by Ed Greenwood
"Whose body was this?"
"One of the war wizards who came here to learn who slew Lord Summerstar … Lhansig Dlaerlin."
"I've never heard that name," Storm said with a wrinkle of her brow. "What can you tell me about him?"
The steward shrugged. "I saw him only a handful of times, and briefly. A wizard who was always smiling … a sly one. 'Twouldn't surprise me if he knew more secrets than many folk wanted known."
Storm nodded, managing not to sigh. Everyone's favored foe. "And how was he found?"
"The man was struck down in a garderobe, after a feast," Drimmer said, "burned out, like the others."
"Nowhere near the Haunted Tower?"
"Nay, lady. Just outside the hall where you've been dining," the old steward said. He fumbled with his keys. "These chambers are yours, and I should tell you that the wizards've ordered a doorguard to stand right here as soon as you retire."
"To keep me from creeping around Firefall Keep in the dark hours," Storm murmured, "in case I should fall and hurt myself."
Ilgreth Drimmer's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "In a manner of speaking, lady, yes. I'll just light another lamp in here, and-"
He broke off with a queer, sobbing sort of gulp, and stood very still. Storm had to thrust him aside to see what he was staring at.
The center of the room held a fine, gray-cloaked bed whose backboard soared up into an overhead bunting. It faced the door through the open doors of a small antechamber. Her luggage, most of it opened, lay at the foot of the bed. In its midst sat the seneschal of Firefall Keep, waiting for them.
He would wait forever, now. Renglar Baerest sat atop the duffels in Storm's open strongchest, his booted legs spread. Between them his chest and gut had been torn open, clothes and all, to reveal a slumped chaos of entrails and gore in which a lone, delighted fly was buzzing. Over this carnage the seneschal grinned at them, two staring eyes fixed forever on the doorway where they stood.
Those eyes were the only scraps of familiarity left on a head that had been otherwise burnt away to a bare, charred skull. A fall of ash lay thick upon the shoulders of the corpse, and it wasn't hard to see where it had come from.
Drimmer made a few broken, whistling sounds, and Storm saw that his mouth was moving. He was trying to say something, but finding no words.
"A fourth death," she murmured to herself. "Cormyr used to be quieter than this."
The old steward started to tremble. Storm's arms went protectively around his shoulders. "He went in battle, Ilgreth," she told him gently, "as he would have wished."
The old man sobbed, trying to nod. Tears ran down his face as he turned to her, blindly took hold of two locks of her hair, and snarled, "He was my last friend, lady! The last man left who swung a sword with me for the realm! Oh, gods look down! May they give you the power to do what I beseech you to!"
"And what's that, friend?" Storm asked, cradling him to her breast as if he was a small child.
The old man raised blazing eyes to her, and hissed through his tears, "Find the one who did this to Renglar! Find him-or it-and tear them apart! And if it takes my hand in aid, even if it costs my life, too-call for it!"
"Sir, I will do so," Storm told him, looking deeply into his eyes. "This I swear."
A flame of hope kindled in Drimmer's old eyes. "Gods bless you, lady," he whispered. "Gods bring you victory."
Storm looked at the seneschal's skull-smile and his fear-filled, staring eyes. She swung her gaze back to meet the steward's own. She managed a wan smile, and said, "They don't owe me a victory, Ilgreth. But they do owe one to four men no longer with us-and perhaps many more if the cause of all this isn't soon found and stopped."
As the words left her mouth, the seneschal's skull suddenly toppled from his shoulders, bounced once on his thigh, fell to the floor, and rolled to her feet.
As its dead eyes gazed up at them, Drimmer burst into fresh tears. Storm held him, and then, softly, lifted her voice in the first mournful cry of the "Soldier's Farewell."
At her feet, Renglar Baerest went on grinning.
FIVE
Death Old And New
"Legendary godservant, my left elbow!" Erlandar Summerstar snorted. Elbow was not the word he'd first thought of. "She's a saucy wench who wraps herself in a few protective spells and knows a few tricks."
"Good uncle," the Dowager Lady Zarova Summerstar said firmly, "can we speak of other things? Unwelcome a guest as she may be to some of us, my son's written wishes did bring her here. I am more shocked at what befell her than I am at the discovery that if her clothes burn away, she's naked. I trust none of these mages here would deal in such deadly magic-and yet who else could have done it?"
All of the diners stared at her; the younger dowager spoke so seldom that some of the servants in the hall had never before heard her voice.
Her daughter Shayna, heiress of the Summerstars, nodded. "I, too, would like to hear what the gentlemen of the Sevensash have to say for themselves," she said firmly. "Lady bard or no lady bard, flames nearly brought down the roof of this hall, and I would know why."
She turned her head, emerald eyes flashing, and caught the frowning gaze of Broglan Sarmyn. Pheirauze and Erlandar added the weight of their regard, and Broglan suddenly found himself dancing on the ends of six hard gazes, and finding them all too much like daggers.
"I–It's no doing of any of us," the worried-looking senior wizard said hastily, looking from one hostile Summerstar to another. "We're just as … mystified as any of you."
"Why?" Pheirauze said cuttingly. "We're not the experts in magic here-you are. We've dined in this hall for more nights than I can count, year after year, never seeing flames roar up out of nowhere-until now, when you are here: a row of war wizards, skilled in battle magic. What else but your guilt am I-are any of us-to conclude? I've half a mind to summon that Purple Dragon commander here to send a complaint about you to the court, forthwith."
"Lady," came the deep voice of Ergluth Rowanmantle from behind her, "I am here."
The diners turned in their chairs, startled.
"I don't recall summoning you," Pheirauze snapped at him, nettled. "Why-?"
"Nevertheless," the eagle-eyed officer said flatly as he strode forward, "I am here. My duty to the king requires it of me. I bring a question: where is Thalance, and when did he leave you?"
"Why?" the elder dowager lady almost snarled. "What are you accusing him of?"
"Nothing, lady," the boldshield told her, towering over her chair. "I need to know where he is, so that I can protect him."
"Against what?" Erlandar asked, eyes narrowing.
"Against whomever-or whatever-murdered your seneschal in my bedchamber," Storm Silverhand replied, stepping out from behind the Purple Dragon. Instead of a gown, she wore a well-used leather war harness-armor that bristled with swords and daggers in plenty.
The steward of the feast hall quavered behind her for a moment, a neatly folded tablecloth shaking in his hands. He then scurried to the sideboard to serve sherries and wines to the assembled company.
Most of them looked like they needed such bracing refreshments. They stared at Storm's warrior garb, even more astonished than they had been after the flames.
"What?" Erlandar repeated, glaring at Storm in open-mouthed disbelief. "What're you playing at?"
"I'm not the one who's been playing at things around here, Lord Summerstar," Storm told him crisply. "Renglar Baerest is sitting on my luggage with his guts torn out of him-and his skull burned bare and empty. After what befell Athlan, is the word 'murdered' still unfamiliar to you?"
Shayna gave a little scream, and her face twisted. Her hands flew to her mouth. Down the line of pale war wizards, someone's face-Hundarr's, was it? — creased in revulsion. He gagged over his empty plate.
Ergluth Rowanmantle went to stand watchfully behind the Summerstar heiress, never taking his eyes off the other diners. He'd been staring at faces intently since Storm's first words, trying to catch si
ght of a suspicious reaction. Of course, he reflected grimly, he couldn't watch the absent Thalance.
The stout, bewhiskered boldshield loomed like a mountain over Shayna. His eyes were cold as his gaze met the shocked, angry glares of Erlandar and Pheirauze Summerstar. His hairy, muscular arms were crossed in front of his chest-but the fingers of one hand rested on the haft of his mace of office. The fingers of the other were on the pommel of the heavy broadsword he wore. "Where is Thalance?" he asked quietly.
Pheirauze flushed crimson. "How dare you imply-" she began, voice rising in a magnificently trembling cry of outrage.
"I imply nothing, Dowager Lady," Ergluth rumbled, drowning out her words without seeming to raise his voice in the slightest. "I leave such subtle nonsense to those who have the leisure for it-such as the nobility of Cormyr. I ask a simple question, in the king's name, and expect a clear and swift answer of you: where is Thalance?"
"I–I know not," Pheirauze snapped, blinking. "I'm not the lad's keeper!"
"Lucky him," someone among the war wizards murmured quite clearly.
The boldshield turned and snapped, "Find Thalance Summerstar at once! Guard him, hold him in one place in the name of the king, and report back!"
"Sir!" the Purple Dragons by the door chorused. They rushed out, leaving only two of their number behind, standing on either side of the door. For the first time, the Summerstars noticed that these guards were hefting loaded and ready slings, and looking alertly at all the diners.
The war wizards were beginning to look scared now. Neither Storm nor Ergluth were surprised when Broglan Sarmyn suddenly rose and leaned forward, fingertips on the table and face contemptuous. "Threatening nobles in their own home is hardly prudent-and never polite. If a man lies dead in a bedchamber, who better to ask how he got there than the occupant of that room? Boldshield, the outlander among us is one of the folk we wizards of war are taught to beware-one of the bringers of trouble we're charged with keeping the realm clear of. If anyone is to answer questions about murders, let it be her!"
Silence was his only reply. He turned to glare at the Purple Dragon commander. "To answer your question: I saw Thalance rise and leave, not long ago, and have no trace of an idea as to his whereabouts now. But I have a question for you: was there a Harper pin on or beside the Seneschal's body?"
"There was not, Sir Broglan of Sevensash," Ergluth replied curtly, his eyes more like the keen gaze of an eagle than ever, "and what if there had been? I know of over two hundred Harpers who've perished in Cormyr in the past decade … yes, in this 'safe,' loyal, law-abiding realm." He put one of his great battered hands down on the back of Shayna's chair, seeming not to notice her staring wide-eyed up at him, and leaned forward to fix the leader of the war wizards with a gaze that had grown dark and stony.
"Now," he continued heavily, "how many wandering Harper pins do you think their deaths have produced? Have you ever heard of a Harper marking a corpse as some sort of 'Harper kill' by leaving a pin behind? I've not-and yet why do we stand here debating such things? We've a Harper in our midst. If you suspect this leaving of pins might be a Harper tactic, why don't you ask her?"
The power of his words was such that even Pheirauze looked to Storm.
She kept her eyes on Broglan's as she told them all, "No Harper, so far as I know, has ever put a badge on a dead person except as mark of honor for the deceased, when the dead person is a Harper. And to answer the question you've not dared ask, Sir Wizard: I've not, within any of your lifetimes, slain anyone in this keep. . yet."
There was a stirring. Not even Erlandar quite dared to contest what some of them held to be empty and overblown legend: that the lady standing before them, or any of the Seven Sisters for that matter, had really lived any longer than other folk. They used potions to appear youthful long after age should have stolen their teeth and sleek agility, as many a wizard did… surely no more.
Storm looked a wintry challenge at Erlandar, but when he said nothing, she continued crisply, "I've heard something of what Lord Athlan's body looked like-and that of the wizard Dlaerlin, too-"
Broglan Sarmyn's head snapped up and his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Storm brought her gaze to meet his as she continued.
"— and I've never seen anything quite like the. . wounds left behind by whatever or whoever is doing the slaying. You'd all best be very wary. Not only do you stand in personal danger, but if the cause of these deaths gets out of the keep, Cormyr-and all civilized lands-could well be doomed."
Storm turned back to Broglan. "I want to examine Athlan Summerstar's body," she said quietly. "Now."
Broglan seemed about to refuse, but the boldshield raised a hand and pointed warningly at him, and he shrugged and said, "The Lord Summerstar was burned upon the orders of Lady Pheirauze. Given the manner of his death, her wishes seemed only prudent. All we have left of him is a handful of ashes."
"Take me to that handful," Storm said quietly.
Broglan bowed his head, gathered the other war wizards with glances, and left the table. He headed at an even pace for one of the doors of the hall. The bold-shield followed.
Storm paused only long enough to say to Shayna, "My deep apologies for disturbing the peace of your hall so often this even, gracious lady. The viands, and your care and kindness in the offering of them, are appreciated."
She sketched a bow. The startled heiress returned it. Without another word, Storm turned and went after the boldshield. Cold and thoughtful Summerstar eyes watched them go.
In the passage beyond the feast hall, the ring of war wizards closed in around Storm and the Purple Dragon. Ergluth Rowanmantle raised his hand in a signal, and there were suddenly Purple Dragon arms-men everywhere, melting out of the gloom along the walls to form an outer ring of watchful warriors around them all.
Storm smiled tightly as the war wizards collectively stiffened. "What is the meaning of this?" Broglan snapped, but he sounded more weary than surprised.,
"That's what we're trying to discover, mage," Ergluth explained with hearty patience as they strode on into the darkness. "That's what we're all trying to discover."
The leader of the war wizards didn't bother to reply. He led the way in stony silence. Down a musty stair they went, and across a hall lit only by the faint blue radiance that surrounded an old statue of a Summerstar lord. Another stair led down from that hall, turning several times, into a dank and deserted lower level. This was not the way the boldshield knew, and his eyes were narrow with suspicion before the doors of the Summerstar crypt came into view ahead.
Broglan Sarmyn turned to Storm and said, "Lady Silverhand, beyond these sealed doors lie the fallen who have borne the name Summerstar down long and proud centuries. I've never been inside it, but I must remind you and Lord Rowanmantle that the seal was put there by a local priest for a good reason: it keeps undeath in, as well as thieves who fear such walking dooms out. I do not recommend-"
What the wizard chose not to recommend, they never learned. At that moment, a silent blue-white pale figure rose up behind him and reached down long, clawed hands to rake Broglan's face and throat.
Those talons were like smoke. The startled wizard's face shone through them as he stammered out a spell.
At the same moment, Storm felt a terrible cold slice through her from behind. A man's voice by her shoulder hissed, "Stop, it, witch! End your spell, or my next thrust will be through your heart!"
The bard looked down at the blue flickering that was shaping a point just below her right breast. "A spellblade. Murndal Claeron-it is Murndal, is it not? — do you know the price of wielding the weapon you have so boldly used?"
The war wizards had all turned to face her by then, their hands up to hurl spells. The boldshield had his blade half out. Following his lead, the armsmen reached around to put daggers to the throats of the mages. Everyone watched in frozen, wary silence as Storm turned to face the mage who'd struck her from behind.
Murndal made a frightened sound and tried to s
lash the spellblade sideways, to reach her heart. Storm stepped easily away from it, so that it sliced its way right out through her ribs instead. Spinning gracefully around, she touched it once, and the wizard was suddenly holding nothing but a few blue sparks that flickered and drifted from his hand.
"Let us have peace," she told her attacker then, towering over him.
Murndal of the war wizards cowered away from her, his mouth dry and his fingers cold with fear.
Silver fire was swirling around the wound in her side, and curling out from between her lips as she spoke. Her eyes were suddenly two pools of soaring silver flames, and Murndal could not help screaming as she took him by the arms. He felt the crackle and surge of powers he could only guess at.
Storm said gently, "I've worked no spell, ambitious one … and I can see that the crafting of that weapon was beyond you, too."
She let go of the trembling mage and turned around again. "Broglan! Mind your manners!" she snapped. "Spellblades? The backlash could have killed this young mageling of yours-and a dozen more folk, if he'd dragged it out at the wrong moment! What were you thinking of?"
Broglan stared at her, naked fear on his face. He licked his lips. The haunting that had startled him and scared Murndal into attack was gone, scattered by his hasty spell. Now Storm Silverhand, every inch a Chosen of Mystra, with the divine silver fire of legend curling out of her very eyeballs, was staring angrily at him.
"Y-Your power, and how we might stop it," he whispered, unable to think of anything to say but the truth.
She sighed, and tossed her head. Already the wound in her side was smaller, and the terrible silver radiance was blazing and flowing along it, fading away from her face. "Well, at least I'm hearing some honest words from you," she said calmly. "Do you think you could open the crypt now, and forget such nonsense as this for a while?"
Broglan stared openmouthed at her, and then turned to the crypt doors. The shaken war wizard took a deep breath and bowed his head for a moment. He raised his hand, murmured something, and touched the line of wax marked by the three runes that the Harvestmaster of Chauntea had impressed on it. A small fire blazed up around his fingers. At first a green-white, it became a deep and restless red and raced along the wax.
