A shimmering black opening appeared for an instant in the air itself and through it dropped Ambriel. He landed on the bed with a soft thump, not quite square to the feather mattress, and nearly rolled off before Gorlin, gawking in amazement, caught him and settled him properly onto the pillows. The old man lay still, unconscious but breathing. He had a nasty gash in his shoulder, and his arm was soaked with blood.
Lynaelle sobbed tears of joy. “He’s bleeding.”
Lynaelle immediately began tending his wound. Gorlin went to fetch Teress Turlgoode, whose stitchery was just as useful on wounds as cloth. When the hunter returned, Ambriel was awake and smiling weakly.
“You found me, Lynnie. I knew you would.” Ambriel breathed as Teress began to sew him up. Lynaelle merely hugged her mentor until he grunted in pain. She pulled back, then looked at the body on the floor.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
Ambriel reached his good hand out toward Lynaelle. “I think he was looking for this-” he said and pulled the stone amulet from under her shift, holding it up for her to see.
Lynaelle looked at her mentor, confused. “I don’t understand. Why in Faerun would he-?”
Ambriel released the amulet and settled back into his pillow. “It’s my ward token from Silverymoon, child. From my days in the Spellguard. He…” Ambriel motioned weakly to the dead figure on the floor. “…apparently wanted it.”
“A ward token? Why would he want that?” Lynaelle asked. “And who is he?”
“Let me start at the beginning,” Ambriel began, content to settle into a good story. “Not long after you left last night-I assume it wasn’t long, it certainly didn’t seem like very long, even though I always lose track of time when I read-you showed up again. Well, of course, it wasn’t you, but I didn’t know that at the time. I thought you were acting strangely, but I didn’t really think much of it until you attacked me with a knife and demanded that I give you my ward token.” Ambriel chuckled. “Of course, I knew that the real you would never demand it, since you wouldn’t know what one is, and even if you did somehow know, you would have realized you already had it, anyway.”
“Why didn’t you just blast him with a spell?” Lynaelle prompted. “The gods know you have enough of them.”
“Ha!” Ambriel snorted. “Lynnie, I was lucky to be able to cast the rope trick as it was. Since you and I have been practicing that one so much, I just happened to have the components close at hand. Now, are you going to let me tell my story?” he demanded, pretending to be indignant.
Lynaelle giggled. “I wouldn’t want to ruin one of your best tales. Go on.”
“Well, I managed to cast the spell, as you so cleverly figured out, and from there I watched ‘you’ transform into ‘me.’ This other me began looking around the place. I figure he must have wanted to throw off suspicion in case anyone else came to visit. The blast from the fire trap spell on my trunk killed him instantly, I guess.”
“So who is this, then?” Gorlin asked, beginning to search the body.
Ambriel tried to sit up. “No spell I know of holds an illusion like that after death,” he said. “But I once met a man who had a magical hat that allowed him to change forms at will. He always had to wear the hat, but he could incorporate it into the disguise. Lynnie, see if there is something magical on the body, especially around the head.”
Lynaelle nodded and stood up. She cast a familiar spell and began to scan the body. The glow of magic surrounded a tiny clasp woven into the hair of the fake Ambriel. When she retrieved it the body transformed and she gasped. It was Daleon.
“Well, that tells us who,” Gorlin remarked dryly. “And perhaps these will answer why,” He said, producing some sheets of parchment from a hidden pocket on Daleon’s belt.
Lynaelle looked at Daleon’s corpse, barely hearing Gorlin’s words. Why, indeed? she asked herself bitterly, hating the hurt she felt. “I told you he was up to no good, Ambriel,” she said quietly, but there was no satisfaction in her voice.
“Aye, that you did. I’m sorry, child.”
Lynaelle nodded solemnly. “So what is a ward token, Ambriel?”
Ambriel shrugged. “A ward token allows the bearer access to parts of Silverymoon where few are allowed to go, and even to cast magic that is otherwise restricted by the wards. I suspect he was trying to get somewhere he shouldn’t have been.”
Lynaelle gasped. “Why in the world did you give such a thing to me, then?”
Ambriel smiled. “I knew it would be safe with you. Anyone who knew of its existence would come to me looking for it, not you. Besides,” he added, a warm smile in his eyes. “I hoped someday you might wear it as a member of the Spellguard.”
Lynaelle smiled and hugged her teacher.
“By the gods,” Gorlin muttered quietly. “Three different contracts, all offering him handsome sums to retrieve that token and use it to get to Queen Alustriel.” The hunter’s face was ashen. “He meant to assassinate the High Lady herself…”
The Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall
Ed Greenwood
“The ghost is one of the family, you see. The Doom of the Paertrovers. We couldn’t banish him if we wanted to.”
The young lord was in full fettle, his voice as polished as that of any master bard. Immult Greiryn, the seneschal of Taverton Hall, ran an irritated hand through his steel-gray hair and turned away, melting into the deep underbrush with practiced ease and silence. Not for him the fripperies of the high and mighty, nor was it his station to be seen listening or intruding when they were at play. Bad enough that he had to step around their bodyguards behind every second tree and bush…
It was late in the warm summer of the Year of the Banner…and a busy summer it’d been, to be sure. All sun-dappled season long three ambitious noble lords of rising power had dragged their beautiful daughters the length and breadth of the realm, seeking suitable-that would mean rich, Greiryn reflected with a sour smile-husbands for their precious Flowers of Northbank, Farrowbrace, Huntingdown, and Battlebar. Oh, the three ladies were a delight to look upon, even for an oldsoldier, and well-educated to boot, but their whole journeying was so…calculated. Did these noble lords have iced wine in their veins, instead of blood?
Immult spat thoughtfully onto a fern, and traded cold and level gazes with yet another bodyguard whose gloved fingers were fondling the hilt of his belt dagger. Arrogant lapdogs, lording it over him in a garden that was his to defend!
Arrogant? Aye, and their masters were worse. In their foray up and down the realm, presenting their young ladies to the eligible young noblemen of Cormyr, they’d passed the gates of Taverton Hall thrice at least-more times, perhaps. Oldest and smallest of the great estates in Northbank this might be, but these three oh-so-noble lords must have been saving it for last, like a favored food at a feast. Taverton Hall was the seat of Lord Eskult Paertrover, Baron of Starwater and Horse Marshal to the Crown of Cormyr, bluest of the old blood houses to currently hold important court rank. Any lass who wed his son and heir, young Lord Crimmon, would gain her father an important ear at court.
Oh, yes, a very important ear. Doddering and lost in nostalgic glories Lord Eskult might well be, but his hand wrote the orders that conferred court ranks-and moneys and powers with them-upon nobles, and assigned other nobles standing garrisons of Purple Dragons. Soldiers that one had to feed, and that were always, so the suspicions went, in your home to keep an eye on you for the throne. So one lot of nobles gained wealth and power, and another saw their purses go flat under the weight of a lot of hungry, swaggering soldiers. Yes, there were many nobles who made a point of being “old friends” of Lord Eskult. Many a case of fine wine came in through the gates at feast days…Immult licked his lips at the memory of a particularly fiery sherry from a Rowanmantle wine-hall.
Another guard glared at him suspiciously, but the seneschal swept past him, pretending not to notice. Bah! Let these dogs snarl. They’d all be gone from here soon enough.
“Y
et,” Lord Crimmon said earnestly, knowing he had their breathless attention, “the ghost always reappears.” He gave them a suitably ghostly half-smile, and broke his pose to gesture grandly at a rather crumbling expanse of old, close-fitted stones. The rings on his fingers sparkled like miniature stars as the warm light of morning caught them and set them afire.
“Here, he seen as a shape on the wall, no matter how often Paertrovers tear down these stones and rebuild with new ones.” He waved his glittering hand again, in a wide circle above his head, three pairs of beautiful eyes following his every move. “Everywhere else on the estate, folk see a floating, grinning face in a long-plumed helm.” He gave them the smile again, knowing just how dashingly handsome-and rich-he looked. “It quite put my father off courting in these gardens.”
“And has it had the same effect on you, Lord Crimmon?” Lady Shamril Farrowbrace’s voice was a low, throaty purr, almost a challenge. Her large, dark eyes held his with a look that was more promise than challenge, as one of her slim hands played in apparent idleness with the glistening string of silver-set pearls that adorned her open bodice.
“Lady,” the young lord told her in mock reproof, “that would be telling rather more than it is good for the nobly bred to know.”
One elegant eyebrow arched, on the brow of another of the three Flowers. “Because it ruins the game, Lord?” the Lady Lathdue Huntingdown asked. “Do you seek to slight our sport, or just that of our over-reaching sires?”
Lady Chalass Battlebar stiffened, eyes flashing for a moment as she gathered herself to take proper offense. Her head snapped around to see just where her father was-and found that he and the other elder lords had strolled out of sight, their bodyguards drifting off in their wake. The remaining guards had carefully situated themselves just out of earshot of normal converse, but quite within hailing distance. She relaxed, turned back to face Lord Crimmon-he was an engaging rogue, not the thick skull or dribble chin one might expect to find as heir of an old-blood house-and smiled.
“For my part,” she told them all lightly, “I care not if my lord father dies of old age snooping behind every stone in Cormyr for a ‘suitable’ mate for me. I have no interest in courtship at all this fine summer. Dalliance, now…“ She lowered her lashes delicately as she put the tip of one slender, long-nailed finger to her lips, and licked it with slow languor.
“Oh, Chalass, a little subtlety, please,” the Lady Shamril sighed. “There’ll be plenty of time for thrusting ourselves at our gracious host here-and his father or yours, for that matter-when the dancing begins. I was enjoying the tale; his a change from gallant young lords showing us their prized stallions and making clumsy, leering jokes about riding, and wanting to see our saddles, and all the rest of it.”
She waved a disgusted hand, and all three Flowers tittered together at shared memories that were obviously strong enough to dash away the irritation that had flashed across the face of Lady Chalass under Shamril’s chiding.
“Yes,” Lady Lathdue Huntingdown agreed, leaning forward in real eagerness, rather than with the slower flour, is she’d performed earlier to best display her jeweled pectoral. “Our fathers may be after an ear at court and the warehouses of Paertrover gold, but we-I think I can safely speak for all of us in this-are not hunting husbands. Yet.”
She caught the eyes of both other ladies, saw their agreement and confirmed it with a nod that set her splendid fall of hair rippling along her shoulders-and then abruptly dropped courtly manners to address Lord Crimmon plainly. “Crimmon, tell us more of your ‘grinning ghost.’ I love a good scare.”
The young lord shrugged, suddenly weary of showing off the family haunting like some sort of trophy of the Hall. “There’s little more to tell; I don’t make up stories about him just to impress.”
“We’ve come a long way, Lord,” the Lady Shamril purred. “Impress us just a little…please?”
“Will we see the Grinning Ghost?” Lady Lathdue asked directly, her eyes very large and dark. She leaned forward even farther, so like a hound eager for the hunt that Lord Crimmon had to smile.
Into the spirit of it once more-if that was not too dangerous an expression, given the subject-he leaned for ward to almost touch noses with her, the sparkle back in his eyes, and half whispered, “So if you’re anywhere about our grounds, and feel a gaze upon you, turn around. As like as not, you’ll be staring into the twinkling eyes of the ghost, who’s been floating along right behind you!”
Two of the Flowers gave little embarrassed cries of fright. The third-Lathdue-uttered not a sound, but Crimmon saw a shiver travel the length of her shapely shoulders and arms. Her dark eyes never left his as he lowered his voice again, and went on.
“He never says a word, and does nothing but follow folk who scream and flee.” The young noble made a grand gesture, as if thrusting desperately with a sword. “Some have dared to attack him or charge straight through him. All such say they felt a terrible chill…and got a true fright when the smile ran off the ghost’s face like a cloak falling from someone’s shoulders.”
Lord Crimmon left time for another chorus of delicious moans of fear, and added more soberly, “When he’s watching you, but not grinning, they say, this a sign you stand in mortal danger.”
The three ladies laughed lightly in dismissal of such a ridiculous notion-how could a spirit know the fates and troubles of the living? — but their host did not join in their mirth, and it died away weakly as they looked into his face.
The gray Paertrover eyes that had seemed so dancing but a moment before, were dark and level as they stared past the Flowers at something that was making the color slowly drain out of Lord Crimmon’s face. The three ladies spun around…and joined in the deepening silence.
Floating behind them, perhaps three paces away, was a disembodied head, its face pinched and white, the plumes of the long helm that surrounded it playing about slightly in the breeze. Its eyes were fixed on Lord Crimmon’s, and its face was expressionless-and yet, for all that lack of expression, somehow sad and grim. All at once it began to fade away, becoming a faint part of the sun dappled light, and then a gentle radiance among shadows…and then nothing at all.
Silent servants deftly lit the lanterns as the evening shadows lengthened and the nobles rose from their joyous feast, goblets in hand, to stroll in the gardens. Lord Eskult was in rare good humor, his wit as sharp as it had been twenty years past, and so were his guests, brightened by good food, fine wine, and the success of their trade-talks. Even if their does ran with no Paertrover stag, it seemed they’d won a firm friend in the old Horse Marshal.
“Extraordinary!” Lord Belophar Battlebar boomed, the force of his breath blowing his great mustache out from his full lips. “A maze, but only knee-high…and sunken, too!”
“The pride of my dear departed wife,” Lord Eskult said, striding forth down its grassy entrance path with a gesture that told all Cormyr that he was proud of it too. “She wanted a maze like-no, better-than one she saw at some merchant’s house in Selgaunt, but she never wanted to get lost in it. One evening, the light fell fast, and she couldn’t find her way out before it was full dark. Well, she had a proper fright, and when she found some of the lamp-lads she marched straight out to the garden sheds and took up a scythe, panting and blowing out her nostrils like a charger after a good gallop, and set to work hewing. She fell asleep sometime before dawn, and I carried her in, bidding the morning servants to continue what she’d begun: cutting the highthorn down to the height you see it now. No one will ever get lost in Maeraedithe’s Maze again!”
“Gods above,” Lord Hornsar Farrowbrace exclaimed admiringly, “what a tale! What a woman! I can just see her, eyes afire…”
“Yes,” their host said, spinning around, “They were. They were indeed! Oh, she was splendid!”
Trailing along somewhere in the shadow of the tall and patrician Lord Corgrast Huntingdown, his daughter, the Lady Lathdue, rolled her eyes unto the darkening heavens. Lord Crimmon patted
her arm and grinned. She realized who was reassuring her, and gasped in horror at having slighted his dead mother, even unintentionally- but he waved in merry dismissiveness as they all strolled on into the maze together.
The twisting coil of stunted highthorn entirely filled a sunken square of rich green turf surrounded on all sides by a rising slope of flowers crowned by fruit trees. Behind the trees was a stone wall, pierced in the center of each of its four runs by a stair leading down into the maze. Benches and statues stood here and there among the flowers, some of them already adorned with lamps, but there were none in the maze itself. “This is beautiful,” Lady Chalass Battlebar murmured. “Did you ever play here, Crimmon?”
There was no reply. She turned to see what might be preventing him from speaking, only to see him a good twenty paces off, taking a goblet and decanter from a gleaming tray carried by a servant. “He moves swiftly when he wants to,” Lady Shamril commented to Chalass.
“Hmmph,” she replied, “not as swiftly as I want to.” With a nod of her head she indicated the four older nobles in front of them.
“Well, if I ran Cormyr…” Lord Farrowbrace was saying, apparently unconscious of the fact that the nobility of the realm uttered that phrase even more often than the gently born, a rung down the social ladder, discussed the weather. Lord Huntingdown and their host were both interrupting him, gesturing airily with flagons almost as big as their heads, to illustrate how, begging his indulgence, they’d be like to run Cormyr just a tad differently, thus and so…
“Gods,” Shamril muttered, “let’s get gone! They’ll start talking about which noble houses will rise and which will fall when a new king takes the throne, next…”
Realms of Mystery a-6 Page 31
