Lord of Stormweather

by David Gross

  Cale felt Shamur’s studious gaze on his face. He continued to stare at the horizon, where the moon and the stars suffused the clouds with gray light.

  Eventually, Shamur spoke.

  “When I was Thazienne’s age, I believed I was free. My brother would inherit, and my sister would marry well, leaving me to follow my heart. And so I did, both in love and in adventure. If you think these wildings of hers are something, it is only because I have not told you all of my stories.”

  Cale smiled at her and said, “I should like to hear them one day, my lady.”

  Shamur didn’t return his smile.

  “My first lover gave me two gifts,” she said. “One was a magical sword. It was keen and fast, and it made my feet lighter than down. With Albruin in hand, there was no height I couldn’t climb, no leap I wouldn’t dare.”

  Then she did smile, a wistful expression of sorrow long ago distilled into wisdom.

  “What was the other gift?”

  “He left me,” she said. “He knew what a young girl I was, how easily I would become attached to him, and he knew—even as I did not—that my ‘wildings,’ as Tazi calls them, would someday end. No matter how far I chased through the Dales and along the Moonsea coast, one day I would have to come home.

  “I didn’t believe him, of course. I believed my entire life could be one long adventure, that I would be forever free of family bonds and obligations, but one day I did come home, and it was to take my niece’s place as Thamalon’s bride. I did not love him, then, nor did I relish the prospect of becoming a lady of the Old Chauncel, and yet I loved my family. I wouldn’t buy my own happiness with their ruin. I sold Albruin and put aside my wildings with no more thought of my youthful lover or our adventures.”

  Shamur stopped speaking and looked at Cale.

  “Thazienne has been away for a long time,” she said, “but soon she will come home.”

  Cale considered her words. There was little doubt in his mind that Shamur understood his feelings for Tazi, and less still that she didn’t condone a prospective relationship between her daughter and a family servant.

  He knew he should resent her intrusion, but the matter wasn’t that simple. Even if he believed Shamur’s mores were the shallow bigotry of the noble class, there were other, far more compelling reasons he shouldn’t pursue his love for her daughter—reasons Shamur could never imagine.

  Before he could formulate a polite continuance of their conversation, the elves rescued him from the uncomfortable silence.

  “Erevis Cale,” called Muenda. “Shamur Uskevren. The elders will speak with you.”

  They followed him down the skwalos’ spine and across the tangled woods upon its back. Muenda led them to a tent illuminated from within.

  Inside, a lantern glowed with enchanted light and warmth. Blankets covered the floor except beneath the bare legs of the tent’s three inhabitants.

  Two were female elves so old and frail they might have been skeletons wrapped in blankets. The third was an ancient male elf with more flesh on his small, round belly than on all the rest of his body. Their skin was the color of old oak, their hair as white as ash. One of the women beckoned them to sit.

  “I am Rukiya,” she said. “This is my sister, Kamaria, and her worthless husband, Akil.”

  Cale inclined his head, uncertain of their custom. Shamur did the same.

  “You have come far from your home,” said Rukiya. Her voice was as clear and as strong as a girl’s.

  Cale replied that it was so before quietly translating for Shamur.

  The woman nodded and said, “The children sing of a strange human man in the forest this morning. He helped a throbe caravan escape our blockade.”

  Cale considered defending Thamalon’s actions as those of a man unfamiliar with the local conflict, but he decided the elders had already considered the point.

  “Is he safe?”

  Rukiya said, “He went south with the dwarves—” her expression turned grave as she added—“into the domain of the Sorcerer.”

  “Your enemy?”

  “Our mortal enemy,” she agreed.

  “It was not always so,” added Kamaria. Like her sister, she spoke with the voice of youth. “As a young man, the Sorcerer was a friend to the elves. Even now, my great, great granddaughter remains at his side. The foolish girl.”

  “She would not stay if there was no hope,” Akil said.

  “Be quiet, you old fool,” said Rukiya.

  Cale sensed a warm sentiment beneath her scolding words.

  “I merely say what no one else wishes to remember,” Akil replied.

  “We wish only to find my master and return home,” said Cale.

  “How will you find your way, shadow walker?”

  At first, Cale thought perhaps he had misunderstood her words, but Rukiya’s eyes glittered with mischief. They saw more than he realized.

  “I do not understand.”

  “Your master whispers your name to us,” she said. “Yes, his shadow falls upon our land as well as yours. He tells us what kind of man you are. A killer.”

  “Assassin,” added Kamaria.

  “A righteous man,” said Akil.

  “Silence, you useless bag of bones,” Rukiya scolded.

  Cale didn’t like what the elves were implying, but he couldn’t mistake their meaning.

  “We didn’t come here to kill the Sorcerer,” he said.

  “And yet,” said Rukiya, “you require our help.”

  “I see,” said Cale.

  “What are they saying?” asked Shamur.

  Cale didn’t answer. Instead, he looked back into Rukiya’s eyes for some sign that she was testing him. Was it failure to refuse or to accept?

  His voice reedy and high, Akil sang,

  “I forbid you maidens all,

  “Who wear gold in your hair,

  “For to go to Stillstone Hall,

  “For young Tam Lin is there.”

  “What was that?” insisted Shamur. “Is he singing about my son?”

  “Never mind Akil,” said Rukiya. “He dreams when he is awake.”

  “Why do you sing that song?” Cale asked.

  “Pay him no mind,” said Kamaria. “The song is forbidden in the Sorcerer’s demesne, for it contains the name that must not be spoken. To utter it there means death.”

  “Why?”

  “For once, before he buried it with his soul, Tam Lin was the Sorcerer’s name.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE BURNING CHALICE

  Dolly held the crystal decanter and poured the mead, careful to avoid touching the Quaff of the Uskevren. She spared only a quick, blushing glance up at Tamlin. He noticed her hopeful look but didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he stood upon the dais where his father’s chair usually sat and watched as Escevar lifted the silver tray and bore it to the presiding cleric.

  Standing beside High Songmaster Ammhaddan, Tamlin smelled the sweet, musky bouquet of the honey wine. His mouth watered for a taste. For the second time since his kidnapping, he was about to violate his oath of abstinence. This time his excuse was that such a solemn ritual shouldn’t be sullied with a base substitute.

  Not with most of the Old Chauncel looking on.

  The feast tables had been pushed to the walls to make room, and the hall was filled to capacity with members of all of Selgaunt’s noble families, great and petty. Among the hundreds of visitors were faces Tamlin knew well: Baerent, Toemalar, Baerodreemers, and Foxmantles. Soargyls and Ithivisk mingled with the Karns, Mandrales, Elzimmers, Malveen, and Kessyls.

  In the nearest row, seated comfortably in places of honor, were the most prominent and powerful lords of Selgaunt. Tamlin listened to the High Songmaster’s evocation and smiled at those he counted most dear—and most dangerous.

  Fendo Karn smiled warmly back at Tamlin. His loyalty was all but assured by blood, for he was cousin to Shamur Uskevren. Beside him sat Saclath Soargyl, the fat and sneering son of a man whom Thamalon coun
ted as one of the family’s deadliest enemies. Next was the honorable Ansible Loakrin, Lawmaker of Selgaunt, who had a reputation for impartial justice.

  Conspicuous among the merchant lords was the Hulorn himself, Andeth Ilchammar. While many, including Tazi, joked about the man’s eccentric tastes in art and opera, Tamlin enjoyed the lord mayor’s generous galas and his devoted patronage of the arts. The nobleman returned Tamlin’s gaze with a courtly nod.

  Beside the Hulorn sat the elegant Presker Talendar, head of the oldest noble House in Selgaunt. The man’s silver-shot hair was always perfectly coifed, and his glittering emerald eyes never failed to capture the attention of those who looked his way. That day, however, Presker had an even more arresting feature.

  Upon his finger was the very ring that Tamlin had seen on his kidnapper’s hand.

  Presker smiled warmly and gently pressed his hand to the crest over his heart: the black Talendar raven, its sharp beak dripping with a single crimson drop. The gesture was Presker’s habitual greeting, a friendly if not particularly warm acknowledgement of a peer. Tamlin realized that the same gesture could be a private threat.

  Tamlin thought, What a brassy, bold bastard!

  He smiled and nodded at Presker even as his mind spun through the possibilities. He couldn’t for an instant imagine that the cunning lord was so careless as to reveal such a distinctive jewel while in disguise.

  He must have wanted Tamlin to recognize the ring. Tamlin was certain of it.

  But why?

  Moreover, Tamlin wondered how the devil Presker—or whoever had arranged to enspell the painting he’d given his father—had managed to remove it from the house. Barring coincidence, it had to be the same person who’d removed the coin Talbot left in the library. Unless the wards had failed completely with the death of Brom Selwyn, nothing should be able to leave or enter the mansion magically. That suggested a thief.

  Or else a traitor within the house.

  Before he could ponder the matter further, Tamlin heard the descending notes that signaled the conclusion of High Songmaster Ammhaddan’s evocation.

  “By the grace of Milil, I anoint the cup,” sang the cleric.

  He took the Quaff of the Uskevren in his hands and raised it high. Flames erupted from the cup. Tamlin could feel the heat and knew that Ammhaddan’s hands would have been seared had he not already cast protective spells upon himself.

  “The Quaff of the Uskevren,” declared Ammhaddan, “rejects the alien hand.”

  Ammhaddan returned the cup to its platter, and the flames subsided before the heat could boil the mead. He nodded to Escevar, who bore the cup to Tamlin’s siblings.

  Since Tamlin’s rescue, Tazi had undergone a transformation no less astonishing than Talbot’s shapeshifting. She’d shed her leather armor in favor of a sculpted green bodice with cascading silk skirts. Gems glittered at her ears and about her neck.

  Beside her stood Talbot, who wore a white blouse big enough to serve as a sail on a small fishing boat. Golden studs running down the front of his blue leather doublet completed the house colors.

  A few paces behind him stood Larajin.

  Even though she stood on the floor and to the side of the dais, Tamlin had no doubt that Larajin’s beauty arrested all attention. A resplendent, ruby red gown accentuated every curve of her slender body. Its plunging neckline wasn’t unusual at a Selgauntan social affair, but some quality of light drew Tamlin’s eyes inexorably to the fair white flesh of her throat, where the golden medallion of her goddesses hung upon a velvet choker.

  Before he could mask his expression, Tamlin realized he was frowning at Larajin. Until the revelation of her parentage, Tamlin had never given the woman much thought. Since then he’d realized she could pose a threat to the family’s reputation—and perhaps even to his inheritance. She looked a few years younger, but as a half-elf she might well claim to be older than Tamlin.

  There was no question of her legitimacy—not so long as Shamur lived to defend her children’s rights. With both Shamur and Thamalon missing, the question could be stickier. Even if she didn’t seek a claim on the family fortune, could her years of servitude in the house of her own father have led her to seek revenge? Her demeanor had never suggested malice, but Tamlin knew how changeable appearances could be, especially among the nobles of Selgaunt, legitimate or otherwise.

  Larajin’s curious form of worship was also troubling. Tamlin had asked Escevar to inquire about her curious medallion. On one side was the face of Sune, goddess of love and beauty. On the other was a golden heart, symbol of Hanali Celanil, elf paragon of those same ideals. The Uskevren traditionally worshiped all of the major gods in their temple gallery. In Stormweather Towers, not even bright Waukeen, merchant’s friend, held a position of superiority over the other divinities. While High Songmaster Ammhaddan most frequently presided over family ceremonies, that was a matter of personal friendship with Thamalon rather than any mark of Uskevren allegiance to a single deity.

  Should Larajin insist on Uskevren sponsorship of her own sect, the social scandal would be nothing compared to the potential for backlash from the established temples of Selgaunt. The clerics of Sune might brand her a heretic and bend all their considerable power to thwarting her family.

  After the rescue, Tamlin commanded Escevar to deliver Larajin a reward for healing his injuries. The payment came promptly back, along with a polite note declaring that Larajin could never accept payment for helping her own flesh and blood.

  There could be no clearer warning that she intended to press some issue to him soon.

  Escevar brought the Quaff of the Uskevren to Talbot. Upon its silver tray, the metal mead goblet looked plain indeed, yet—apart from the House crest, the horse at anchor—it had gradually become the most famous symbol of the Uskevren clan.

  Years past, Phaldinor Uskevren tasked his wizard with creating an enchantment to prevent his guests from stealing his favorite mead cup. Helemgaularn of the Seven Lightnings had done at least that much, for ever since then the Quaff of the Uskevren had been not only a family heirloom but also the test by which one could prove blood relation.

  It had proven that ability just over two years earlier when a pretender in league with Uskevren rivals—including Presker Talendar, Tamlin reminded himself—had come to Stormweather Towers claiming to be none other than Perivel Uskevren. Within the family chronicle, Thamalon’s elder brother was a nigh legendary figure—indeed, Talbot seemed to have adopted him as a sort of patron saint. Still, Thamalon had been certain that Perivel had fallen in defense of the original Stormweather Towers, long before Tamlin was born.

  As Thamalon told the story to Tamlin, enemy wizards had somehow enchanted the Quaff to reverse its original power. Thus, when Thamalon grasped the goblet, it falsely blazed to mark him as a pretender to his own bloodline.

  That trick might have snatched away Thamalon’s claim to the family holdings if not for Larajin’s seemingly innocent intervention. When she touched the enchanted cup, it remained quiescent. The attendant witnesses, never imagining she was Thamalon’s child, considered this their proof of the pretender’s trickery.

  When Thamalon confided the story to Tamlin, he’d omitted the reason why Larajin’s touch didn’t activate the Quaff. Twenty-six months later, Tamlin understood the incident for what it meant. Larajin’s claim was certainly true.

  Talbot took the Quaff from the tray and drank a lusty draught. Briefly, Tamlin feared he’d drained the cup, which would require the embarrassing extra step of refilling it before it came to Tamlin. Worse, instead of passing the cup to Tazi, as he’d been instructed, Talbot paused to look back at Larajin.

  Talbot had always treated Larajin as a sister, even long before he learned the truth of their relation. Tamlin hoped his affection for the girl and his scorn for his elder brother wouldn’t urge him to make a scene. Simply by passing her the Quaff of the Uskevren, Talbot could prove Larajin’s legitimacy without Tamlin’s consent. Such an act might be grounds for ca
sting him out of the household—but only after Tamlin was installed as lord of the house. With the succession moments away, Talbot could dash it all to pieces.

  Escevar cleared his throat—Tamlin thought his henchman was becoming quite good at that essential butler’s trick—but Talbot ignored him. Instead, he looked back over his shoulder at Larajin. Tamlin couldn’t see his brother’s expression, but he imagined some conspiratorial exchange between the two.

  For a moment, Tamlin considered sending Vox over to take the goblet from his brother. The resulting conflict might be an even worse spectacle than Larajin’s unwanted revelation, and it would put the brother’s dispute firmly in the public eye.

  “Tal,” whispered Tazi.

  He turned back to face her, an easy smile creasing his lantern jaw, then he passed her the goblet with a courtly nod. As Tazi accepted the cup and drank from it, Talbot smiled past her at Tamlin. He winked.

  Beneath his fraternal smile, Tamlin seethed. He could take a jest as well as anyone, but Talbot was trying his limits in front of all the family peers. He would never have shown such insolence to their father, Tamlin was certain. It was an ill harbinger for the days ahead of them.

  Tazi sipped from the cup and passed it to Tamlin. He accepted it, noting that there was still a dram or two left. Perversely, he was grateful that Talbot had left him so little mead—not that his brother had meant to do him a favor.

  Tamlin turned to the audience before raising it high. He paused, knowing that his stillness would draw all eyes to him. It was an actor’s trick he’d learned far better than Talbot ever could.

  “This House is bound as I bind it,” said Tamlin. “Its coins flow as I bid, and as I speak, so shall the Uskevren stand.”

  With that oath, he drained the Quaff. He raised the goblet high, displaying it to all present.

  The vessel flared with light and rose out of his hand. It floated a few feet above him, tilting slightly to send a shaft of golden light both through the stained glass window on the upper gallery and down upon his face.