncovered the secret, or threatened to.”
“Exactly. And if Storm is a danger, get away from there and get word to me, above all else! That spell-reflection amulet I gave you ought to protect you against at least one attack, if she offers you violence. If that happens—don’t waste your chance to flee, even if means abandoning the others, or a pretty young lady of the realm, or all the Summerstars and their horses and servants too! Got it?”
“I understand, Lord—and I thank you.”
“Speak to me whenever you feel the need,” Vangerdahast said briskly. The stone crackled once and started to sink toward the cushion. Broglan sat back wearily and watched it fall.
Encouraging words, but no aid. He was on his own, at least for now. How many more deaths would it take, how many more war wizards would die before the royal magician sent serious aid? And would that aid, if it did ever come, reach Firefall Keep in time?
Broglan rubbed at his eyes. He did not see the darkness that shifted in one of the shadows beyond the wards to slink away to the next shadow. One of the wards flared for an instant, as if powerful magic had been used nearby, but Broglan did not see that soundless flash, or its cause.
Sometimes mighty mages are just as tired and careless as the rest of us.
* * * * *
“My thanks for your work in getting to me so quickly,” the Bard of Shadowdale said, turning in her saddle and slowing her mount to lay a hand on Vrespon’s knee, “but I must leave you here.”
“Leave me?” the Harper in worn leathers asked warily, looking around at the desolate, rolling wilderness. “Here?”
“Just ahead—at the top of this hill.”
“I wondered why we were riding up rather than just going around,” the Harper muttered, the lift of his voice making his words a question.
Storm tossed silver hair out of her eyes and gave him a level look. “If I am to do any good at Firefall Keep at all, I must get there at once—or at least, far sooner than they expect me. You half-killed your horse getting to me as swiftly as you did. I want you to rest her on the way back. Ride mine. Consider it yours now.” She lifted one leg, put both hands on her saddle, and propelled herself a good dozen feet off to one side, to land crouched and facing him. The horse continued its patient walk up the grassy hill.
“You’re going to walk to Firefall Keep?” Vrespon protested. “Dressed like that?”
Storm chuckled. “No, I’m going to gate there—and what’s wrong with what I’m wearing, anyway?” She put hands to hips and tossed her head in mock indignation. Gods, but this lad was young. Right now, his eyes were shining in delight. He mustn’t get many chances to do anything exciting, or be a part of any adventures. Ah, well—time to give him something to remember. Inspiring the young is part of the Way of the Harp, after all.
She strode on up the hill, still wearing her floppy old boots. She’d added torn and dirty trousers and a field smock that was more dirt and dung than garment. The rents they sported demonstrated repeatedly that she had nothing on underneath … and Storm hadn’t even brought a dagger, let alone a purse or even a pouch to hold a meal or gear. Though she hadn’t given it an order or even a glance, her horse trotted after her like a large and contented dog.
They reached the crest of the hill together, and Vrespon gaped in surprise. The little bowl that dimpled the hilltop wasn’t visible from below—nor the small ring of standing stones that filled it. The ancient, moss-covered sentinels of craggy, fissured dark rock reached to the sky like the fingers of some long-forgotten, half-buried god. They stood in a tight circle, enclosing nothing.
Storm strode toward them without hesitation. “I take it you didn’t know these were here?”
“No,” said Vrespon, still looking amazed.
“And I take it you’d like to be back in Hillmarch as soon as you can, without a long ride through or around the mountains, entertaining bandits along the way?”
“Y-Yes,” Vrespon replied warily.
“Then get down from that saddle and hold your horse quiet,” the lady of the Harp told him, and tore a long strip from her trousers. Stuffing that scrap of fabric into one of her boots, she calmly took off the rest of her filthy clothing and tossed the smock to him. “Cover the horse’s head with it,” she directed. “They hate this, and always bolt if they see that instant of falling, amid the stars.”
“What instant of … falling?” the Harper messenger asked.
Storm whipped what was left of her trousers around the head of her mount, and led it ahead into the stones. “Come and see,” she called back to him, and when he hesitated, beckoned in the sultry fashion of a tavern dancer. This time, he did not look hastily away, but neither did he advance.
“What is this place?” Vrespon asked, bewildered—but he was asking the empty, wind-whipped air. The space between the stones was empty.
He swallowed once, took
a last look around at this uninhabited corner of southeastern Daggerdale, with the Moonsea Ride a ribbon of mud in the distance. He squared his shoulders and led the horse steadily on into the stones … not hurrying, but not hesitating either.
* * * * *
Storm was suddenly elsewhere, and her feet were wet. The gelding snorted nervously and danced, its hooves splashing up water around her. The bard held its bridle firmly, patted its flank in reassurance, and led it out of the pool just below the well.
Two startled pairs of eyes looked up at her from the grassy bank. The man and maid lay in each other’s arms, the remains of their luncheon and books of poetry strewn around them.
“Sorry,” Storm told them gravely, and arched her eyebrows impishly. “Pray, continue.”
She marched past them, flopping boots and snorting gelding and all, as the man hissed a startled oath and shot a look at the pool where they’d just—appeared, out of thin air!
As he stared, a man in worn leathers appeared. Another hooded horse splashed where, a moment before, there’d been nothing but roiling waters.
The man with the horse looked at him, and he stared back, his astonished lady-love still nestled against his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“Ask her,” the newcomer protested, sounding almost hurt. He pointed ahead and down the hill, where the lady with the silver hair had gone. “Ask her!”
“Phernald,” the maid quavered, suddenly finding her voice, “shouldn’t we—?”
“No! Whatever it is, no!”
With those last, shouted words, the man was on his feet and sprinting for the safety of the trees. He dragged his lady with him, heedless of the fate of her finest gown as he hauled her through brambles. Poetry, wine, and all lay forgotten behind them.
“Oh, Phernald!” she wailed as they disappeared.
Vrespon shook his head, hauled the smock off his mare’s eyes, mounted, and urged her into a trot to catch up with the Bard of Shadowdale.
When he reached Storm, he said almost accusingly, “You scared the wine right out of those two, you know!”