by Ed Greenwood
There it was. Storm looked up and down the deserted passage. She cautiously hooked open the door, and found herself looking at the dead, burnt-out husk of a Purple Dragon. She sighed and caught the corpse as it toppled past her, cradling the dead warrior to lay him gently down. The sightless eyes of an empty skull stared up at her.
“Helm or Tempus guard you, soldier,” she murmured, and dragged him into the nearest room along the passage—a dusty, sheet-draped guest bedchamber. It would not do for anyone to find him right outside the closet she’d chosen.
She cast swift glances up and down the passage again, but the fear that now gripped servants and armsmen alike meant that they went nowhere alone. No one had even replaced the burned-down torches along this hallway. She wondered briefly if the foe had subsumed the servant who usually did that task, and then shrugged and started to undress.
When she was bare, she dropped her pectoral into one boot, snatched up the scabbarded sword and bundled everything else up around it, and stuffed them all down behind a bucket at the back of the closet. Then she stepped into the small room after them and firmly closed the door, shutting herself into the darkness.
She did not need light to work her spell, just a moment of peace to call it forth. In a drifting moment, she would become an unseen, flying phantom that could wander at will around the keep, spying out shapeshifters and their mischief.
A moment of unguarded dreaming … she was adrift amid fire, both amber flames and silver. Out of them swam the red-scaled head of a dragon, watching her. Its great, dark eye blinked at her … and then seemed to dwindle through the mists … no, it was growing smaller, and turning to become—a vivid, glistening teardrop on a brassy handle: an ornate metal scepter surmounted by the dragon’s eye. She slid past it. It was gone in the mists, and she was starting to be able to see the dark walls of the gown-room around her.
As she rose, featherlike, to fly out into the keep, Storm shook her head in puzzlement. What did the dragon have to do with this?
* * * * *
“Saw through my scheme, did she? Hah! ’Twas but an idle tactic! No one shall escape me! None shall leave Firefall Keep alive! Hahahahahahaha!”
The figure shouting those echoing words lashed out with hands that spat lightning from each finger, scorching the stones of the dark chamber around him. A phantom flew away, as if startled by the outburst, and was chased by deep, bellowing laughter.
The capering, tentacled man making that sound suddenly fell silent, and asked in the icy, patrician tones of Pheirauze Summerstar, “What buffoon disturbs my home?”
He whimpered for a moment, and then said in quite a different voice, “Have they fallen yet? Well, see to it, man! See to it!”
And he raised his hands and hurled fire—a raging, white-hot ball that roared across the chamber and crashed into the far wall, sending flames flying about the room. The man sighed.
“Please,” he said in infinitely bored tones, examining nails that swiftly grew into talons. “Spare me.”
Then he howled like a hound in despair. He set off at a run, cackling and howling by turns, blasting stone walls, steps, and statues around him with golden-green flame. Stone exploded into rubble on all sides as he raged, trying to sing and bark and spit out words all at once.
“I’m rich, sire, and you cannot trouble me anymore!” he called to a mirror that had gathered dust for over a century—before he shattered it with all the fire he could muster.
“Yes,” he breathed a moment later, voice hushed but trembling with emotion. “A Summerstar would do this.…”
“All I know is,” he snarled, interrupting himself with a harsher, deeper voice, “we as wear the Dragon spends all our spare time dyin’ for the king, that’s all!”
“What gods-accursed plan …?” he asked the empty air as he capered down a hall.
He whirled around. “He made it,” he told the passage with quiet fury, “as if we had never been.”
“I-I-” he said in anguish, and went to his knees. His face melted and ran like butter in the sun. He howled with all the strength in his lungs, “Why can’t I remember my name?”
That agonized shout echoed down the empty rooms for a long time. “Name, name, name” came faintly back to him, as he held his head in his hands and sobbed.
Or tried to. As he clasped his cheeks, his head melted away from between his cupped hands, and ran down onto the floor, glistening like blood. Though the room was dark, it reflected back a dancing radiance as it flowed across the floor: the flickering shadows of silver flames.
* * * * *
“Take it,” Insprin Turnstone told the young noble. “We can worry later if that’s mold.”
Thalance Summerstar nodded, turned awkwardly with the heap of long, curl-ended bread loaves the wizard had thrust into his hand, and started back on his way. Insprin waved four of the Purple Dragons to follow him and turned back to the dusty corners of the pantry.
Everything was a mystery. Why can’t people label their jars?
It’s not as if they’d wizardly secrets to keep, Insprin thought sourly, running his fingers through his graying hair. The question before him right now was—is this oil that’s gone off, or is Calishite olive oil supposed to smell and taste like this?
Urrgh. Forget it; the Calishites could keep it! He put the stopper back and reached for the next jug—only to freeze in midreach as a merry giggle sounded from just over his left shoulder. He turned slowly, fearing each breath would be his last.
Shayna Summerstar was leaning against the pantry wall, a dusty bottle in her hand. Chestnut hair spilled down over her ivory shoulders, and the old wizard almost licked his lips. Gods, but she was beautiful. “The kitchen wine cellar’s around here, silly!” she said, friendly mirth in her eyes. “What’re you trying to drink the fish-oil for?”
“F-Fish oil?” was all old Insprin could think to say, as he felt for his wand.
Shayna’s emerald eyes went down to it as he tore it forth. “Is anything wrong, sir wizard?” she asked. “I’m sorry if I startled you—I only wanted to offer you some wine! You looked so hot and bothered after Thalance left, and …”
She frowned. “How’d you manage to get him to fetch and carry, anyway? It’s more than I’ve ever managed to get him to do!”
“Forgive me, Lady Summerstar,” Insprin said gravely, holding the wand trained at her from about two paces distant, “but I must ask this: is your mind your own?”
She gave him a puzzled smile. “Is it what?”
They looked at each other in silence for a long moment, and then she said quietly, “You’re serious. Well, of course it’s my own. This isn’t some strange ritual greeting war wizards use, is it?”
Then she seemed to notice the bottle of wine in her hand for the first time, and added, “Well—do you want some wine, or not?”
“No, thank you, Lady Shayna,” Insprin said, taking a careful pace away from her. “Forgive me for being suspicious,” he added, “but in my admittedly brief time here at the keep, I’ve never seen you be so—ah, forward. Outspoken, instead of shy, and open and easy with a war wizard you’ve scarcely met.” He looked at her narrowly. “I’m not sure I’m speaking to the real …”
Her smile fled. “I see now,” she said. “Lady Storm met with me, yes, and spoke to me of the shapeshifter loose in the keep. You think I might be some sort of monster.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how I can prove myself to be the real Shayna. If, as you say, we knew each other better, you could ask me questions about my younger days, and so be sture, but …”
She sighed, and turned away. “This isn’t turning out the way I meant it to,” she said in a low voice. “I waited until you were alone, thinking this would be a wonderful chance …”
“Chance?” Insprin asked quietly, wand still aimed steadily at her. “Chance for what?”
Shayna Summerstar turned back to face him, and then peered quickly past. Assured that they were still alone, she said in a low voice, “I must now l
ead House Summerstar, and put away thoughts of gowns and feasts and … handsome men. I—I’ll lose those things before I ever even get to touch them with my fingertips! Snatched away, so I can never have a lover, never—”
Insprin raised a graying eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked. “Being head of a noble house doesn’t mean setting the world aside, lady! Not in Cormyr, anyway!”
Shayna looked up at him. “You don’t see, do you?” She took a step forward, and he raised the wand tensely.
A pained look passed over her face. She snatched at the tip of the wand and thrust it firmly between her breasts, where her gown was cut away to show a fall of lace. “There! If I’m some sort of monster,” she told him fiercely, “blast away!”
He looked into angry green eyes that were very close to his, swallowed, and asked carefully, “Lady, what is it you want?”
“You, Insprin Turnstone!” she hissed furiously. “Do I have to go to my knees and beg you? I need a man to teach me what loving and kindness and comfort are all about … a man who dares not carry tales around the realm, and who has magic to keep unwanted children from me! The only man I’ve ever really loved and admired was my father—and you are so like him! Kind, and thoughtful, and yet quiet, keeping your own counsel until those around you really need it. I think I could love you … and yet I know I can’t wed you, so I’d like to be in your arms for—for whatever times we can steal from the world together!”
She gazed into his eyes and almost whispered, “Of course, if you find me repellant, or my asking ridiculous, I’ll understand, and say nothing … except to beg you to forget I ever spoke these words. Only please, please don’t laugh at me, or call me a child!”
Insprin lowered his wand and put one hand to her magnificent hair, stroking it with infinite gentleness. “Lady,” he said softly, “no lass who thinks such things can be anything but a woman, whether she’s known a man yet or not. I-I do find you young, and I confess I’m more startled than flattered, but if you’ll allow me to walk with you awhile, and talk, perhaps you can persuade me that you really want me, and know what you’re getting yourself into … this keep is not the safest of places right now, you know.”
“Precisely,” Shayna said, “and if I die this night, or on the morrow, or the day after, I’ll never even have known a kiss from any man who was not my kinsman, and just being polite or kind!” She took his arm firmly, set down the dusty bottle, and said, “Right then—walk, you said, and we will. I’ll walk to the end of Firefall Vale and back, wizard, so long as you take me!”
“Ah … I was thinking more of a tower where we could be alone,” Insprin replied, holding his wand down by his side. Abruptly she caught hold of his sleeve and turned him, trying to kiss him—only to feel the point of the swiftly raised wand hard against her breast.
She glared into his eyes, her quickening breath warming his chin. “Fire the damned thing, I said,” she whispered fiercely. “Find out that I am Shayna Summerstar, and then heal me, wizard, and then make love to me!”
He never knew, later, if he bent his lips to hers, or if she thrust her mouth forward, but her kiss was hot, and tremblingly eager, and sweet.
When he drew away at last to breathe, he said very quietly, “You mean it, don’t you?”
“I do,” the young noblewoman in his arms said simply. “Do you still doubt it?”
“No,” he said, just as plainly, and took her arm. “Let us leave this place, and go wherever you want.”
Shayna sighed as if a great weight had been taken from her, and smiled, her eyes bright. “Now we’re getting somewhere, Insprin! I know just the place!”
“Oh?” Veteran war wizard that he was, Insprin still had hold of his wand and his presence of mind—but the lady in his arms giggled and said, “No, it’s not my grandmother’s bedroom or some dungeon cell! Come on!”
They hastened through the wine cellar, avoiding the pantry and its gathered guards, and past the granaries to a back stair. Three halls and a passage later, the way ahead turned dark—and the wizard slowed.
“Isn’t this the Haunted Tower?”
Shayna gasped with exasperation. “Wizard,” she hissed, “this is my home! Mine, now that I am head of House Summerstar—and I can’t help it if folk call this whole central bit haunted! We just have to pass through it here, to reach the far wing!”
Insprin’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped back from her and cast a quick spell. She made as if to interrupt, and then said, “Finished? Satisfied? Come on!”
The shield was a feeble one, but it would keep off the first slap of a tentacle or stab of a tail-sting … unless it came from her. Insprin sighed—we all have to take some risks in life, after all—and drew Shayna into his arms once more.
She laughed softly in delight and anticipation, and led him into the darkness. “It won’t be long now,” she said, guiding his arms around her slender waist, to where her gown seemed to have come undone. “I want to feel your hands … no, don’t stop, I want to get there … I’ve a cabinet full of sherry, and a fire laid ready to light, and—”
Master? Master, I have him. Where are you?
[CHAOS]
Master?
AH THERE YOU ARE MY PRETTY ONE HEIGH-HO THERE’S A BLADE BRIGHT AND READY BUT THE STORMS ARE SO FIERCE, MILORD, THAT WE DARE NOT TRY TO KISS ME NOW YOU WENCH, YOU BRAZEN DOG! WOE BETHRUST IT ALL! THERE’S AN ANKLE THAT MUST BE HIS, IN ALL THIS BLOOD, AND …
It seemed to Shayna Summerstar then that a bright sword of silver flames cut open a door in the back of her mind, and images tumbled in, rushing and overwhelming her, all shrieking and moving and overlaid and shifting at once.…
With a snarl, she tore away from the wizard, leaving bits of her gown behind, and barked like a dog. Insprin went pale and backed away from her warily, but the face she turned toward him was streaming with tears. Emerald eyes implored him to stay with her even as she snarled and babbled wordlessly and clawed at the empty air.
“Insprinwizard!” she gasped, as if rising from deep water, “don’t leave meeeeee!” She was gone again into a nightmare world of howling and shrieking and staggering. Abruptly she raced off into the darkness of the Haunted Tower, crying out despairingly, “Don’t leave meeeeee!”
Insprin took two running steps after her but stopped. He looked around at the dark walls and the scraps of cloth in his hands, cursed softly, and turned back. He ran for all he was worth, his aging heart pounding in his ears. The jaws of the trap could close on him any instant.
The child was trapped, in torment. Alone, and frightened—and the heir of a noble house he was sworn to protect so long as she lifted no hand in treachery to the Dragon Throne. For Shayna to survive Broglan’s spells and the silver fire and the bard’s sword, he had to find Storm, swiftly, and tell her … tell her everything.
“Storm!” he called, when he could find the breath. “Storm Silverhand! I need you!”
He lost his footing on a stair, stumbled painfully, and with a rueful laugh rebounded off the wall at the bottom. Of course he needed Storm. Don’t we all?
Fourteen
TOWERS TOPPLED
As the sun went down over Firefall Keep, something shook the rooms where the two Summerstar lords stood with a few Purple Dragons, a cook, and the grim war wizard Broglan.
“What in the name of the Old Dragon of Cormyr was that?” Erlandar snarled as dust drifted down on their heads.
A dull, rolling boom resounded through Firefall Keep.
“Storm blasting the shapeshifter to little shifting bits?” Thalance suggested hopefully—and then winced as a second explosion flung him hard against the nearest wall. The goblet he’d been holding clanged off stone and rolled away into a corner, trailing its contents.
Abruptly, one panel of the barred double doors at the end of the room shivered and fell, hanging crazily from its hinge for a moment as a widening crack raced across the wall above it. The door collapsed with a rushing groan. Its bar bounced and clanged. The guards posted there cursed a
nd scrambled to get clear—only to fling themselves on their faces when a pale creature streaked over them and flew down the room.
Broglan cursed and fumbled for his wand as blades flashed out of scabbards all around him. Suddenly, he was on the floor again, the wind knocked out of him. A nude woman, silver hair swirling around her, was curled up on his chest.
“Sorry,” Storm said shortly, rolling off him, “but you were the only place left in here that didn’t have a sword out! I had to materialize somewhere!”
Erlandar barked out a laugh. “Things are back to normal,” he announced to the room full of staring men, “she’s lost all her clothes again!”
“Highly amusing, my Lord Summerstar,” Storm replied, snatching his blade from him. “I’ll be needing this—I’m on my way to getting dressed. Gods, but that—that thing must have subsumed a lot of spells! He’s blasting the Haunted Tower apart!”
“What?” Erlandar bellowed, laughter sliding into fury. “That’s our Haunted Tower!”
Broglan, who’d been twisting on the floor struggling for breath all this time, found it at last—to laugh uncontrollably. “Do you …” he gasped, when he could, “know … how funny … that sounded?”
As a smiling Storm strode barefoot out of the room, and gestured rudely at the grinning guards who saluted her exit, the wizard on the floor finished a last guffaw and looked up. The room exploded with mirth.
It ended abruptly as the place rocked again, and a piece broke off the ceiling and fell. Dust descended in clouds, and the laughter turned to curses and coughing.
“Well,” Thalance Summerstar said, as he snatched up a wineskin to replace his lost goblet, “this monster could dispose of us all by just bringing the keep down on top of us!”
“Did you have to say that?” Erlandar snarled as the room rolled underfoot again, and everyone fell.
