Stormlight
Page 17
With those softly barbed words, she turned and walked away.
Master? Master!
Shayna watched the woman she admired so much stride along the battlements, dwindling into the distance. Storm disappeared down the stair she’d come from. Still, empty silence was the only reply to Shayna’s entreaties.
She drew a ragged breath. Storm knew. She must know.…
Too late, her worried fingers found the hilt of the knife sheathed in her bodice, and she drew it out. Bright and sharp it flashed, throwing sunlight defiantly back up into the sky. With this blade, one could slay a Harper. But would it fell a Chosen of Mystra, wise and spell-shrouded from centuries in service to the goddess?
Could she go after Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale, and put this gleaming thing in her throat? Did she dare? Did she want to?
Sudden tears broke forth and ran down her cheeks. Shayna shook her head and sobbed against a crumbling crenelation. No, a thousand times, no. There walked the sort of lady she dreamed of being.…
She found herself looking over the battlements. Down, down … it was a sickeningly long way to the treetops below. Shayna Summerstar started to shake. She was alone, and trapped, with death drawing nearer—oh, gods, why had she been such a fool?
But what choice had she had?
Athlan’s choice, she told herself. She looked down over the battlements again. Then she shook her head, went to her knees against the old parapet of her home, and started to cry in earnest as a soft and magnificent sunset came down over Firefall Vale.
* * * * *
The man who was not Maxer shook his head to banish the ever-crowding memories. He wearily descended a flight of steps into the great vaulted hall at the heart of the Haunted Tower.
Let me take charge, Pheirauze Summerstar said in his mind. I can handle such things.
NO DOUBT, he grunted mentally. He sank down into a high-backed seat that still bore the stains where one Summerstar had killed another on it, a century ago.
He thrust the knowing voice of the dowager lady firmly from his thoughts and hummed to himself, feeling bloated and tired. This subsumption was useful, but burdensome. His mind was awash in the thoughts and passions and scenes of others, crowded until he could scarcely think—unless battle brought him fully to the here and now.
Battle. Yes, it was almost time. Let night fall and grow long, and the guardians slumber. Then he’d fare forth again in beast-shape and slaughter servants and guards without subsuming, whittling down those who could stand against him until his awed quarry would have to challenge him.
Yes. That would be best. First the hun—
He looked up, startled. A glowing figure appeared on the balcony above him. It was robed, bearded, and gaunt. As he watched, it gabbled something silent, pointed its hand down at unseen foes, and hurled a bolt of soundless, ghostly light. He tensed and almost sprang from his seat, but the apparition faded. It and its spell were but harmless phantoms; visions of the Haunted Tower.
But what if a phantom were not harmless? What if he could create his own automaton to surprise Storm Silverhand with attacks when her power and attention were bent on an annoyingly successful shapeshifter? What if she faced more than one foe?
Yes … he did spring up this time, and strode through an archway toward another part of the keep. He needed a servant, one who’d scarce be missed.…
Some places in Faerûn attracted and fostered and preserved hauntings—battlefields, aye, but what was it about places like this dark and gloomy tower? It was so rife with ghosts that the family who dwelt here had abandoned it. They spent their lives walking around it, not talking of it. Was there some magic here he couldn’t feel, or something else he could use? He must return when the next victories were his, return and find out.…
Right now, he needed a servant. One like this one. A water-bearer, spending his days groaning under the weight of buckets. He was bent over now, dipping water from the well pool into a jug, with loud splashing sounds. He did not even see the hands that descended to his ears and flashed fire between them.
The man staggered, squealed in astonished pain, and grabbed blindly at the edge of a nearby tapestry, trying to claw his way erect.
The old, rotting tapestry tore away in his hand, and he fell on his face into the water. The fire flashed again, and Mathom Drear, cellarer of the ewer, shuddered once and lay still.
Delicately, the shapeshifter seared the brain, burning away all thoughts but obedience and love for … a certain mind like this. He smiled, turned, and hastened back to the Haunted Tower, his mindless slave dripping along in his wake.
“Mathom Drear,” he muttered, surveying the empty-eyed face. “Gods, what a name.” He’d have to strengthen his control over the mind that now held only thoughts of him, and no memories of its own; an exacting task.…
He made the cellarer sit on the stained high seat. He stared thoughtfully at the mindless man. Once the shapeshifter’s newly gained memories surged and swirled, threatening to overwhelm him, but he snarled, bit his lip until the blood flowed, and fought the maelstrom down.
“Let there be two enemies seeking Storm Silverhand,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the dark, dusty room. “The Foe, and … Hungry Man.” He laughed. “Aye, I’ll make you hungry for her doom!”
He stroked his chin, considering just how to feed the mindless husk with spells and energy, to make it capable of striking a Chosen of Mystra and holding her—just long enough for her true foe to overwhelm her!
“Yes!” he shouted. YES YES YES! The memories swelled up with a roar and burst through his tattered control.…
An observer, had one dared to venture into the dark and lofty hall at the heart of the Haunted Tower, would have seen a slack-jawed man sitting in a chair, staring endlessly at nothing. Another creature danced around it, cackling in wild, deranged glee … a creature who was sometimes a darkly handsome warrior, and at other times a stout, nude woman of mature years. Then again, it was also a warrior in the armor of the Purple Dragons, and at other times a young, sly-looking man in plain robes—and a war hound, or a water snake, or a griffon, or a handsome, imperious young man, or a grim old seneschal, or another young man, or …
The shifts in shape became faster and wilder, with tentacles and glossy black biting mouths rearing up out of a dancing blur. Always, the cold laughter went on, high and wild and free from all reason.
What was it about this Haunted Tower?
Twelve
TRUST AND OLD WINE
When a weary Storm Silverhand returned to her chambers, the Purple Dragons at the door saluted her as a fellow warrior, clapping their hands to their chests. She smiled, matched their salute, and strode in through the open door—to find a war wizard waiting for her. He smiled tentatively, looking every bit as tired as she.
She raised an eyebrow. “Broglan Sarmyn? Smiling at me, an ancient marchioness?”
He sighed. “Aye, Harper tricks and all. We dare not go further, lady, as uneasy allies. No sooner had you left us than the beast attacked in the shape of a Sharn—”
Storm raised both eyebrows at once, truly surprised.
“—and all I could think of, as we fired all our wands to beat the thing off, was that if you’d been there to hurl a slaying-spell or to hold it where we could empty all our magic missiles into it, it would be dead now, and our troubles over.”
Their eyes met, and Broglan continued slowly, “Lord Vangerdahast did tell me to obey you as I would him … but, lady, I have measured him, many times, and it has taken me longer to measure you.” He extended his hand, looking even more worried than usual. “Will you—command me?”
Storm took that hand. “Only if I have to, Broglan. I’d prefer to stand shoulder to shoulder with you, not distantly bark orders through a speaking-stone, like a certain Royal Magician of Cormyr.”
Broglan smiled ruefully. “Yes, I’m one of Vangerdahast’s tame dogs, and—as we all do—I sometimes chafe at glib orders from afar.”
Broglan drew himself up. “Lady, the first dishes have already been served, but if you’ll have me do so, I would escort you to evenfeast.”
“I’d like nothing more!” Storm said heartily, feeling suddenly how hungry she was. “Let’s go!”
“But, lady,” the war wizard said, blinking. “No gown? No gems?”
Storm waved a hand dismissively. “I feel better dressed like this,” she told him, “but if you’ll be more comfortable …”
She hauled her tunic off over her head. Broglan beat a hasty, embarrassed retreat—not fast enough to avoid receiving the wadded-up garment in his face. He caught it reflexively, in time to see Storm dabble perfume behind her ears, down the open front of her shirt, and up her sleeves to the elbows. Winking at him, she snatched out a pendant from a coffer and hung it down her breast.
She strode toward him. He extended his arm to her and swallowed as her hair shaped itself, a smooth forest of silver snakes moving in unison, into a spectacular upswept high-court plume.
“Useful power, that,” he commented as they swept out past the guards and went down to feast.
They shared no further conversation, falling quickly into a somber mood. The passages were empty; their footfalls echoed in a waiting, wary stillness. The keep felt like a cowering prisoner waiting for the executioner.
At the doors of the great hall, a dozen guards stood, a tired-looking Ergluth Rowanmantle in their midst. He gave them a grim smile and waved the doors open.
The hall looked very much as it had on Storm’s first night—save that most of the seats now stood empty. Shayna Summerstar’s seat was vacant. At the point of the table, Uncle Erlandar and the Dowager Lady Zarova Summerstar faced each other. Erlandar was flanked by Thalance and then the wizards Insprin and Corathar. Beside Zarova was Shayna’s empty seat, and beyond that the two aunts.
Broglan conducted Storm to the seat beside Nalanna, who favored the new arrival with her usual cold and haughty glance. Smiling faintly, the war wizard took the seat across from Storm. Both of them found themselves looking down the empty tables. From them, two wings of empty places stretched out into gloom. They exchanged rueful glances.
Broglan turned his head in the other direction and said smoothly, “I apologize, Dowager Lady, for the lateness of our arrival. We had business of state to conclude before dining.”
“Bedded her at last, did you?” Erlandar muttered under his breath, in tones just loud enough to carry clearly to them all.
Margort and Nalanna smirked in unison, but Zarova said quietly, “No more such words, thank you, Erlandar. You should not judge others by your own vices.”
Erlandar flushed and seemed about to say something, but shrugged and reached for his goblet instead.
“Is the Lady Shayna unwell?” Storm asked gently, ignoring Erlandar’s remark.
“She has chosen to dine in her chambers,” Zarova said firmly, “and, as heir of this house, is entitled to her eccentricities.” Her tone made it clear that further discussion of the subject would be unwelcome.
“Roast rothé in white wine and ’shroom sauce,” the understeward murmured as platters were set down in front of the diners.
“So,” Erlandar growled. “Have you found out who murdered Pheirauze yet?”
Steely silence fell as Broglan and Storm looked at each other. He spread his hand, indicating she should reply.
“We have a shapeshifter in our midst,” the Bard of Shadowdale announced calmly, “of unknown origin. It, or he, has slain Lord Athlan, the seneschal, some of the war wizards, and many of the armsmen.”
“You forgot the steward,” Erlandar boomed.
Storm shook her head. “No, Lord Summerstar,” she said, “someone else killed Ilgreth Drimmer.”
“Oh? Well—d’ye know who?”
“The Lady Shayna,” Storm said quietly.
“What?” The startled roar came from both Thalance and Erlandar, who half rose from their seats. All of the Summerstars stared at Storm with barely checked shock and rage—and Storm saw that Broglan was gazing at her in open-jawed dumbfoundment.
“Brawn in cinnamon sour sauce, with onion tarts,” the understeward murmured imperturbably, gliding between them all at the head of another cluster of servers.
“Stay your swords, gentlesirs,” Storm said with just the slightest snap of command in her voice. “Her mind was not her own when she did the deed, but in the thrall of the foe. I tell you this so that you may all be warned in case he takes control of her mind again while you stand near.”
“I don’t believe it,” the Dowager Lady Zarova said, her voice trembling.
“Yes, you do,” Storm said gravely, “or you’d not be so desperate to deny it. I apologize unreservedly for all the outrages I have offered you, both now and previously, but you of the blood of Summerstar must awaken and realize that you now dwell in a battlefield—or the next time we gather for a feast, there’ll be a few more vacant seats.”
In shocked silence, they stared at her.
Storm added, “Go nowhere without guards, none of you—even you, Thalance: invite them along, man!—and carry weapons if you know how to use them. Linger nowhere alone, even in garderobes. Bathe together, or not at all—’tis better to stink unwashed than to own the stink of death.”
Thalance shook his head, a half-disbelieving, half-admiring smile on his lips. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Storm leaned forward. “Lad,” she replied, “I am very serious. The Lady of Mysteries gave me powers that have kept me alive for centuries, in far more perilous lands than this. I fought this shapechanger and only just prevailed. If I fall, I charge you in Azoun’s name: get to horse, and ride as hard as ever you can to the king—or, better, to the Lord Vangerdahast, and tell him all. Don’t rest on the way, or you’ll never awaken—and be ready to fight beast after beast on your ride.”
“I’ll not listen to more of this,” the Lady Zarova said grimly, rising from her seat. “Thurdal, serve me the rest of my dishes in my quarters!”
“And ours!” the aunts said in outraged chorus, flinging the contents of their glasses at Storm. She nodded to them, ignoring the wine coursing down the side of her face, and said, “The pleasure was mine, charming ladies.”
“Trollop!” Nalanna snarled as the three ladies whirled away from the table to storm out.
Erlandar shook his head and reached across the table to take up the decanter from beside Zarova’s glass.
“Uncle Erlandar?” Storm asked with a smile. “You, too?”
“No,” he said gruffly, fixing her with a look, “I’m staying to hear it all—whatever you’ve got to say. After that bit with the flaming platter in here the other night, lady, I believe what you say about battles.”
He plucked up Zarova’s unused dabble-linen and tossed it to Storm. “For the wine you’re, uh, wearing,” he said.
As Storm thanked him and wiped her face dry, the understeward glided in again to announce, “Lambs’ kidneys in a sherry sauce, set about with chestnut and parsnip fritters.”
It only took one taste of this most recent dish for the familiar oily fire of poison to spread out through Storm’s chest. Grimly, she called on the silver fire to purge it, having no choice but to weaken the barrier for a moment.
Broglan saw her eyes flicker and close for a instant. The rise and fall of her breast halted, and sweat glistened suddenly at her temples, but he said nothing as she slumped back in her chair, opened her eyes again, and gave him a grim smile.
“Stuffed stags’ heads with sage, apples, and sandalwood,” Thurdal continued serenely, as more platters arrived.
“As the ladies have left us,” Thalance said carefully, “I find us poised on the threshold of a unique opportunity: the chance to speak openly and plainly for once, laying the usual courtesies and silent subjects aside. Lady Storm, I must confess that I am eager to
hear more about this foe you speak of—and something of your own experiences, down the centuries.”
Storm smiled thinly. “As with most lives, the bits others find exciting are few and far between, set in long stretches of more mundane things. I break a lot of harp-strings.”
“No, really,” Thalance said, frank admiration showing in his eyes. “If you are centuries old, how is it that you look no more than twice my cousin’s age? And is it true, what I heard about your being a marchioness of Cormyr?”
“The divine fire of Mystra keeps me young,” Storm replied quietly, “and I should add that at the moment it is also protecting the realm—but endangering everyone at this table—by keeping Firefall Keep enclosed in a barrier to keep the foe within.”
Erlandar looked around, as if he expected to see a flaming wall dancing in the air. “Barrier? Where, and for how long?”
“As long as we need it, I hope,” Storm replied. “And yes, Thalance, I am the Marchioness Immerdusk—so I fear I dare not go out on the battlements to watch a moonrise with you. Ladies of exalted station, I must remind you, have reputations to protect.”
Her last sentence was delivered in a perfect mimicry of the cold, cutting tones of the elder Dowager Lady Summerstar; Thalance snorted with mirth, but Erlandar said heavily, “Pray don’t mock Pheirauze, lady, for all her faults. She was … the storm wind that shaped me.”
Storm bowed her head. “My apologies, Lord Summerstar. I have an impish streak that often gets the better of me.”
“Is it true you spent years in the South as a tavern-dancer and pleasure slave because of that streak?” Thalance asked eagerly.
The war wizards leaned forward in interest.
Storm was even more amused by the lift of the understeward’s eyebrow as he glided in between them to murmur, “Venison haunch in crust.”
Thurdal kept his face otherwise carefully expressionless, and Storm gave him a broad smile as she replied, “Yes—and I enjoyed most of it, too. Did you know that many elven men can be transported to the heights of passion by stroking the tips of their ears?”