by Ed Greenwood
She was thoughtfully draping around herself the woefully inadequate strip of material she’d stuffed into her boot earlier. Perhaps, Vrespon thought, all senior Harpers were crazy.
This one certainly seemed to be. She turned and smiled at him. “I did apologize,” she said, “and they’d finished their meal but not gotten beyond whisperings, if you know what I mean.… There’s no harm done. They’ve just enjoyed an invigorating race through the forest, that’s all!”
The Harper stared at her for a moment longer, and then burst into shouts of astonished laughter. Both horses snorted and shifted, and Storm told him severely, “Stop that—you’re frightening the horses.”
“And I suppose you’re through frightening me?” Vrespon demanded in mock exasperation.
Storm clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” she said. “Now you know how to cross the Thunder Peaks from east to west, from the Farlight Stones to Muskrin’s Well, here. It doesn’t work in the other direction. Don’t forget, now.”
Vrespon shook his head. “Muskrin’s Well … I must be a little north of … let’s see.…”
Storm took him by one ear, swung him close, and kissed him. “It’s been a joy,” she said lightly, “but I must go. Take Lazytail, here.” She steered the gelding’s bridle into his hands and walked away.
Vrespon stared at her. “You’re going to Firefall Keep like that?”
Storm frowned. “Of course not. I’m a lady.” She snapped her fingers, muttered something—and the tattered strip of cloth draped about her suntanned skin became a high-bosomed, filigreed glossy court gown, pleated and slit, with flaring sleeves and lace panels. She struck a pose, spreading silken-gloved hands to show off her finery. “Like it?”
Vrespon’s jaw dropped. After a moment of making inarticulate sounds, he closed it firmly again, and nodded. In truth, he’d never seen so expensive, elegant, and, well, beautiful a gown. The wild woman who’d ridden with him was suddenly every curving inch a Cormyrean lady of stunning beauty and monstrous wealth.
He was still nodding when Storm gave him a cheery wave and vanished again.
* * * * *
Even the Chosen of Mystra have limitations. Of the Seven Sisters, Storm outstripped only Dove in her mastery of magic. There would be no more teleporting until she got some time to study—and, oh, yes: something to study with. She glanced around to be sure that she was unobserved, murmured an incantation, and moved one hand in a sweeping, circular gesture of beckoning.
Obediently a bulging strong chest burst into being in midair, floating in front of her. A moment later, the strain of overloading popped its lid open, revealing satchels, duffels, coffers, and trunks within. Storm smiled and started around the rocky ridge where she’d arrived, with the luggage floating along behind her. If she’d remembered the place rightly, Firefall Keep should be just over this next rise.
The next few days were probably going to be full of the unpleasant tensions and bloody actions that adventurers call fun, once such doings are safely in the past. Storm smiled. Ah, well—it was what she was here for.
Beyond immunities most folk could only dream of, the Bard of Shadowdale had surprisingly few tricks left. Depending on her wits and strong arms had always been her way, rather than spending long years in dusty towers learning spells for everything. Some folk thought the Seven Sisters no more than a pack of deceitful manipulators. Such a view was closer to the truth than the idea that they were nascent goddesses, transforming the Realms around them at will.
This little business of uncovering a murderer or two, for instance. Contrary to popular belief, the bold and brave Storm Silverhand couldn’t call on Mystra directly to find out things; that had always been one of the Forbidden Things. Moreover, since the ascension of the young mortal Midnight to the Mantle of Mystra, the Lady of Mysteries really didn’t know much more than her Chosen. She was still learning how to use the powers available to her … a process that would probably continue until long after her present Chosen were dust and fading memories. So this wayward bard was going to have to do her own detecting.
At a gentle stroll, Storm came over that last rise. A broad and pleasant smile filled her face. The keep rose dark and imposing ahead of her, more a border castle than a country manor. There were plenty of armed and watchful men on the walls and at the gates.
Storm walked on until the walls loomed up over her. She fully expected the keep to be one vast, patient trap, with the murderer waiting for her—as well as a reception committee of suspicious, resentful Cormyrean nobles.
The Purple Dragons at the portcullis of the gate tower could see her face clearly now. They were studying her closely, shifting their halberds to the ready and taking paces to one side to get clearer looks at the luggage floating serenely along behind her. She neared them. Two moved to either side of her, halberd points held respectfully down—but ready. Two more barred her way, and in front of them stepped their swordcaptain.
“Halt, lady traveler. You are come to Firefall Keep, a house in some present turmoil. We are commanded in the king’s name to keep its gate closed to the uninvited. Surrender to us your name, I pray.”
Storm gave the officer a smile that made his eyes melt above the bristling mustache that hid the rest of his face. “I am Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale.”
The man gave her a quick bow and trotted away, into the keep, leaving her to stand in the hot sun. The two guards who’d stood like a wall behind him stepped forward in unison, forming an unbroken wall of armored flesh to block her advance.
Storm lounged back, sitting on empty air as if it were a comfortable throne. She looked around at the warriors sweating in their armor and scrutinized each one in frank admiration. The guards shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, unaccustomed to such boldness. They glanced sidelong at her beauty. This one seemed every inch the high court lady, outstripping even the Dowager Lady Pheirauze in elegance, and far outdazzling her in beauty.
Storm assumed a more comfortable position on empty air and started to sing—a sad ballad. The song told of a soldier who rode into battle, knowing his love, from whom he’d been parted for a long year of fighting, had gone into the arms of another man. Her voice rose, rich and enchanting. Though the guards coughed and tossed their heads and pretended not to be caring or even really listening, they leaned forward to hear better, and broke off all of their muttered, side-of-the-mouth comments about her.
When she swung into the sequel, tears began to appear in certain eyes. She sang of the dead soldier’s ghost coming into the garden of his former love, where she sat sadly with her new babe, the father having abandoned her. When she came to the soft, almost whispered passages where the spectral soldier pledged to watch over and guard the child as it grew up to be the son that should have been his, some of the men were weeping openly, tears running down their faces and their shoulders shaking.
“Bewitching my men, lady?” The swordcaptain’s tone was not hostile, but it was loud enough to cleave through her singing and jolt the armsmen back to the here and now. They stared at her almost resentfully, but Storm sent each of them a personal smile and a silently mouthed thank you.
The officer added gravely, “You are expected, lady, and I am instructed by the Dowager Lady Pheirauze Summerstar to bid you fair welcome, so long as you keep the peace of this house. Pray, pass within.”
As he escorted her—and her floating luggage—through the echoing gate tower and into the sun-drenched courtyard beyond, Storm saw what she’d been expecting. The wait had been used to assemble a small but stiffly resentful group of splendidly dressed Summerstars. The war wizards there gave her steadily hostile looks. The folk in livery blinked in awe. At the head of these servants stood the seneschal, who gave her a low bow and said, “Be welcome in Firefall Keep, Lady Silverhand. May I present the Dowager Lady Pheirauze Summerstar?”
A strikingly beautiful lady who’d seen a few more than sixty winters glided forward in an exquisite gown of mauve silk. The p
uffed sleeves and shoulders made her seem tall and imposing—every bit as menacing as the hulking guards at the gate. She extended her hand for Storm to kneel and kiss, as an inferior.
Storm took it and her forearm and shook heartily, as if the dowager lady were a fellow warrior at a campfire. “Well met, Pheirauze,” she said cheerfully. “You’ve certainly turned out splendidly from the perky little miss I remember!”
Someone in the gathered Summerstars snorted, and Pheirauze whirled around, but could not discover the culprit. She turned back to Storm with menacing slowness, and said carefully, “I’m glad to hear I’ve fulfilled your expectations. I’m gratified you came so quickly to share in our bereavement. My grandson would have made you most welcome. You are most timely come; a feast is just being set in the great hall. Will you dine with us, great lady?”
“With a right goodwill,” Storm said heartily, ignoring all the cutting barbs and insults she’d just been handed. She swept around the dowager lady, sliding out her arm as she did so to catch the crook of Pheirauze’s arm and jerk her around. They ended up walking together, hip to hip. Storm set a brisk pace across the courtyard. The tall, silver-haired vision in high court dress led the shorter, older lady in mauve, who trotted grimly to keep up. “What’s for dinner?”
Someone among the Summerstars chuckled—or was it a giggle? As the two grand ladies entered the keep, Pheirauze’s coldly furious face glared back over her shoulder, seeking a villain. It was becoming a popular occupation in Firefall Keep, it seemed.
Four
FEAST AND FOLLY
Candlelight glimmered from end to end of the great hall of Firefall Keep. The air was sharp with the smoke rising from two lines of candle-wheels, which hung above the tables on long, dusty chains. The flickering light danced on dozens of shields, halberds, and suits of armor along the walls, but the loftiest reaches of the hall, above the balconies and minstrels’ galleries, were as dark as the night sky. A long table ran down one side of the vast chamber, providing the softly scurrying servants a sideboard to hold steaming covered platters and frosty bottles from the cellars.
The two main tables stood at the midpoint of the hall, well removed from the brightly lit daises at either end. The tables formed a huge V-shape, with chairs along only their outer sides. The two open ends reached toward the long sideboard, outlining an area where dancers might dance, jugglers juggle, players act, and minstrels play.
There was no one in that open space tonight. It didn’t take Storm long to figure out why: she was this night’s entertainment. Extra candles had been set in man-high candelabra behind her seat, halfway down one wing of one table; the only other well-lit spot was at the meeting of the two wings, where the two dowager ladies of the Summerstars, mother and daughter, sat facing each other.
The nobles who called Firefall Keep home were all gathered here this night, sitting along both wings of the high table. One wing began with the Dowager Lady Zarova, mother to Athlan, known as a woman of serene silence in court gossip—and no doubt cowed into her present timid state by the older dowager lady, Pheirauze. Beside Zarova sat her daughter, now heir of the house, and from her the seats of the lesser Summerstar kindred ran out to where the seneschal sat, with Storm on his right, and only a few ladies-in-waiting and scribes beyond her.
Storm looked again at Shayna. The young Lady Summerstar was truly as beautiful as folk in Cormyr said: slim, graceful, and by the looks of things a trifle shy—not overproud. Waves of glossy chestnut hair tumbled over delicate shoulders. Her skin was almost white, her eyes large and liquid green. A stunning beauty indeed.
As she gazed at the new Summerstar heiress, Storm felt the weight of cold, hostile eyes upon her. She looked in their direction. Across from Zarova sat Pheirauze. She was flanked by a slimly handsome young nobleman, who sat shoulder to shoulder with a lionlike, bearded rogue of a man of about the same age as the dowager lady. His eyes, as they met hers, were both hot with invitation … and cold with dislike.
Storm gave him a slight smile and glanced farther down that table. Beside the sneering sophisticate sat a pair of fearsome old battle-axes. In the candlelight, their jewels glittered like falls of frozen water. The old ladies fixed Storm with identical toadlike glares of hauteur and hatred. The bard gave them both broad, pleasant smiles, and felt a touch of inner amusement as they stiffened in mortification. These two must be the maiden aunts. Beyond them, a handful of kindred gave way to a solid row of war wizards. They faced Storm watchfully—no doubt ready to hurl spells at the well-lit target if she did anything threatening. Storm smiled inwardly. It was going to be one of those even-feasts.
“Have you … dined in polite society often, Lady Bard?” asked Uncle Erlandar, curly bearded and suave. His large emerald earrings flashed as they dangled over his steaming soup. His tone made the question a biting insult.
“Many a time, Lord Erlandar,” she replied sweetly, “from the table of divine Mystra herself to the breakfast-table of His Majesty, King Azoun. Sometimes, I’ve even enjoyed myself.” She sipped at her peppery soup and thought it was a pity some enthusiast had ruined the subtle flavors of mingled fowl and turtle with the burning buzz of an overly lavish poison. Someone was going to be disappointed when she didn’t fall on her face into the soup … and she’d lay money it was someone sitting at this table right now.
“I’m surprised,” Erlandar said, his voice dripping false honey, “that a minstrel from such a backwater as Shadowdale has had so many opportunities to pluck strings in exalted surroundings … but of course, one must never cast aspersions on the veracity of a lady’s claims—no matter how lowborn the lady.”
“She is from the Dales, dear,” Dowager Lady Pheirauze said with bright concern. “Folk of such … ah, unfortunate backgrounds may not realize the importance we place on honesty here in Cormyr.”
Storm chuckled as deeply and heartily as any man, and told her goblet, “Yes—Azoun has spoken to me on several occasions of how much he values the all-too-rare commodity of loyalty and honesty among his nobles.” She lifted her eyes to regard the diners across from her, and saw glittering amusement in the eyes of several carefully stone-faced war wizards. Cold glares awaited to the left, so she looked instead down her own table. The Lady Shayna was looking down at her plate as she ate, her face crimson … and it was not Storm’s replies that were embarrassing her.
Erlandar thought he’d espied an opening in Storm’s observation, however, and was roaring, “Do you dare insult the collective honor of the entire nobility of Cormyr, Lady—ah, whatever your name is? Do you actually have the gall to hold yourself in judgment of all the Forest Kingdom?” His words were echoed by hisses of contempt from the two maiden aunts, Margort and Nalanna Summerstar. “By the gods, you lowborn women push us far, sheltered in your immunity from challenges of honor by the sword!”
Storm laughed easily. “Do I understand you correctly, Erlandar Summerstar? Are you … challenging me?”
“Bah!” he snarled, flicking his fingers in her direction. “I don’t make war on women!”
“Ah,” Storm informed her goblet, “but I’ve heard from many lasses in Suzail that you do—and very energetically, at that!”
Down the row of war wizards, someone sputtered as mirth overmastered him. The Dowager Lady Pheirauze immediately leaned forward to try to see who it was, and said sharply, “Oh, Erlandar, don’t be tiresome. She only makes you seem ridiculous; waste no more words on coarse country wenches.”
A momentary silence followed these words. Another male voice drawled into it. “There is something I’d like to know, Lady Silverhand—and I mean no impertinence.”
The speaker was the young and handsome Summerstar male who sat between Pheirauze and Erlandar. This would have to be Thalance, the cousin of Shayna … and, of course, to the dead Athlan.
“Yes, Sir Thalance?” Storm asked, her words a warm, musical invitation.
“I’ve heard many legends about you and your sisters. Is it true that you’re hundreds of
years old, and serve the goddess Mystra?”
“Yes, to both of your queries,” Storm replied, setting down her empty sipping-bowl of soup.
“So you really have gone all over the Realms and been at many important battles and known famous folk and … all?”
“Yes,” Storm said simply.
“Why is it, then, that you aren’t ruling a realm somewhere? Why do you live on a farm and go about harping to earn a few coppers now and again? And why do the Harpers you belong to meddle in all sorts of lands, and not rule openly?”
“Good questions, all,” Storm told him, and then counted off her replies on her fingers. “I don’t want to rule anyone, so I don’t. I do love growing things and being able to walk among forests and gardens, so I do. I love music, and meeting people, so I harp. And the Harpers want to help people and fight evil by turning out secrets before they become bigger, darker things—they don’t want to rule, either, and so don’t.”
“I’ve heard that the Harpers serve a dark and evil god,” Erlandar cut in, “and that you and your sisters are immortal because you drink the blood of men you entice.” His eyes were dark with anger.
“My, people do say a lot of silly things, don’t they?” Storm replied lightly. “I often hear that the nobles of Cormyr summon fiends to build their castles, and breed slaves until the offspring look to make promising heirs—and that King Azoun sleeps with every woman over the age of sixteen between Baldur’s Gate and Telflamm … but of course such tales are ridiculous.”
More than a few eyes flickered along the tables; Azoun’s courting was a matter of vivid legend in the realm.
Erlandar half-rose in his seat, glaring in challenge across the open space, and said, “Now you insult our king! Truly, wench, you go too far!”
Storm saw the seneschal, the Lady Shayna, and one of the war wizards wince at the word wench. Storm kept her easy smile and said, “Is it to be a duel between us, then, Uncle? Wet trout in the pigs’ mud-wallow, at dawn?”