by Ed Greenwood
“I’m not your uncle,” Erlandar snapped, “and I don’t duel women or anyone of lesser rank. Is that the only response you know when someone objects to your wild words?”
Storm shrugged, spreading her hands. Her goblet flashed in the firelight. “Perhaps I misjudge you, Lord Summerstar,” she said mildly. “I assumed it was the only response you’d understand.”
Someone muttered something grimly affirmative under his breath, somewhere along the tables. This time, both Erlandar and the Lady Pheirauze leaned and craned their necks like gawking youths in an attempt to discover the speaker. Shayna Summerstar and her mother drained their goblets in unison, and rang forks against the bases of them to summon refills. At the same time, steaming platters of roast boar were set on the tables. Storm appreciatively sniffed, and helped herself heartily.
As forks flashed into boar, Broglan Sarmyn of the war wizards cut into the silence with a hearty sally. “Pray, forgive me, Lady Silverhand, if this is a question one does not ask, but why were you ‘Chosen’ by the Divine Mother of Magic as one of her mortal servants? You’re not—so far as we know—of the first rank of archmages, or even particularly powerful in magic.”
Storm raised an eyebrow. “There is never a crime in asking such things … but seldom a clear response, either. I truly don’t know how much I should reveal of the nature of the Chosen. Why don’t you offer a prayer to the divine lady I serve and we both—I presume—worship, and see what she makes clear unto you?”
“Of course,” Broglan said politely, unsurprised. “I shall do so later this night.” He lapsed into silence with a satisfied air, his purpose accomplished. As they’d spoken, the Lady Pheirauze had leaned over to hiss something in Erlandar’s ear—something about adopting a less confrontational manner.
Erlandar leaned forward, raised his glass to Storm to get her attention, and said in coldly polite tones, “I’d forgotten that as a guest here, you may be unfamiliar with your surroundings. You’ve probably wondered where the name ‘Firefall Keep’ came from, for example …”
Storm, who knew very well how the keep had won its curious name, said nothing, but favored Erlandar with an encouraging, wordless smile.
“Well, this great fortress we Summerstars call home is named for the vale it stands in—but the vale got its name centuries ago, when our house was founded. A nest of red dragons laired high in the nearby peaks—wyrms so fierce and hungry that elves dared not dwell in the vale, despite whatever bargain had been struck between the old Purple Dragon and the elven Lord of Scepters.”
Erlandar’s voice rose in volume and passion as he chanted the well-known sentences that followed—and he rose with it, standing with arms spread. He stared almost defiantly across the table at Storm. “Dragons that suffered no elf to stride uneaten in the vale welcomed men even less—or perhaps, welcomed them into their gullets even more. When the founder of our house, Glothgam Summerstar, led his men into the vale, he won past repeated swooping attacks. In time, the dragons retreated to their caves high in Mount Glendaborr—caves you can still see today, if you don’t mind facing the ghosts of dragons! There, they worked a mighty magic.”
Erlandar leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Storm as if his very glare could slay her. “Then, as now, Turnwyrm Brook flowed down the heart of the vale to join the Immerflow, and Glothgam was camped beside it. As he and his men were watering their horses and bathing, the brook’s flowing waters became a roaring river of flame! Many died screaming in this Firefall, but Glothgam did not quail. The wyrms swept down from on high to see what death they’d wrought—and he called on the powers of the enchanted blade he bore, the Sword of the Summer Winds, and soared aloft to meet them, slaying three before the others fled. ’Twould make a handsome ballad, Harper!”
Storm nodded. “It has.”
“What?” Erlandar cried in astonishment. “So why’ve I not heard of such a song?”
“The song centers on the sword, not on Glothgam,” Storm said quietly, “and speaks of the greatness the blade could bring Cormyr. Years after minstrels first sang the song, rebels borrowed its words so they could recognize each other at midnight meetings. When the rebellion failed, the king of the time outlawed the ballad—and the Summerstars of the day were only too happy: they’d grown very tired of visiting thieves tearing down every third panel and tapestry in the keep, looking for the lost sword.”
“That sword,” Erlandar snarled, “is indeed rumored to still lie hidden somewhere in this keep. Do the Harpers know anything of its whereabouts?”
Storm shook her head, trying hard not to yawn. There were so many tales of lost enchanted blades that would save the world—or make the finder ruler of some handsome part of it—if they could only be found. “I’m afraid not, Lord Summerstar … but I do thank you for Glothgam’s tale, simply but strongly told.” She smiled. “Would you like to become a minstrel?”
Erlandar scowled. “No,” he said, obviously biting back other words that had sprung to his mind. He sat down again, shoved aside a platter of boar that had grown cold, and angrily signaled a servant to bring him fresh meat and more wine.
Silence followed Erlandar’s last angry bark. Servants scurried, bringing out bowls of green mint-water and table fountains of sweet syrups.
The seneschal and the worried-looking Broglan Sarmyn simultaneously began speaking, trying to carry the conversation brightly onward. They spoke as one, deferred to each other uncomfortably, and tried again, launching into a discussion of the last great royal hunt. It had left from the vale to try to reach Mount Glendaborr. En route, many monsters had been slain. The true nature of the ‘ghost dragons’ that drifted half-seen around the nearby mountains was obviously a matter of hot local controversy, and an argument erupted that almost everyone except Storm and the senior Summerstars joined.
The Bard of Shadowdale settled into carefully watching other diners, looking for the slight gestures of a stealthily cast spell or the shifting of muscles that might herald the hurling of a blade. She was paying particular care to the coldly smiling mask that was the face of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze. The matriarch was obviously aware of her scrutiny, and was letting nothing slip—if anything ever did.
Storm did, however, notice when Thalance slowly and quietly drew his chair back, to sit sipping wine and listening … and a little later, silently set down his glass and slipped away.
The seneschal obviously thought the debate about the ghost dragons was far too familiar ground to still hold any interest. He turned to Storm to remark quietly, “I must leave briefly to attend my duties, Lady Silverhand—but before I go, I think it best to tell you just a little more about the Summerstars than you’ve yet been privy to. I’d like to avoid armed battle here in the keep between you and any of them, if at all possible.”
“I, too,” Storm murmured.
Renglar Baerest smiled tightly, and said, “Know, then: the Lady Pheirauze has never remarried, but persistent rumors have linked her to no less than three generations of the Illance noble line. I’d not speak disparagingly of that family—nor allude to any closeness between it and herself—if I were you.”
He inclined his head toward another Summerstar. “You have already measured Erlandar; be warned that he likes to crush women or bed them, and will not rest, now, until he’s served you with one fate or the other. We see little of Thalance—he’s faded away on us again now, I see—but I’m told the local loose ladies and young drinkers do.”
He sighed, and added more quietly, his voice just barely above a whisper, “The Lady Zarova has tried to take her own life more than once, when her mother-in-law was particularly … difficult. Before wedding Pyramus, she was of the noble house of Battlestar, who dwell on the West Shore, not far outside Suzail. She’ll be intensely uncomfortable if you ask her anything in front of Pheirauze or Erlandar.”
The seneschal glanced down the table at the two senior Summerstar nobles as he named them, and noticed the eyes of the elder dowager lady were cold, hard as daggers, a
nd fixed firmly on him.
With a smile, he turned back to Storm and said, a trifle more loudly, “An unexpected pleasure to meet a fellow gardener; we must talk again. I’ve heard how lush you and your neighbors keep Shadowdale.”
“And I’m interested in the herb-plantings I saw on my way in,” Storm replied promptly. “Yes, let’s trade secrets … and seeds.” They exchanged nods of agreement, and the seneschal rose, bowed, and left the hall. The eyes of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze followed his every step—and when he was gone, turned swiftly back to meet those of Storm, who had been watching her.
Storm raised her goblet to Pheirauze in salute, added a merry smile and a nod. Then she glanced toward the war wizards. They seemed to have forgotten their guest for the moment. With heat and scornful disputation, they discussed the legendary and recent hauntings of Firefall Keep.
“Any fool—save perhaps yourself, Hundarr—knows phantoms can’t carry or disturb swords and coins and such! If things were stolen or shifted about, we’re talking some other sort of undead!”
“Well, Sir Exalted Expert, what sort?”
“Gods take you, Hund—”
“Goodsirs!” Erlandar said firmly. “Entertaining though this may be—and I’m not one to miss a chance to hear a mage make a fool of himself—I’ve heard about enough nonsense for one night! I doubt our guest appreciates knowing what fearsome thing lurks in the Haunted Tower! It’s enough to know that something fell and sinister is there—something that slew young Athlan, pride of the Summerstars. Keeping out of the Haunted Tower is the best policy for us all to follow.” He swung his head to deliver a cold, heavy glare across the table, and added, “Even clever and beautiful Harpers.”
Storm laughed lightly. “Another of your challenges, Lord Summerstar? They come so thick and fast—almost like the courting comments of an ardent man!”
Erlandar Summerstar grinned slowly. “Aye, so they do … strange the similarities, eh?”
Storm smiled back at him, but let her eyes show her true feelings. If she’d thought to leave just a little of that soup, she could have kissed the man and passed the poison on to him.…
Erlandar winked at her, and then leered again. No, Storm thought, poison was too gentle. It had to be a sword—deftly wielded, to make his end slow and painful.…
Erlandar winked again. Well, Storm thought, painful at any rate.…
* * * * *
Renglar Baerest, seneschal of Firefall Keep, stood in the courtyard of the fortress he had come to love, facing a silently floating strongchest. It belonged to a woman who might well be able to shatter the keep and hurl it down stone by stone until only windblown dust was left. Seneschal or not, he might well be making a terrible mistake—but he had to be sure.
Swallowing, Renglar took a step forward and laid a firm hand on the side of the chest. It promptly and silently sank to a gentle grounding on the cobbles, and opened itself. The seneschal stared down at the satchels, coffers, duffels, and trunks crammed into it. He sighed and began carefully lifting them out and placing them on the blanket-padded service carts he’d brought. It was a long way to the quarters he’d chosen for the most distinguished—and dangerous—guest to visit the keep during his tenure, but this was one job he was going to do alone.
He’d have insisted on that even if any of the servants had dared to help him.
* * * * *
“We call it brittle tart,” Lady Margort Summerstar said stiffly. “And serve it with dry wine at the end of most high meals.” She paused for a moment, and then asked coldly, “You do have dessert in—oh, wherever is it again, dear?”
“Shadowdale,” her sister said with a sneer, rubies glittering as she leaned sideways to speak by Margort’s ear.
“Ah, yes, thank you, Nalanna,” Margort continued. “You do have desserts in Shadowdale, don’t you?”
“Once or twice a year,” Storm said solemnly, “when dragging the plows around all day and whipping ourselves to go faster leaves us enough energy to eat an extra course. Then we enjoy crushed apples, or sometimes just handfuls of sugar. We’re too poor and backward to have oxen, you see.”
“Ah,” the Lady Nalanna Summerstar said in tones of satisfaction. “I thought so.”
“Lady Silverhand,” the Dowager Lady Pheirauze said coldly, “stop toying with my kinswomen. I expect better behavior from my guests.”
Storm raised her brows as she set the last bones of her roast boar aside. It had been delicious—poisoned again, but delicious. “They do seem to keep disappointing you, though, don’t they?”
“We do not,” Pheirauze observed frostily, “have many guests here in the vale.”
“Aye,” Storm Silverhand replied, tossing a stray lock of long silver hair back over her right shoulder to join the rest of the glossy flow there, “that I can well believe.”
One of the war wizards snickered, and Pheirauze stiffened. Only pride kept her from looking away from Storm’s steady gaze. An instant later, anger broke that reserve, and the dowager lady’s head snapped around. By then, though, the mage had recovered his control, and all the war wizards wore frowningly thoughtful faces.
Damn them, Pheirauze thought. Just once, she’d like to wipe that smug standing-above-everyone-but-caring-about-the-realm worldly confidence off their faces. Just once. She wondered what it would take.…
* * * * *
Renglar Baerest, seneschal of Firefall Keep, puffed one last time into the room with the soft gray tapestries. Lady Maerla’s Room, it was—the most remote and smallest of the guest apartments, and hard by the dusty passages that led into the Haunted Tower. It was a fitting place for Lady Silverhand to sleep. Maerla had been a Harper and a quiet, strong-willed woman who’d dabbled in magic, the family history said. She was an adventuress who’d married a Summerstar out of love.
It was also said in the family that Maerla’s room was haunted—more strongly than the entire Haunted Tower, if folk Maerla disapproved of tried to sleep in her bed. The seneschal thoughtfully regarded the soaring gray canopy of that central sleeping-place, bowed, and told the empty air around him, “Pray, excuse this intrusion, Lady Maerla. As seneschal of the keep, it is my paramount duty to see to the security of us all, so I must search the belongings of the lady who’ll be sleeping here this night: Storm Silverhand, a Harper of some repute. Forgive me.”
The silence was deafening. Renglar shrugged, bent over the largest trunk, and lifted its lid. Thankfully, the Lady Storm felt confident enough in her power not to bother with locks, and the old amulet he wore ought to ward off at least one spell trap. Its feeble powers might not protect against a second magic, though—which is why he was starting with the things least likely to be protected. An old, scratchy gray wool cloak covered everything. Renglar took careful note of the way it was folded, lifted it aside, and cautiously plucked out what lay beneath.
A belt bristling with sheathed daggers, several slim-heeled boots that a Purple Dragon would look ridiculous in … and a spare sword. Best leave that sheathed for now; it probably did bear magics. The next item glowed with faint enchantments even when closed and undisturbed. By its shape, the seneschal recognized the smooth wooden case as the home of a harp.
Well, of course. She was the Bard of Shadowdale. Renglar turned to the next trunk. It seemed to be full of tattered silk … well, no.
He held one garment up, frowned, turned it around—and swallowed. He let it fall onto the lid and plucked up the next one. And then the next. His frown deepened. These were not the sort of gauzy underthings respectable women wore.
His frown turned into a smile when he saw what lay at the bottom of the trunk, beneath thirty or more scarves, sashes, and silken nothings: a leather war harness. It was the plain, sturdy sort that a working soldier would wear, as slashed, mended, and sweat-stained as most. Renglar restored both trunks to the way they’d been and turned to nearest duffel.
Being a seneschal in Firefall Keep involved more than one man’s share of odd tasks. Like this one: unwrapp
ing a canvas bundle to reveal a garment that seemed to be made entirely of lengths of fine chain. He’d give a lot to know when she’d have occasion to wear a gown like this.…
No, he couldn’t think of any prudent way to ask her. Renglar sighed, and reached deeper into the duffel.
Wait—what was this?
* * * * *
“Weather magic has always been a temptation,” Storm told them, “but the teachings of Baerauble—if any of his own words have survived—should tell you why it must be avoided. Weather magic affects more than one’s own land. Things can quickly escalate into wars that ruin realms and break the power of both combatants. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Oh, of course,” Hundarr Wolfwinter agreed derisively. “You’ve lived since before there were sunrises, and seen it all … of course. Still—”
He broke off, staring, even before Broglan Sarmyn could voice a rebuke. They all followed his gaze to the source of his amazement: a huge silver platter bristling with the slim spires of wine and liqueur bottles. The platter and its burden were both splendid, but hardly unusual at a feast such as this. What was unusual was that it was drifting slowly across the empty space between the tables, approaching the senior Summerstars.
“Pah!” Erlandar half-rose, his hand going to the dagger at his belt. “Wizards’ tricks!”
“But no,” Broglan protested. “None of us has—”
“Ah,” Storm said firmly, “but one of us has.”
She raised her eyes to look steadily at one of the war wizards and said softly, “Clever, Corathar Abaddarh. A deft little spell that very few would notice you casting … but is such a working prudent, given the situation here? The talk of hauntings, and the bereavement of the Summerstars? The danger we may all face?”
The platter crashed to the floor in a thunderous shattering of glass. “I’m not a child, lady, to be told off so,” Corathar snarled, eyes flaming, “and I’ll thank you to—”
His face paled, and he fell silent. The platter trembled, rose slowly, and proceeded on its interrupted journey. The shattered bottles rattled nervously atop the silver.