by Ed Greenwood
“And I don’t know how to prove to you that I am Amarune. Elminster can’t control me for long, but… well, he’s not the monster you make him out to be.”
“Hah! That must be you, mage! My Rune would never submit to tyranny without fighting and shouting about it every moment she could draw breath!”
Behind the angry lordling, Amarune and Elminster saw Storm dislocate one of her shoulders with a twisting thrust and a grimace of pain. That loosened the swordbelt enough that she could wriggle in painful silence, pull and slide out of Arclath’s tight strapping, leaving the belt clinging to the shirt she left behind.
She rolled over with slow, infinite care, as bare as the day she was born and in utter silence, keeping her injured shoulder from harm. She kept rolling, across the furs and blankets to the hearth.
Elminster tried again-and this time felt Amarune in full agreement with him. He let her take over her voice midword, hoping he wouldn’t regret it.
“Arclath Delcastle,” he began severely, “how do you”-she took over so smoothly that there wasn’t the slightest hitch in the angry sentence-“know what I would do? I pleasure men for a living, remember? I do so because I need to eat, and to keep from freezing in Suzailan winters; I’ve never been able to afford the principles you cloak me with!”
At the hearth, Storm wasn’t reaching for any weapon nor doing anything at all to cover herself or tend to her shoulder. She was-El had to quell Rune’s disbelieving stare-making tea.
“You’re not my Rune,” Arclath snapped. “Fancy words for a mask dancer, wizard! You’ll have to do better than that!”
In their shared mind, Amarune’s anger flared. She tugged at El for control of all her body, and he yielded it. This should be good.
“Arclath, are you truly so foolish? Or just too angry to think? Do you really believe a glib tongue, cogent arguments, and cultured words belong only to the highborn and a few courtiers? Are we beasts to you, barely able to do more than grunt and snort? We unwashed citizens who are your dupes, your servants, your slaves? For that matter, have you any idea what mask dancers-gods spit, what any two-coin pleasure lass-get to overhear, in any given season? I am Amarune Whitewave!”
Still on her knees, she wrapped her arms around herself and snapped, “And this body is mine! I’m not some old wizard pretending to be your Rune; I am your Rune! Get that through your thick head, Lord Highnose Delcastle-if you can!”
Arclath blinked. “Uh-ah-but Rune, how can I be sure? I-”
“You can’t, Lord Delcastle! None of us can! All of us must trust in others in life or shun them completely and wander the wilderlands alone-until the first prowling wolf or hungry bear gets us! I have to trust you; you have to trust me; and we both have to trust others-the bard and wizard with us, for instance. Now, let me tell you something!”
Arclath blinked at her, then-wisely, El thought-nodded. And refrained from pointing out that Rune had been doing just that.
Good lad. Ye might live through this, after all.
“I am hurt, Arclath. I have just met a goddess. Face-to-face-stlarn it, and she touched me! It was terrible, and it was wonderful. I was lost in awe and wanted nothing more than to come back here and tell you how utterly magnificent it was. The most shining moment in my life thus far, possibly the finest happening I’ll ever know. And you’ve ruined it, Arclath, utterly ruined it! I need to share it with you; I need you to understand it; and what do I find? You’re waving a sword around as if that will solve everything! How typically noble! Gah!”
“B-but Rune, he’s stolen your body!”
Amarune exploded up off the floor and marched right up to Arclath, slapping his sword aside with the flat of one hand, angry eyes glittering. “Now you listen to me, Lord Delcastle! Elminster-my ancestor, and don’t you high Houses set much store by your bloodlines and hallowed forebearers, hey? — has borrowed my body. With many misgivings and no intention of keeping it, and I have seen that in his mind. We share my head, remember? I’ve seen his thoughts, and I know. Him I need not trust, because I know what he thinks and feels.”
She halted right in front of Arclath, chin to chin, not quite pressed against him, and said fiercely, her breath on his face hot with anger, “And hear me well, Arclath Delcastle-that borrowing is fine with me. So, if you care about my feelings and my freedom at all, it should also be fine with you.”
Arclath stared into her eyes, going pale, his sword sinking forgotten in his hand.
“If you can’t accept that,” his Rune added, “perhaps you’d better instead accept that none of this is really your business at all.”
The young noble lord studied her face, and then he shook his head and backed away, sword coming up again.
“No,” he said. “No. You’re not my Rune. These words are coming from Elminster, seeking to trick me. Wizard, what have you done to my lady?”
Amarune clenched her fists at her sides and leaned forward to let out a shriek of frustration.
Arclath fell into a fighting stance, sword up. “You’ll have to do better than that!”
“Why?” asked a gentle voice from just behind his right ear. “Can’t we all calm down and sit by the fire to chat about this? I’ve made some tea.”
Storm Silverhand! How had she-?
Arclath spun around, sword slicing the air to lash out And came to a sudden halt, shaking and aghast.
Not only had he almost struck down a naked, unarmed woman, but during his whirling turn, fingers like iron fangs had come out of seemingly nowhere and done something to his wrist to make his sword fly free, then taken his sword arm in a grip he very much doubted he could break.
Storm was stronger than he was. Not to mention much more beautiful than he’d ever be, and pressed against him.
“Applying a binding over clothing won’t keep captive someone willing to shed her garments,” she murmured. “You might with advantage remember that, Lord Delcastle.”
She added a friendly smile, and it was as if the sun had risen in the hut. Silver tresses rose, seemingly on their own, to stroke his cheek and trace the line of his chin.
Arclath stared at her, fighting to keep his eyes on her face. Gods, but she was stunningly good-looking! He-he-it was hard not to stare at all of her or refrain from taking a half-step forward and feeling all of her. If they struggled now, their contact would be both vigorous and… intimate.
“I–I know not what to do,” he blurted, feeling a soft hand (Rune’s, and stlarn it, she was unclad, too!) slide around his waist from behind.
He sighed and gave up. “Where’s that tea?”
CHAPTER THREE
I HAVE A LITTLE PLAN
T wo steps into the room above the shop of Immaero Sraunter, Understeward Corleth Fentable came to a sudden halt, his eyes going very wide. “I–I-”
The smiling man seated down the far end of the table, at Sraunter’s elbow, waved an airy hand.
“Ah, Fentable, you remember me? Favorably, I hope.”
Fentable was too busy sinking into shocked horror to manage a reply-a state of mind he saw mirrored in the eyes of the third man at the table.
Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake looked as if he’d swallowed a fatal dose of poison, and only just realized it.
They were all the mind-slaves of the man at the end of the table. The handsome, amused man whose dark eyes devoured Fentable.
Under their thrall, he sat down in the last empty chair, barely noticing he was doing so.
He, Sraunter, and Mreldrake had been pawns of the dark-eyed man until some brief time before yestereve, when he’d withdrawn from them and made them forget all about him.
Now he was back, to begin their servitude anew.
“I know we all know each other,” Manshoon said, “though I’ll admit I’d not intended us all to ever meet like this. Yet, circumstances change, and my paramount needs with them. So, gentlesirs, hear and heed attentively.” He gave them a soft, sharklike smile and added, “as I know you will.”
“Pull
,” Storm commanded, turning away from him. A trifle gingerly, Arclath obeyed.
“Harder,” she added. Setting his jaw, he put his strength into it.
Suddenly, her arm moved sickeningly in his grasp. The silver-haired woman grunted like one of his guards taking a dagger thrust, reeled a little under his hands, and gasped, “Good. Back where it should be.”
Disengaging her arm, she turned to face him and growled with mock severity, “Now don’t make me have to do that again.”
Arclath drew in a deep and somewhat unsteady breath and then let it out again before he dared to reply, “I’ll try not to, Lady Immerdusk.”
Storm rolled her eyes. “Just ‘Storm,’ please. Whenever I hear that title, I feel several centuries older.” She reached for his tankard with the arm he’d just put back into its socket. “More tea?”
Arclath nodded, glanced at Amarune, and looked back at Storm. “I’m… ah, sorry to the both of you. To all three of you, rather, but Rune most of all. I-this is still going to take some getting used to, for me.”
“You’re not alone,” Amarune told him. “Raise the door bar again, and let’s get some sleep. I’m not just tired now; I’m cold.”
Storm proffered tea with one hand and a sleeping fur with the other. Then she leaned between the two Suzailans, long and sleek and shapely, to blow out the smoldering brazier.
“Let’s snuggle up. Elminster can keep watch.”
Arclath’s head came up. He gave her his best frown, and then peered all around the hut’s lone room… but saw only the two women. When his gaze came back to Storm, she looked amused.
“Try to get a little more used to it,” she said. “Start now.”
Arclath sighed, sketched a parody of a court bow, and sank down among the blankets. His life had changed dramatically in a bare handful of days, and the changes still seemed to be coming-and coming faster.
He hoped he’d manage to stay in his saddle during the wild ride ahead.
Manshoon favored the three frightened faces around the table with an affable smile.
He was indulging himself like the most overblown nobles, he knew, with all of these leering, airy utterances and glee-but by the kiss of Bane himself, it was so utterly fun playing a dastardly villain to the hilt. And after all, why not? Who was to stop him now?
With Elminster dead, a blithely unaware and scarcely defended Cormyr was a certain Manshoon’s for the taking, if he set no foot wrong in overeagerness.
So call this jauntiness a reward, richly won foolery that, after all, had more than a century of accomplishment behind it-unlike the empty, sneering strutting and peacock-screeching of this kingdom’s young nobility.
Why shouldn’t he?
Yet he’d missed chances and marred perfect schemes before. Elminster or no Elminster, this realm was still a prize.
A prize yet unconquered which had rebuffed formidable foes before.
Moreover, it had too many mages-however lacking in spells, prudence, and cunning-propping up its throne to dismiss its taming as an idle day’s undertaking.
Chortlingly manipulating or not, he must keep to his plan. Part of which held that he must not, under any circumstances, publicly announce his presence or even existence for some time to come. He must always work through others. Overboldness and impatience had been his besetting flaws in the past; hereafter, he was determined not to repeat them.
“New flaws for old,” he murmured to himself. “That’s my road…”
“L–Lord?” Sraunter dared to ask. With a smirk, Manshoon waved the question away.
He had planned all along to cause an uprising at the Council-not a hard thing to achieve, after all-in hopes of bringing about a few deaths. An Obarskyr or two and a handful of nobles. Particular nobles. That should eliminate some of the stubborn stalwarts in his path and push Cormyr to the verge of war.
At least three different Sembian cabals sought the same ends but, hopefully, were as of yet unaware of his presence. So, too, were some rather foolishly over-ambitious merchants of Westgate, and of course the Shadovar.
If this ignorance was genuine and continued long enough, these other players might unwittingly help make this Council of the Dragon a blood-drenched disaster. If he managed matters properly, they would remain ignorant of Manshoon for a tenday or more… which should be time enough.
The upheaval of violence and a failed Council would of course afford a chance to move his pawns higher in the court hierarchy, and “his” nobles into favor.
Yet there was a problem.
And why not? There was always a problem. Usually a host of them.
This particular problem was rooted in Elminster’s meddling, of course. One last gift from his hated foe.
With Stormserpent’s treason exposed and most of that expendable lordling’s callow young noble allies wounded and abed-and so unable to attend the Council-Emperor-to-be Manshoon lacked time to reach and influence replacements for his cause, new nobles he could manipulate into furthering his schemes at the Council and thereafter.
The ghostly Princess Alusair had hounded him out of the palace, but faded rapidly once outside its walls, so he’d eluded her and set about founding another base nearby in Suzail. Enter handy Sraunter…
He hadn’t planned to awaken Fentable and Mreldrake as his agents again so soon after withdrawing from their minds, and doing so was a trifle clumsy, but changed circumstances forced new strategies-and they were the most efficient agents he could bring to bear.
Hence this little meeting.
“For the good of the realm,” he purred, “the Council must be delayed. By a day, no more.”
Fentable and Mreldrake relaxed visibly. The frowns didn’t leave their faces-achieving even a day’s delay would entail much work and unpleasantness-but it was far less perilous than some of the things they’d obviously been fearing he would say, and a postponed Council did have one or two advantages…
“That is… good,” Fentable said cautiously. “The last Dragon reports have six or seven lords still on the road, journeying to Suzail. They might well not have arrived in time, and that in itself might have done grave harm to peace among the nobility.”
Mreldrake looked dubious. “At the cost of peace among those already here, who are restless enough. With another day and night to work mischief, what with all the drinking, the harbored feuds, and the armed bullyblades they’ve all brought with them…”
Manshoon shrugged. “So much was on your platter already.”
Sraunter cleared his throat. The other three all looked at him.
He stared back, flustered by the sudden attention, and then stammered, “B-but delay the Council how?”
“Well, as to that,” Manshoon said, “I have a little plan.”
That made it his turn to be stared at.
He smiled back, not discomfited in the slightest. “In fact,” he purred, “it’s why I arranged this little meeting. You three will cause the Council of the Dragon to begin a day late-though fear not, no one outside this room will know who worked the delay. If, that is, you play your parts according to my instructions.”
He leaned back in his chair. “If any of you get, ah, creative, on the other hand, the consequences could well be disastrous. Yet, we’ve worked well together in the past. I know none of you remember that, but then, that’s the beauty of it. If the days ahead go smoothly, I’ll see that you forget all about them-and need never fear a prying Highknight or wizard of war tricking something out of your mind. You’ll be able to-in all innocence-swear you know nothing at all about it. Because, you see, you won’t.”
He smiled, laced his fingertips together, and sent his brightest smile around the table, giving them time to shiver and then recover themselves.
Informed slaves are obedient slaves…
Lord Arclath Delcastle came awake very suddenly, alert and tense, and far from his usual slow, languid surfacing amid warmth and silky, soft bedsheets. He had a feeling that he was rousing at his customary time, near d
awn. His skylight was nowhere to be seen, though, and his face was quite cold. He felt badly cured fur against his cheek, and from around him came the smells of wood smoke and damp duskwood and And someone bare and warm and shapely was pressed against him, with her arms around him.
“R-rune?” he whispered, his eyes flying open.
He found himself staring into the face of his beloved. Amarune was holding him as they lay on their sides, legs entwined and arms around each other, noses almost touching. Her eyes were closed and stayed that way, her breathing soft, slow, and regular. Asleep.
Arclath remembered everything then, and hastily twisted up onto one elbow to look around the cabin. The brazier was out, but the hearth was lit, the teapot sitting atop the soot-blackened grate. He saw no sign of Storm.
Good. For the moment, at least, he and Rune were alone. He could speak freely.
He kissed her, gently but insistently. Her eyes snapped open; she’d obviously been feigning slumber.
“Mmmm?” she purred.
“Ah, Rune,” he whispered, “I-ah-love you very much and want to talk to you. Right now. While it’s just the two of us.”
“Ah,” Amarune told him with an impish smile, in the gruff tones of Elminster. “Ye young lordlings don’t waste your chances, do ye? Well enough, because I want to talk to ye, too. So, start spouting words, lad. ’Tis a new day, but growing older fast!”
Arclath tensed but managed to quell his urge to thrust the warm and curvaceous body away from him.
“Ah-uh-damn you, wizard! Can’t I talk to my Rune without you stepping between us?”
“Lad,” the wizard’s growl answered him, Amarune’s eyes fixed on him, “ye can. Hopefully-with but a very few exceptions-ye will. Ye see, I’ll be using thy lass as little as possible and seeking a suitable replacement to ride. Ye have my word on that.”
“Your word?” Arclath said bitterly. “And what is that worth? My own has been… somewhat devalued.”
“Lad, I like this as little as ye do, and thy lady’s not exactly blissful about it, either. She’s my descendant, mind, and I want her unhurt in body and mind, so I’ll try to take very good care of her. I say ‘unhurt’ because she is, after all, in here with me and aware of everything. That I have violated her as few have been violated, I grant. I’ve tried to apologize for what there can be no proper apology for, and failed, but she’s seen my need and reasons in my thoughts and accepts them. She’ll tell ye so, though ye’re just going to have to accept her word when she tells ye it’s her speaking and not me. If ye do not, I see her soon bidding ye begone, noble name and wealth or not. Now, can there be peace between us?”
