by Ed Greenwood
He inclined his head toward another Summerstar. "You have already measured Erlandar; be warned that he likes to crush women or bed them, and will not rest, now, until he's served you with one fate or the other. We see little of Thalance-he's faded away on us again now, I see-but I'm told the local loose ladies and young drinkers do."
He sighed, and added more quietly, his voice just barely above a whisper, "The Lady Zarova has tried to take her own life more than once, when her mother-in-law was particularly. . difficult. Before wedding Pyramus, she was of the noble house of Battlestar, who dwell on the West Shore, not far outside Suzail. She'll be intensely uncomfortable if you ask her anything in front of Pheirauze or Erlandar."
The seneschal glanced down the table at the two senior Summerstar nobles as he named them, and noticed the eyes of the elder dowager lady were cold, hard as daggers, and fixed firmly on him.
With a smile, he turned back to Storm and said, a trifle more loudly, "An unexpected pleasure to meet a fellow gardener; we must talk again. I've heard how lush you and your neighbors keep Shadowdale."
"And I'm interested in the herb-plantings I saw on my way in," Storm replied promptly. "Yes, let's trade secrets.. and seeds." They exchanged nods of agreement, and the seneschal rose, bowed, and left the hall. The eyes of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze followed his every step-and when he was gone, turned swiftly back to meet those of Storm, who had been watching her.
Storm raised her goblet to Pheirauze in salute, added a merry smile and a nod. Then she glanced toward the war wizards. They seemed to have forgotten their guest for the moment. With heat and scornful disputation, they discussed the legendary and recent hauntings of Firefall Keep.
"Any fool-save perhaps yourself, Hundarr-knows phantoms can't carry or disturb swords and coins and such! If things were stolen or shifted about, we're talking some other sort of undead!"
"Well, Sir Exalted Expert, what sort?"
"Gods take you, Hund-"
"Goodsirs!" Erlandar said firmly. "Entertaining though this may be-and I'm not one to miss a chance to hear a mage make a fool of himself-I've heard about enough nonsense for one night! I doubt our guest appreciates knowing what fearsome thing lurks in the Haunted Tower! It's enough to know that something fell and sinister is there-something that slew young Athlan, pride of the Summerstars. Keeping out of the Haunted Tower is the best policy for us all to follow." He swung his head to deliver a cold, heavy glare across the table, and added, "Even clever and beautiful Harpers."
Storm laughed lightly. "Another of your challenges, Lord Summerstar? They come so thick and fast-almost like the courting comments of an ardent man!"
Erlandar Summerstar grinned slowly. "Aye, so they do … strange the similarities, eh?"
Storm smiled back at him, but let her eyes show her true feelings. If she'd thought to leave just a little of that soup, she could have kissed the man and passed the poison on to him. ..
Erlandar winked at her, and then leered again. No, Storm thought, poison was too gentle. It had to be a sword-deftly wielded, to make his end slow and painful….
Erlandar winked again. Well, Storm thought, painful at any rate.
Renglar Baerest, seneschal of Firefall Keep, stood in the courtyard of the fortress he had come to love, facing a silently floating strongchest. It belonged to a woman who might well be able to shatter the keep and hurl it down stone by stone until only windblown dust was left. Seneschal or not, he might well be making a terrible mistake-but he had to be sure.
Swallowing, Renglar took a step forward and laid a firm hand on the side of the chest. It promptly and silently sank to a gentle grounding on the cobbles, and opened itself. The seneschal stared down at the satchels, coffers, duffels, and trunks crammed into it. He sighed and began carefully lifting them out and placing them on the blanket-padded service carts he'd brought. It was a long way to the quarters he'd chosen for the most distinguished-and dangerous-guest to visit the keep during his tenure, but this was one job he was going to do alone.
He'd have insisted on that even if any of the servants had dared to help him.
"We call it brittle tart," Lady Margort Summerstar said stiffly. "And serve it with dry wine at the end of most high meals." She paused for a moment, and then asked coldly, "You do have dessert in-oh, wherever is it again, dear?"
"Shadowdale," her sister said with a sneer, rubies glittering as she leaned sideways to speak by Margort's ear.
"Ah, yes, thank you, Nalanna," Margort continued. "You do have desserts in Shadowdale, don't you?"
"Once or twice a year," Storm said solemnly, "when dragging the plows around all day and whipping ourselves to go faster leaves us enough energy to eat an extra course. Then we enjoy crushed apples, or sometimes just handfuls of sugar. We're too poor and backward to have oxen, you see."
"Ah," the Lady Nalanna Summerstar said in tones of satisfaction. "I thought so."
"Lady Silverhand," the Dowager Lady Pheirauze said coldly, "stop toying with my kinswomen. I expect better behavior from my guests."
Storm raised her brows as she set the last bones of her roast boar aside. It had been delicious-poisoned again, but delicious. "They do seem to keep disappointing you, though, don't they?"
"We do not," Pheirauze observed frostily, "have many guests here in the vale."
"Aye," Storm Silverhand replied, tossing a stray lock of long silver hair back over her right shoulder to join the rest of the glossy flow there, "that I can well believe."
One of the war wizards snickered, and Pheirauze stiffened. Only pride kept her from looking away from Storm's steady gaze. An instant later, anger broke that reserve, and the dowager lady's head snapped around. By then, though, the mage had recovered his control, and all the war wizards wore frowningly thoughtful faces.
Damn them, Pheirauze thought. Just once, she'd like to wipe that smug standing-above-everyone-but-caring-about-the-realm worldly confidence off their faces. Just once. She wondered what it would take…
Renglar Baerest, seneschal of Firefall Keep, puffed one last time into the room with the soft gray tapestries. Lady Maerla's Room, it was-the most remote and smallest of the guest apartments, and hard by the dusty passages that led into the Haunted Tower. It was a fitting place for Lady Silverhand to sleep. Maerla had been a Harper and a quiet, strong-willed woman who'd dabbled in magic, the family history said. She was an adventuress who'd married a Summerstar out of love.
It was also said in the family that Maerla's room was haunted-more strongly than the entire Haunted Tower, if folk Maerla disapproved of tried to sleep in her bed. The seneschal thoughtfully regarded the soaring gray canopy of that central sleeping-place, bowed, and told the empty air around him, "Pray, excuse this intrusion, Lady Maerla. As seneschal of the keep, it is my paramount duty to see to the security of us all, so I must search the belongings of the lady who'll be sleeping here this night: Storm Silverhand, a Harper of some repute. Forgive me."
The silence was deafening. Renglar shrugged, bent over the largest trunk, and lifted its lid. Thankfully, the Lady Storm felt confident enough in her power not to bother with locks, and the old amulet he wore ought to ward off at least one spell trap. Its feeble powers might not protect against a second magic, though-which is why he was starting with the things least likely to be protected. An old, scratchy gray wool cloak covered everything. Renglar took careful note of the way it was folded, lifted it aside, and cautiously plucked out what lay beneath.
A belt bristling with sheathed daggers, several slim-heeled boots that a Purple Dragon would look ridiculous in… and a spare sword. Best leave that sheathed for now; it probably did bear magics. The next item glowed with faint enchantments even when closed and undisturbed. By its shape, the seneschal recognized the smooth wooden case as the home of a harp.
Well, of course. She was the Bard of Shadowdale. Renglar turned to the next trunk. It seemed to be full of tattered silk … well, no.
He held one garment up, frowned, turned it around-and swallowed
. He let it fall onto the lid and plucked up the next one. And then the next. His frown deepened. These were not the sort of gauzy under-things respectable women wore.
His frown turned into a smile when he saw what lay at the bottom of the trunk, beneath thirty or more scarves, sashes, and silken nothings: a leather war harness. It was the plain, sturdy sort that a working soldier would wear, as slashed, mended, and sweat-stained as most. Renglar restored both trunks to the way they'd been and turned to nearest duffel.
Being a seneschal in Firefall Keep involved more than one man's share of odd tasks. Like this one: unwrapping a canvas bundle to reveal a garment that seemed to be made entirely of lengths of fine chain. He'd give a lot to know when she'd have occasion to wear a gown like this. …
No, he couldn't think of any prudent way to ask her. Renglar sighed, and reached deeper into the duffel.
Wait-what was this?
"Weather magic has always been a temptation," Storm told them, "but the teachings of Baerauble-if any of his own words have survived-should tell you why it must be avoided. Weather magic affects more than one's own land. Things can quickly escalate into wars that ruin realms and break the power of both combatants. I've seen it happen."
"Oh, of course" Hundarr Wolfwinter agreed derisively. "You've lived since before there were sunrises, and seen it all… of course. Still-"
He broke off, staring, even before Broglan Sarmyn could voice a rebuke. They all followed his gaze to the source of his amazement: a huge silver platter bristling with the slim spires of wine and liqueur bottles. The platter and its burden were both splendid, but hardly unusual at a feast such as this. What was unusual was that it was drifting slowly across the empty space between the tables, approaching the senior Summerstars.
"Pah!" Erlandar half-rose, his hand going to the dagger at his belt. "Wizards' tricks!"
"But no," Broglan protested. "None of us has-"
"Ah," Storm said firmly, "but one of us has."
She raised her eyes to look steadily at one of the war wizards and said softly, "Clever, Corathar Abaddarh. A deft little spell that very few would notice you casting … but is such a working prudent, given the situation here? The talk of hauntings, and the bereavement of the Summerstars? The danger we may all face?"
The platter crashed to the floor in a thunderous shattering of glass. "I'm not a child, lady, to be told off so," Corathar snarled, eyes flaming, "and I'll thank you to-"
His face paled, and he fell silent. The platter trembled, rose slowly, and proceeded on its interrupted journey. The shattered bottles rattled nervously atop the silver.
"Enough!" Storm said sharply. "Consider us all impressed by your little cantrip, and end your magic at once!"
"I'm… I'm not, now …" Corathar stammered, swallowed, and then managed to add, "lady, this is not my doing!"
Storm looked along the row of war wizards, and then at the Summerstars. Frowning perplexity showed among the former, and growing, suspicious fear filled the eyes of the latter. Even Pheirauze looked uneasy. "Stop it," Storm said firmly, "whoever is working this!"
The platter continued on its unhurried, drifting way. Storm sighed and vaulted the table in a swirl of silver hair, reaching out both hands to grasp the platter with its cargo of toppled and shattered glass.
She murmured the words that should have spun away all magic as her hands closed on the chased and fluted silver handles. Instead of the peaceful silence that should have followed, the world exploded in roaring flames.
White-hot and hungry they howled. Fire raced up from the floor to scorch the lofty beams of the feast hall. It rushed out of empty air and entirely hid the lady bard from view.
Wizards gasped curses and lady servants screamed as the flames roared on. In the rafters, a banner burned through and fluttered down in a lazy ribbon of sparks. Still the flames roared on, until Shayna was sobbing and even Erlandar was on his feet staring up at the ceiling of the hall and cursing in fear-fear that the whole roof would come crashing down on them.
Then, as suddenly as they had come, the flames were gone. They left behind cracking tiles, groaning stones, and the reek of burnt wood and human hair. The diners all stared at the thing of tottering bones and ashes that should have held a melted platter-and gasped in unison.
Droplets of silver and glass lay like glistening rain on the blackened and shattered tiles, yes. But standing at their heart was a faintly smiling, weary-eyed woman. Her silver hair was curling and writhing lazily around her, a forest of roused snakes. The ends of those silver tresses were blackened and shriveled, but Storm Silverhand was otherwise unharmed. They could see that clearly enough. Most of her clothing had gone with the vanished flames. Her gown was now no more than ashes and blackened tatters, clinging to limbs that seemed … unharmed!
The others stared at her. Storm returned their look, arms still spread to grasp a platter that no longer existed. She said mildly, "My roast boar was quite well cooked already, thank you."
Her eyes darted from diner to diner as she spoke, seeking traces of guilt or disappointment or baffled fury in their eyes. . but she found only smirks or looks of horror on the female faces, and the beginnings of avid admiration from the males.
There were two exceptions. Broglan of the war wizards looked even more worried than usual-genuine concern, she judged. And the elderly steward of the hall was aghast. Black beard and mustache trembling in his haste, he swept a cloth off a bare section of the serving table, and hurried toward her, raising it like a shield.
Storm thanked him with a smile. He reached her, gabbled out mortified apologies-as if what had befallen her was his fault-and whipped the cloth around her as an improvised gown. What was his name, now? The seneschal had rattled it off, complete with a list of the battles the old man had fought in, in his days as a Purple Dragon. . Ah, yes: Ilgreth. Ilgreth. . Drimmer.
"My thanks for your swift-witted kindness," Storm told the old man, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, "but I prefer garments a trifle less drafty. Perhaps you'll conduct me to my room?"
Drimmer nodded almost beseechingly. He waved at her to accompany him, and then turned and scurried away. Storm followed, staring thoughtfully at his back. He'd flinched at her touch. . but then, that was understandable when he'd just seen flames roaring up around her. Who knew what might have burst from her fingers?
A few paces away from the table she turned, favored all of the guests with a broad, easy smile, and said, "Save me some wine-I'll be back!"
Then she turned her back on them all, tore off the tablecloth and swung it over her shoulder like a shawl, and strode away in Ilgreth Drimmer's wake.
He hastened to one dais, turned at its doors, and gulped at her fashion rearrangement. "If you'll follow me, gracious lady," he said faintly, whirling back to face the door, "your chambers are this way…."
The route he led her along was a long one, but Storm trailed him for only three passages and two rooms before she caught up with him, laid a firm hand on his shoulder, and said, "Catch your breath, good steward, and talk to me."
Ilgreth slid frightened eyes around to meet hers. With a puff of ash, a strip of blackened gown fell away from her shoulders. He quickly looked away again. "Talk? What about?"
"Lord Athlan's death-and anything untoward that's befallen since," Storm said crisply, ignoring the ongoing ruin of her gown. Another scrap drifted away from the still-sturdy cuff about her left wrist.
"I–I don't know where I stand, Lady," the steward replied frankly. "How far will what I tell you travel?"
"Do you mean, will I reveal that you told me things?" Storm asked, eye to eye. He nodded, and she said firmly, "Not at all. I heard nothing from you except: 'This room is yours, lady.'"
His face split in a sudden grin, and his eyes dipped involuntarily to survey her smooth curves-which made him blush and the smile hastily vanish again.
Storm laughed merrily and said, "Look all you want! I'm not ashamed of this body-but it still amazes me how many men are
!"
That make him look quickly away again and sputter through his mustache, "Have done, please, lady. We're almost at a guard post."
Storm sighed, wove the tablecloth around herself, and assumed a stately stride at his heels. He slowed, matching her mood. They swept past the startled guards in silence. They were two rooms beyond, at the midpoint of a long hall lined with statues, when he spoke again.
"There have always been deaths in the keep," he muttered abruptly, so that Storm had to bend forward over his shoulder to hear. "Mainly among us-the servants, I mean-and always in the Haunted Tower. Warnings to us, to keep out. Once it was a chambermaid and a hostler who'd gone there together, if you take my meaning. They were found by the daily guard patrol, lying in each other's arms-headless."
He walked on a few more paces for emphasis before adding, "We never found the heads."
They passed through another door and turned left down the hall beyond. Drimmer looked cautiously up and down it before continuing. "Lord Summerstar was different-as was this last one. They were both found burned out inside, like something had sucked their innards away. Well, no; burned them out from within, more like. I saw ashes trail from the body when they laid my Lord Athlan on the table to be shrouded."
" 'This last one'-the Harper, you mean?"
The steward came to an abrupt halt. "Ah-no, lady … haven't they told you?"
Storm sighed. "Obviously not. Why don't you tell me, then?"
Ilgreth Drimmer nodded. "There's been a third gone, just before your arrival, lady. The war wizards think you struck him down."
"Why?" Storm asked calmly.
The old steward's eyes flicked sideways to assure himself that she was as level-hearted as she sounded. She was. He replied, "A Harper pin was found on the body-and it was not the pin belonging to the dead Harper. I fear Sarmyn thought it was a boast from you."