Stormlight Read online

  No, the folk that the Purple Dragons privately called “the Happy Dancing Mages” would come. This was murder, all right. No young noble heir goes alone into a so-called haunted tower of a castle and gets his tongue slashed to prevent any screams, a sword thrust through him from behind—and some spell or other that burns him to a shell—by accident!

  Later, he said as much. Most of the ashes had been placed on the traditional saddle bowl and the dead lord’s horse had been whipped into a gallop to strew them wide and far over the vale. The Summerstars retired to their quarters—no doubt to yell at each other over the details of Lord Athlan’s will. They hadn’t even bothered to accompany the priest of Chauntea on the solemn march down to the family crypt to inter the traditional lone handful of still-smoking ashes in Athlan’s upturned helm. The seneschal and his guest, however, both did.

  When it was all over—after the crypt doors had boomed shut and been sealed with a final benediction and the priest had scuttled away with the traditional gold goblet full of gold lions as payment—Renglar sighed once more and turned to his tall, solid, sharp-eyed guest. “Care for some wine? We need to talk.”

  “Yes, and we do,” the tall man agreed simply. They went up the stairs together. “He meant a lot to you?”

  The seneschal shrugged. “He was a good lad. Lots of dreams—and the dreams of young men light the fires that brighten Cormyr in years to come. I liked him, aye, and I put a lot of hours of sword-work in on him; all wasted now.”

  “Would he have grown into another Pyramus?”

  Renglar shrugged again, and stopped to unlock a seldom-used door. “It was too early to say. He had a touch of the let’s-use-magic-because-it’s-quick-and-easy streak, and was drifting into poking into small magics because of that. Another Pyramus? I don’t think so.”

  They went through the door. With a heavy clang and a rattle of chain, it swung to behind them. The seneschal of Firefall Keep took a torch from a wall-bracket ahead, and led the way. His guest followed, eaglelike eyes moving this way and that, missing nothing.… Then again, it might be his task to besiege this place some day.

  Below those alert eyes, Ergluth Rowanmantle was growing stout. There were white hairs in his side whiskers, but the veined and corded hands that swung his mace of office were still strong. He wore a heavy broadsword in a plain battle scabbard at his belt, not the glittering rapier favored by his fawning counterparts who dwelt closer to Suzail. The boldshield of the district of Northtrees March was a sensible man and a veteran warrior, risen to his present rank out of competence and not gentle birth. There was not a man within a hundred miles that Renglar Baerest respected more.

  They both knew a storm was coming, a storm of war wizards. The mages would skulk about, ask prying questions, use spells to peer into the mind of the seneschal to be sure he hadn’t murdered his pupil and liege. If there were going to be glasses of wine drunk, and calm and reasoned words exchanged, now would be the best occasion, possibly the only chance, for a long time to come.

  This little-used back passage led to a steep stair up. Both men took firm hold of their swords and dug into the climb, swinging their arms. They were puffing in unison by the time they reached the top. The two guards there saluted smartly as the seneschal and the local Purple Dragon commander passed between them and turned right, to another locked door.

  “Simple quarters,” Ergluth commented as Renglar let fall his chain of keys and swung the door wide. In the room beyond was a cot, a desk, a sideboard, and an armor stand. One wall of the room was all closets, and the seneschal waved to them.

  “All the clutter goes in there, and I keep the place tidy out here,” he said, and then grinned. The boldshield’s gaze had already fallen to the map on the gleaming desk—of course. Every room in Firefall Keep was on it, with Renglar’s scribbled comments about needed repairs liberally adorning the layout. The seneschal laid a finger on one ink-outlined chamber.

  “My Lord Athlan was found here, by a guard who’s going to have to answer some hard questions from the mages. It’s pretty clear the guard was passing through what we call the Haunted Tower—it does have some phantoms, plus the usual rats and bats, and isn’t used—to meet with young Shayn—… ah, Lady Summerstar.”

  Ergluth carefully did not grin. “Yes,” he announced to the world in carefully neutral tones. He stared down at the mapped heart of the Haunted Tower. “I think wine would be a very good idea.”

  The sideboard proved to contain a veritable arsenal of decanters. The seneschal soon steered a tall glass of Arabellan Dry into the boldshield’s hand.

  “To you, and to Azoun,” Ergluth made the traditional toast.

  “May one of us find his grave before the other,” Renglar made the accustomed reply, even more dryly than usual. He might have retired from the Purple Dragons decades ago, but such habits weren’t lightly forgotten. “I presume you see my problem at the proverbial single glance.”

  The Purple Dragon commander nodded. “Your slayer must be someone who knew the young lord well—and the keep, too. Only someone familiar with both victim and ground could have found him there … too many corners for any light to give Athlan away. Your murderer dwells under this roof.”

  “Exactly,” the seneschal said grimly, twirling his glass. With an absent astonishment, he realized it had somehow gone empty already. “But how long will it take our Happy Dancing Mages to see that, I wonder? And how many innocent folk will they upset first?”

  “If they tangle with the old dowager,” Ergluth said dryly, “my money’s on her.”

  Renglar grunted in rueful assent and refilled both their glasses. “The roaming apparitions and the endless little noises in the Haunted Tower ought to keep them occupied for a tenday or more.”

  “During which time, they’ll near be-damned eat you out of turret and cellar!” The Purple Dragon commander chuckled, and drank deeply. Coming up for air, he looked into the depths of his glass and said, “Yet you have no choice. The war wizards must be called in. Shall I do it? That’ll earn you their deep suspicion but save you the wrath of the Summerstars.”

  “Of Lady Pheirauze, you mean,” the seneschal corrected with a smile. “Nay, I know my duty. Let the Summerstars detest me. I serve Pyramus first, the realm second, Athlan third, and the rest of the kin a poor fourth. Best they be gently reminded of that.

  “If they want me to walk away from vale, I’ve a place where I can sit out my last years watching adventurers ride by; hear tales race around the realm and come back again, all twisted; make bad wine and protect the realm by drinking it myself … and chat coyly with ladies not so young as to be cruel when refusing me.”

  Ergluth shook his head. “You make retirement sound good. I’ve kin who’ll wear my feet down to stumps dancing every night, and keep me awake until dawn with the noise of young bucks rushing my nieces off their feet.”

  “You’re not still angry with Shaerl for deserting us all to go to Shadowdale? I hear it’s a beautiful place—now that Zhent troops aren’t trying to burn it down or overrun it every second tenday.”

  Ergluth waved a dismissive hand. “Nay, she was fun. It’s the pompous court boot-lickers among my kin that drive me wild. Be glad you’ve no noble kindred to embarrass you half so much.”

  “Truly, the gods felt I’d be better as a humble man,” the seneschal observed. “I just sometimes wish they’d not had in mind a state quite so humble.”

  The boldshield chuckled in reply, and put his glass down. “Call in the wizards; I’ll leave a rider in your gate tower should you want us here in haste.”

  “Let us hope no such frantic summons is needed,” the seneschal said grimly. “If it is, there’ll no doubt be a death behind it.” He clapped his hand on the boldshield’s armored shoulder. “My thanks, whatever lies ahead. When you’re gone, I’ll send Janrath on a fast horse for the wizards.”

  “By sheer coincidence,” Ergluth told the ceiling casually, “we should be riding along the same stretch of road, at just about
that time, watching for arrows from the trees, brigands … that sort of thing.”

  “Sort of thing, indeed,” Renglar agreed, and went to the door. “Thanks again.”

  The boldshield shrugged, and demonstrated that it was his turn to clap a comrade on the shoulder. “Whenever you need folk hacked to the ground, just call on the Purple Dragons. We also do parades, stand around beside doors looking menacing, and trample crops into the fields, given the slightest encouragement.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Renglar said. “How are you at replacing slain young lords? Or dragging folk who killed them behind your horses at a fast gallop for a mile or so? My Athlan should not lie in ashes now. He should have served Cormyr until he was as old and fat as you and me.”

  “I hear you,” Ergluth muttered. “If the spellhurlers miss somehow, call me back in for a few more glasses of wine—and we’ll turn Firefall Keep and everyone in it upside down and inside out for you.”

  He went out into the passage. The two veterans stood looking at each other for a breath or two, not smiling or speaking. Then the boldshield raised a hand in salute and went back down the stairs. The guards fell in before and behind him, as an escort of honor. When the seneschal heard the thuds of their boot heels joining those of his guest, he closed the door, leaned against it, and sighed heavily.

  Athlan, gone forever. His fingers tightened suddenly around the glass in his hand—and it sang and shattered, spilling in shards between his fingers.

  The seneschal watched the slivers bounce, dark with his blood. He set his jaw. Not bothering to stop the bleeding yet, he crossed the room to a certain closet door, and spoke to it.

  “You heard? Janrath has orders not to hurry, you’ve got four days, mayhap five, before Ergluth gets a letter written and delivered to Laspeera. I need you to investigate everything the war wizards can’t—or daren’t. Do you agree?”

  “Aye,” said a muffled voice inside the closet.

  The seneschal smiled grimly. “Good,” he replied, and went back across the room to find a cloth to wind around his cut fingers. It took longer than he’d expected.

  When he was done, he frowned and looked up, wine decanter in hand. “Well, you can come forth now, Arkyn—unless you like spending the night in a closet.”

  There was no reply. The seneschal’s eyebrows rose, and then drew down into a darker frown. “Arkyn!” he called sternly. “Wake! Rouse!”

  He went to the closet and pulled the door wide. The gruff jest he’d drawn breath to bark became a gasp of horror. The decanter found the floor, shattering in a thousand skittering shards.

  The Harper agent was standing in his accustomed place in the closet, among the weather cloaks, but he wasn’t wearing his usual grin.

  Arkyn Hornblade was headless, encrusted with his own dried blood. Renglar’s gaze traveled down the dirty brown trails to find the Harper’s staring, severed head. It had been set neatly down between his boots.

  “Gods!” the old seneschal gasped hoarsely.

  The headless Harper moved, lunging forward for one heart-stopping moment before toppling to the floor. He landed with a heavy thud—but no blood flowed. Arkyn had been dead for hours.

  The seneschal swallowed, spun around to strike the call-gong on the wall by the door—and froze.

  A moment later he pivoted again, grabbing for the knife at his belt. If Arkyn had died so long ago, who’d answered from inside the closet?

  Nothing moved. The dead Harper lay sprawled on the carpet, and silence hung heavy in the room. The seneschal spat out an oath and kicked open another closet door to snatch his hanging sword from its scabbard. With blades gleaming in both hands, he shifted from closet to closet, kicking open door after door. He panted in mounting fury, waiting for a killer to burst forth. There was no one lurking in any of his closets; the doors swung almost mockingly as he stared at them, breathing hard.

  He roared out for the guards, and added to his bellow, “Bring me war wizards—and fast, damn you!”

  Who had answered him from behind that closet door?

  Two

  HARPS AND FIREWOOD, WIZARDS AND GHOSTS

  All summer long her hounds had been running along the old tree trunk fence. Last night, it had finally given way, collapsing with a dull double crack and leaving easy passage for deer. As much as Storm Silverhand loved to look out the window in the misty dawn and see deer prancing among the trees, she didn’t want to see them out the other window—in her fields of lettuce and squash and asparagus. So, this early morn found her puffing down the back trail, a full-grown duskwood tree on her shoulders; one just right to fill the gap.

  It was as long as three horses, and weighed almost as much. Storm’s face was dark with effort as she bent to put it in just the right place. One of the wolfhounds raised its head and smiled at her. She tousled its ears affectionately. “Thanks for the help, Old Boldblade,” she told it in mock disgust, and then headed for the rain barrel to wash off the sweat.

  It was early, yet, and chill mists were still drifting along the ground like vengeful ghosts. Even so, the Bard of Shadowdale wore only floppy old boots, elbow-length gauntlets of heavy leather, and a fine sheen of sweat. Halfway to the barrel, she changed her mind about washing. By the looks of the fast-brightening sky, the sun was going to be hot today. It would be more comfortable, by far, to get a good lot of firewood chopped and split before full sunlight reached the chopping floor.

  She sang an ancient elven song about a maiden who rode a stallion across half the Realms without realizing the horse beneath her was in truth her lover. He had been trapped in stallion-shape by the wicked spells of a rival. As she sang, Storm hefted her largest, sharpest axe, and set to work.

  It felt good to put her shoulders fully behind a blow, swing hard, and see the wood cleave and leap. Storm laughed aloud and picked up the pace, flinging her finished work in all directions. The split segments could be tidied away later.

  One shadowtop was particularly dry. It spun up from the chopping block almost into her face. Storm smote it away with the back of the axe head, sending it spinning end over end across the hollow.

  “Hoy! Mind out!” an amused and familiar voice called.

  Storm tossed hair and sweat aside from her face with one deft hand and grounded her axe with the other. The protest had come from a floating, disembodied head that hung in midair. The head trailed long, flowing tresses of a silvery hue that matched Storm’s own. It was floating right about where the piece of wood must have flown.

  “Why? It’s not as if you’re solid!” Storm replied, stretching.

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” the floating head replied tartly, and then added, “Nice ribs, there.”

  Storm put her hands on her hips and stuck out her tongue. Her sister laughed and added, “Besides—I could be.”

  “Principled?” Storm asked, plucking up her axe again.

  “Solid,” Syluné replied, floating over to hang at her shoulder for a better view.

  “Huh,” Storm said, exhaling with sharp effort as her axe came down on a duskwood trunk that had been drying for most of the season. It split crosswise, with a satisfying crunch. The bard kicked one end of it askew to have more room to split the other. “Why aren’t you using your body, now that you’ve got one again?”

  The Witch of Shadowdale made the little hopping motion in midair that meant she’d shrugged but forgotten she currently had no shoulders. “One has one’s reputation to maintain. Besides, I’m used to being able to drift about, now—and my body’s perfectly safe where it is.”

  “Reputation? My shapely behind!” Storm snorted, as wood clunked and flew again. “More like you didn’t feel like helping to chop wood this morn, eh?”

  Syluné smiled. “Now, would I admit that?” She slid around to hover by Storm’s other shoulder as the first bright rays of the rising sun stabbed down into the hollow, over the tall stacks of split firewood. “And what would the wood-chopping Chosen of Mystra desire for morningfeast this fair
day?”

  “Fresh milk, dove eggs and sage, sharp cheese topped with hot nutmeg sauce, fried mushrooms and bacon slabs, a handful of radishes and another of grapes, and a mince tart or two, with a little mint wine to wash it down,” Storm rattled off without hesitation or any pauses for breath.

  Syluné gave her a withering look.

  Storm said cheerily, “You asked. Did you leave your body in the kitchen, as usual? Well, then—you can have it all ready by the time I’m finished here.”

  “I can?”

  “Nothing’s too much for the free-floating Chosen of Mystra,” Storm replied grandly, bowing like a court noble.

  “That gesture looks a little grander if you’re wearing clothes,” the Witch of Shadowdale observed.

  “Such criticism is more kindly received from folk who’re wearing bodies,” Storm told her. “Now get out of here. There’re two shadowtops crowning that pile over there, and I want to try a little axe-throwing without a clever-mouthed flying head in the way!”

  Syluné thrust out her own tongue, and then flew idly away across the raspberry patch in the brightening morning.

  Storm chuckled, shed her gloves, spat on her hands, and picked up the axe again, narrowing her eyes to judge the throw. The head of a doe rose above the two trees she was staring at, and gazed at her with soft, thoughtful brown eyes.

  “Boo,” she said. It knew her too well to be afraid of her, and came clambering down the bank to leap a stack of firewood and nuzzle her for anything sugary she might be carrying.

  Storm sighed, picked the deer up, and trudged up out of the hollow, ignoring its startled kicks. “Back to the other side of the fence, little one,” she told it. “It’s not as if I don’t provide you with your very own grazing garden already!”

  Brown eyes met her own silver-blue ones, and the deer sniffed loudly.

  “I see,” Storm replied, as the animal kicked again. “No, you’re coming with me.…”