by Ed Greenwood
Ergluth Rowanmantle waited for the stormy reply that was sure to come. In the terse silence, the mage’s hands tightened on a certain wand at his belt.
Surprisingly, Storm smiled. “Ah, you’re awake at last. Good. Are you listening?” As Broglan sputtered, her eyes went to Ergluth. He nodded.
Storm walked to the bed, put her arm around one of its ornamental posts to lean against it, and told the nearest wall, “Long ago, I came to love a man—the man whose likeness you saw last night. Maxan Maxer was his name, a good and law-abiding man from Turmish. He was quick with a blade, and one of the most thoughtful beings I’ve ever met. He was always anticipating, thinking ahead, and arranging things to flow easily.”
The bard’s voice grew husky. She stared off through the wall, seeing things far away and long ago. “We lived and laughed and adventured together for years, until he fell … in the Year of the Bright Blade.”
“You thought him dead?” Broglan snapped, every inch the inquisitor.
Storm looked at him coolly. “I saw him die. We were in a ruined city north of Escalant, fighting tanar’ri. Cambions and dretches had been scouring the countryside, seizing farm folk and bearing them off to an old temple there.”
“For some sort of dark ritual?” Broglan asked, sounding disgusted. “I must have heard this tale a hundred times.”
Storm shrugged. “Do you want to hear my words, or not? If I offer truth and you dismiss it, war wizard, there is very little I can do to help you. If you think me false, there are spells that can detect lying, and—unlike some—I’d gladly submit to them.”
She looked at him in clear challenge and kept silent until Broglan dropped his eyes and muttered, “Go on.”
Storm nodded her head as if she were a queen solemnly agreeing to something distasteful. She said, “All of the foul ones served a marilith who sought more power. She believed—perhaps rightly—that the ritual she’d discovered or devised would yield to her the life-forces of sacrificed humans so that she could grow far more powerful than others of her kind … and come to dominate them. We fought our way into the temple and disrupted her ritual.”
“Was that ritual the cause of the spell storms I’ve heard about, that made southern Thay perilous?” the boldshield asked, frowning.
“Not the ritual, but our breaking of it,” Storm said. “It had been going for a long time, and the energies burst out in waves of enchanted fire and wild magic. The temple roof fell. Many humans and tanar’ri alike died. My beloved hewed his way almost to the marilith, striking ahead where I could not reach, being engaged with too many foes.”
Old anguish made her voice harsh. She looked away, eyes falling to the silent body on her bed.
“A tanar’ri drew six blades and fenced with him. I heard her hiss in glee: ‘A worthy opponent to slay!’ Maxer proved a worthier opponent than she’d thought, lopping off several of her arms. As I cut my way free of the last cambions around me, I heard her shriek with rage, and saw her writhing, racked with pain. She stopped toying with my beloved.”
Storm took a deep breath and turned to face them again. “She ran her snakelike tail up around his neck from behind … and tore his head off. I saw his body jerk and spray out lifeblood.… I saw his head roll across the temple. Before I could avenge my love, the marilith fled in spell-smokes, still clutching his body. When all was done, I could find no trace of his head, either.”
“So if this is not him, risen from that death,” Ergluth said slowly, “it is someone or something who knows you—and that seeing your man’s likeness will cause you distress.”
Storm nodded grimly.
Broglan stared at her, and then at the Purple Dragon commander, drawing back from the boldshield almost as if he’d been betrayed. “So now we’re chasing phantoms!” he roared angrily. He turned in a swirl of rumpled robes and stormed out.
The lady and the soldier stood looking at each other for a moment. Ergluth said softly, “Our war wizard hates and fears what he can’t understand or overmaster.”
Storm shrugged. “Being human, how could he do otherwise?”
That tiny crook reappeared at the corner of the Purple Dragon’s mouth. “How could he not, indeed? Cast your spell on me, Lady Silverhand—we two, at least, will work together in this.”
Storm smiled suddenly. “It’s nice to meet someone reasonable in this keep,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.
“ ‘Sweet reason oft in short supply,’ ” he wryly quoted a famous Cormyrean poem, and sat down on the blanket-chest at the foot of her bed. “If you don’t mind my boldness,” he said carefully, “there are things I’d like to know, about—the fate of Gondegal, and how Cormyr really turned back Sembia from invading in the early days, and if Princess Alusair has joined the Harpers, and …”
“Hold, Lord Rowanmantle!” Storm broke in with a smile. “We’ve too much at hand to sit about talking now. Perhaps when all this is over. For now, don’t thrust as Broglan did—or, I warn you, I’ll become a lonely, flustered woman and forget all my answers.”
“Flustered?” Ergluth snorted. “Lady, you are near to being a goddess! You’ve walked these lands for centuries, and seen and done more than I’ll ever do. Right, I’ll behave, and not probe like a lord high inquisitor. And in return, pray, spare me your talk of being ‘flustered’ or a weak woman. I sit here in awe of you!”
“Really?” Storm said, giggling and bouncing like a little girl. “That’s nice!”
Ergluth rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, and was rewarded by her full, throaty chuckle. “If you’d like the body removed now,” he said carefully, “my men …”
* * * * *
Orling the Bold proudly touched the silver harp pin on his breast, his heart full. High Lady Dragonbreast herself had pinned it there, and kissed him, not an hour past. He could still taste the cinnamon of her lip glaze.
Reflectively running a tongue over his lips, he closed his eyes and rocked in pure pleasure. Soon the celebratory revel for the new-honored Harpers would begin, and Twilight Hall would be plunged into dancing and drinking and dalliance. And he must be ready.
He hefted the harp in his hands and ran a gentle finger over its strings. Two were badly out of tune, and a third just a trifle. He opened his eyes to start tightening, looking at the silently glowing glass display case that rose proudly on its plinth in the center of this little antechamber. Within was a ring. It had always floated there, turning slowly. It winked at him as some curve of its sculpted dragon caught the light. Something from Cormyr, wasn’t it?
Orling smiled at the ring, noting silver, gold, and electrum in it as it turned. He plucked at his lowest string. Then he blinked, gulped, and nearly dropped his harp.
The ring was gone. The case still glowed, as brightly as it had before, but now it was empty. Completely empty. He peered at its bottom to be sure the ring hadn’t just fallen, but before he really looked, he knew the ring had vanished. Silently, without flash or fuss—it was gone, right before his proverbial eyes.
Orling the Bold drew in a deep, unhappy breath. Whom was he going to tell? And would they believe him?
* * * * *
There was a sharp rap at the door. Broglan looked up. “No armsman nor servant knocks like that,” he said softly. “Be ready for trouble.”
Insprin nodded and took two wands from the table by his elbow. He handed one to Corathar and the other to Hundarr. By the time he’d joined the two younger wizards in a rough semicircle around the door, Insprin had his own wand out.
Broglan took the center position in the curved line of mages and drew his wand. Satisfied that all four wands were trained on the door, the leader of the war wizards called, “Enter!”
The door swung open. Storm Silverhand took a step into the room, earrings glittering above her gown. Out of the corner of his eye, Broglan saw Hundarr look at her with new respect. She swung the door shut behind herself.
“Come no closer,” Broglan said coldly. Storm turned, one eyebrow raised—to face fo
ur ready wands. “We would know why you are here.”
Storm squarely met his gaze. “It is imperative that we work more closely together, Sir Broglan. None of us can afford more deaths. You—all of you—must agree to my placing silent watch spells over you, as Lord Rowanmantle has done.”
“Rowanmantle’s a fool for a pretty face,” Broglan snapped, “and such blandishments fail here. I’ve given you my refusal already; be aware that each time you force me to repeat it will bring a sharper and more hostile reception. Things would be much simpler if you were not here, Lady Harper.”
“I agree,” Storm told him, every inch a court lady as she took two smooth steps nearer. “They’d be much simpler indeed: you’d all be dead by now.” She shook her head. “You may soon be anyway if you refuse even this simple measure of protection.”
“The answer remains no, lady,” Broglan said coldly, “and the door remains there, awaiting you. Pray, begone, or you’ll force me to banish you from Cormyr in the name of the king! What’s going on in this keep now is far too important for us to listen to silly and dangerous requests to submit to your spellcasting!”
“Oh,” Storm said quietly, “were you under the misapprehension that I was requesting anything, sir? Allow me to correct that: I am not now asking you to submit to my spells. I am commanding you to do so.”
Broglan stiffened. “You’re in Cormyr now, Harper,” he snarled. “You have no authority to command anything! You’ve already shown us that you can threaten … war wizards of Cormyr ignore threats!”
“Pardon me, sirrah,” Storm told him smoothly, “but I do have that authority. I speak to you now not as a Harper bard, but as Marchioness Immerdusk—of Cormyr.”
Broglan frowned. “What nonsense is this?” Beside him, Insprin opened his mouth to say something, but the leader of the war wizards quelled him with a dark glance.
“That is the title given me by the king of Cormyr,” Storm said calmly. “Is there some problem with your hearing, sir, or comprehension?”
“The Lord Vangerdahast schools us well in what ranks and titles are borne by citizens of the realm,” Broglan said icily. “In particular, when new titles are created—for the suddenly ennobled sometimes let things go to their heads, and create trouble. Lady, desist in this falsehood: all of us here would know if King Azoun had created you a marchioness—a rare rank in any case; why, I believe there are no more than eight marchionesses in all the realm.”
“Azoun did not name me to any noble rank,” Storm told him, gliding forward. Four wands lifted as one, and she looked coolly along them and came to a smooth halt. “My title was conferred upon me by King Baerovus Obarskyr.”
“Baerovus?”
“It was some time ago,” Storm said, “but Lord Vangerdahast’s lore-learning should bear me out. I adopted the king’s bastard son, Casplar Hundyl Immerdusk, as my own. I reared him, versed in the principles of law and loyalty. By ennobling me, Baerovus was able to give his unacknowledged son a senior rank at court. Casplar became the first lord chancellor of Cormyr, scribe of the laws—and so the noble house of Immerdusk was founded.”
Broglan looked like a man bewildered. He frowned, shook his head as if to clear it, gabbled for a moment incoherently, and then said grimly, “Whether this be true or not, the wizards of war have never taken orders from the nobility of the realm, lady!”
“Oh?” Storm said. “They certainly did in my day.”
Broglan gave her a wintry smile and a little shrug, and said lightly, triumph in his tone, “Times change, madam. Sad, isn’t it? Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve a few things to do that are slightly more urgent than standing about arguing matters of rank—the door, as I recall, still lies in that direction.” He drew himself up and smiled at her.
Storm matched his grim smile and said, “As Vangerdahast is wont to say: not quite so fast, Sir Broglan.” She saw Insprin and Hundarr both hide grins at that, as she put her hand very slowly into her bodice and drew forth something small. A ring.
She held it up. “Azoun did give me this,” she said, “to use if I ever needed to command any lord, officer, official, or common citizen of Cormyr, in his name. It compels you to obey me as if I were the king.”
Four pairs of eyes bulged in astonishment. Vangerdahast had seen to their training properly; they all recognized it, though there could scarcely be more than a dozen such items in all Faerûn.
What impressed the wizards so much as it gleamed on her palm was a Purple Dragon ring. She held it up, turning it so they could all see what adorned the gold band: a tiny sculpted dragon of electrum, heat-tinted to a delicate mauve and surrounded by a disk of silver. “Will you test its veracity, Sir Broglan?” she asked, almost reverently.
Broglan’s face held awe as he stretched forth his hand to take it. The three other wizards drew in close to watch as he held the ring in his open palm, touched it with one finger, and said hoarsely, “Azoun rules.”
Immediately, a clear and cultured voice—King Azoun’s—arose from the ring. “As the war wizards guard,” it responded.
Eyes widened among the watching wizards. They looked at Storm with more respect than she had ever seen in their eyes before. She crooked two fingers in a beckoning motion, and Broglan reluctantly tipped the ring back into her hand. “Are you prepared to obey me, Broglan?” she asked him quietly. “Or will you be forsworn before your king?”
“I—I … what precisely do you want? I have very specific instructions on some points,” Broglan said, face twisting anxiously. “I—I can’t just …”
With a firm hand Storm pushed aside the wand that was leveled at her chest, stepped up to him, and said, “You have a speaking-stone hidden away hereabouts. Use it.”
Broglan blinked at her. “Pardon?”
“Confer with Lord Vangerdahast,” she said briskly. “Get his permission to work with me, if you feel you need it. Or talk to His Majesty, if you’d prefer—but in the meantime, it can hardly hurt to show me Athlan’s notes, which I know you’ve hidden here somewhere.…”
Storm had turned to survey the faces of the watching mages as she spoke her last sentence—and was rewarded by Hundarr Wolfwinter, who glanced involuntarily at a certain tome on the bookshelves behind Broglan’s chair.
Without another word, she stepped around the senior war wizard, the skirts of her gown hissing past. She snatched down the book Hundarr had looked at. It was the work of but a moment to thumb its latch, flip open the cover, and discover that it was a hiding-tome rather than a real volume. Curled up in its central well were a few pages of ink-scrawled parchment.
Storm flicked the topmost page open between her thumb and finger, seeing only the words, “Beware the Walker of the Worlds,” before book, parchment, and all were roughly snatched away from her.
Broglan stared at her, eyes blazing. “Lady Silverhand! Kindly wait until I have spoken with Lord Vangerdahast, if you don’t mind!”
She sighed theatrically and said, “Well, get on with it, then.”
Behind them, one of the younger war wizards snorted in amusement. When Broglan swung around to see which of them it was, Storm pounced on the black velvet bundle that now lay on his table.
By the time he turned back from glaring at both of the younger mages, the fist-sized sphere of obsidian was already rising smoothly up from its cushion at the center of the black velvet circle. A slight smile on her face, Storm sat in his chair, her arms folded on the table.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he almost screamed, lunging at the table—and then bringing himself to a halt, inches away from crashing into the furniture. The speaking stone came to its own stop not a breath away from his nose, and began to turn lazily in midair.
Storm lifted amused eyes to meet his. “Is this some sort of trick question, Sir Broglan? What does it look like?”
“Broglan?” a voice rasped, out of the stone. “Is that you?”
“Vangey!” Storm barked. “Good to talk to you again! Why don’t you ever swing out to
Shadowdale to see me?”
There was a moment of silence, and then the sharp voice spoke again, in tones of cold dignity. “The Lord Elminster and I did not part on the best of terms,” it informed her, “and I’ve no wish to sneak into his very yard and perhaps bump into him.”
Storm made a rude noise. “He’s forgiven you, Vangey—he forgave you the very same nightfall, and that was years ago. Forget it, man!”
“The question is not whether he has forgiven me,” Vangerdahast’s voice came out of the stone very precisely, “but whether I have forgiven him.”
Storm rolled her eyes. “Well, if you haven’t, you should have. Isn’t it about time you set aside all this overblown pride and grew up?”
The obsidian stone in front of her sputtered and then snarled, “Whatever you wanted me for, good lady, this interview is at an end!” It quivered once, and then sank toward the tabletop.
“What have you done?” Broglan roared.
Storm made a gesture. The speaking stone stopped and floated back up to its former position again.
“Not until I’m finished, Old Thunderspells!” she told it crisply. “Your team has a serious problem. None of us—from ambitious young Hundarr, here, to you at court and Azoun up at the palace—can afford to have you getting up on your high horse and overplaying the high-and-mighty old wizard role. The safety of the realm is at stake. Even if it weren’t, you’d do well to set aside the nose-in-the-air, fit-me-for-a-statue stuff, or you’ll start to believe the role. Worse, you’ll start to shrink and gnarl down to fit it! Royal Magician of Cormyr, indeed!”