by Ed Greenwood
* * * * *
The stone posts that flanked the rose-girded arch were graven deeply with swirling moons, stars, and harps; this was her farm, all right. The man in the dapple-gray cloak and mottled, smooth-worn brown leather armor put a hand into his shoulder-pouch and slowly drew out something silver. He showed it to the watchful wolfhound that stood in the entrance: a silver harp pin, gleaming on his open palm in the bright morning sun.
The dog nodded to him, for all the world like a respectful human gateguard, and stood back. The man gave it an answering nod and cautiously stepped past. The lane ran under a huge grape arbor and on toward a low-lying, grass-roofed farmhouse that seemed to grow out of the garden beyond. Birds were singing and flitting among the trees of an orchard to his right, and there was no sign of farmhands or livestock. Even the usual reek of manure was absent.
But then, anyplace that looked more like a woodland garden than a working farm almost had to be the abode of Storm Silverhand. The man picked up his pace. His soft boots made no sound on the grass path that led to flagstones and a little patio of hanging plants. A stone seat was built into the rubble wall of a raised herb bed, and—through another open arch, without any door that he could see—the path led into the cool dimness of a stone-floored kitchen.
He stood in the farmhouse, surrounded by its stillness. There was still no alarm, or hail, or any sight or sound of inhabitants. Birds flew about, a cat curled in sleep in the morning sun outside another archway, and …
Perhaps seven paces away, at one end of the huge, knife-scarred harvest table in the center of the kitchen, a woman’s body was slumped back in a chair.
She wore only a light, filmy robe of flame-colored silk, and looked very dead. Her bare feet were sprawled among the legs of the next chair along. Her arms dangled loosely. Her head hung down over the back of the chair, so that her finely boned throat was uppermost, perched atop the chair back. Silver hair flowed down to curl in a smooth puddle on the ground. Her lips were parted, but no breath made her bosom move. She was as still as a statue … or a corpse.
The man swallowed. The long, slender sword that swung at his side hissed out into his hand. Raising it before him, he crouched to look cautiously all around … and then advanced quietly.
The cat did not move. In the garden beyond, birds sang and flitted about unconcernedly. Somewhere nearby, a tree toad began its lazy buzz. The bright sun that was coming in a dozen windows and doors laid long fingers across the smooth-polished flagstone floor and made the flowers inside and out blaze with bright glory. Their delicate scents came past him on gently stirring breezes as the man took one last careful step, looked all around, and then stretched forth a cautious hand to touch that magnificent fall of silver hair. He’d be able to recognize Storm Silverhand, they’d told him, by her silver hair.
He’d best make sure. Hefting his sword, he touched the glossy strands of silver. They were real, silken to his fingertips.
The man in leathers sighed, gently wove his fingers through the hair, and lifted the woman’s head. Lifeless eyes stared into his—and just behind him, a light, furious voice hissed, “Beware! The dead sleep uneasily!”
The man jumped upright and whirled around, heart in his throat as his blade flashed up—to point at a ghostly, floating human head. The head of a woman with long, flowing silver hair.
“Gods preserve me!” he choked. “You’re—” Without taking his gaze from the head, he gestured at the slumped body behind him.
The head advanced slowly through the air, eyes angry.
The Harper swallowed, and took a step back and to one side to have clear room to swing his sword. His eyes narrowed, judging just how distant the floating head was, and his free hand went to his belt. His fingers closed on—nothing. He felt around, finding the scabbard of his dagger empty.
Then he felt something else—something at his throat. Cold and smooth and very sharp, it was the edge of his missing dagger. Another hand took him by the opposite shoulder, clamping down like a claw of iron. A faint, spicy smell of sweat came to his nostrils.
“Tell me your name, and why you are here,” a melodious female voice said calmly in his ear.
The man in leathers let his sword dangle from his fingertips and stood very still as he stammered, “I—Vrespon Flarnshan, at your service. I’m a Harper—my pin is in my shoulder-pouch—and I’m here on Harper business, sent from Hillmarch in Cormyr. Ah, where I dwell.” His eyes darted to one side, and he tried to turn, but the hands that held him were as immobile as stone. Gods, she must be strong. “Have I the pleasure,” he ventured, his voice trembling only slightly, “of addressing Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale?”
“And if you are enjoying such a pleasure,” the floating head asked expressionlessly, its tone a challenge, “what then?”
“Then I bring a message to deliver to her ears only. Words from the sorceress Aldaneth of Hillmarch.”
“Who is a secret Harper,” the voice by his ear affirmed, and the dagger and the grip were suddenly gone. “Catch!”
Vrespon turned—to see his dagger flashing end-over-end toward him! He plucked at the air, managed to catch it, held it up with a grin of triumph—and dropped his sword.
“He’s a Harper, all right,” the floating head said in tones of amusement as she drifted past him, heading for the body on the chair. Vrespon glanced up as he retrieved his sword, saw the head settle onto the throat of the slumped body, and decided he really didn’t want to watch. He’d remember that exposed throat, those lifeless eyes, and the fright of the voice behind him for days … perhaps years.
“I am Storm Silverhand,” said the melodious voice, “and I apologize for the fright we gave you. You may speak freely in front of my sister—Syluné, called by some the Witch of Shadowdale. What message do you bring me, Vrespon?”
The Harper turned, rose, and sheathed his blade—to find himself facing a woman, wearing high, battered leather boots. She was leaning against some cupboards, her arms crossed and an expectant look on her face. Vrespon flushed and hastily dropped his eyes to study her feet.
“Tell Storm from Aldaneth, these things,” he recited, adopting a chant as the words tumbled out of his memory. “The noble Athlan Summerstar, of the Summerstars of Firefall Vale, has been murdered in his keep by mysterious means. Our agent at the keep, Arkyn Hornblade, has also been found slain. Laspeera of the war wizards spoke to me, requesting that the Lady Silverhand come to the keep and investigate. Wizards of war in service to Cormyr will be present, but will not know of Laspeera’s request. They and the family expect Storm Silverhand to appear at Firefall soon, because she is named in Athlan’s will—much to the displeasure of the elder Summerstars, I’m told.”
Storm sighed. “Is there more?”
Vrespon kept his eyes on the floor. “No, Lady. I was told to escort you for as long and as far as you desired my presence.”
A hand squeezed his arm. “You’ve done well. Are you afoot, or have you a mount?”
“My horse waits at the Old Skull, Lady,” said the Harper said.
Storm sighed again, and it seemed for a moment that a shadow of weariness and despair crossed her face as she looked at Syluné. When she spoke, however, she sounded almost petulant. “Well, I’ll have to go … though I was hoping to see what Flamerule looks like at my farm, for once.”
“I’ll watch over things here,” Syluné told her, her head becoming spectral and sinking into her body. Vrespon turned in time to see it vanish, and stared, fascinated, as the slumped body raised its head, the whites of its eyes rolled up to reveal pupils—and winked at him.
The Harper jumped again. “Gods!” he swore. “Don’t do that!”
Storm’s deeply bubbling laughter rolled out from behind him, then, and Vrespon thought it was quite the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
* * * * *
The coach rumbled to a stop. Purple Dragons exchanged brief words, and then they were jolted into rumbling motion again. The clatter of
the wheels roared back brief echoes as they passed through the clammy dimness of the gate tower, and into a cobbled courtyard beyond.
“Gods above!” one of the men in the back said. “Couldn’t we have flown? My tailbone!”
“Belt up,” one of his companions advised. “At least you have a seat with cushions.”
“Now I know why messengers ride,” a third muttered, “even into driving rain.…”
“I could have levitated the coach,” a fourth man said haughtily, “and saved the horses, too—if I’d known things were going to be this bad. Unfortunately, I believed Runsigg when he said Cormyr had the best roads he’d ever walked on, and neglected to study that spell—”
“You belt up, too, Hundarr,” the third speaker said sourly. “Runsigg was right; you obviously don’t walk about much.”
“Huh! His belly tells you that, even before—”
“Climb out and pipe down, the lot of you,” an older voice growled. “You sound like a lot of wailing apprentices, not veteran wizards of war! Take a little pride in things, for the love of Laspeera!”
“Mother Laspeera provides all,” one of the wizards replied mockingly as they clambered out of the dark, swaying coach. A line of Purple Dragons was standing stiffly at attention. Beyond them stood another, shorter line of guards in a different livery: an arc of three golden stars on a field of deep blue. The Summerstar armsmen, no doubt.
“Lady Summerstar and Sir Boldshield,” Broglan Sarmyn was growling, “may I present to you the Sevensash investigative team, sent to you at the express command of Lady Laspeera of the wizards of war, on the instructions of the royal magician of the realm—upon consultations with His Majesty.”
“Sevensash?” the cold-eyed, imperious old noblewoman drawled. “I see only six men.”
She left a little silence, and turned to face Broglan, raising her eyebrows to bid him fill it. Gods, but she was beautiful. Beautiful like ice. Used to getting her own way in everything, this one, and dressed like the queen herself at a high court function, for all her sixty or more winters, and the minor—nay, unknown—stature of her house.
“We are, in fact, one member short, gracious lady,” Broglan said smoothly, “though the name bestowed on us does not, in fact, refer to our number.”
“And your missing man?” The bitingly bored tone made it clear that the Dowager Lady Summerstar cared not a whit for the fate of the absent wizard—only for how much she could make those present grovel and squirm.
“Ah—a woman, actually, lady, and at present engaged in giving birth.…”
“Congratulations,” the Lady Pheirauze Summerstar replied with a cold little smile. She turned away before Broglan could even begin to protest that he wasn’t the father.
Someone in the line of wizards snickered. Someone else was thinking that this old noblewoman was just perhaps a colder bitch than their absent colleague, Chalantra. Just perhaps.
They all watched the noblewoman walk away across the courtyard, her back as straight as a sword blade. The sway of her hips made more than one of her audience think again of her beauty, before Broglan turned briskly to the boldshield and said, “Ah—shall I present my mages to you, then?”
The solid, side-whiskered old Purple Dragon officer allowed just the slightest crook of a smile to creep onto one end of his mouth. “Suppose you do that, Sir Broglan. I know who you are, and you’d best know that I am Ergluth Rowanmantle, boldshield of the district of Northtrees March. I report directly to Baron Thomdor, warden of the Eastern Marches.”
The boldshield’s eagle-sharp eyes turned to look in the direction the old noblewoman had gone. “The lady you have all just—briefly—met is Lady Pheirauze, the matriarch of House Summerstar. The true family heir is her granddaughter, the Lady Shayna Summerstar, and the nominal head of the house is the other Dowager Lady Summerstar: mother to Shayna and daughter-in-law of Lady Pheirauze.”
“That’s Zarova Summerstar, is it not?” Broglan asked. “Who was born a Battlestar?”
The boldshield inclined his head in a nod. “That’s right. In the absence of an heir who’s been presented to the king, however, the master of this keep is its seneschal, whom you’ll meet shortly. I’ll leave him to introduce himself, but I’d best know your muster.”
“So you can put names to the bodies, if need be,” Broglan said, repeating the old joke.
The boldshield did not smile. “That’s right.”
The overwizard coughed, tried on an uneasy smile, and then growled, “Well, then: you see before you—in order, down our line—Hundarr of the Wolf winter noble house.” He looked to a tall, sharp-featured mage whose elegantly cut black hair was shot through with streaks of white. The mage inclined his head in a greeting every bit as haughty as the looks the Dowager Lady Summerstar had been dispensing.
“Lhansig Dlaerlin.” A short, burly man with a broad face and an easy smile sketched a flippant, one-handed salute, his eyes mocking. The boldshield’s level stare cut into those mocking eyes like two cold lance points, but made no change in their dark twinkling.
“Corathar Abaddarh.” This mage was young, thin-lipped, and wintry-eyed, so eager to impress that he practically quivered, like a dog leaping to be let off the leash. He’d struck a dramatic pose, of course—and, as he felt the boldshield’s eagle-eyed scrutiny fall upon him, he shifted rather self-consciously to another.
“Insprin Turnstone, recently transferred to us from Vangerdahast’s personal Enforcers.” An older wizard steadily met the boldshield’s gaze, and nodded, as one to an equal. His face was weather-beaten, his eyes were the color of dull steel, and his black hair—what little he still had—had almost all gone gray.
Ah, yes, Ergluth thought. A pair of eyes and ears for the royal magician, put into this group before its ambitious younglings took it right out of control. He returned the thin old man’s nod, almost smiling. He could tell that a similarly knowing, not-quite smile lurked just below Turnstone’s cheeks, too.
“Murndal Claeron.” He was a darkly handsome man with a close-trimmed mustache and the sort of beard that puts two little corners to the chin before slicing up to join the sideburns. He had glistening brown eyes and a half-smile. Trouble. As ambitious as a hungry snake, and probably possessed of the same tactics.
“And, of course, myself.” The boldshield swung his eyes back to Broglan Sarmyn. He was of average height and build. His hair was the hue of mud and going thin on top. It turned grizzled gray in his large but carefully trimmed sideburns, the man’s only touch of visible personal style. Permanent worry lines creased a high forehead, and a touch of grimness hovered about the mouth. His robes were a year or two behind high fashion.
Ergluth knew Broglan’s sort: a man uneasy in court society but decisive behind closed doors and out among the common folk. A good teacher who adopted the pose of the gruff, growling bear favored by so many swordcaptains of the Purple Dragons. A good man—principled, and with a love of the realm.
The others … well, more love of self and of mayhem than anything else, if he was any judge. A murderer loose in the keep, and we’re adding these?
The boldshield gave them all a grave smile, and said loudly, half-turning toward his own men and the other armsmen in the courtyard, “Be welcome in Firefall Keep. May your mission meet with success. His Majesty has every confidence in you, and so do we all. Do not hesitate to call upon me, or any of my men, should you require aid.” Then he turned fully to face the ranked guards, and barked, “Dismissed!”
The armsmen scattered like so many disturbed pigeons, clearing the cobbles in a whirl of weapons and trotting feet and jingling harnesses. The boldshield turned back to the wizards. “If you’d like, I’ll conduct you to your quarters, where you may ease the rigors of so long a coach journey. You can meet with the seneschal before evenfeast, if you prefer.”
“That would be acceptable,” Broglan said with a smile, and turned to the other mages. The look in his hazel-gray eyes was a clear and cold command to utter not one
word more until they were alone; smart comments about bucketheads in armor or rude backwaters would be neither appreciated nor received without cold rewards.
The rooms were dark-paneled, gloomy, and cold, like those in many a castle. Still, they were probably quite opulent by the standards of this place. Pelts had been laid in profusion across the threadbare patches in the carpet, until the floor seemed a deep, yielding grassland under their boots. A row of doors led into private sleeping-chambers; Broglan raised his brows at this unexpected luxury, and made the silent gesture that bid the mages examine unknown territory for dangers. They curtly ordered the servants standing by their heaped baggage to begone, and began to roam about, peering under things and casting detection spells, listening here and sniffing there.
Not long afterward, they reassembled around Broglan. “Nothing,” Lhansig muttered.
“A passage behind that wall, not far off,” Hundarr said, pointing, “but probably not intended for … stealthy scrutiny.”
“Concealed servants’ door there,” Insprin said, “and an old dweomer—probably a warning magic mouth.”
Broglan nodded. “We won’t worry about that. Any other dweomers?”
Heads shook in silent negatives. Their leader sighed, and said, “I’m sure you noticed the baths, and after Insprin and I are done, you can all enjoy them in order of age. Next time, we’ll reverse the order. No griping—they seem plenty hot right now.” He reached for his belt, and said, “Choose your rooms; they all seem the same. Now, Murndal—tell me in brief what should interest us most about this mission.”
Every inch the careful pupil, the handsome Claeron stroked one arm of his maroon silk overrobe, and said, “We have two murders, and reports from presumably competent priests that the bodies can’t be raised, spoken with, or magically read in any way. They seem burned out from within, and utterly dead and lost to magic—worse than stones, which can at least be made to tell us something. Whoever did it, we want to find out how … or Cormyr, and Faerûn in general, may have far larger dooms upon them than merely two killings.”
