by Ed Greenwood
A woman, then—or a shapechanger posing as a woman, to gain entry here unopposed, and get close to the man. She frowned—and then gasped in astonishment.
Where the steward’s red robes had been pulled away from his throat and pinned thus by the dagger, his neck was exposed—and there, glinting up at her, was a silver harp.
Storm reached for it. There was a sudden shout from the door. She looked up to see one of the guards staring past her at the other doorway. She whirled to look there—but saw only empty passage.
Vaulting the bed, the pin in her fist, she sprinted to the door and looked both ways, silver hair swirling. The dark, narrow hall was empty.
She turned back into the bedchamber. “What was it?” she demanded. “Who was there?”
The armsman looked at Ergluth, who’d come into the room at the head of a crowd of Purple Dragons. The commander gave him a grim nod.
“A man in a cowled robe, Lady,” he said, “with a staff in his hands and eyes like red flame.”
“Anyone seen such a person hereabouts before?” Ergluth demanded. There was a general shaking of heads and negative mutterings. “Our shapechanger,” he concluded.
Storm nodded. “Wearing the shape of a Zhent or Cult wizard, it seems.”
Ergluth looked down at what she held. “So he was a Harper.”
The Bard of Shadowdale shook her head. “I doubt it. Sympathetic to the Way of the Harp, perhaps, but I’d have known if he was in our ranks. And this was laid at his throat with no chain or pin to hold it there. No, this is another taunt to me—a double thrust.”
Ergluth raised a brow. “A death and Harper blame for it?”
Storm shook her head again. “Two deaths; this one, and whatever Harper he slew to get this.” She handed him the pin. “Put this in a place of stone, far from things that can burn or folk who can be affected by magic—a dungeon cell will do. I’m going hunting.”
“How does one hunt a shapeshifter?” Ergluth asked grimly. “He could be anyone in the kingdom!”
Storm turned to look at him. “Not quite. I’ve raised a barrier he cannot pass—at least, not without my knowing it. He can be anyone only in Firefall Keep.”
“You’ve shut him in here with us,” one of the Purple Dragons gasped.
Storm’s eyes met his. “That’s right,” she said softly. “I’m very much afraid some of us will soon learn what the phrase ‘died for the good of the realm’ really means.”
* * * * *
Not far away, Shayna Summerstar trembled in the darkness against a wall, staring again and again at the blood on her fingertips.
WELL DONE. WASH IT AWAY AND BE AT PEACE. SEE HOW EASY IT IS TO SLAY?
I hate it. I hated tricking that old man.
IT WAS NECESSARY.
Why?
I WANTED YOU TO—THAT’S WHY.
Shayna shivered again, but said nothing.
NOW COME TO ME. YOU’LL FIND ME MUCH BETTER COMPANY THAN AN OLD, OVERWEIGHT STEWARD.
Shayna bit her lip, felt a protest well up within her—and then found herself pushing away from the wall and walking toward him. There was a deliberate strut to her stride as she went, swaying her hips like a tavern-dancer.
She could not even scream in protest. When she came around a corner two hallways later and looked into the eyes of a startled guard, she winked, smiled, and then strutted provocatively past him. He did not see the blood on her hand. She took the stairs beyond two steps at a time, hurrying to be with her waiting, smiling master.
Her Dark Master.
Ten
TO DREAM OF A DRAGON
Storm yawned once more and stumbled, bruising her shoulder against the passage wall. “Careful, lady,” the guard just behind her said, reaching out a hand.
“Aye. You should get some sleep,” said Ergluth, at her elbow.
Storm shook her head. “I don’t need … can’t need …”
Then it struck her. Of course she’d need sleep, now, like any other mortal, with Mystra’s silver fire flowing out of her endlessly to fuel the barrier. That was why she was so exhausted, her legs rubbery and blundering. For the first time in centuries, she desperately needed sleep.
“You’re right,” she said abruptly, and handed her torch to the nearest guard. “It’s …” She lifted her head, trying to remember where her bed was.
“We’re heading there now,” the boldshield told her. When she gave him a hard look, he shrugged and added, “It’s along our way.”
Wearily, Storm nodded. It seemed only a moment later that she was dropping the bar into place across the inside of her closed door, yawning once more, and turning to make sure the room was empty of lurking shapeshifters.
It was, or seemed to be. Storm shucked her gloves, unlaced and kicked off her boots, undid her sword belt and let it fall, and hauled the tunic off over her head. The rest could wait.
The bed felt so soft.… With an effort, Storm sat up, blinked sleep from her eyes for just a few moments longer, and carefully cast two of the precious spells she had left. Wards flickered into glowing life around the bed, shimmering where the silver fire streamed out through them. No spell, and no body—however it changed its shape—should be able to reach her now.
Storm sighed, shook her head at the thought that she couldn’t cower in a bed for very long … and then she was swimming in warm white mists.
Dark things loomed out of them as she moved forward, flying now. The black fingers of giants, frozen into vainly reaching stone things … then a fire-darkened skull so large that she passed through one of its eye sockets … and a red, scaled head rising up through the mists to fix her with an old and very wise eye … a dragon? What was a dragon doing in her dreams?
She fell down an endless well, tumbling. Bodies with eyes and mouths aflame rose past her. Grinning things changed shape around her, and the dragon’s great eye looked endlessly down on her from the top of the shaft. Why a dragon?
Suddenly Storm stood in the Summerstar family crypt, lit by flames that floated without torches to feed them. All around her, the bodies of the long-dead fallen were thrusting aside their coffin lids and rising stiffly out of their shrouds. Ignoring her, they walked to the walls and punched through them, every blow of skeletal fists making the room tremble and boom as if thunder had rumbled.
The space beyond the walls was a room she knew: the great hall of Firefall Keep. Storm stepped out through a hole made by a tall, broken-skulled skeleton. She found herself standing in the open area between the wings of the long table, during a feast. All the places at table were occupied by sneering Summerstars and disapproving war wizards. The staggering corpses disappeared like smoke, leaving her alone with the laughter of the diners, who pointed at her and howled with mirth.
Looking down, she saw that she wore only black tentacles … tentacles that rose up, twining around her limbs, until they reached her throat and began to squeeze. She choked, fought in vain against the glistening constriction, and then everything she saw was rimmed with green and gold, wavering until the watery world went away, and all she could stare at was the dragon’s lone, watching eye.
“Why a dragon?” she snarled in bewilderment and awoke. She sat bolt upright, drenched with sweat.
Ergluth and four Purple Dragons were calling anxiously to her from around the bed, the drawn swords in their hands flashing and spitting back sparks from her wards.
“What—what befalls?” she asked in weary puzzlement.
The eaglelike eyes of the boldshield peered into hers. His face was graven with lines of concern. “This barrier—is it yours?”
“Yes, of course,” Storm snapped. “Why did you wake me by thrusting steel into it?”
“We heard you call something about dragons,” he replied. “Several times, you cried out—once at full bellow. When we came in, someone was standing by the bed, holding a dagger. He was shrouded in spell-mists, with laughing skulls flying all around him like birds. We couldn’t see who it was, but he was trying to get p
ast your wards. When he saw us, he sent mists, skulls, and all at us. Things’ve only just cleared, now … there must be a hidden way into and out of this room.”
“I’ve found several,” Storm said, yawning, “but I thank you for trying to guard me, just the same.” She fell back onto the pillows, waves of weariness rolling over her, and managed to say, “I was too sleepy to think of this before … Ilgreth was the first to die and not be burned. Keep him safe, and the dagger that slew him, too, until both can be examined with spells to tell us who might have killed him.”
“I thought of that,” Ergluth Rowanmantle said grimly, “and left him in the care of two of my most trusted guards while I sent for Broglan. When he got to the steward’s room, one of the guards was dead on the floor—burned to a husk—and Drimmer, dagger and all, was gone. It seems one of my trusted guards was … someone else.”
“We’ve got to stop him,” Storm murmured, falling back into welcoming drowsiness, “before he slaughters half your command.”
“Lady,” Ergluth told her grimly, “I’ve lost eleven men since sunset, all slain at their posts … to say nothing of the two who’ll be months coughing the smoke out of their lungs from fighting the fire. You’ll get no argument from me.…”
He fell silent then, and shook his head. A gentle snore told him she was no longer hearing his words. Well, let her sleep. Without her, Firefall Keep would be a house of ghosts right now, every last one of them naught but ashes. He looked from armsman to armsman, all four of them veterans. “Protect her,” he said gruffly. “Sword anyone who comes into this room and tries to get at her—even if you think it’s Broglan, or me—who fails to give you the password. I’ll be back before highsun.”
The four guards nodded, looked at each other, and went to the door to drop the bar behind him. Then they went slowly and carefully around the room. They checked under the bed and above its canopy, one searching while the others watched. They found nothing. Casting a look at the silver-haired woman on the bed, they leaned on their swords and tried to think how they might walk out of Firefall Keep alive.
Not many scenarios came to mind.
* * * * *
Master, I failed.
Shayna Summerstar let her master feel her bitter disappointment as she put the dagger high up on the ledge above her wardrobe, where no prying eyes would find it.
NAY. YOU DID WELL. YOU STOOD AGAINST THE WARDS AND TESTED THEM—FUTILE, BUT FEARLESS. I LIKE THAT.
Shayna felt a glow of pleasure at the praise, but tried not to show him just how much she needed his approval.
I could have had her! She was asleep—I could have found some way past the wards, if there’d been time! But the guards came …
I SENT THEM.
You sent them?
I MADE THEM THINK THEY’D HEARD SOMETHING ODD IN THE HARPER’S ROOM. THEY DID THE REST. THEN I SENT THE MISTS THAT HID YOU, AND LED YOU TO THE HIDDEN WAY OUT.
But why? I thought you wanted her dead!
OVERCOME, I SAID. STORM SILVERHAND MUST DIE ONLY BY MY HAND, AT A TIME WHEN I’M READY TO TAKE HER POWERS.
Why? Her mind-voice was small and miserable.
SO THAT I CAN BECOME A GOD he replied matter-of-factly.
On her way back to her bed, Shayna stopped in mid-stride and began to shiver uncontrollably.
* * * * *
When the war hound trotted down the hall, paws clicking on the stones, one of the guards knelt and said, “What’re you doing here, boy? You should be back at—”
He reached out to scratch its head, but the blade of a drawn sword reached past his hand to hover in front of the dog’s nose. “You heard him, Tith,” his fellow guard said almost regretfully. “Trust no one, he said … and why would a hound be wandering around up here, anyway? Begone, you, or—”
The dog growled and sprang back, away from his blade—but it left two tentacles behind, lashing out at the ankles of both guards.
They cursed, slashed vainly, and fell hard on their behinds. The dog that was not a dog swarmed in over them, taking their frantic thrusts through its shoulders as it stretched out two sets of impossibly long jaws and bit their faces off. The blood of three beings mingled together on the floor for an instant before fires rose from the bodies.
The dog reared up among the blazing bones and became manlike … a dog-headed man with two thin, hooked blades of bone where its hands should have been. It thrust them between the doors, and sharply up, lifting the door bar. Then the blades of bone slowly lengthened, moving the bar away from the door so that it could be swung open.
A third hand grew from the belly of the thing that was not a man, and did just that, revealing the bed beyond. Standing on it, eyes red-rimmed and unshaven jowls set grimly, was the boldshield of Northtrees March, with a loaded crossbow in his hands. It snapped.
The quarrel thrummed across the room, plucked the dog-headed man off his feet, and drove him hard against the far wall of the passage.
“Come on,” Ergluth Rowanmantle told it, dropping his bow and unsheathing his sword. “You want me? Come in and get me!”
But the eyes that met his were as dark and knowing as the old Summerstar matriarch’s had been. The shapeshifting thing let his flesh melt and flow until the crossbow quarrel fell out. He favored Ergluth with a wide-fanged and mirthless smile, and vanished down the hallway.
The white-faced boldshield hissed a heartfelt curse. Somehow it knew he dared not leave the bed, and the protection of the magic shield he’d raised there. The shieldstone was a Rowanmantle family secret only his oldest, most loyal armsmen had known about, and both of them … had been on guard outside his door.
Ergluth Rowanmantle looked out at blackened bones and cursed again, not caring if he raised echoes this time. How was he ever going to get to sleep after this?
* * * * *
Highsun came and went, and the four guards grew restive.
“Gods, but I’m hungry,” one of them growled. His stomach added a wordless roar of agreement. His companions smiled ruefully.
“It won’t be empty bellies we’ll have to worry about,” one of them said, “if he comes back and finds us gone from our posts. It’ll be our throats—after our backsides do a dance or two with the lash.”
There were weary murmurs of agreement.
A quietly amused voice from behind them asked, “What if I go with you to the kitchens? Will he lash my behind, too?”
The armsmen whirled around. Storm Silverhand was sitting up in bed, her wards dissolving around her in twinkling, drifting motes of light.
“Beg pardon, lady,” one of the Purple Dragons began hastily, “but—”
She raised a hand. “None necessary. I’ve had sleep, and now food is my need. Stand clear now; I’m going to do something with magic that I don’t want you to get caught in.”
She watched them back warily away, closed her eyes, and felt for the rushing stream of silver fire. Yes! As she’d thought, it couldn’t restore spells she’d cast … but if she diverted just a touch of it, for just a moment, it could duplicate a spell she was still carrying, if her mind could hold the extra load. She might be no great realms-shaker as a mage, but one thing all Chosen of Mystra had were minds that could carry heavy loads. They learned to, or soon went insane. Hmmph; perhaps the less thought along that line, the better.…
Done! “Thank you, Mystra,” she murmured aloud, watching silver fire that only she could see swirling around her. Now to do it again.…
She’d already decided she’d need one for Ergluth Rowanmantle’s room, another for the wizards’ study, and a third for Shayna Summerstar’s bedchamber. The heir of House Summerstar was the most important being to protect in this place, after all—even if the boldshield was the most useful. She called on the fire to make herself a third watchful eye, leapt off the bed, and snatched up her boots.
“Food!” she bellowed, “and then your commander, to release you from your orders while you still have strength to yawn.”
Good-natured c
huckles answered her. The guards drew in protectively around her as she hauled on tunic, sword belt, boots, and gloves once more, and set forth.
In the passage outside, they stumbled across signs of fresh carnage. Stumbled across, literally; the smoking, headless bodies of two sprawled Purple Dragons, limbs twisted in agony, lay underfoot as Storm stepped out of the bedchamber. No one chuckled after that.
* * * * *
“This keep has become a battlefield!” Corathar snarled, eyes large with fright. “We dare not step outside without an armed escort and all our spells ready, for fear this shapeshifter could be anywhere!”
Insprin Turnstone shrugged. “Our duty to the Crown is clear; we must do whatever we can to destroy this murderer. See to your spells, and let us all be glad there’s but one monster, and not an invading army of them!”
“Are your veins full of ice?” Corathar snarled, voice rising in horror. “Don’t you know what I’m saying? Death waits for us in the jakes, in our beds, at any step we take in the passages—everywhere!—and all you can do is—”
“Enough, Corathar,” Broglan Sarmyn said severely, coming out of his sleeping-chamber with an old, brassbound grimoire in his hand. “Fear is as deadly a weapon as a foe’s spell or blade. Resist it, as Insprin does, by keeping your mind on what must be done.” He sat down, reached for the decanter and a glass, and added, “Speaking of which—”
He broke off as there came a rap upon the door. All three mages caught up their wands, and Broglan called, “Yes?”
The door opened a cautious handspan, and a Purple Dragon they knew said, “The Lady Storm Silverhand to see you, gentlesirs.”
“Oh?” Broglan exchanged wary glances with the others, and gestured at them to stand on either side of the door, well back. “Show her in.”
The door opened wide. He could see six Purple Dragons outside. Out of their midst stepped the silver-haired Harper, clad as if to go hunting in the forest. She gave him a calm nod as she stepped into the room, hands spread wide and empty.
“Well met, Broglan,” Storm said. Without pause, she turned to look at the two mages on either side of her, and repeated her grave greeting, naming them both.
