by Ed Greenwood
Stormlight
( Harpers - 14 )
Ed Greenwood
Ed Greenwood
Stormlight
itu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito
Whenever I think I can relax at last, someone hastens to brutally point out to me that I've fresh work to do: it's time to save the world again.
— Storm Silverhand
Bard of Shadowdale
PROLOGUE
The sunset on the rugged flanks of the Thunder Peaks was glorious, but young Lord Summerstar did not give it a second glance. There'd be other sunsets to gaze at when he wasn't in such a hurry. He turned away from the window, not knowing he was turning his back on the last sunset he'd ever see.
But then, all too few folk know which sunset will be their last. And who's to say it isn't worse for those who do?
Once the sun was gone, the cold would draw down swiftly from the mountains, and folk all over Firefall Vale would go in to where it was warm, by a fire, and declare the fourth day of Flamerule in the Year of the Sword done.
Athlan Summerstar loved the vale-tucked away in the angle where the marching trees of the Hullack Forest met the western slopes of the Thunder Peaks-and why not? It was all his! Even so, richer, prouder nobles and knights in Suzail dismissed it as a backwater, if they knew of it at all. Soon that would all change. Soon men would speak with awe of the Summerstars of Firefall Keep.
Soon, he would master the book that floated in the glowfield in the hidden room at the heart of the Haunted Tower. The book was almost as tall as he, open to two fascinating pages of runes that crawled and writhed under his scrutiny. The tome fairly crackled with magic. It must have been floating there in its hiding place at the heart of the oldest tower of Firefall Keep since the death of his eldest uncle, Orm Hlannan Summerstar-or perhaps it had been a treasure brought back from dragon hoards in far lands by Athlan's father, Lord Pyramus. Athlan wished he could ask his father about it-he wanted to ask his father a lot of things, but that warm, strong voice was silenced forever now.
The seneschal of Firefall Keep had ridden with his father for years. Shoulder to shoulder, they wet their blades in battles for king and country. Better than anyone else alive, the seneschal probably remembered the laughing, stern-eyed, neatly bearded Pyramus….
Somehow, though, Athlan didn't want old Renglar to know about the book just yet. The scarred old seneschal had been a Purple Dragon for years before agreeing to serve the House of Summerstar. Whenever warriors of Cormyr came across any magical thing that had even a whiff of secrecy about it, they had a disconcerting habit of running to the same war wizards they grumbled so much about. This book might be no more than a patiently floating wizard's plaything, hidden away in Firefall Vale for years-but no doubt Renglar would judge that the "security of the realm" hinged on it. . Then the place would fill up with grandly robed old wizards who'd eat and drink like warhorses, pinch maids' bottoms, deliver stern lectures to the unwashed bumpkins around them, and look down their noses at everything in sight.
As he approached the book chamber, Athlan snorted at the thought. The great Storm Silverhand had shown him a lot of things when she trained him-things that would make those pompous wizards faint dead away and fall over backward like toppled dolls. Why, if even his fellow knights of the realm knew half the things the Harpers hereabouts worried about every night, they'd ride hard and fast back to Suzail and never again dwell so close to mountains where ancient dragons slumbered, and towers where ghosts walked, and-
He came to a sudden, shocked halt, and raised his lantern to peer about the long-hidden room behind the statue, just to make sure. It took only a few glances to confirm what he already knew: the book was gone.
There was the smallest of sounds, off to his left. Athlan whirled to face it, hand going to the dagger at his belt. He'd seen a thing or two to make the servants' whisperings about the Haunted Tower seem a little more than empty fancies, but. . there was nothing there.
Athlan took a wary step back, and looked to his right. Nothing. A boot scraped on stone very close by to his left, and he whirled-in time to meet a dagger cutting hard into his tongue.
He tried to roar, or scream, or-but all he managed was a gurgle. Something smooth and sharp and icy slid into his spine, and on into his vitals, to burst forth from his chest dark and wet with his own blood…He stared in disbelief at the slim sword-was that all? An instant and he'd be … dead?
The young Lord Summerstar sagged as the chill became a sudden fire that seemed to burn away all the strength he had left, and … Firm hands held him up.
The white fire blazed up and into his brain. He looked into the two dark, watching eyes of his murderer. Then the white fire told him things, and he wanted to scream.
He struggled to cry out, choking and heaving and… drifting away on the flowing white fire. It was too late for young Athlan. Too late …
The lantern fell from failing hands. It burst on the stones with a brief roiling of flame.
"Athlan Summerstar," a voice murmured in the sudden darkness that followed. "Head of a minor noble house. Harper, knight-and dreamer, like all of them. Perfect."
The body of the young noble seemed to shrivel. Trickles of ash fell from where eyeballs had once been.
The calm voice Athlan could no longer hear continued, "Almost worth spending a day as a floating book for. Almost." The flames brought the speaker childish memories of beautiful women and riding in the vale and so-so sword skills, and … complete, room-by-room knowledge of Firefall Keep.
"So there are ghosts," the voice said into the darkness, in tones of surprise-as a light husk of a body slumped to the floor. "And I guess I'm one of them."
The snake-woman screamed, a shriek of rage that echoed through the temple.
Storm Silverhand turned her head toward the sound. With a vicious backhand slash of her blade, she struck aside the cruel, long-eared face of the cambion she fought.
She saw Maxer's blade cut down on the snake-woman. A spurt of black blood caught fire. One of the marilith's shapely arms, still clutching its sword, flew away, spinning in the air amid flaming gore.
Storm whimpered as she turned back to strike away the cambion blade that sought her own throat.
"No!" she cried, knowing what was coming. "No!"
But she was spared nothing. With dreadful slowness, as she snarled in desperation and kicked away the last foe in her path, beginning her charge too late and too far back, she saw the marilith's snakelike tail rise into view…. Behind him. Behind her beloved. He fought on, unaware. Sparks flew around him as, with powerful swings of his sword, he beat back her three thrusting blades.
Storm slashed out behind her, felt her blade strike something, heard the same squalling scream that always sped her on her vain charge, and wept aloud as she leapt and ran and leapt again, knowing she would be too late.
She was always too late.
With almost loving gentleness, the snakelike tail curved, its tip twitching-and then struck. Maxer rose for a moment, eyes bulging in alarm as he fought to turn and hack at this new peril. The snaking bulk quivered, swayed fully upright, and surged powerfully.
"No!" Storm cried, running for all she was worth.
Before her horrified gaze, as the beat of her own heart pounded in her ears and the clangor of battle died away all around them, the marilith tore Maxer's head from his shoulders. The head leapt through the air, tongue lolling, and trailed a plume of dark blood down into the fray. Beyond it, the marilith grinned exultantly and shook the headless, convulsing body in celebration.
Storm's vain rush carried her closer. She wept in helpless rage and grief as the marilith's grin shifted to her and became gloating laughter. The whirling sparks and mists of the spell that would w
hisk it away were already rising in the air around it.
Storm raised her blade too late, knowing cambions were leaping after her, hungry for her own death.
Something rolled by her feet, across the bloody flagstones of the temple: Maxer's head. His mouth was open in a final cry that had been choked off forever. His eyes were wide and staring.
And then, as it always did, despite her moan, the grisly thing leapt into her lap, hissing wetly, "I love you!" Still trailing blood, it sprang at her face, lips pursed to kiss her-
Storm Silverhand awoke screaming, cradling nothing in front of her mouth. Her silver hair stood out arrow-straight from her skull, and her bare body was drenched with sweat.
"No! Oh, gods, no!" she sobbed, sliding down the far wall of the room where she somehow always ended up. Her trembling body was as wet as if she'd been for a swim, and as always, her skin had shed blood as well as sweat. Sylune was hovering anxiously over the empty bed, surveying sheets and blankets that had been slashed as if by frantic swings of a sword.
As she always did, Sylune watched silently as Storm panted her way back to coherence, rolling over onto her knees and sobbing. "Why did he have to die?" she cried out. "Why?"
Wisely, her sister kept silent, even when Storm raised her tearstained face. "I was so close! So close! And I could not save him!"
Fresh tears choked her for a time, and she crawled blindly back toward the bed, crying, "I should never have left his side! I should have been there! I-ohhh, Mystra, aid me!"
That last, despairing wail took all the energy she had left with it; the Bard of Shadowdale fell on her face on the floor and wept her way into slow oblivion.
When she awakened once more, Sylune's hair was softly brushing her bare shoulder. "Storm," the gentle voice came from above her, "a warm bath awaits you, and the sun is coming up. Rise, and put Maxer behind you once more."
"My thanks," Storm whispered, not moving, her cheek against the cold stone. She shivered, suddenly, and added, "Sylune? Stay with me just now… please?"
"It was a bad one," her sister said soothingly. "They seem to be the worst when they herald doom."
Storm sat up, her face pale but calm. "Oh, yes," she said wearily. "Somewhere, and soon, there will come another death that will matter greatly-another that I cannot stop." She gained and sighed. "A murder, of course. One more Harper will die."
ONE
Starfall
"Look!"
The cry burst forth from one of the Purple Dragons as the honor guard stood back from the pyre. Heads jerked up, wearing the annoyed expressions of folk embarrassed by an unseemly outburst. Frowns melted away in awe.
Athlan's sister even broke off her sobbing to give a cry of near-delight. In the dusky sky over the distant Stonelands, a solitary light was plunging to earth: a falling star.
"Praise be," one guard muttered, "a good sign."
The Harvestmaster of Chauntea drew breath to thunderously acclaim this mark of divine favor. The old priest raised his voice in a tremulous declamation.
The gods-some god, at least-saw good or at least important times ahead for the noble. House of Summerstar, here on the very edge of Cormyr. The assembled family members looked suitably gratified.
A moment later, the crackling flames rose with a sudden roar, hiding from them all the shrouded form that had been Athlan Summerstar.
The seneschal's gaze went from the racing flames to the icily beautiful face of the dowager lady. Even before he could have tactfully suggested such a thing, the matriarch of the Summerstars-Dowager Lady Pheirauze Summerstar-had ordered her grandson burned by holy handfire to banish any harmful magic. She now stood watching-calmly, even haughtily. But then, she did everything haughtily, carrying herself with the smooth sophistication that sixty winters of high station and great beauty had brought.
She stood at the center of the gathered family, tall and slender, and the firelight that found her danced on a face that showed more annoyance than sorrow. Athlan had failed her, tearing asunder her schemes of greatness for the Summerstars. She'd probably not live to see another male Summerstar heir ready to ride to Suzail and impress whichever king sat the Dragon Throne then. Worse than that, he'd failed her in a way that left her unable to get even with him. . and Pheirauze Summerstar always got even.
Athlan's younger sister, Shayna, was suddenly the family heir now. Her stunning beauty had built to a peak, and her willfulness was making her dalliances with every second or third young and handsome Purple Dragon armsman in the vale increasingly difficult to hide.
Impossible to hide, more like, thought the seneschal. He'd soon have to call in war wizards to nose about in every corner and cranny of the keep. Murders of nobility might be hushed up, but never the sudden deaths of heirs or of any noble in a border hold. These days, Sembia was looking westward with ever-hungrier eyes. Renglar sighed.
No, the folk that the Purple Dragons privately called "the Happy Dancing Mages" would come. This was murder, all right. No young noble heir goes alone into a so-called haunted tower of a castle and gets his tongue slashed to prevent any screams, a sword thrust through him from behind-and some spell or other that burns him to a shell-by accident!
Later, he said as much. Most of the ashes had been placed on the traditional saddle bowl and the dead lord's horse had been whipped into a gallop to strew them wide and far over the vale. The Summerstars retired to their quarters-no doubt to yell at each other over the details of Lord Athlan's will. They hadn't even bothered to accompany the priest of Chauntea on the solemn march down to the family crypt to inter the traditional lone handful of still-smoking ashes in Athlan's upturned helm. The seneschal and his guest, however, both did.
When it was all over-after the crypt doors had boomed shut and been sealed with a final benediction and the priest had scuttled away with the traditional gold goblet full of gold lions as payment-Renglar sighed once more and turned to his tall, solid, sharp-eyed guest. "Care for some wine? We need to talk."
"Yes, and we do," the tall man agreed simply. They went up the stairs together. "He meant a lot to you?"
The seneschal shrugged. "He was a good lad. Lots of dreams-and the dreams of young men light the fires that brighten Cormyr in years to come. I liked him, aye, and I put a lot of hours of sword-work in on him; all wasted now."
"Would he have grown into another Pyramus?"
Renglar shrugged again, and stopped to unlock a seldom-used door. "It was too early to say. He had a touch of the let's-use-magic-because-it's-quick-and-easy streak, and was drifting into poking into small magics because of that. Another Pyramus? I don't think so."
They went through the door. With a heavy clang and a rattle of chain, it swung to behind them. The seneschal of Firefall Keep took a torch from a wall-bracket ahead, and led the way. His guest followed, eaglelike eyes moving this way and that, missing nothing. … Then again, it might be his task to besiege this place some day.
Below those alert eyes, Ergluth Rowanmantle was growing stout. There were white hairs in his side whiskers, but the veined and corded hands that swung his mace of office were still strong. He wore a heavy broadsword in a plain battle scabbard at his belt, not the glittering rapier favored by his fawning counterparts who dwelt closer to Suzail. The boldshield of the district of Northtrees March was a sensible man and a veteran warrior, risen to his present rank out of competence and not gentle birth. There was not a man within a hundred miles that Renglar Baerest respected more.
They both knew a storm was coming, a storm of war wizards. The mages would skulk about, ask prying questions, use spells to peer into the mind of the seneschal to be sure he hadn't murdered his pupil and liege. If there were going to be glasses of wine drunk, and calm and reasoned words exchanged, now would be the best occasion, possibly the only chance, for a long time to come.
This little-used back passage led to a steep stair up. Both men took firm hold of their swords and dug into the climb, swinging their arms. They were puffing in unison by the ti
me they reached the top. The two guards there saluted smartly as the seneschal and the local Purple Dragon commander passed between them and turned right, to another locked door.
"Simple quarters," Ergluth commented as Renglar let fall his chain of keys and swung the door wide. In the room beyond was a cot, a desk, a sideboard, and an armor stand. One wall of the room was all closets, and the seneschal waved to them.
"All the clutter goes in there, and I keep the place tidy out here," he said, and then grinned. The boldshield's gaze had already fallen to the map on the gleaming desk-of course. Every room in Firefall Keep was on it, with Renglar's scribbled comments about needed repairs liberally adorning the layout. The seneschal laid a finger on one ink-outlined chamber.
"My Lord Athlan was found here, by a guard who's going to have to answer some hard questions from the mages. It's pretty clear the guard was passing through what we call the Haunted Tower-it does have some phantoms, plus the usual rats and bats, and isn't used-to meet with young Shayn-. . ah, Lady Summerstar."
Ergluth carefully did not grin. "Yes," he announced to the world in carefully neutral tones. He stared down at the mapped heart of the Haunted Tower. "I think wine would be a very good idea."
The sideboard proved to contain a veritable arsenal of decanters. The seneschal soon steered a tall glass of Arabellan Dry into the boldshield's hand.
"To you, and to Azoun," Ergluth made the traditional toast.
"May one of us find his grave before the other," Renglar made the accustomed reply, even more dryly than usual. He might have retired from the Purple Dragons decades ago, but such habits weren't lightly forgotten. "I presume you see my problem at the proverbial single glance."
The Purple Dragon commander nodded. "Your slayer must be someone who knew the young lord well-and the keep, too. Only someone familiar with both victim and ground could have found him there. . too many corners for any light to give Athlan away. Your murderer dwells under this roof."