by Ed Greenwood
“There was not, Sir Broglan of Sevensash,” Ergluth replied curtly, his eyes more like the keen gaze of an eagle than ever, “and what if there had been? I know of over two hundred Harpers who’ve perished in Cormyr in the past decade … yes, in this ‘safe,’ loyal, law-abiding realm.” He put one of his great battered hands down on the back of Shayna’s chair, seeming not to notice her staring wide-eyed up at him, and leaned forward to fix the leader of the war wizards with a gaze that had grown dark and stony.
“Now,” he continued heavily, “how many wandering Harper pins do you think their deaths have produced? Have you ever heard of a Harper marking a corpse as some sort of ‘Harper kill’ by leaving a pin behind? I’ve not—and yet why do we stand here debating such things? We’ve a Harper in our midst. If you suspect this leaving of pins might be a Harper tactic, why don’t you ask her?”
The power of his words was such that even Pheirauze looked to Storm.
She kept her eyes on Broglan’s as she told them all, “No Harper, so far as I know, has ever put a badge on a dead person except as mark of honor for the deceased, when the dead person is a Harper. And to answer the question you’ve not dared ask, Sir Wizard: I’ve not, within any of your lifetimes, slain anyone in this keep … yet.”
There was a stirring. Not even Erlandar quite dared to contest what some of them held to be empty and overblown legend: that the lady standing before them, or any of the Seven Sisters for that matter, had really lived any longer than other folk. They used potions to appear youthful long after age should have stolen their teeth and sleek agility, as many a wizard did … surely no more.
Storm looked a wintry challenge at Erlandar, but when he said nothing, she continued crisply, “I’ve heard something of what Lord Athlan’s body looked like—and that of the wizard Dlaerlin, too—”
Broglan Sarmyn’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Storm brought her gaze to meet his as she continued.
“—and I’ve never seen anything quite like the … wounds left behind by whatever or whoever is doing the slaying. You’d all best be very wary. Not only do you stand in personal danger, but if the cause of these deaths gets out of the keep, Cormyr—and all civilized lands—could well be doomed.”
Storm turned back to Broglan. “I want to examine Athlan Summerstar’s body,” she said quietly. “Now.”
Broglan seemed about to refuse, but the boldshield raised a hand and pointed warningly at him, and he shrugged and said, “The Lord Summerstar was burned upon the orders of Lady Pheirauze. Given the manner of his death, her wishes seemed only prudent. All we have left of him is a handful of ashes.”
“Take me to that handful,” Storm said quietly.
Broglan bowed his head, gathered the other war wizards with glances, and left the table. He headed at an even pace for one of the doors of the hall. The boldshield followed.
Storm paused only long enough to say to Shayna, “My deep apologies for disturbing the peace of your hall so often this even, gracious lady. The viands, and your care and kindness in the offering of them, are appreciated.”
She sketched a bow. The startled heiress returned it. Without another word, Storm turned and went after the boldshield. Cold and thoughtful Summerstar eyes watched them go.
In the passage beyond the feast hall, the ring of war wizards closed in around Storm and the Purple Dragon. Ergluth Rowanmantle raised his hand in a signal, and there were suddenly Purple Dragon armsmen everywhere, melting out of the gloom along the walls to form an outer ring of watchful warriors around them all.
Storm smiled tightly as the war wizards collectively stiffened. “What is the meaning of this?” Broglan snapped, but he sounded more weary than surprised.
“That’s what we’re trying to discover, mage,” Ergluth explained with hearty patience as they strode on into the darkness. “That’s what we’re all trying to discover.”
The leader of the war wizards didn’t bother to reply. He led the way in stony silence. Down a musty stair they went, and across a hall lit only by the faint blue radiance that surrounded an old statue of a Summerstar lord. Another stair led down from that hall, turning several times, into a dank and deserted lower level. This was not the way the boldshield knew, and his eyes were narrow with suspicion before the doors of the Summerstar crypt came into view ahead.
Broglan Sarmyn turned to Storm and said, “Lady Silverhand, beyond these sealed doors lie the fallen who have borne the name Summerstar down long and proud centuries. I’ve never been inside it, but I must remind you and Lord Rowanmantle that the seal was put there by a local priest for a good reason: it keeps undeath in, as well as thieves who fear such walking dooms out. I do not recommend—”
What the wizard chose not to recommend, they never learned. At that moment, a silent blue-white pale figure rose up behind him and reached down long, clawed hands to rake Broglan’s face and throat.
Those talons were like smoke. The startled wizard’s face shone through them as he stammered out a spell.
At the same moment, Storm felt a terrible cold slice through her from behind. A man’s voice by her shoulder hissed, “Stop, it, witch! End your spell, or my next thrust will be through your heart!”
The bard looked down at the blue flickering that was shaping a point just below her right breast. “A spellblade. Murndal Claeron—it is Murndal, is it not?—do you know the price of wielding the weapon you have so boldly used?”
The war wizards had all turned to face her by then, their hands up to hurl spells. The boldshield had his blade half out. Following his lead, the armsmen reached around to put daggers to the throats of the mages. Everyone watched in frozen, wary silence as Storm turned to face the mage who’d struck her from behind.
Murndal made a frightened sound and tried to slash the spellblade sideways, to reach her heart. Storm stepped easily away from it, so that it sliced its way right out through her ribs instead. Spinning gracefully around, she touched it once, and the wizard was suddenly holding nothing but a few blue sparks that flickered and drifted from his hand.
“Let us have peace,” she told her attacker then, towering over him.
Murndal of the war wizards cowered away from her, his mouth dry and his fingers cold with fear.
Silver fire was swirling around the wound in her side, and curling out from between her lips as she spoke. Her eyes were suddenly two pools of soaring silver flames, and Murndal could not help screaming as she took him by the arms. He felt the crackle and surge of powers he could only guess at.
Storm said gently, “I’ve worked no spell, ambitious one … and I can see that the crafting of that weapon was beyond you, too.”
She let go of the trembling mage and turned around again. “Broglan! Mind your manners!” she snapped. “Spellblades? The backlash could have killed this young mageling of yours—and a dozen more folk, if he’d dragged it out at the wrong moment! What were you thinking of?”
Broglan stared at her, naked fear on his face. He licked his lips. The haunting that had startled him and scared Murndal into attack was gone, scattered by his hasty spell. Now Storm Silverhand, every inch a Chosen of Mystra, with the divine silver fire of legend curling out of her very eyeballs, was staring angrily at him.
“Y-Your power, and how we might stop it,” he whispered, unable to think of anything to say but the truth.
She sighed, and tossed her head. Already the wound in her side was smaller, and the terrible silver radiance was blazing and flowing along it, fading away from her face. “Well, at least I’m hearing some honest words from you,” she said calmly. “Do you think you could open the crypt now, and forget such nonsense as this for a while?”
Broglan stared openmouthed at her, and then turned to the crypt doors. The shaken war wizard took a deep breath and bowed his head for a moment. He raised his hand, murmured something, and touched the line of wax marked by the three runes that the Harvestmaster of Chauntea had impressed on it. A small fire blazed up around his fing
ers. At first a green-white, it became a deep and restless red and raced along the wax.
When it had traced around both of the doors, it died away. Broglan drew in another deep breath, stepped back, and indicated the unsealed doors.
“Open them, and lead the way in,” the boldshield ordered him.
The war wizard shook his head. “The haunting—there could be—”
Ergluth gave him a look of cold disgust. “Wizard,” he growled, “go in, and take that lantern from yon armsman with you—or I’ll soon be telling Vangerdahast that the leader of his Sevensash investigative team had the great misfortune to fall onto my sword while we were exploring the haunted Summerstar family crypt.”
Broglan gulped. “Y-Yes, Sir Boldshield,” he said, and did as he’d been ordered.
The lantern bobbed away reluctantly into a large and eerie chamber, its walls broken by many niches containing stone coffins. Several larger coffins, their lids carved into semblances of sleeping Summerstar lords and ladies, stood in a fan-shaped array radiating out from a large central table.
“Hundarr,” Broglan asked in commanding tones, pointing, “is that table clear?”
The war wizard nodded gravely, took a stance, and cast a spell of detection with as much showmanship and grand oratory as he could muster. Storm, Ergluth, and several veteran armsmen hid their smiles; several of the more junior Purple Dragons didn’t bother.
Lost in his moment of glory, Hundarr missed the displays of mirth. He strode around the crypt, looking this way and that, and finally announced, “Faint magics—possibly preservative enchantments—around those three coffins, this one, and that one over there. The rest of the chamber, including the table, is clear, Sir Broglan.”
The senior war wizard gave him a tight smile. “Good.” He turned to Storm and Ergluth. “Well?”
“Which of those coffins contains Athlan’s handful?” Storm asked. The wizard laid his hand on the newest, and she said, “Bring it forth, and pour it out on the table. Lanterns well clear, good sirs.”
Broglan raised his eyebrows, but did as he was bid. Storm looked down at the small heap of cinders, turned her head away to sigh, and said quietly, “I’m told you carry a spell you’re very proud of, Sir Broglan … one of your own devising, that returns things to their last shape. Will you cast it on these ashes, please?”
The war wizard looked at her in surprise, more for her knowledge of his prize enchantment than for what he’d been asked to do. He said, “The body my spell will fashion can be no more than an empty shell, feather-light and very short-lived. Whatever you want to do, do it quickly.”
Storm merely gestured for him to continue. Broglan met her eyes doubtfully for a moment. He took several small items from the sleeves and lapels of his robe and, with slow and exacting care, cast his spell.
The ashes on the stone table gradually drew together and shaped themselves into a sprawled body. Storm regarded it critically as it changed from a thing of black flakes tinged with white or brown to an almost corpselike shape of dull gray.
“How long can you hold it thus?” she asked.
“Not long,” Broglan said flatly. Tiny beads of sweat sprung into being on his forehead. Ah. That short a time, then. She went straight to work.
The shape of Athlan Summerstar lay on his back, naked, a smooth nothing where his face should be. Storm indicated this. “Is that your spell, or had he no face when he died?”
“That’s what it looked like when he breathed his last,” Broglan said tersely. “I’ve never seen one of these reconstructions with no eyes before—but my spell could not have been miscast, or you’d have no image at all to look at.”
“Could the face have been burnt away?” Storm asked sharply, bending by the ash-image’s ear.
Broglan looked surprised, and then said, “Yes. Yes, certainly. That would almost have to be the reason for no trace of eyes. They must have been gone before he died.”
Storm nodded somberly. “That’s what I thought,” she said quietly, and bent over the shape again.
“I see a dead man, lying on his back,” Ergluth Rowanmantle said, standing at the crypt doors. “Can you see more?”
Storm nodded and pointed. “See the mark, and the darker area? A sword came out of his breast there. So our mysterious murderer drove a blade through a young and energetic man from behind, and did the burning after.”
“But why?” the boldshield said. “Concealing who the victim was is the only reason I know besides disease banishment to set fire to a man’s face.… And we knew immediately who the victim was.”
“What if someone—Athlan himself?—has taken the shape of another Summerstar, say, and tried to leave the body of someone else behind, burnt to conceal the fact that it wasn’t really Athlan, as we’re all assuming?” the war wizard Corathar asked excitedly.
“You’ve been reading too many dead-knight chapbooks, lad,” Insprin Turnstone said wearily from beside him. “Now belt up, and listen to the lady.”
Storm was bent over the ash-shape, frowning as she thoughtfully bit her lip. “His knees and elbows are both scraped,” she said. “He fell on stone, in some haste or with some force … and this bruise on his cheek, here, means …”
“Yes?” Broglan and Ergluth prompted, in unison.
“He fell on his face, onto something shaped and metal. The less likely cause is that his cheek was struck by the quillons of his own sword or the blade of another, as Athlan’s uplifted weapon was driven into it by a hard parry or by the force of a meeting with a wall or attack.”
She looked up. “Broglan? What did your spells tell you when you tried to touch the mind of your slain mageling?”
“Nothing,” the war wizard told her bleakly. “To magic—all the magics we could think of, that any of us can cast—he was ‘not there.’ Unreachable, absent … blindbarred.”
Storm nodded, and whispered something over the silent shape. A pulse of light raced away from her lips, passing swiftly through the thing of ash. When it was gone, though, the ash-corpse looked just as it had before.
Her eyes flickered. The boldshield took a cautious step forward. “Can you bring the dead back to walk among us, Lady of Mystra? Then Athlan could lead the House of Summerstar once more, and we could banish all this strife and upset.”
Storm laughed shortly as she circled the shape, looking at the soles of its feet. “For all the tales of the dead rising at a wave of a priest’s hand,” she said slowly, not looking up, “death is still the final and inescapable fate of all—or at least, one very few find a reprieve from. Not this one, I’m afraid—something bars my every spell.”
As the last words left her lips, the ashes gave forth a queer little sigh and collapsed.
She looked up. The wizard Broglan was shaking with weariness. Feeling her scrutiny, he looked up and managed a smile.
“That’s—not an easy spell to hold,” he said.
There was a stir outside the crypt, and they all looked up as the Purple Dragons standing wary guard stepped back to allow the entry of more of their fellows. They bore something in a covered strong chest, and were preceded by the grim and white-lipped old steward of the feast hall.
“My thanks for guiding my men hence,” Ergluth Rowanmantle told the old man gravely.
Ilgreth Drimmer nodded wearily and leaned back against the wall, silently waving away the thanks.
Broglan had already swept Athlan’s ashes carefully back into their coffin, leaving the stone table clear. He joined the steward against the wall, too tired to do more than watch.
Storm pointed. The armsmen lifted the sheet out of the strong chest and swung the shrouded bundle onto the funerary table.
“Renglar?” Ergluth asked quietly.
Storm nodded. “I hope he’ll do Athlan one last service,” she said.
“But none of the spells you tried back in your bedchamber could reach him,” the Purple Dragon commander said.
Storm gestured to the armsmen to draw back the edges of the
sheet. “There is one spell left.”
“A wizard’s wish?” Ergluth ventured. “Can your will overcome the burning he suffered?”
Storm shook her head and took the seneschal’s blackened skull into her hand. “No,” she whispered. “Hush, now.”
Then, looking into the two shrunken and dusty eyeballs, she breathed some phrases, put her finger to her own eyes, and touched the fingertips to Renglar’s sorry, staring orbs. She turned, still holding the skull, and waved at the war wizards and armsmen to stand clear. The skull stared endlessly across the crypt. Something in the air where it was looking stirred, danced into life, and flickered.
A dozen men held their breaths as one and stared intently.
“Storm—?” Ergluth asked quietly, his hand on his sword.
“Nothing to do us harm,” she replied, eyes never leaving the stirring air. “We’ll be seeing the last thing the seneschal saw before he died.”
As if obeying her, the flickering disturbance suddenly coalesced into a sharp, stationary image: a darkly handsome man with a crooked-bladed dagger in one hand. He reached it forward with a cruel, maniacal grin.
There was a murmur. “So that’s our slayer,” Ergluth said sharply. “Take a good look, men.”
Storm moved and made a slight sound beside him. He glanced at her. The Bard of Shadowdale had started back. One of her hands had gone to her lips—lips that were suddenly chalk-white, and trembling.
Broglan saw her face too. “What’s wrong, lady?”
“None of you recognize him?” Storm asked, almost whispering.
There was a general shaking of heads. “Nay, lady,” Ergluth spoke for them all.
Storm let out a long, shuddering breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them to stare one last time at the grinning image as it started to fade. “That’s Maxan Maxer, once my consort.”
“ ‘Once’? He left you?” Ergluth asked, raising an eyebrow.
Storm gave him a wan smile. “In a manner of speaking.” The image faded into a ghostly shadow. When it was quite gone, the bard turned away and added, her whisper loud in the silent tomb, “He’s been dead for years.”