by Ed Greenwood
"You forgot the steward," Erlandar boomed.
Storm shook her head. "No, Lord Summerstar," she said, "someone else killed Ilgreth Drimmer."
"Oh? Well-d'ye know who?"
"The Lady Shayna," Storm said quietly.
"What?" The startled roar came from both Thalance and Erlandar, who half rose from their seats. All of the Summerstars stared at Storm with barely checked shock and rage-and Storm saw that Broglan was gazing at her in open-jawed dumbfoundment.
"Brawn in cinnamon sour sauce, with onion tarts," the understeward murmured imperturbably, gliding between them all at the head of another cluster of servers.
"Stay your swords, gentlesirs," Storm said with just the slightest snap of command in her voice. "Her mind was not her own when she did the deed, but in the thrall of the foe. I tell you this so that you may all be warned in case he takes control of her mind again while you stand near."
"I don't believe it," the Dowager Lady Zarova said, her voice trembling.
"Yes, you do," Storm said gravely, "or you'd not be so desperate to deny it. I apologize unreservedly for all the outrages I have offered you, both now and previously, but you of the blood of Summerstar must awaken and realize that you now dwell in a battlefield-or the next time we gather for a feast, there'll be a few more vacant seats."
In shocked silence, they stared at her.
Storm added, "Go nowhere without guards, none of you-even you, Thalance: invite them along, man! — and carry weapons if you know how to use them. Linger nowhere alone, even in garderobes. Bathe together, or not at all-'tis better to stink unwashed than to own the stink of death."
Thalance shook his head, a half-disbelieving, half-admiring smile on his lips. "You're serious, aren't you?"
Storm leaned forward. "Lad," she replied, "I am very serious. The Lady of Mysteries gave me powers that have kept me alive for centuries, in far more perilous lands than this. I fought this shapechanger and only just prevailed. If I fall, I charge you in Azoun's name: get to horse, and ride as hard as ever you can to the king-or, better, to the Lord Vangerdahast, and tell him all. Don't rest on the way, or you'll never awaken-and be ready to fight beast after beast on your ride."
"I'll not listen to more of this," the Lady Zarova said grimly, rising from her seat. "Thurdal, serve me the rest of my dishes in my quarters!"
"And ours!" the aunts said in outraged chorus, flinging the contents of their glasses at Storm. She nodded to them, ignoring the wine coursing down the side of her face, and said, "The pleasure was mine, charming ladies."
"Trollop!" Nalanna snarled as the three ladies whirled away from the table to storm out.
Erlandar shook his head and reached across the table to take up the decanter from beside Zarova's glass.
"Uncle Erlandar?" Storm asked with a smile. "You, too?"
"No," he said gruffly, fixing her with a look, "I'm staying to hear it all-whatever you've got to say. After that bit with the flaming platter in here the other night, lady, I believe what you say about battles."
He plucked up Zarova's unused dabble-linen and tossed it to Storm. "For the wine you're, uh, wearing," he said.
As Storm thanked him and wiped her face dry, the understeward glided in again to announce, "Lambs' kidneys in a sherry sauce, set about with chestnut and parsnip fritters."
It only took one taste of this most recent dish for the familiar oily fire of poison to spread out through Storm's chest. Grimly, she called on the silver fire to purge it, having no choice but to weaken the barrier for a moment.
Broglan saw her eyes flicker and close for a instant. The rise and fall of her breast halted, and sweat glistened suddenly at her temples, but he said nothing as she slumped back in her chair, opened her eyes again, and gave him a grim smile.
"Stuffed stags' heads with sage, apples, and sandalwood," Thurdal continued serenely, as more platters arrived.
"As the ladies have left us," Thalance said carefully, "I find us poised on the threshold of a unique opportunity: the chance to speak openly and plainly for once, laying the usual courtesies and silent subjects aside. Lady Storm, I must confess that I am eager to hear more about this foe you speak of-and something of your own experiences, down the centuries."
Storm smiled thinly. "As with most lives, the bits others find exciting are few and far between, set in long stretches of more mundane things. I break a lot of harp-strings."
"No, really," Thalance said, frank admiration showing in his eyes. "If you are centuries old, how is it that you look no more than twice my cousin's age? And is it true, what I heard about your being a marchioness of Cormyr?"
"The divine fire of Mystra keeps me young," Storm replied quietly, "and I should add that at the moment it is also protecting the realm-but endangering everyone at this table-by keeping Firefall Keep enclosed in a barrier to keep the foe within."
Erlandar looked around, as if he expected to see a flaming wall dancing in the air. "Barrier? Where, and for how long?"
"As long as we need it, I hope," Storm replied. "And yes, Thalance, I am the Marchioness Immerdusk-so I fear I dare not go out on the battlements to watch a moonrise with you. Ladies of exalted station, I must remind you, have reputations to protect."
Her last sentence was delivered in a perfect mimicry of the cold, cutting tones of the elder Dowager Lady Summerstar; Thalance snorted with mirth, but Erlandar said heavily, "Pray don't mock Pheirauze, lady, for all her faults. She was … the storm wind that shaped me."
Storm bowed her head. "My apologies, Lord Summerstar. I have an impish streak that often gets the better of me."
"Is it true you spent years in the South as a tavern-dancer and pleasure slave because of that streak?" Thalance asked eagerly.
The war wizards leaned forward in interest.
Storm was even more amused by the lift of the understeward's eyebrow as he glided in between them to murmur, "Venison haunch in crust."
Thurdal kept his face otherwise carefully expressionless, and Storm gave him a broad smile as she replied, "Yes-and I enjoyed most of it, too. Did you know that many elven men can be transported to the heights of passion by stroking the tips of their ears?"
Erlandar shook his head in exasperation. Storm helped herself to the haunch-one of her favorites-generously. "No, I didn't, lady, but frankly I care not. Elven men aren't likely to be high on my list of conquests-or anyone else, for that matter, if this shapeshifter decides to slaughter me! What else can you tell us about. . well, Shayna, and just what this foe can do?"
"Our foe can somehow drink knowledge and abilities-spells he can cast, for instance-from his victims. This power has something to do with the burnt-out state of the bodies we've found," Storm told them. "As to Shayna-well, she refers to this shapeshifter as her 'Master,' and can talk mind to mind with him. . presumably another power he's gained."
"You said he had her in thrall," the wizard Insprin said quietly. "Can this foe do the same thing to the rest of us?"
Storm shrugged. "I don't know," she said, "but surely his killings could be fewer, and he could show himself less, if he could control anyone from a distance."
"Azoun's eyes," the understeward announced, carefully not meeting Storm's gaze.
"What's 'Azoun's eyes'?" Corathar whispered, eyeing the steaming tureen set down in front of him.
"Oysters in spiced ale," Storm told him, leaning forward conspiratorially.
Erlandar's gaze went involuntarily to the pectoral gleaming on her breast-and his eyes narrowed. "That jewelry you're wearing. . isn't it the same design as one I see often on Queen Filfaeril?"
"Yes," Storm told him, filling a bowl with a hearty helping of Azoun's eyes. "It bears some magical defenses."
"Such as?" Thalance asked.
Storm smiled thinly. "It's unwise to reveal such things when anyone may be your foe, but I'll show you just one." She pushed back the sleeve of her open shirt, unbuckled the dagger strapped to her forearm, and fastened it high up by her shoulder, to hold the sleev
e up.
Extending her bare arm out across the table, she said gently, "My Lord Erlandar, I know that the death of Pheirauze troubles you-and you ache to have something to smite and carve with your sword. So strike at me now, with all your strength and savagery!"
Erlandar frowned at her. "This is-not right, lady," he said in protest, shaking his head.
"Please," Storm said. "Thalance needs to see a little magic."
She held up her other hand in warning. "Only pray balance yourself, as if you might miss, to avoid a fall."
Erlandar stood up, still frowning at her, and his blade slowly slid out. "It's a trick, then-the magic will make me miss."
"Try to cut my arm off," Storm replied gravely, "and you'll see. You will not be harmed."
Erlandar shrugged, and then raised his blade. With a smooth lift of his shoulders, he swept his blade down in a cut across her forearm. The steel slid through her flesh as if it were empty air, and left no wound behind. Her arm was untouched. Thalance stared at it in fascination.
"An ironguard," Broglan said, and Storm nodded. "Try again, Erlandar-really hack; you'll feel better."
The eldest Summerstar man gave her a hard look, and then growled and swung his blade down again, hacking and hewing like a man possessed. In the midst of the flashing steel the understeward came in at the head of another line of servers, glided to a stop, and waited politely until Erlandar lowered his blade, panting-and Storm withdrew her unmarked arm.
"Old coins," Thurdal announced gravely, setting down the lead platter.
When the servers had done the same and turned away, Corathar leaned forward and whispered, "Right-what're 'old coins'?"
"Egg, cheese, and marrow pies," Storm and Insprin told him, more or less in unison. The bard was still standing, calmly rolling her sleeve down, when the unmistakable crack of a crossbow firing echoed across the hall-followed by the loud, rising thrum of a streaking quarrel.
With an angry buzz, it zipped between Thalance and Broglan, burst right through Storm's body, and splintered against the far wall. Everyone at the table whirled around-except Thalance, who kept his awed eyes on the lady bard. Storm herself was already gazing at her would-be slayer.
Everyone else saw a Purple Dragon hurl down his crossbow and flee, the doors banging wide in his wake. The passage beyond was strewn with the bodies of other guards.
"Gentlesirs, the foe," Storm announced calmly.
The doors at the other end of the hall, behind them, burst open, and the boldshield hastened in with his sword drawn, Purple Dragons all around him. They glanced quickly around the tables and then ran on down the hall, toward their dead comrades.
As if in unspoken accord, everyone at table turned to look at Storm. She was unhurt, no mark left in her breast-where the pectoral glittered almost tauntingly. Calmly buckling her dagger back into place, she looked up and said brightly, "Oh, did I forget to mention that this collection of baubles is also a protection against missiles?"
"Gods, lady," Erlandar growled, "you're a laughing lunatic to top all!"
Storm tossed her head as she shook her sleeve back down into place. "I fear so. Folk always seem to remember my kinder side, and forget what an imp I am." She bowed to them gravely, and added, "My apologies."
There was a general shout of relieved laughter. The understeward glided serenely into the midst of it to announce, "Marsemban tarts, roast pheasant, and roast quail in a sauce of cheese, saffron, and white wine."
"All right," Corathar said disgustedly. "What are Marsemban tarts?"
There were chuckles, and Erlandar rose, said grandly, "May I? Pastries topped with parsley and potato, containing diced salmon and crab in a sauce of almond milk, wine, leeks, and persimmons."
There was a smattering of applause-but then, there were few diners left to give it. Erlandar and Storm both sat down.
The old Summerstar noble said, "I must thank you, lady, for making what I feared would be a grim meal indeed into something.. entertaining."
Storm shrugged. "Death comes for us all, and unpleasantness, too," she told him, filling her glass with amberheart sherry. "Some of us are given very little time to live, so why not enjoy all we can and share that joy with others? It's better than melancholy moping, to be sure!"
"Magely philosophy?" Broglan asked with a smile.
Storm shrugged. "I'm more an adventurer than I am an all-knowing sorceress, Broglan. Far from it; Mystra wants her Chosen not to be tower-girded tome-studiers." She saw Insprin and Corathar leaning forward again in keen interest, and added, "It's Mystra's Way to let us all forge our own paths in life; we know only what we can learn ourselves … and I've spent far more time with a sword in my hand down the years, than a spellbook."
Broglan nodded slowly. "Do you. . speak of such things often?"
Storm shook her head. "Only with Harpers-or, most recently, with the foe, as we fought," she told him. There were gasps and dropped jaws up and down the table.
Erlandar swore. "Gods, but you're a cool one," he murmured, shaking his head and reaching for his decanter.
"I'm not, you know," Storm told him intently, her tone making him look up and meet her gaze. "I've just had more years of learning control and acting than the rest of you."
"Chicken livers in spiced cream broth," the understeward said then.
Corathar made a face. Thalance ignored the tureen placed before him. Erlandar, Insprin, and Broglan, however, lifted the lids and ladled out generous portions.
As soon as her first spoonful touched her lips, Storm waved her arms and snarled, "Don't eat this!" Insprin dropped his spoon, and Broglan spat out the spoon that had just entered his mouth. Erlandar-who'd just swallowed-stared at her in horror.
"Oh, Mystra aid me!" Storm moaned in exasperation, and dived over the table, scattering dishes and decanters in all directions.
Erlandar was already turning purple around the lips when she leapt on him, knocking noble and chair over with a crash and coming down on top of him. In frantic haste, she glued her lips to his and called forth the silver fire. She'd just have to hope the foe didn't test the barrier now…
He didn't, thank the gods. The Summerstar noble bucked and squirmed under her, trying to speak. He then fell still, and slowly raised his hands to cradle her in his arms, as tenderly as any lover.
When Storm lifted her head from his at last, he was grinning at her, eyes shining. She gave him a slap and rolled off him.
"You old rogue," she said affectionately. She looked up to the others. "Let those livers be cast into the braziers without delay! What's in them could kill anyone who takes a mouthful. An earlier dish held poison meant just for me, but this time it seems the foe decided to leave me as alone as he could, by eliminating everyone else.
"Corathar, please hasten to the boldshield and tell him two things: he must check on the Lady Zarova without delay-and he must consider the understeward dead, and anyone who looks like him to be … the foe."
As the young wizard hurried from the room, Erlandar looked up at her with something like worship in his eyes. She reached out a hand and hauled him to his feet.
"Consider yourself honored, Lord Summerstar," Storm told him. "You're one of the few mortals to taste the divine fire of Mystra-and live."
"Lady," the old noble said huskily, "I shall worship the Mother Of All Magic henceforth, to my dying day."
"Dare we touch anything else on our plates," Broglan asked faintly, "or is it too late?"
Storm spread her hands. "Poison's not so easy to get or make as some think, but I doubt. . well, let me taste a bit of everything, and then you can eat and drink all you like."
"Right now, Lady Storm," Insprin said heavily, "that won't be much. What with crossbow bolts, and men lying dead by yonder door, poison on our platters, and the fire of Our Holy Lady of Spells, I'm … no longer hungry."
There was a general rumble of agreement.
Thalance grinned and said, "I feel a trifle ill, lady-kiss me?"
"Perhaps l
ater," Storm told him with a grin. "I'm still hungry."
Broglan's eyes narrowed. "This silver fire," he asked, "it can't sustain you while it's holding that barrier, can it? You have to eat, to stay strong enough to go on-that's it, isn't it?"
Storm's eyes met his gravely. "Broglan, you see far too well for your own safety. Say nothing of this, any of you-or the foe will know of another gap in my armor."
"There's something else I should tell you, lady," Broglan said awkwardly. "We kept Athlan's notes from you. Frankly they don't hold much of use. They were largely what any novice mageling would write of his discoveries, plus a lot of dream visions, and-"
Storm frowned and held up a staying hand. "Did he dream a lot about dragons watching him?"
"Why, yes," the war wizard replied, matching her frown. "Do you know what it meant?"
Storm shrugged. "No. Not yet. Please say on."
"Well, the only thing we found of real interest is a few passages about the subsumption you spoke of-stealing powers from beings one kills. It seems that, long ago, Athlan discovered instructions for gaining this ability-instructions we can't find. He wrote that he found the process in notes made by a mad recluse, Glondar of Hilp, once a war wizard of Cormyr."
"And where did Glondar learn of it?" Storm asked softly.
Remembering, Insprin shook his head and shivered. The bard glanced at him, and then back at Broglan.
The leader of the war wizards looked grave. "Ah. Well. Glondar claimed, or so Athlan writes, to have come upon it in notes left by men he came to believe were avatars of two gods: Gargauth and … Bane."
In a chamber of dank darkness, sudden light flickered and glowed, eddying about a motionless figure slumped on a stone bench. Cold laughter arose as the radiance settled down to a steady glow.
"Soon," a tentacled thing told the slumped man. "Soon you'll be ready, my Hungry Man. And then-" His voice rose and danced with glee. "Then it will be time-" He chortled and began to shuffle about the room, the shape of his body flickering and changing wildly. "Time to feed!"
The cold laughter rose again, high and sharp, echoing around the chamber until it rolled out through the empty passages and rooms of the Haunted Tower.
