Lord of Stormweather fr-7

by Dave Gross

  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 casting 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. Th
e 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.

  A murmur of surprise rippled over the crowd. Tamlin could hear every whisper as clearly as if the speaker's lips were upon his ear.

  "How gauche!" said one of his Karn cousins.

  "This did not happen at his father's oath, I wager."

  "Look at how handsome he is in that light!" whispered a young woman.

  Tamlin glanced at her where she stood with her father at the back of the crowd. It was Gellie Malveen, a sweet lass who would never find a husband so long as Laskar struggled with debt and his younger brother's notoriety.

  "It is a portent of great fortune!" called High Songmaster Ammhaddan. "Look how Waukeen illuminates him with her golden favor. From this day, House Uskevren will flourish as never before."

  A bit much, thought Tamlin, but at least he's earning his pay.

  Still, he had no idea the Quaff of the Uskevren would respond in such a manner. He wished for the thousandth time that his father were there and he could dispense with this entire ceremony.

  The newly anointed Captain of the Guard rapped his staff of office upon the floor.

  "Long live Thamalon Uskevren!" he shouted.

  The house guard added their voices to the second call. With the third, the entire assembly raised their voices as one.

  "Long live the Lord of Stormweather!"

  CHAPTER 16

  THE HUNT

  Thamalon leaned heavily upon the marble railing, panting in the rain-cooled evening air. His heart galloped in his chest, and he was fairly sure that some of the lightning he saw bursting against the night sky was a reflection from within his pounding head.

  What was I thinking? he berated himself silently-because he had no breath to speak aloud. I didn't think I was too old for this.

  For a man of his years, Thamalon considered himself fit and hale. He still enjoyed a long stroll or a vigorous ride on horseback. While his weapons of choice were the contract and the ledger, he had lately proven that he could still wield a blade with the best of them when necessary.

  But there he was, about to expire from climbing a long stairway.

  Earlier in the evening, Thamalon heard the same haunting tune that had welcomed him to the bleak streets surrounding the castle.

  "What is that song?" he'd asked a servant.

  "Lady Malaika calls the skwalos."

  "But where is she?"

  The servant pointed upward and said, "She sings from her observatory in the uppermost chamber of the west tower."

  The guards at the base of the stairway didn't turn him away, as Thamalon had half-expected. Instead, they suggested he take advantage of the mechanical litter attached to the railing. At that moment, Thamalon considered the device the sort of novelty reserved for invalids and ladies who avoided any risk of perspiration. When he spied a faint smirk upon the lips of the servant who offered him the conveyance, pride demanded he refuse it.

  Soon he felt the smug guard had outwitted him, and a mere flight of stairs threatened to do what none of his enemies had yet achieved with assassins, poison, and magic.

  Thamalon didn't much appreciate that irony.

  Somewhat defensively, he noted that there was nothing "mere" about the titanic stairway. He must have climbed more than twice the height of the tallest tower in his own home, and still he'd arrived only at the lower balconies of Castle Stormweather. Even from that height, he could barely perceive the giant bonfires that sizzled to either side of the grand entrance to the stronghold. From the balcony, they looked like fireflies drowning in a murky pond.

  Another wave of thunder rolled in and broke against the castle walls. Thamalon felt the vibration in the air. The wind swept the rain into the sheltered balcony, and Thamalon stepped back. A sudden vertigo swirled in his head, and he nearly stumbled as he reached out to lean against the wall.

  "Father?"

  He turned around but saw no one else standing on the landing. Torchlight danced upon the wall stairway walls. On the wall opposite the balcony, a long tapestry stirred in the breeze. Upon its rippling fabric, elves danced among deerlike creatures while strange birds and colorful jellies floated in the trees above.

  "Who is there?" Thamalon said.

  The voice had sounded like the Sorcerer-or Thamalon's own eldest son.

  Lightning briefly illuminated the dark corners of the landing. Still, Thamalon saw no one.

  "Hello?" the voice called.

  It seemed to emanate from behind the tapestry. Thamalon looked for some signs of a lurker-a bulge in the fabric, a pair of boots protruding from the bottom-anything-but there was nothing.

  He pulled back the tapestry and put his hand to the wall. Lightning flashed again, banishing the shadows for an instant.

  Still, Thamalon saw nothing behind the tapestry.

  He hesitated for a moment, then he glanced up and down the stairway. No one was coming.

  He felt the cool stones, pressing and pulling here and there. On the eighth try, the stone he pressed sank several inches into the wall, and a secret door groaned opened to reveal a dark, narrow corridor.

  The mechanism worked almost exactly like those governing the hidden passages in Thamalon's Stormweather. He hoped that was yet another proof of a purposeful connection between the places, and not an indication that the design was common. He hated to think that any of his guests might snoop around his home as easily as he was about to do there.

  Checking once more for intruders on the stairs, Thamalon took a torch from the wall and entered the secret passage.

  Inside, he located the counterweight and closed the secret door.

  He followed the passage barely more than ten feet, where it ended at an oak-and-bronze portal of unmistakably dwarven craftsmanship. Set in the wall beside the door were a similarly ornate bronze lever and wheel crank.

  Spotting no handle nor lock on the door, Thamalon tried turning the wheel. It remained obstinately fixed. The lever rose as he lifted it, snapping into place directly perpendicular to the wall. The burring of gears emanated from beyond the door.

  Thamalon hoped it made no greater noise elsewhere in the castle, especially near suspicious guards.

  Never mind the guards, he thought. Worry about the Sorcerer.

  Seconds passed like minutes, until finally the muted clamor ended with an emphatic clunk behind the door. When nothing else happened, Thamalon tried the wheel once more. It turned smoothly, and the two halves of the door parted to the perfect cadence of metal gears.

  Beyond the door was a small room, no larger tha
n a privy. Its walls were lined in red velvet. A hundred pewter studs cast gentle light from the walls and ceiling. In either of its far corners was a tiny seat, and upon its inner door were smaller versions of the lever and wheel.

  Before entering, Thamalon set aside the torch. He might need it to navigate another secret passage, but he was wary of setting fire to the pretty little room.

  Thamalon had already divined the chamber's purpose. He'd seen a much cruder version of the mechanical lift in the warehouse Presker Talendar reserved for the most precious of his imported porcelain, jade, crystal, and similarly fragile objects. Thamalon knew that the fantastic device cost Presker far more than it saved in labor expenses. Still, it was the talk of the town for a tenday, and tours of the new wonder gave Presker a fine excuse to curry favor with prospective partners.

  The lever inside the lift jutted straight out from the wall. Thamalon pushed it upward, found it stuck fast, then wheeled the doors shut before trying again. As he'd predicted, the lift began to rise.

  As he ascended, Thamalon thought on Presker Talendar and his many other rivals in Selgaunt. They'd fought each other for decades, sometimes in the pursuit of the most beneficial trade concessions-and sometimes to the knife over ancient feuds. In that time, Thamalon had thwarted dozens of attacks on his businesses, his reputation, and even his life and the lives of his wife and children.

  He wasn't above retribution. He had not fingers enough to count the Talendar and Soargyls he'd ordered murdered in dark alleys. He regretted none of them, for each had a hand in the deaths of his father and brother, or else they'd actively strove against the life of an Uskevren.

  Even so, Thamalon remained proud that he never allowed his wrath to descend to the level of petty vengeance. No one had died upon his word for an idle threat, nor for a mere insult. Indulging one's ire was a quick path to damnation, he believed. That was one of the lessons he feared he hadn't imparted to his sons-and he'd lately added to his prayers a plea that they not murder each other.