Stormlight

by Ed Greenwood

  “I keep no magic in my bed,” the dowager lady told him calmly, “but if you fear traps, choose a spot on the floor yourself.”

  He shook his head slowly. “That will not be necessary. Lady, you will be remembered with honor.”

  “It is all I ask,” she whispered as he rose over her and grew gentle fingers to encircle her wrists. “It is more than many can expect.”

  His grip was like immovable iron on her wrists and ankles. Pheirauze shuddered then, at the first, tentative touch of fire—but the firebringer found that he could be gentle and slay slowly. What was even more surprising was that he truly wanted to.

  * * * * *

  Gods, but she’d been willful! Briefly he’d had to fight down her wants and schemes to keep hold of his own. He forgave her that, and almost any villainy she might have planned, for what she’d yielded unto him. Pheirauze Summerstar had always been able to speak to the minds of humans near her, and even dominate some of them!

  He laughed exultantly and looked down almost fondly at the shrunken husk that lay beside him, limbs spread but somehow still proud. Not wanting to crush any part of it, he bent with infinite gentleness to kiss the fire-scorched lips before rolling up off the bed.

  In silence for a time, he looked down at all that was left of Pheirauze Summerstar. He half smiled, shook his head, and swept a row of guttering candles onto the bed.

  Two strides took him to more candles. A funeral pyre was only fitting for a lady of such splendid spirit; matron of her clan and wielder of such power. Power now his!

  He laughed aloud, threw aside the door bar, and ran out into the passage, becoming a hound as he went down the hall. Behind him, the bed burst with a loud roar into sudden, towering flames. The Purple Dragons would have to scramble to save this part of the keep. By then, of course, the man who was more than a man would be long gone.

  * * * * *

  Storm toweled the last of the bathwater from her limbs and strode toward the bed, where she’d laid out fresh clothes. On the way, she glanced at the tall oval mirror on the wall, and saw that her cheek looked as smooth as it felt; the deep burn was gone. Well, thank Mystra for the small things as well as those that shake all Faerûn.…

  Linen briefs and halter, green hose and stays, her traveling boots—who knows where her hunt for a shapeshifter might lead her?

  White shirt, leather tunic, sword belt, and gloves. Gods, but she looked like she was off to some forest war! Storm shook her head and sang softly, “Forth went the maiden, sword by her side …” Striking a pose, hand on hip, she stretched like some great cat and went to the door.

  “Too fair to crawl, but too ’fraid to ride.…” she continued. Mouth open to sing the next line, she paused, sniffed the air—and snatched open the door.

  Smoke. She was out and down the hall at a run before she’d even selected a curse. Somewhere in the keep, there was fire.

  * * * * *

  Running feet pounded past the door, and men shouted. There was a distant crash, more shouts—and then more hurrying, booted feet.

  “Move, damn you!” an officer barked right outside the door.

  The noise brought Shayna Summerstar awake. She sat up, blinking, in the close darkness of her canopied bed. There was a sharp smell in the air. She sniffed. Smoke.

  Smoke?

  Gods, was the keep afire? Since the Harper lady had come, men had been dying and there had been tumult and much whispering among armsmen and wizards alike … what else would the days ahead bring?

  She rolled out of bed, put a bare foot on the soft rug, and took a step sharply to the side, to bring her other foot down on cold stone and jolt herself fully awake.

  More men ran past. “The whole floor’s ablaze!” someone shouted.

  It was a fire. Shayna swallowed and went to her wardrobe. She’d need boots, and her jewel-coffer, and—

  She swung the wardrobe door wide, and stared into the eyes of her grandmother, Pheirauze. But those familiar eyes were looking at her out of a man’s face!

  “Come,” said a voice that was almost her grandmother’s. A firm hand took hold of hers.

  “Yes,” Shayna said quietly, not even remembering to whimper.

  The man with her grandmother’s eyes thrust aside her best gowns as if they were rags, and led her to a dark place at the back of her wardrobe—and through it, into blackness beyond. The young Lady Summerstar scarcely knew when he slid a panel closed behind them, and drew her on down a narrow, damp passage that led straight into the Haunted Tower.…

  So it was that when frantic chambermaids led two Purple Dragons into the bedchamber to take the flower of the Summerstars to safety, they found her gone from her bed, with no clothes taken and no sign of where she could have gone. The bed was simply—empty. One of the maids shrieked and ran from the room, and another dissolved in sobs, but the two armsmen poked and peered all around the chamber, swearing horribly.

  … The man whose face was slowly changing led the Lady Shayna on into darkness, away from the tumult. The sharp smell faded behind them, and the noise with it, as they went. The floor was cold under Shayna’s bare feet, and the air chilled her through the thin silk and openwork lace panels of her nightgown. It seemed as if a mist lay on her thoughts. It was a warm, comforting mist, which did not lift even when they came to a chamber of real, luminous fog.

  With a hunger she’d seen on other mens’ faces before, the man turned to look her up and down. Somehow, this place of eerie, empty darkness was a haven of comfort as long as she stared into those dark eyes … eyes that seemed to hold two dancing red flames.

  The fiery gaze held her bound—and a voice cut like a knife through her head:

  I AM YOUR DARK MASTER. ADDRESS ME THUS.

  “Y-Yes,” she said, lips trembling. She was suddenly more afraid than she had ever been in her life. As she stared into those dark, gloating eyes, a word swam unbidden into her mind: thrall. Thrall …

  YES?

  Yes Dark Master, she said in her mind.

  He smiled and nodded.

  Shayna found herself smiling and nodding too. Somehow the title fit the figure standing in the darkness before her.

  Then a door in her mind opened. Through it tumbled images, phrases, and iron-hard feelings that burned her and flayed her, surging through her and battering down any self-will she’d managed to cling to.

  Grandmare Pheirauze?

  ALWAYS, CHILD. I SHALL BE HERE, WATCHING OVER YOU ALWAYS.

  [Fear.] Must you?

  OF COURSE. WE HAVE WORK TO DO, YOU AND I.

  [Confusion.] Who are you, really—changing man?

  YOUR MASTER. PHEIRAUZE LIVES IN ME. WE HAVE WORK BEFORE US—SHE, I, AND YOU: WE MUST OVERCOME THE WOMAN WHO SERVES MYSTRA.

  The Lady Storm?

  YES. YOU MUST HELP LURE HER TO ME.

  Why do you need her? You have me!

  I MUST HAVE HER POWER, SHAYNA. POWER YOU LACK

  [Disappointment.] [Fear.] If I bring you Storm, will you still want me?

  OF COURSE. I SHALL ALWAYS WANT YOU. JUST AS YOU SHALL COME TO WANT—AND NEED—ME. BUT FOR NOW, OBEY: COME WITH ME.

  The eyes of flame turned away from her. Shayna trembled, and found herself trotting along in the wake of her Dark Master. He grew long, wriggling arms like eels and hurried along passages she’d never seen, ways in her own home that she did not know.

  After a long but swift journey, the changing man abruptly halted, turned, and fixed his fiery eyes on hers.

  DO YOU WANT TO SERVE ME?

  Yes. Oh, yes, she told him, nodding frantically despite the silent scream that rose somewhere inside her.

  THEN OBEY. A tentacle snatched something down from a high ledge—something cold and sharp: a dagger. Its hilt slapped into her palm, hard and reassuringly heavy.

  Shayna held it, scarcely daring to breathe. Another tentacle did something, and the wall ahead rolled open. Flickering torchlight flooded into the dark passage. The Dark Master stepped into the light and was gone.
>
  COME TO THE DOOR. His command rolled through her.

  Shayna did so, gliding forward on bare feet. The blade trembled in her hands and excitement rose in her breast. The Dark Master faced her, but between them was the back of a guard in chain mail. His sword was raised, and he was in a wary stance. His attention was fixed on the man who had something that looked like glistening eels hanging from his shoulders. The master did not look at Shayna.

  STRIKE AT MY COMMAND. STRIKE NOW.

  A sudden image in her mind showed her just how.

  YesyesNOW!

  The knife flashed. Shayna struck swiftly. She drew the blade firmly across the unseen throat. A sudden splash of hot blood over her hands.

  The man turned and gurgled. His elbow crashed into her ribs. Trying to ignore the pain, she stepped back, let the guard fall, and watched him die.

  His eyes stared up at hers in horrified recognition. The light in them faded, and they rolled up to stare forever.

  Her master smiled at her. To her horror, Shayna found herself smiling back. He gestured for her to let the dagger fall. She did so, standing stock-still as his tentacles became long, glistening tongues that lapped and licked every spot of blood from her hands and arms.

  The smile broadened. The eyes became those of Pheirauze Summerstar once more.

  AN EASY THING, WHEN I BID IT. BUT YOU MUST HAVE MORE PRACTICE. GO NOW TO THE STEWARD, ILGRETH DRIMMER.

  Shayna stiffened. That fussy old fart?

  YOU WILL DO AS I BID. HEARKEN …

  The lady who was now head of House Summerstar grew pale as the voice only she could hear continued. This was a test. She’d do it willingly or as an automaton under iron control, but carry it out one way or the other. Slowly, uncertainly, she gave him a smile.

  * * * * *

  The guardcaptain had curtly ordered him to keep to his room until released to do otherwise, and Ilgreth Drimmer was a man who followed orders. The smoke grew thicker, and he could hear distant coughing and cursing. He dared not do more than stick his head out into the hallway to see what might be happening.

  There was, of course, nothing to be seen. The same nothing he’d looked at a score or more times already. He paced back and forth before the open door of his room, worrying about what might be lost if the fire spread—things he could be, nay, should be snatching up and carrying out to safety even now! He was going to have to …

  For perhaps the twentieth time, he strode determinedly to the doorway to begin the vital work only he knew how to do. He might not be able to fight fires, but no Purple Dragon was going to tell …

  “Ilgreth?”

  He came to an abrupt, staring halt. He opened and closed his mouth several times, finding it did not work no matter what position he put it in.

  Shayna Summerstar was leaning against the door frame, a thin silk nightgown clinging to her in several places. She was smiling at him in a way that Ilgreth had never dreamed he’d see from her—or any other beautiful lass of her age.

  “The fire is well under control, they tell me,” she said in a low, husky voice, unfolding herself from the door frame and gliding forward. Her gown fell open.

  Involuntarily Ilgreth looked down, and then up, and gulped again. He kept his eyes firmly on her face, but knew his own face was blazing. Try as he might, nothing would come out of his mouth.

  “So it provides me with the distraction I’ve been waiting for,” she continued, drawing the door firmly closed and wedging a chair against it. “Think no more about flames, but about this instead: I have always loved you.”

  Then she was pressed against him, soft and warm. “For years,” she told his throat, “I’ve looked for a chance for us to … be together.”

  In mute disbelief, Ilgreth stared at her.

  Emerald eyes smiled up into his. “Take me to your bed,” she whispered. “I’ve waited so long.”

  “Ah, uh—a-ho!” Ilgreth burst out intelligently, finding his voice at last. “Lady, are you sure you’re—”

  “Ilgreth,” she said, pushing him back onto the bed and planting a knee on his chest. “I’m very sure. Humor me.…”

  “Ah, yes, of course, lady,” Ilgreth said faintly, wondering when this dream would end, and where he’d find himself when he awakened.…

  * * * * *

  The man with the tentacles and the face that was slowly changing sprawled at ease in Lady Shayna Summerstar’s abandoned bed. A goblet of fine wine was in one hand and the decanter he’d filled it from in the other. He was smiling and nodding at something that was unfolding in another bedchamber.

  He suddenly stiffened, spilling wine on the coverlet, and sat up. Newly gained memories of similar things had stirred within him—reminding him of a certain someone who knew far too much.

  He tossed goblet and decanter carelessly away and snapped his fingers decisively before the items crashed to the floor. He was gone out the open door in a trice, striding hard along the passage outside, toward the source of the smoke.

  * * * * *

  “How are we—?” The guardcaptain was too breathless to say more, but the soot-blackened armsman nodded in understanding.

  “Winning, sir—the two chambers beyond are as wet as duck ponds, and the fire’s more smoke now than flame. As long as the roof-timbers don’t catch …”

  The weary, sweat-drenched officer nodded grimly. “Good. Hand me another bucket, and we’ll go look at th—”

  He reached back for the next bucket in the slopping line, but paused in astonishment. Beside him, old Narlargus slumped against the wall, and the bucket he held gently poured its contents out onto his boots and down the steps.

  There was a smoldering, ashen stump where his head should have been.

  Armsman and officer looked at each other and then back at the corpse sliding slowly down the wall, trailing a black smear of ash. They gabbled prayers and oaths, and fled in terror.

  Storm Silverhand shortly came striding up the stair, cast a grim glance at the slain servant, and broke into a run. She was soon splashing along a passage whose walls were stained with soot, and whose floor stood an inch deep in water. Voices came from a room ahead, and Storm turned into it.

  Weary Purple Dragons stood staring at a pile of ashes on the floor. “Is the fire out?” Storm asked.

  “Aye, Lady,” Ergluth Rowanmantle told her, “that’s not what we’re worried over, now.”

  Storm looked a silent question at him, and he raised grim eyes to meet hers. “This was the bedchamber of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze Summerstar,” he explained, “and that was her bed.”

  Storm looked down at the pile of ashes. “And she was in it when the fire …”

  “The flames started here, so far as we can tell by the marks,” he said, “but that’s not what—well, look here.” He gestured with the tip of his boot at gold puddles on the floor among the ash. “This was an anklet, and, here, a row of rings. These—all of these—are what she called her ‘gold glisters’; the jewelry she never removed.”

  “She died here,” Storm agreed, nodding.

  “Lady,” the boldshield said wearily, “have you ever seen a fire that left puddled gold behind, but not a single bone? She’s gone, completely—and yet she must have been in this; I’ve been told she couldn’t get some of those rings off over her knuckles.”

  “There’s a man on the stairs back there,” Storm told him, “a servant, by his livery, who has his head—just his head—burnt away. He was carrying water buckets when it happened.”

  Their eyes met. Two mouths tightened into identical thin lines.

  “Our murderer, it seems,” Ergluth said softly, “has s—”

  “My lords!” The breathless shout came down the passage from a servant who coughed out smoke. “Lord Boldshield?”

  “In here,” Ergluth said sharply, turning to the door.

  A man in the livery of the house ducked in through the door, a torch in his hand. “Sir,” he panted. His eyes went to Storm and then darted away again. “There’
s something you must see. Pray come quickly!”

  Ergluth wasted no time on questions, but gestured for the man to lead them; the folk in the room emptied out into the passage after him. They had shouldered through a doorway and started down the stairs when the Purple Dragon commander asked his first question.

  “Will we need our swords out?”

  The man shook his head, and then turned on the landing below them to do it again. His face was grim. “Nay—too late for that.”

  He stopped at an open door where two Purple Dragons were standing guard, and gestured within. Storm and Ergluth looked at each other.

  “The steward,” the warrior told her. “Ilgreth Drimmer.”

  Something hard came into Storm’s face, and she laid a hand on his arm. “I’d like to look at this alone for a breath or two, if you don’t mind,” she said quietly.

  Ergluth shrugged. “It won’t make any difference to him,” he said wearily. “Go ahead.” Then he laid a hand on her arm, and murmured in her ear, “Was he a Harper? Is that it?”

  Storm whispered back, “No. I just … have to say farewell to this one.”

  Ergluth waved his hand at her to go forth and do so, and muttered to the armsmen coming up behind him, “This is getting as bloody as a battle.”

  Storm took the torch from the servant who’d fetched them, and stepped cautiously inside. Nothing seemed disturbed in the room but a wicker laundry-basket, fallen by the foot of the bed that Ilgreth Drimmer lay upon. A door at the back of the room was ajar, opening onto a narrow passage where the dim blue light of false dawn was just beginning to show at the windows.

  The steward lay sprawled on his back on the bed, a dagger in his breast. His face was slack in death, but nowhere could Storm see the burns left by the consuming powers of the shapeshifter. Had someone else slain the man to settle old scores, trusting to the tumult of the other deaths to quell all hue and cry?

  Storm looked at the steward’s hands, and took up a single strand of hair from under his nails. A long hair—too long for most men. She bent over Ilgreth’s face and wiped at his lip with a finger. The tip of her finger came away red. Lip-rouge.