by Ed Greenwood
Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters
( Forgotten Realms )
Ed Greenwood
Ed Greenwood
Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters
Prologue
Rise, and be not afraid.
I have no need to be feared. I am more of a goddess than that. Look upon me, and know Magic.
I am Mystra.
Priests may prattle of this god or that, but over what mortals of Toril call "magic"-because they understand it not-there is no other.
I am the Weaver, the Road Ascending, the One True Way.
Terrible I must be, all too often, and the mortals whom I so love-for I was one of you, not so long ago-often cry out at me, or entreat me to work magic for them, or unfold all its mysteries to them at once, like a child who desires all that is good to eat to appear upon his platter in an instant.
And if I gave the mysteries that are mine to nurture and keep, unfolded and bright in all their myriad glory, who among mortals could behold them and remain sane?
Aye, think on that, and for the love I bear you and all your kind, leave off cowering. I smite or give aid as I see needful, not in whatever wise trembling supplicants-or those who threaten-desire to move me.
When you feel lonely, or lost, and think dark magics raised against you, remember this moment. Feel the weight of my power, as it flows-not turned against you, but so vast that it could sweep you away, cries unheard, in an effortless instant. My power, bent upon you as I regard you now. . and touched and awed by it, you yet live. I am always here, all about you. You are never truly alone. I flow wherever life flows, wherever winds blow and water runs and the sun and moon chase each other, for there is magic in all things.
This vast, ever-changing, living Weave is a tapestry of power beyond the minds of mortals, though with each passing year my work gives me back bright pay shy;ment, and those who work magic can do a little more, and see a little more.
Yet those who can see and work with much more than most are rarely sane. The power burns them, twists them, and makes all that is flawed and mean greater. Wherefore we have cruel tyrants, liches walk shy;ing beyond death who desire to destroy or use all that lives, and wild-eyed dreamers who think that to reshape all Toril to their own visions is to master it. We have lands of mages who destroy or ruin more than they ever raise up; we have doom and devasta shy;tion, and lives wasted or shattered. Mortals know the pain of such darkness, but I share it. I have the work of banishing the gloom and seeking to temper the blades that are mortal souls so that each time they can take a little more, do a little more, see a little more.
In this work, my hands are manyfold, thanks to the few mortals who can see and work with more Art, and remain sane-or, as some of them have put it, "sane enough."
I deem these rare few, if they will serve me, my Chosen. And they are rare. Mortals are so easily bent to willfulness by power, so easily broken into tools I can no longer use, for I work with love, and must be served willingly, by those who love me. I shall not compel serv shy;ice, ever. I will not become what my predecessor did, in the despair of her long waiting. I shall give, with love, and never cease in my giving.
The power I oversee, because of its might, is a danger to mortals, to gods, and to Toril. All three may be blighted or ruined if the Weave is torn or misused enough. I stand against that. I am the Guardian of the Weave, and its lover. Those who serve me must be the very best of mortals, so that they blunder little, and love the Weave as much as I do, coming to understand it as best they can-and far better than others.
Chosen do my work best when they feel my hand but lightly; when they feel free to move and act as mortals do, finding their own vision of the Weave, and serving me in their own ways.
Chosen are not easy to find. Chosen are so special that I have managed to keep no more than a bare two handfuls of those my predecessor raised to their sta shy;tion. The greatest work of my predecessor-the Mystra who was not once a mortal who took the name "Mid shy;night"-was the birthing of Chosen she could not find, and so had to make.
I speak of the Seven Sisters, born under Mystra's hand, to be the sort of mortals she needed, and that I need even more these days. Mortals are wondrous, com shy;plex things; my own power is not yet risen enough that I dare attempt to make or bear Chosen as she did. . wherefore I look endlessly about Toril, seeking fitting mortals who have arisen on their own.
I watch over all who work with the Weave, or meddle in its workings. I watch most those who fascinate me with their daring, their accomplishments, their charac shy;ters … or their love. I watch these Seven often, almost as much as the old rogue who kept my predecessor's power in the time of her passing, and gave it so will shy;ingly to me. She lives on in him, and in me.
She lives on more splendidly still in those who could be termed her daughters: the seven mortal women who share a sex, silver hair, beauty, and wits. They have outlived most mortals, and still enter each day with gusto, a constant delight to me. My only disappoint shy;ment is that they do not work together more often.
Yet once in a passing while-in particular, when I nudge them ever so gently from behind all the curtains of concealment I can spin-they do … and I love to watch them at work.
Watch them with me now.
Aye, my eyes shine. When I was a mortal, I wish I'd lived as these magnificent ladies of mine do.
I am Mystra, and to you all I give this gift. . the Seven Shining of my Chosen. Aye, I weep; whatever you may think, mortal, it is a gift given with Love.
Dove
No More in Armor for My Sake
No sword of war lay long idle in her hand.
Ardreth, High Harp of Berdusk, from the ballad A Dove At Dawn, composed circa the Year of the Lost Helm
Sometimes Mirt had his private suspicions that the magic of the ring didn't work at all.
He thought that right now, for instance, on an all-too-warm spring day in the Year of the Gauntlet as he stumbled through the moist and uneven green dimness of a forest sane folk never dared enter. The damp leaves were slippery underfoot, and he was getting too old for creeping about on uneven ground in deep gloom. He fetched up against perhaps his hundredth tree this afternoon, ramming it solidly with his shoulder, and growled in pain.
Well, at least it made a change from wheezing for breath. The fattest working merchant in all the city of Waterdeep shook his head ruefully at the thought of lost strength and slimness-gone thirty years, and more, ago-and waved his arms in frantic circles like a startled chicken so as to find his balance. When he won that battle he strode on, his old, worn boots flopping.
A serpent raised a fanged head in warning on the vast, moss-cloaked trunk of a fallen tree ahead, and the Old Wolf gave it a growl worthy of his namesake. What good are enchanted rings that quell all nonvocal sounds one makes, and allow one to slip through ward-spells unnoticed, if one still lumbers about like a bull in a mud-wallow. . and the ring-spells do nothing about the confounded heat?
Mirt wiped sweat out of his eyes with a swipe of his sleeve as he watched the snake glide away in search of a more secluded spot to curl up in. He was wheezing again. Gods curse this heat-wasn't deep forest shade supposed to be cool?
A rattlewings started up in alarm under his boots, whirring away through the gloom in a squawking welter of wings. Mirt sourly watched it go, threw up his hands-so much for stealth-and plunged on through the damp leaf mold, spiderwebs, and mushrooms.
Oh, aye-and thorn bushes. Never forget the thorn bushes. They had their own abrupt and painful ways of making sure of that. The fat merchant growled again as he tore f
ree of a barbed, biting tangle-not his first this day-leaving some of his blood behind, and stumped on through the endless forest. Why by all the gods had a Chosen of Mystra-who could have any shy;thing she damned well wanted-sought out such a far and hidden place, anyway?
Because she wants-needs-to be alone, he thought, and I am come to shatter the peace that must be so pre shy;cious to her.
Mirt growled again at the thought, and waved a hand in anger. Sweat was dripping off his nose again, running down his face like a brook, more salty sticki shy;ness than water.
"Puhwaugh”
Mirt found himself spitting out a moth that had darted into his mouth amidst his wheezing. Now he was eating insects. Grand, indeed.
Sweating and stumbling, the only fat merchant for miles-or so he hoped-lumbered on up a slippery slope of mosses and little leaf-filled hollows, gained the top of a ridge. . and stopped abruptly, catching at a tree for support as he stared down at what lay ahead.
His jaw dropped open. Oh, he'd known there'd be a dell in the trees somewhere hereabouts, warded and hidden, with Dove Falconhand in it. And here 'twas, without the singing of shattered wards or any magic menacing him. Evidently the ring was working after all.
An eerie blue light of magic pulsed down in the dell, radiance that spun like sparkling mists around a strange dance. A woman taller than Mirt was dancing in midair, her booted feet almost his height off the ground, whirling with smooth grace in an endless flow shy;ing of limbs and swirling silver hair.
Gods, but she was beautiful! The Old Wolf growled deep in his throat, like the animal he was named for, as he watched her dance held aloft by her own magic. Her shoulders were as broad as his, their sleek rippling making light play and gleam along the shining plates of her full suit of black and silver armor. She wore nei shy;ther gauntlets nor helm, but was otherwise encased in war steel, all slender curvaceous strength and long, strong legs. Her height and deft grace made her seem smaller and more slender than she truly was-not a squat, burly swordswinger like Mirt, not even "buxom"… but in truth, she overmatched him in size, reach, and probably strength. Her unbound silver hair flowed with her, licking and dancing about her shoulders. Her dark brows arched in concentration as she watched her deadly, moaning partners.
Dove of the Seven Sisters was not dancing alone. Singing in the air around her were a dozen scabbardless swords, their bared blades cutting the air in whirling dances of their own. Mirt saw runes ripple down their shining flanks, and at least two of them were moaning-one high-pitched, one lower-as they spun through air that crackled with power. In the heart of their deadly ballet, Dove Falconhand was singing, low and word shy;lessly, her voice quickening and growing louder.
A darting sword point struck sudden sparks from Dove's armor then whirled away. Mirt was still watch shy;ing its tumbling flight in wonder when two blades slashed at the dancing woman, their steel shrieking in protest along the curves of her armor. Without thinking, the Old Wolf pushed away from his tree and stumbled forward, almost pitching onto his face as he caught one boot heel in a tree root, Dove's song was insistent now, almost hungry. The swords were circling her and darting in, striking like sharks tearing at a stricken fish. Screams of metal raking metal rose to drown out her keening as Mirt sprinted down the leaf-slick dellside, snatching out his own sword with the vague notion of smashing down the flying blades from the air. Was she caught in some sort of magical trap? A spell that turned her own powers against her to bring her swift death?
He wasted no breath in roaring a warning-in case someone who might be directing the blades would thereby be warned-but Dove soon saw him. Her head turned, mouth opening in surprise, just as a blade slid under the edge of a plate, bit through an unseen strap, and sent the black and silver plate spinning away. Three swords plunged into the gap where the plate had been and Dove stiffened, clawing the air in obvious pain.
Her gasp was almost a sob. It rang in Mirt's ears as the wheezing merchant raced forward, waving his sword. Three blades drew back from the dancing woman, trailing flames of blindingly bright silver, and one of them rang high and clear, like a struck bell. It sounded almost triumphant.
"Blazing. . gods. . above!" Mirt panted, swinging his sword at one of the flying blades so hard that when he missed he found himself staggering forward help shy;lessly, about to kiss the ground again. "Dove! Hold you them-I'm coming!"
He fell hard, skidding in soft mud and wet leaves, and his next shout was lost in a mouthful of moss. It tasted terrible.
The swords were racing through the air now, strik shy;ing sparks from Dove Falconhand's armor when they missed the plume of silvery smoke that marked her wound. She was dancing again, arching her body to the world instead of clasping her hands to where she hurt. Through the sweat that stung his eyes as he wallowed in the forest mold, Mirt saw her wave at him to stay back. She resumed her dance, seeming almost to welcome and beckon the blades rather than strike them aside. He thought she must be spell-thralled.
Mirt reeled to his feet just as another sword slid into Dove, sinking so deeply it must have gone most of the way through her. He saw it draw back dark and wet, silver smoke boiling away along its length as the danc shy;ing woman reeled in midair. He wasn't going to reach her in time.
There was real pain on Dove's face as she met his eyes again and shook her head, waving at him to begone. Mirt stared in horror at a blade racing right at her face. He used one of the precious spells that slumbered in the other ring he wore; a magic to quench magics.
The sword plunged obediently to the ground, bounc shy;ing lifelessly to rest-just as two other blades thrust themselves into the silver-haired woman, their quillons clanging against each other as one slid past the other.
Dove gasped, shuddering in the air as her body bent involuntarily around the transfixing steel. Mirt was only a few running strides away now, almost close enough to snatch at those quivering hilts. He had his own sword, two gnarled old hands, and-a dose of irony-the only spells left in his ring were a flight magic, and one that conjured up scores of whirling swords. He'd have to do this the hard way.
A blade slashed at his ear as he lumbered forward to lay his hands on the hilts of the two swords buried in Dove. He'd have to leap up to reach them.
Gods, he was getting too old to jump about like a stag. With a grunt and a gasp, the Old Wolf launched himself into the air, battered old fingers reaching. .
He was in the air before he saw it. A sword curving up and around from behind the drifting silver smoke, soaring toward him like a hungry needle.
Mirt could do nothing to evade its bright point, and the old, supple leathers he wore would be as butter beneath its keen strike.
"Must I die like this?" he growled in despair as his leap carried him helplessly on, his fingers still shy of reaching two vibrating pommels.
A wave of magic-obeying a slender, bloodied hand-hurled him back. Mirt saw the dark blade speed between them, its bright edge winking at him, as he locked gazes with Dove again.
There was calm reproach in her eyes, and yet a hint of lurking mirth, too … an instant before her face changed, alarm rising in her eyes again. Something struck him behind and above his ear, hard enough to spin him around and down into an echoing red void, a world that darkened as he tumbled through it, on the slow roll down to death.
Rapture awakened him, greater shuddering pleasure than he'd ever felt before. The low sound he'd been hearing in the dreams that were falling away from him now, receding into forgetfulness like sun-chased mists, was his own endless moan of pleasure as he writhed on his back in the forest mold.
Dove was kneeling above him, clad in a simple white shift, armor and blood and racing blades all gone, one slender, long-lingered hand-dappled with blood no longer-was outspread in the air above his breast, and a gentle smile was tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Wh-what?" Mirt managed to ask, his throat rough. "Lie easy, Old Wolf, and let me finish. You've been a very bad boy, down the years. . but I suppose you're w
ell aware of that."
Fresh waves of pleasure washed over him before he could reply, and he kicked his heels against the soft moss, needing some sort of release.
"What're you doing to me?" he groaned when he could find breath to shape words again.
"Healing you," Dove replied serenely, holding up something small in her other hand. It glinted between her fingers as she held it out. "Recognize this?"
Mirt shook his head, gasping as old, long familiar aches melted away. "What is it?"
"Part of someone's sword tip. You've been carrying it around for two score summers or so; that stiffness in your back, remember?"
The fat merchant twisted experimentally. His limbs were as supple as when he was a young lad. "'Tis gone," he rumbled in wonderment, feeling flesh that hardly felt like his, stripped of accustomed pain.
Dove nodded. "That, along with a lot of fat you didn't need, those crawling veins on your legs, a rupture in your gut I could put my hand through, balls of bone built up around your joints. . and I've forgotten how many places where your bones were broken, or once broken and poorly mended. You might have taken better care of yourself."
"And never been the great lord of adventures I am," Mirt growled up at her, "and so never met you, lady. Nay, I think I chose the right road." He patted at his belly, then ran his fingers over his chin and was reassured to find familiar girth, calluses, and hair. Ah, she hadn't made a boy of him-or, gods, a girl-or anything like that.
"No, Old Wolf," Dove murmured reassuringly. "You'll recognize yourself-wrinkles, scars, and all-when next you look in a glass."
Mirt lifted his head for a moment, saw shards of hacked black and silver armor strewn around them in the trampled moss, sighed, and let his head fall back.
"You give me a gift beyond measure," he rumbled, let shy;ting her see the love in his eyes. Then, because he had to, he added bluntly, "Why?"
