Swords of Eveningstar komd-1

by Ed Greenwood

  “Thank you.”

  Teasing fingers slid along his thigh again. “Lord Florin?”

  Florin blinked, unsettled again. “I’m-I’m no lord, nor ever likely to be. I’m a forester.”

  And favored of Mielikki, which sounded wonderful. If only he knew what it really meant.

  Had-had Mielikki been the Lady in Green?

  He stared again into those dark blue eyes, flaring silver just that once. He’d be seeing that gaze until his dying day. There’d been no sign of her this morn, and no one at The Old Man or The Moon and Stars knew where she’d gone, though they all said this wasn’t unusual for her… none even knew where she dwelt and what she did.

  “Flor-in,” an impish voice, close by his ear. “Strike me down, but you’re half asleep this morning! Anything on your mind you want to share? Anything at all?”

  Florin blinked again. Firmly thrusting aside-for now-memories of dark blue eyes he could fall into forever, he turned to look down at Pennae with his full attention-and found himself gazing down the unlaced front of her smoky black leathers. Again.

  Blushing, he dragged his gaze back up to where it should be, and found himself gazing into eyes that were very dark brown-and laughing at him. Above a smile that could only be described as catlike. She was actually purring, reminding Florin amusingly of the tressym that betimes rode Lady Lord Winter’s shoulder. “You seem… quite flirtatious, Alura,” he said carefully.

  She pouted. “Oh, now, call me Pennae. Please.”

  Florin glanced into the forest, put his free hand back on his sword hilt where it should be, checked that he had a firm grip on the reins with the other, lifted his chin, and told the ears of his mount, “You still seem quite flirtatious, Pennae.”

  He waited for a reply, and when all that he got was a low, husky chuckle, he added, “Why?”

  “Oh, Florin, don’t you know how you look? What they’re saying about you: the man who singlehandedly fought off dozens of outlaws to save the life of the king?”

  Florin wondered whether to roll his eyes or just give this elf-faced little temptress a cold look and tell her to leave off the verbal dung. He was still wondering when someone made a loud retching sound nigh his elbow-the elbow closest to Pennae.

  The loud groans of mock vomiting were followed by a familiar feminine voice inquiring brightly, “Do thieves in Arabel specialize in clumsy seductions? Or comedic minstrelry? That is the most unsubtle, hilarious to hear ‘come hither, large lad’ blandishment I’ve heard in months! ”

  The Lady Narantha Crownsilver had deftly slipped her horse between Florin’s and Pennae’s. She left off ridiculing the Arabellan just long enough to give Florin a wink, then clapped hands to hips, rounded on Pennae-who was white with anger, but open-mouthed in indecision-and continued, “As you’ve heard so much about Florin Falconhand here, are you not aware that he’s the beloved of a goddess? Do you truly think you can outshine the Lady of the Forest? Because if you do, I think your sanity is much too far gone for you to be a Sword of Eveningstar! If, on the other hand, your little performance has been mere teasing to amuse the rest of us, I apologize unreservedly, for it’s been brilliant! Florin may personally find it a trifle tasteless, but the rest of us have been nigh wetting ourselves with mirth!”

  Whatever reply Pennae might have been considering was lost in the wild, whooping applause of both Agannar and Bey, enthusiastically supporting Narantha’s contention from the front of the Swords-and of Semoor, standing up in the stirrups of his snorting mount at the rear of their procession, to guffaw and drum his shoulder as Purple Dragons do when clanging blades against their shoulder armor.

  By the time the clangor died away, Pennae had mastered her ire enough to give Narantha an apparently genuine smile, and ask lightly, “So you liked it?”

  The Lady Crownsilver answered her kindly, and offered up some silly noble jokes that soon had the two women laughing easily together. Florin, however, noticed Pennae flicking some thoughtful glances his way in the converse that followed, and when there came a lull in the chatter, she quickly peered across Narantha to ask Florin directly, “Are you truly the beloved of Mielikki? That is, what does that mean, exactly?”

  Florin looked at her, wondering what to say. If he told truth, that stripped away the defense against her that Narantha had just given. Yet if he lied, he risked Mielikki’s wrath, and who knew what darkness that might bring. Oh, hrast. He would have to choose his words very carefully, to lead astray and thus deceive without actually uttering falsehood.

  And he’d better begin with a prayer to the goddess, just in case. “Oh, Lady of the Forest,” he murmured, “forgive me…”

  The Dragon Queen of Cormyr shut the garderobe door behind her and drew its bolt. That bolt-old, ornate, and heavy enough to stop a dozen Purple Dragons for a snarling breath or two-was one of the reasons this cold, gloomy, marble-lined garderobe was the queen’s favorite, of all such facilities in this wing of the palace. Not that she discussed her preferences with anyone.

  In truth, she hated the garderobe’s tall, spider-haunted ceiling and hard seat. However, she really liked the other reason this room was her favored place of relief: the secret door in the wall right beside the seat, that opened right through the thick stone outer wall of the palace, into the rear of a tiny litter-yard hidden in the high-hedged depths of the Royal Gardens. A place where the cracked and leaning statues and urns of yesteryear stood crowded together, leaning against the palace walls for the birds to bespatter and the dead leaves of a hundred seasons to blow through. A labyrinth of discarded stone seats and bird-baths, all hidden away behind the oldest, most ruinous growhouse. In all the years Filfaeril had been visiting it, she’d never seen so much as an undergardener. She’d heard their voices from several growhouses away or on the far side of tall, impenetrable hedges, but none of them disturbed their queen here, or even knew of her presence.

  And if she could trust the Blackstaff about the powers of the necklace she’d slid from an inner pocket and donned before slipping out the secret door, neither did Vangerdahast, or any other war wizard. She was temporarily invisible to all their spells and scryings.

  She strode a few soft paces to a particular cracked stone seat, settled herself on it in a graceful shifting of skirts, and laid her hand on the head of a reclining stone lion that flanked the seat, half-lost to view in weeds.

  Almost immediately Filfaeril felt a familiar stirring tingling under her hand, and from half Faerun away Khelben Arunsun’s voice spoke in her mind.

  Yes, Lady of Cormyr?

  “Word has come to me of two wizards in the north of the realm I’d fain know more about. Who is Amanthan of Arabel?”

  A good man. One of my apprentices, not so long ago. Too shy and kind to ever be a leader, or have much to do with power or politics around him. He’ll keep behind his high walls and work on spells for as long as Faerun lets him.

  “Right. Who’s Whisper?”

  A Zhentarim who dwells in hiding underground, in the Stonelands. He has wits, ambition, and malice, but his Art is middling at best. He’s charged with overseeing Zhent-controlled trade through your realm and past it to the north, through the Stonelands and Anauroch. Vangerdahast is aware of him, and your Wizards of War keep rather inattentive watch over him. He bears watching, of course.

  “Of course. As do we all.”

  Indeed, Lady. As do we all.

  Horaundoon had wasted most of the morning waiting for a wagon-merchant in a sufficient hurry to get to Arabel that he’d not stay over in Waymoot, nor turn at Dhedluk down to Immersea, and buck flatter and safer country but much heavier traffic to take Calantar’s Way from there to Immersea.

  However, one had come at last, in the person of Peraegh Omliskur, dealer in scents and sundries. It seemed a new fragrance was all the rage among wealthy would-be-noble ladies in Cormyr, and the matriarchs of Arabel wanted to be as enraged as everyone else. More than that: no lady can ever have enough silk scanties, facepaints, and nailbrig
ht, and Omliskur had been waiting for a valuable cargo to pay the costs of running another wagon or two of such luxuries-pardon, necessities-north. That was why he was here now, his great dray-horses breathless and blown, enriching the horsebreeder Tirin by selling his drays at a loss and paying top coin for twice as many, so as to make lighter, swifter work of a fast haul through Eveningstar.

  Not that the Zhentarim had waited in idleness. With the help of the hargaunt, Horaundoon had spent the morning in the shape of a wrinkled old man, quaveringly seeking a means of getting to Arabel “by way of the House of the Morning in Eveningstar, where I must pray at the grave of my grandmother, the Morninglord keep her!” He offered coins enough to more than make up what the wagon-merchant Omliskur had lost on the horses, so that wheezing worthy was delighted to take him as far as Eveningstar-and give him privacy in a crowded-with-coffers, rocking and pitching wagon, besides.

  Horaundoon was crouched among strongchests and carry-coffers, hunched over to avoid having his skull split by the high stacks as their tiedown straps groaned and stretched at every bump and yaw, casting the only sort of scrying spell he dared try with the war wizards doubtless peering at the Swords constantly with their own spells.

  Rather than try to find and watch the adventurers, riding on the road ahead of him, he’d set about watching a spot on the road he knew, waiting for them to reach it.

  And here they were now, riding right into his view! He Around them, rainbow hues swirled.

  Horaundoon cursed and banished his spell in an instant. Someone was watching the Swords from afar, and someone else was using magic to watch for anyone trying to scry them. That someone had become aware of Horaundoon’s scrutiny, but hopefully had lacked the time to trace it or identify him.

  Hopefully.

  “To Eveningstar,” he growled. Restlessly, the hargaunt shifted across his face, literally making his skin crawl.

  Horaundoon sighed and settled down to, ahem, enjoy the long, bumpy ride to Dhedluk. Then on to Eveningstar, without using a trace of magic along the way.

  And as usual, the hargaunt was starting to itch.

  The sun was starting to lower in the west, near the end of a day later, when the Swords of Eveningstar reached the little bridge that marked the edge of Eveningstar, where a lone roadguard stood under a lantern, challenging all travelers.

  “Swords of Eveningstar?” that Purple Dragon asked, peering up past the noseguard of his old-fashioned helm at the riders in the road. “Is this all of you?”

  Bey Freemantle, who happened to be closest, was a man of few words, but Agannor smilingly bowed in his saddle and assured the guard that before him were indeed all the Swords of Eveningstar Faerun had ever held.

  “Right,” the guard replied. “Go you right along this road, and tie your mounts up at Tessaril’s tower. Stone building, big porch along the front, rises to the closest thing to a tower Eveningstar has-until you get to the temple, that is. The tower’s two buildings this side of the Tankard, that’s the Lonesome Tankard Inn, standing in the corner where this road meets, and ends at, the High Road ’twixt Tyrluk and Arabel. Go nowhere else, for the Lady Lord of Eveningstar has pronounced summons on you.”

  Agannor blinked. “Pronounced what?”

  “Under Crown law, you must go straight to see her, tarrying not and turning aside nowhere else.”

  “Right,” Agannor mimicked him, and rode on, the rest of the Swords following.

  Two guards awaited them on the tower porch. They took the saddle-weary Swords’ reins and pointed them inside with the words: “Audience room. Now. Expected.”

  Inside, yet another Purple Dragon stood facing them, at the back of the entry hall. There was an open door beside him, and he was pointing at it. The Swords tramped forward.

  “I feel like I’m being herded,” Jhessail muttered to Martess, as they went through that door-and found a lone woman sitting behind a desk. She stood up to greet them with a smile, ash-blonde hair falling free over her shoulders, and proved to be as tall as Islif, though more slender of build. She dominated the room just as the king had dominated the inn when they’d dined with him.

  “They’re all the same,” Narantha whispered to Florin, as they shuffled in to stand in an uneasy cluster, facing Tessaril. “Eyes like drawn daggers.”

  The lady lord folded her arms across her chest, gave the Swords a smile that never quite reached her eyes, and asked pleasantly, “Your charter, please?”

  Florin undid his breastplate again to proffer it, and Tessaril took it and read each name aloud in turn, raising her eyes to see who answered. When she was done, she looked to Narantha and said, “You seem unaccounted for.”

  “I am the Lady Narantha Crownsilver. I am not a Sword of Eveningstar, but travel with them at the king’s personal suggestion.”

  Tessaril smiled. “As I recall, His Majesty’s precise words regarding me were: ‘She can give you directions to the Halls, and be your guide in matters ethical while you are within her writ’ and his precise words regarding you were: ‘I must, by blood and the needs of the realm, forbid the name of Narantha Crownsilver from appearing on this or any adventuring charter’ and ‘in the Cormyr I reign over, friend may freely ride with friend-so keeping this precious lady safe and away from you or safe in your company is entirely your affair.’ Somewhat less strong and firm than suggesting you travel with the Swords. Wherefore, as a noble who might some day lead the Crownsilvers and therefore is of great value to the realm, you must bide with me, in the guest chambers here in my tower, and not stay with the Swords at the inn or for that matter in the open, nor enter the Halls with them.”

  Narantha drew herself up, eyes blazing, and Tessaril added in the mildest of voices, “And I am certain that, understanding your duty to the realm as you do, your own reputation, and what it is to be truly noble, you would not dream for an instant of disobeying, rebuking, or even arguing with one of the king’s lords.”

  Someone among the assembled Swords snickered-someone who sounded suspiciously like Pennae.

  Tessaril gave no signs of having heard that mirth, but looked from a simmering Narantha to the rest of them to say gravely, “As the gauntleted hand of the Dragon Throne here in Eveningstar, I must keep order. This involves being always aware of perils and disputes in my domain that may in time, like fires, flare into something greater. Wherefore it should come as no surprise to you that I’ll have my eye on all of you. Please come to me for advice, aid if you need it, and to report anything you see fit that I should know.” She spread her hands. “Will you share your immediate plans with me, please?”

  Narantha looked at Florin, who took a pace forward, met Tessaril’s gaze steadily, and replied, “Lady Lord Winter, we’ve no desire to gain your disfavor. I tell you in truth that we plan to forthwith enter the Haunted Halls north of the village, as I’m sure you’re aware the king requires us to do. If we can, we’ll scour it out, though I fear that may prove more than we can handle. You recommend we take rooms at the inn?”

  Tessaril gave him the ghost of a smile. “I do. You are expected.”

  She strolled toward the door. “I wish you good fortune. Report to me if you intend to leave the vicinity of Eveningstar, or if you witness anything that might be of great interest to the security of Cormyr.”

  “Dragons, massed troops, that sort of thing?” Semoor asked impishly.

  “That sort of thing,” Tessaril agreed, with the slightest of smiles, and waved them out the door.

  Chapter 13

  IN HALLS DARK AND HAUNTED

  But deep in halls dark and haunted

  Even heroes bold, high-vaunted

  Twice and thrice, to end up daunted

  Think of loved ones deeply wanted

  And much safer places to be.

  Thalloviir Vaundruth,

  Bard of Beregost, Ever A Hero Be (ballad) composed in the Year of Moonfall

  I mislike the look of yon doors,” Bey Freemantle said, breaking his habitual silence.

 
; A few paces to his left, Martess wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell? ”

  “Troll,” Islif said shortly. “Mate-rut: the stink they make to tell other trolls they’re ready to breed.” She tramped back and forth. “ ’Tis stronger in that direction.”

  “So,” Semoor said brightly, “we’ll go the other way!”

  Around him, several Swords looked uneasily about.

  “I’d not want to come stumbling out of the Halls, weary and perhaps hurt-only to find half a dozen trolls waiting for me,” Doust said grimly.

  Islif shrugged. “Then get you to yon temple and embrace new prayers as the ‘adventure’ in your life.”

  “Our lanterns won’t burn forever,” Agannor snapped. “Let’s get going.”

  Pennae looked to Florin, who nodded. Then she strolled forward, keeping close to the left wall of the square opening in the rockface. In one hand she held her own small lantern; in the other, a long, thin sapling she’d had Florin cut for her.

  The Swords watched. Starwater Gorge seemed to have fallen very silent around them.

  Holding her lantern high, Pennae peered at the stone wall, the ceiling, and the floor. She prodded all of them with her wooden pole, stepped forward, and repeated the probings. The Swords drifted forward a pace or two.

  Pennae probed on, reaching a back corner beside the doors. She played her lantern back across the passage, peering at the far side, then turned her attention to the doors. Pressing herself right into the corner, she reached out to touch the nearest door with the sapling, letting its blunt end trail along the panels. Then she probed the floor in front of it and the ceiling above it. Nothing happened.

  “Gods,” Semoor muttered. “I’m going to die of old age just standing here watching.”

  “You could be praying,” Martess told him tartly.

  Pennae paid them no attention at all, other than to look up at Doust and firmly point out at the gorge, to remind him he was supposed to be watching for approaching beasts or outlaws, not staring at her. Guiltily, the priestling of Tymora swung around.