by Ed Greenwood
"Bewitching my men, lady?" The swordcaptain's tone was not hostile, but it was loud enough to cleave through her singing and jolt the armsmen back to the here and now. They stared at her almost resentfully, but Storm sent each of them a personal smile and a silently mouthed thank you.
The officer added gravely, "You are expected, lady, and I am instructed by the Dowager Lady Pheirauze Summerstar to bid you fair welcome, so long as you keep the peace of this house. Pray, pass within."
As he escorted her-and her floating luggage-through the echoing gate tower and into the sundrenched courtyard beyond, Storm saw what she'd been expecting. The wait had been used to assemble a small but stiffly resentful group of splendidly dressed Summerstars. The war wizards there gave her steadily hostile looks. The folk in livery blinked in awe. At the head of these servants stood the seneschal, who gave her a low bow and said, "Be welcome in Firefall Keep, Lady Silverhand. May I present the Dowager Lady Pheirauze Summerstar?"
A strikingly beautiful lady who'd seen a few more than sixty winters glided forward in an exquisite gown of mauve silk. The puffed sleeves and shoulders made her seem tall and imposing-every bit as menacing as the hulking guards at the gate. She extended her hand for Storm to kneel and kiss, as an inferior.
Storm took it and her forearm and shook heartily, as if the dowager lady were a fellow warrior at a campfire. "Well met, Pheirauze," she said cheerfully. "You've certainly turned out splendidly from the perky little miss I remember!"
Someone in the gathered Summerstars snorted, and Pheirauze whirled around, but could not discover the culprit. She turned back to Storm with menacing slowness, and said carefully, "I'm glad to hear I've fulfilled your expectations. I'm gratified you came so quickly to share in our bereavement. My grandson would have made you most welcome. You are most timely come; a feast is just being set in the great hall. Will you dine with us, great lady?"
"With a right goodwill," Storm said heartily, ignoring all the cutting barbs and insults she'd just been handed. She swept around the dowager lady, sliding out her arm as she did so to catch the crook of Pheirauze's arm and jerk her around. They ended up walking together, hip to hip. Storm set a brisk pace across the courtyard. The tall, silver-haired vision in high court dress led the shorter, older lady in mauve, who trotted grimly to keep up. "What's for dinner?"
Someone among the Summerstars chuckled-or was it a giggle? As the two grand ladies entered the keep, Pheirauze's coldly furious face glared back over her shoulder, seeking a villain. It was becoming a popular occupation in Firefall Keep, it seemed.
FOUR
Feast And Folly
Candlelight glimmered from end to end of the great hall of Firefall Keep. The air was sharp with the smoke rising from two lines of candle-wheels, which hung above the tables on long, dusty chains. The flickering light danced on dozens of shields, halberds, and suits of armor along the walls, but the loftiest reaches of the hall, above the balconies and minstrels' galleries, were as dark as the night sky. A long table ran down one side of the vast chamber, providing the softly scurrying servants a sideboard to hold steaming covered platters and frosty bottles from the cellars.
The two main tables stood at the midpoint of the hall, well removed from the brightly lit daises at either end. The tables formed a huge V-shape, with chairs along only their outer sides. The two open ends reached toward the long sideboard, outlining an area where dancers might dance, jugglers juggle, players act, and minstrels play.
There was no one in that open space tonight. It didn't take Storm long to figure out why: she was this night's entertainment. Extra candles had been set in man-high candelabra behind her seat, halfway down one wing of one table; the only other well-lit spot was at the meeting of the two wings, where the two dowager ladies of the Summerstars, mother and daughter, sat facing each other.
The nobles who called Firefall Keep home were all gathered here this night, sitting along both wings of the high table. One wing began with the Dowager Lady Zarova, mother to Athlan, known as a woman of serene silence in court gossip-and no doubt cowed into her present timid state by the older dowager lady, Pheirauze. Beside Zarova sat her daughter, now heir of the house, and from her the seats of the lesser Summerstar kindred ran out to where the seneschal sat, with Storm on his right, and only a few ladies-in-waiting and scribes beyond her.
Storm looked again at Shayna. The young Lady Summerstar was truly as beautiful as folk in Cormyr said: slim, graceful, and by the looks of things a trifle shy-not overproud. Waves of glossy chestnut hair tumbled over delicate shoulders. Her skin was almost white, her eyes large and liquid green. A stunning beauty indeed.
As she gazed at the new Summerstar heiress, Storm felt the weight of cold, hostile eyes upon her. She looked in their direction. Across from Zarova sat Pheirauze. She was flanked by a slimly handsome young nobleman, who sat shoulder to shoulder with a lionlike, bearded rogue of a man of about the same age as the dowager lady. His eyes, as they met hers, were both hot with invitation … and cold with dislike.
Storm gave him a slight smile and glanced farther down that table. Beside the sneering sophisticate sat a pair of fearsome old battle-axes. In the candlelight, their jewels glittered like falls of frozen water. The old ladies fixed Storm with identical toadlike glares of hauteur and hatred. The bard gave them both broad, pleasant smiles, and felt a touch of inner amusement as they stiffened in mortification. These two must be the maiden aunts. Beyond them, a handful of kindred gave way to a solid row of war wizards. They faced Storm watchfully-no doubt ready to hurl spells at the well-lit target if she did anything threatening. Storm smiled inwardly. It was going to be one of those evenfeasts.
"Have you. . dined in polite society often, Lady Bard?" asked Uncle Erlandar, curly bearded and suave. His large emerald earrings flashed as they dangled over his steaming soup. His tone made the question a biting insult.
"Many a time, Lord Erlandar" she replied sweetly, "from the table of divine Mystra herself to the breakfast-table of His Majesty, King Azoun. Sometimes, I've even enjoyed myself." She sipped at her peppery soup and thought it was a pity some enthusiast had ruined the subtle flavors of mingled fowl and turtle with the burning buzz of an overly lavish poison. Someone was going to be disappointed when she didn't fall on her face into the soup… and she'd lay money it was someone sitting at this table right now.
"I'm surprised," Erlandar said, his voice dripping false honey, "that a minstrel from such a backwater as Shadowdale has had so many opportunities to pluck strings in exalted surroundings … but of course, one must never cast aspersions on the veracity of a lady's claims-no matter how lowborn the lady."
"She is from the Dales, dear," Dowager Lady Pheirauze said with bright concern. "Folk of such. . ah, unfortunate backgrounds may not realize the importance we place on honesty here in Cormyr."
Storm chuckled as deeply and heartily as any man, and told her goblet, "Yes-Azoun has spoken to me on several occasions of how much he values the all-too-rare commodity of loyalty and honesty among his nobles." She lifted her eyes to regard the diners across from her, and saw glittering amusement in the eyes of several carefully stone-faced war wizards. Cold glares awaited to the left, so she looked instead down her own table. The Lady Shayna was looking down at her plate as she ate, her face crimson … and it was not Storm's replies that were embarrassing her.
Erlandar thought he'd espied an opening in Storm's observation, however, and was roaring, "Do you dare insult the collective honor of the entire nobility of Cormyr, Lady-ah, whatever your name is? Do you actually have the gall to hold yourself in judgment of all the Forest Kingdom?" His words were echoed by hisses of contempt from the two maiden aunts, Margort and Nalanna Summerstar. "By the gods, you lowborn women push us far, sheltered in your immunity from challenges of honor by the sword!"
Storm laughed easily. "Do I understand you correctly, Erlandar Summerstar? Are you. . challenging me?"
"Bah!" he snarled, flicking his fingers in her direction. "I don
't make war on women!"
"Ah," Storm informed her goblet, "but I've heard from many lasses in Suzail that you do-and very energetically, at that!"
Down the row of war wizards, someone sputtered as mirth overmastered him. The Dowager Lady Pheirauze immediately leaned forward to try to see who it was, and said sharply, "Oh, Erlandar, don't be tiresome. She only makes you seem ridiculous; waste no more words on coarse country wenches."
A momentary silence followed these words. Another male voice drawled into it. "There is something I'd like to know, Lady Silverhand-and I mean no impertinence."
The speaker was the young and handsome Summerstar male who sat between Pheirauze and Erlandar. This would have to be Thalance, the cousin of Shayna … and, of course, to the dead Athlan.
"Yes, Sir Thalance?" Storm asked, her words a warm, musical invitation.
"I've heard many legends about you and your sisters. Is it true that you're hundreds of years old, and serve the goddess Mystra?"
"Yes, to both of your queries," Storm replied, setting down her empty sipping-bowl of soup.
"So you really have gone all over the Realms and been at many important battles and known famous folk and … all?"
"Yes," Storm said simply.
"Why is it, then, that you aren't ruling a realm somewhere? Why do you live on a farm and go about harping to earn a few coppers now and again? And why do the Harpers you belong to meddle in all sorts of lands, and not rule openly?"
"Good questions, all," Storm told him, and then counted off her replies on her fingers. "I don't want to rule anyone, so I don't. I do love growing things and being able to walk among forests and gardens, so I do. I love music, and meeting people, so I harp. And the Harpers want to help people and fight evil by turning out secrets before they become bigger, darker things-they don't want to rule, either, and so don't."
"I've heard that the Harpers serve a dark and evil god," Erlandar cut in, "and that you and your sisters are immortal because you drink the blood of men you entice." His eyes were dark with anger.
"My, people do say a lot of silly things, don't they?" Storm replied lightly. "I often hear that the nobles of Cormyr summon fiends to build their castles, and breed slaves until the offspring look to make promising heirs-and that King Azoun sleeps with every woman over the age of sixteen between Baldur's Gate and Telflamm … but of course such tales are ridiculous."
More than a few eyes flickered along the tables; Azoun's courting was a matter of vivid legend in the realm.
Erlandar half-rose in his seat, glaring in challenge across the open space, and said, "Now you insult our king! Truly, wench, you go too far!"
Storm saw the seneschal, the Lady Shayna, and one of the war wizards wince at the word wench. Storm kept her easy smile and said, "Is it to be a duel between us, then, Uncle? Wet trout in the pigs' mud-wallow, at dawn?"
"I'm not your uncle," Erlandar snapped, "and I don't duel women or anyone of lesser rank. Is that the only response you know when someone objects to your wild words?"
Storm shrugged, spreading her hands. Her goblet flashed in the firelight. "Perhaps I misjudge you, Lord Summerstar," she said mildly. "I assumed it was the only response you'd understand."
Someone muttered something grimly affirmative under his breath, somewhere along the tables. This time, both Erlandar and the Lady Pheirauze leaned and craned their necks like gawking youths in an attempt to discover the speaker. Shayna Summerstar and her mother drained their goblets in unison, and rang forks against the bases of them to summon refills. At the same time, steaming platters of roast boar were set on the tables. Storm appreciatively sniffed, and helped herself heartily.
As forks flashed into boar, Broglan Sarmyn of the war wizards cut into the silence with a hearty sally. "Pray, forgive me, Lady Silverhand, if this is a question one does not ask, but why were you 'Chosen' by the Divine Mother of Magic as one of her mortal servants? You're not-so far as we know-of the first rank of archmages, or even particularly powerful in magic."
Storm raised an eyebrow. "There is never a crime in asking such things. . but seldom a clear response, either. I truly don't know how much I should reveal of the nature of the Chosen. Why don't you offer a prayer to the divine lady I serve and we both-I presume-worship, and see what she makes clear unto you?"
"Of course," Broglan said politely, unsurprised. "I shall do so later this night." He lapsed into silence with a satisfied air, his purpose accomplished. As they'd spoken, the Lady Pheirauze had leaned over to hiss something in Erlandar's ear-something about adopting a less confrontational manner.
Erlandar leaned forward, raised his glass to Storm to get her attention, and said in coldly polite tones, "I'd forgotten that as a guest here, you may be unfamiliar with your surroundings. You've probably wondered where the name 'Firefall Keep' came from, for example …"
Storm, who knew very well how the keep had won its curious name, said nothing, but favored Erlandar with an encouraging, wordless smile.
"Well, this great fortress we Summerstars call home is named for the vale it stands in-but the vale got its name centuries ago, when our house was founded. A nest of red dragons laired high in the nearby peaks-wyrms so fierce and hungry that elves dared not dwell in the vale, despite whatever bargain had been struck between the old Purple Dragon and the elven Lord of Scepters."
Erlandar's voice rose in volume and passion as he chanted the well-known sentences that followed-and he rose with it, standing with arms spread. He stared almost defiantly across the table at Storm. "Dragons that suffered no elf to stride uneaten in the vale welcomed men even less-or perhaps, welcomed them into their gullets even more. When the founder of our house, Glothgam Summerstar, led his men into the vale, he won past repeated swooping attacks. In time, the dragons retreated to their caves high in Mount Glendaborr-caves you can still see today, if you don't mind facing the ghosts of dragons! There, they worked a mighty magic."
Erlandar leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Storm as if his very glare could slay her. "Then, as now, Turnwyrm Brook flowed down the heart of the vale to join the Immerflow, and Glothgam was camped beside it. As he and his men were watering their horses and bathing, the brook's flowing waters became a roaring river of flame! Many died screaming in this Firefall, but Glothgam did not quail. The wyrms swept down from on high to see what death they'd wrought-and he called on the powers of the enchanted blade he bore, the Sword of the Summer Winds, and soared aloft to meet them, slaying three before the others fled. 'Twould make a handsome ballad, Harper!"
Storm nodded. "It has."
"What?" Erlandar cried in astonishment. "So why've I not heard of such a song?"
"The song centers on the sword, not on Glothgam," Storm said quietly, "and speaks of the greatness the blade could bring Cormyr. Years after minstrels first sang the song, rebels borrowed its words so they could recognize each other at midnight meetings. When the rebellion failed, the king of the time outlawed the ballad-and the Summerstars of the day were only too happy: they'd grown very tired of visiting thieves tearing down every third panel and tapestry in the keep, looking for the lost sword."
"That sword," Erlandar snarled, "is indeed rumored to still he hidden somewhere in this keep. Do the Harpers know anything of its whereabouts?"
Storm shook her head, trying hard not to yawn. There were so many tales of lost enchanted blades that would save the world-or make the finder ruler of some handsome part of it-if they could only be found. "I'm afraid not, Lord Summerstar. . but I do thank you for Glothgam's tale, simply but strongly told." She smiled. "Would you like to become a minstrel?"
Erlandar scowled. "No," he said, obviously biting back other words that had sprung to his mind. He sat down again, shoved aside a platter of boar that had grown cold, and angrily signaled a servant to bring him fresh meat and more wine.
Silence followed Erlandar's last angry bark. Servants scurried, bringing out bowls of green mint-water and table fountains of sweet syrups.
The seneschal
and the worried-looking Broglan Sarmyn simultaneously began speaking, trying to carry the conversation brightly onward. They spoke as one, deferred to each other uncomfortably, and tried again, launching into a discussion of the last great royal hunt. It had left from the vale to try to reach Mount Glendaborr. En route, many monsters had been slain. The true nature of the 'ghost dragons' that drifted half-seen around the nearby mountains was obviously a matter of hot local controversy, and an argument erupted that almost everyone except Storm and the senior Summerstars joined.
The Bard of Shadowdale settled into carefully watching other diners, looking for the slight gestures of a stealthily cast spell or the shifting of muscles that might herald the hurling of a blade. She was paying particular care to the coldly smiling mask that was the face of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze. The matriarch was obviously aware of her scrutiny, and was letting nothing slip-if anything ever did.
Storm did, however, notice when Thalance slowly and quietly drew his chair back, to sit sipping wine and listening… and a little later, silently set down his glass and slipped away.
The seneschal obviously thought the debate about the ghost dragons was far too familiar ground to still hold any interest. He turned to Storm to remark quietly, "I must leave briefly to attend my duties, Lady Silverhand-but before I go, I think it best to tell you just a little more about the Summerstars than you've yet been privy to. I'd like to avoid armed battle here in the keep between you and any of them, if at all possible."
"I, too," Storm murmured.
Renglar Baerest smiled tightly, and said, "Know, then: the Lady Pheirauze has never remarried, but persistent rumors have linked her to no less than three generations of the Illance noble line. I'd not speak disparagingly of that family-nor allude to any closeness between it and herself-if I were you."
