Stormlight

by Ed Greenwood

  The sound that she made next was very much like a sob.

  Six

  WHEN EVERY BED HAS ITS WIZARD

  A table stood in the center of the finely panelled study shared by the Sevensash war wizards. The table was fashioned of shadowtop wood, its curving legs sculpted into stylized tree roots and its oval top inlaid with plain, smooth-polished duskwood.

  Far too plain, Hundarr had judged it with a sniff.

  Broglan disagreed. The small globe of winking lights he had placed to rotate lazily in the air above the table wasn’t meant to be an ornament. Rather, the globe was there as a warning. It was linked to an invisible web of enchantment that spanned the floor, ceiling, and walls of the room. If any active spell effect moved into the study or was unleashed there, the globe would fall and shatter in a shower of harmless but dramatic sparks, telling everyone that magic was on the loose.

  The leader of the war wizards ducked his head out of his bedchamber door and glanced at his spell globe. It still spun above the table, patient and undisturbed—a scant few feet from an elbow propped on the polished duskwood.

  The elbow belonged to Murndal Claeron, who sat at ease in an old, overstuffed chair, his feet up on a footstool. The young wizard was frowning over a spellbook, but Broglan could tell by the way he hummed and absently tapped his fingers that he was ruminating, not intently studying the magic.

  Broglan strode across the fur rugs to sit on the adjacent lounge. Murndal raised his eyes and nodded in greeting, but said nothing.

  Broglan was not so reticent. “I’ve been thinking about the lady—and the spellblade.”

  Murndal sighed and laid aside his book. Broglan raised an eyebrow. The young man’s nonchalance was a mask; his hands were trembling. “She’ll have her revenge on me,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I know she will.”

  “Perhaps,” Broglan said. “Almost any mage would, true—but she seems … different. She was more angry at me than you. And her ire seemed to come because we’d broken the rules of courtesy, rather than from surprise or outrage. Moreover, if I saw what I thought I did, she’s healed already, long since. Folk released from pain can forget its cause more easily.”

  “Who’s to say what she thinks?” Murndal said, almost bitterly. “She doesn’t strike me as particularly sane.”

  “If you’ll forgive the intrusion—and further, some blunt speech,” a deeper voice put in from behind them, “you are judging her so because she doesn’t act or speak as you expect her to.” Insprin Turnstone took his own seat beside Broglan, steel-gray eyes glinting. He added, “Ambitious mages are the only folk of power you’ve taken measure of, Murndal. She’s not ambitious … and, I suppose, not much of a mage.”

  “Murndal’s point is a fair one, though,” Broglan said. “Being alive for so long and serving our Divine Lady of Mysteries directly all that time—what would that do to one’s mind?”

  “Are we in a position to judge her?” Insprin asked mildly.

  Broglan frowned. “Another good point,” he admitted.

  Murndal sighed. “While you debate the state of her sanity,” he growled, “I could be doomed! Have you any spell or item you can protect me with?”

  Broglan laughed a short and mirthless laugh. “Against Mystra’s silver fire? Nothing can withstand that save the goddess herself. There’s not a mighty staff or earth-rending spell I know of that can protect you if she really desires your death. But consider this: she can rend anyone thus, and has walked Faerûn for centuries, with six of her sisters similarly armed … and there are still folk left alive to people Cormyr, and Sembia, and far Waterdeep, and a dozen other lands besides. So rest a little easier, Murndal.”

  “All the happily resting citizens of those lands haven’t plunged a sword into one of Mystra’s Chosen—the one who also happens to be a leader of the Harpers,” Murndal said bitterly. “Folk she hasn’t noticed yet are perfectly safe, but I stand in rather more danger!”

  “Our plan was still a good one,” Broglan said, “and I noticed no such fear when you volunteered—volunteered, mind you—to be the one to strike with our spellblade. Weeping now is wasted wind … and it undercuts your bravery in everyone’s eyes.”

  Murndal sighed gustily and fell back into his chair, spreading his hands. “All right, I’m a dead man,” he growled. “So while she plots a suitable manner for my execution, what’ll the rest of you be doing?”

  “Doing?”

  “There’s a murderer, or more than one, at work in Firefall Keep,” Murndal reminded his superior with some asperity, “or have you forgotten Lhansig and his codpiece? I know you spoke of the killings being Storm’s work—but she can’t have slain the seneschal … unless you think her capable of enchanting the wits of both the steward and the boldshield!”

  “I do think her capable of just that,” Broglan said, “but I’ll admit that Baerest’s demise doesn’t feel like her work. But did you not see Thalance Summerstar leave the table in plenty of time to have done the deed?”

  “That fop? Take the seneschal? With luck, perhaps, b—”

  “Not luck,” Broglan said tartly. “Magic. The man’s skull was burnt bare … not the work of a lucky sword thrust.”

  “But Thalance hasn’t the brains to—”

  “Oh?” Insprin put in. “And just how do we know that? We’ve seen him twice, mayhap thrice. By all accounts he’s seen every chambermaid and unattached lady in the vale. That may be the work of a fool, but it requires no small amount of cunning.”

  “None of the Summerstars need to be cunning,” Broglan reminded them, “when they’ve got the Lady Pheirauze to do it for them.”

  “Yes,” Murndal said thoughtfully. “I could just picture them all running to and fro at her bidding.…”

  “So what are you saying Pheirauze gains by slaying her own grandson?” Hundarr Wolf winter broke in. His sharp tone made it clear that he’d heard enough commoners criticizing the ethics of a noble house.

  “A lot more power around here, for one thing,” Insprin said gravely. “Where Athlan would be expected to rule his house his own way, youthful mistakes and all, Shayna will be expected to take advice from her elders … particularly in matters of marriage.”

  “And what would you know of the expectations at court?” Hundarr asked coldly.

  “All too much, I fear,” the thin, gray-haired old mage calmly replied, ignoring the bait.

  Broglan turned. “Enough, Hundarr! Even we lowborn men have eyes and ears and brains! I’ve seen no sign that either Lord Vangerdahast or the king are stupid enough to divide the citizens of Cormyr into but two groups: cultured, clear-thinking, loyal nobles and howling-dog, brutish, dangerous commoners. I hope you won’t make that mistake either. Too many proud families of Cormyr are extinct today because of it.”

  Hundarr Wolfwinter stared back at him silently, a clear challenge in his eyes. Neither man moved or spoke for a long minute. Then Broglan shrugged, turned away, and said, “The fact remains that Murndal has asked a good question—what is our course, in the hours and days ahead?”

  “Watch and wait,” Insprin said flatly, “with eyes open and battle spells ready, to see what Storm Silverhand stirs up as she roams through the keep.”

  Broglan nodded. “That’s exactly the road I’ve been following,” he admitted. “If we spend our days interviewing servants and scrying at their thoughts to ferret out murderers who I doubt are lurking in their ranks, our distinguished lady bard will be scouring the Haunted Tower and poking about in the private wardrobes of Lady Pheirauze before long.”

  Broglan leaned forward and said to Murndal, “I’ve got a little task for you.”

  “Me?” Murndal asked, more surprised than suspicious.

  “I gave you the only cloak of concealment I brought, to keep the spellblade hidden until you were ready to use it,” the leader of the war wizards explained. “It’s bonded to you now.”

  “And so?” Murndal asked warily.

  “You saw how upset the vision
of the seneschal’s slayer—if that’s who it was—made the lady bard? She left the crypt in such haste that no priest was called to reseal the doors.”

  Murndal nodded slowly. “You want me to go there and cast an unsleeping guardian to see if anyone enters or leaves.”

  Broglan inclined his head in a nod so slight that it seemed for a moment to be no nod at all. His hand dipped into the breast of his robe. “I also want you to leave this there.”

  Murndal studied the silvery metal wand. It was tipped with an emerald and sprouted sharp metal fins, collars, and rune-inscribed horns. As he watched, it pulsed slightly, as if a deep-buried power were awakening in it. He lifted his eyes hastily from its rising glow. “What is it?”

  “A decoy, of course. It has no powers save the ability to be traced by us at a distance—and to be violently destroyed by Insprin or myself, at a somewhat closer proximity.”

  “So if our murderer—or anyone else—snatches it from the tomb, we can follow, and visit an explosion into the very hands that would try to use the thing against us.”

  Broglan nodded.

  Murndal looked around the circle of curious, watching faces, broke into a sudden grin. “I’ll do it.” He rose. “Now?”

  “ ’Twould be best,” his superior told him. “The sooner this lies in the tomb—on the table, perhaps, or ‘fallen’ beside it—the faster we can ensnare Lhansig’s slayer.”

  Murndal strode to his chamber. Shrugging himself into the cloak, he asked with a frown, “The guards?”

  “With that cloak, a minor problem,” Broglan replied. “I’m about to send everyone on short missions at once, to give our patient Purple Dragons something to watch.”

  The war wizards grew matching grins of anticipation. With a smile that was almost a purr, Broglan said, “Corathar and Hundarr, go to the old steward of the hall to borrow two of his tall braziers; don’t press him if he refuses. Insprin, there’s something vital—and for the time being, very secret—that you have to hunt down in the keep library … or perhaps in the seneschal’s papers. I’ll be needing at least one of those doorguards to go and get the boldshield for me—and the other to take custody of this execrable liqueur for me; it seems to bear some enchantment or other that’s interfering with our work. Murndal, stand behind me and awaken the cloak.”

  He waved at them to get gone. With nods and grins, they obeyed. The leader of the war wizards turned and held out his hand to the globe above the table, giving it a steady glare. Under his scrutiny, it began to flash and pulse, sending strange shadows leaping around the room. They almost entirely obscured the faint shimmering in the air right in front of him—Murndal in the cloak.

  Broglan nodded in satisfaction and turned to the door. “Mystra and Tymora both be with us now,” he muttered, and laid a hand on the bar that kept non-wizards out.

  So it was that Murndal Claeron slipped out of the room quite unseen, and down the only hall that wasn’t rapidly filling up with wary Purple Dragons. Curse that boldshield! He’d foreseen something like this, and posted what looked like at least three armsmen for each of the guest mages. It also seemed that, for the time being, he’d taken on the seneschal’s crown-appointed duties, and would be resident in the keep until the killings were solved.

  Murndal stifled a heartfelt oath and hurried away from the jostling and chatter, hoping no narrowed eyes would notice the slight shimmering the cloak trailed in its wake. He was around the first dogleg corner and into deeper dimness ere he realized that this hall led into the Haunted Tower. He paused for a moment, looking back and then ahead—and then shrugged. What could a few phantoms do, after all? And with that open stair at the center, he could get to the crypt quickly indeed. After that, the kitchens awaited. That repast had been marvelous, and surely there must be some left …

  * * * * *

  The lady in the long gown looked back over her shoulder, opened her mouth in a soundless scream, snatched up her trailing skirts, and ran on, fading away in midfrantic stride.

  “Haunted Tower, indeed,” a voice said disgustedly. “That’s not going to keep anyone away.” Two hands lifted to work magic.

  The spell was newly gained, and so the casting, as always, was just a trifle awkward—but there were no charging adventurers or other foes to make haste necessary.

  Soon enough, the blue mists were swirling. Out of them, with a cold rattle of laughter, came the first of the skulls. With eyes of flame, it winked at its creator, and swooped off to the right as it was bid. The watcher smiled grimly as it plunged back into the mists, and made the fog drift into a ring around him.

  When the watcher was surrounded with a roiling barrier, he began to pace. No curious armsman or mage was likely to pass screaming skulls and mists that flickered with lightning. And this haunting, however harmless, would last until all the magic was drained from the enspelled daggers that the Summerstar fools had seen fit to inter with their fallen. To leave such things to rust away in a crypt! Truly, nobles were mad!

  Well, there’d be fewer of them soon enough. It was time to plot and plan in earnest … no matter how hard that was becoming.

  Hard indeed. A tremulous sigh echoed within the roiling ring of mist.

  The fire brought spells, and the skills to cast them. It could bring also important knowledge, and useful powers akin to spells—whatever mental properties the victims had possessed. But with such treasures came annoying memories.

  Floods of memories, bright and sharp and roaring and … oh, so heavy. Crowding and clamoring for attention, always, jostling along in an alluring flow that could spin one way, breathless, into being a man shivering on his first battlefield, side torn open, as the wolves came trotting nearer; then a woman shrieking under the brutish cruelty of her lord, in a room where the rippling blaze of candles brought no warmth nor comfort; and then a man again, watching from the battlements on a day of chill fog, as a falcon came streaking down to tear a dove from the air in a flurry of bloody feathers, and …

  On and on, for one heart-wrenching moment after another, until strength came to rise up out of the endless flood and know what was truly befalling here and now. The seneschal had known damned near every chamber and passage of this old keep, and the ways of the vale beyond. What he hadn’t known was familiar to the Harper. Even those with paltry lives were best subsumed when met with—for a body emptied by the fire was forever mindless. Even if some meddler transformed an errant finger into a whole body, that body would be a brainless husk … and brainless husks could be trusted to keep secrets.

  Secrets that must stand for a time longer, until no alarm among the Harpers or the Zhentarim or the Red Wizards or those who defended the crown of Cormyr could spell doom for the rising power in these two hands—the power that must triumph.

  Dimly, through the ever-increasing, racing chaos of stolen memories, the watcher could recall the taste of divinity. It had a tang like the iron of blood in a mortal mouth … and yet, so much more. He ached to know that taste again, ached to be revered, and worshiped—and feared. It would come again. It would come again!

  Usurpers commanded the priests who should still be his. Usurpers wielded the power that was rightfully his. Usurpers made decrees and blundered through divine dealings, speaking where he should have spoken. All of this would end. Hands clenched in the dimness of this chamber at the heart of the Haunted Tower. Aye, all of this would end.

  It would take much more power, though. The power of that servant of accursed Mystra.

  His hands itched at the thought. Ah, to wield what she had. But he must take care. Subsuming the essence of a mortal was all too easy with the fire at his command … but she could destroy him even without the aid of the others she could call on. He must be very careful.

  It was prudent to skulk within spell-spun walls of magical mist, to hide behind gibbering skulls and other madnesses folk wouldn’t dare pass. Prudent, but hardly subtle. He must take great care in the days ahead.

  And he must feed again. He’d gained th
e wits and wariness of a hardened Harper and the wiles and local knowledge of a veteran warrior—but his magic was still all too feeble. There were only five war wizards left. The two older ones might have something of worth … but slaying them was sure to bring more mighty mages, who’d arrive well prepared for trouble.

  What choice was there? For him to regain his rightful place, many must die. He needed to do more than shapeshift and subsume. He needed true power—the power to withstand the mightiest of spells once more, such as the wish magics of mortals. No one in this vale, perhaps in this realm, had what he needed.…

  But Storm Silverhand came close.

  He must move softly. Best to take the powers of some more mages first, and at least one better fighting man, before making any move against the woman with the silver hair. The Purple Dragon commander was probably the best target outside the ranks of the war wizards—but getting to him would take careful planning.

  The watchfulness of veteran soldiers and Storm Silverhand, though, were nothing when measured against the peril offered by the probes of a competent priest. There was a Harvestmaster of Chauntea about, and other clerics who’d known adventure, and seen life, and learned things.

  At all costs, he must avoid being recognized for what he was. Thoughtful hands stroked a chin. Yes, the form of an attractive maid might be safest for what would have to come next.

  Perhaps, after ascension, he’d take a Twisted Skull as his symbol. Lips twisted wryly in the darkness. That would be a worthy jest, seeing as he was having to change from one forlorn form to another all too often these days. It would be a good sigil to make mortals know terror. He’d made mistakes before—mistakes that had cost him nearly everything, leaving him a thing like a howling shadow, able only to fly and moan and claw … and subsume.

  Aye, subsume. It was time, and past time, to feed again. The memories rushed past in an endless torrent, but he heeded them no more. He’d mastered them, and grown stronger … and it was time to seize more.