Stormlight h-14 Page 4

  "One who was slain here-Hornblade-" Murndal said, "his was found on him, the seneschal said."

  Broglan Sarmyn frowned, looking worried again. "This must be the work of Storm Silverhand. We were warned about her for good reason. She must be here already, lurking in the keep!"

  He strode to the door, and then turned and snapped grimly, "Insprin, inform the seneschal and the boldshield about Lhansig's. . demise. Have the Purple Dragons search the Haunted Tower. I'll go to farspeak the royal magician."

  THREE

  Standing Stones And Auspicious Arrivals

  The wards flickered one last time before settling down to a steady glow. Satisfied, Broglan Sarmyn seated himself at the table, sighed, and unwrapped the bundle he'd laid there. Black velvet unfolded into a circle with a diamond-shaped cushion at its center. On its puffed softness lay a flat-bottomed but spherical chunk of glossy black obsidian as large as Broglan's fist.

  He took a deep breath, glanced around the room warily, and tapped the stone with a finger, murmuring a certain word under his breath.

  The stone quivered and slowly lifted away from its cushion, wavering up into the air to hang above the table at about the level of Broglan's nose.

  Broglan stared at it less than happily, the worry lines on his forehead deep again, and said, "Broglan Sarmyn, speaking from Firefall Keep. Lord High Wizard?"

  "I hear you," the royal magician's voice rasped from the stone. It sounded sharp-but then, through speaking stones, it always did. "What news?"

  "One of my team has been slain, presumably by the same creature or magical attack that killed the Lord Summerstar and the Harper agent," Broglan said heavily. "Lhansig Dlaerlin is no more-and we're no wiser as to how it was done. A Harper pin was left on his chest for us to find, and the body was arranged in such a way to mock us."

  "Burned out, and barred to all magic, as before?"

  "Aye." It was a measure of how upset Broglan Sarmyn was that he forgot to use any of Vangerdahast's titles. His next words made that agitation very clear. "What should I do?"

  The stone turned slowly in the air and emitted a sound that might have been a sigh. "I can't spare the time just now to investigate," the distant Vangerdahast said bluntly, "and I'm leaving this in your capable hands. I realize this is something that could kill you all-and baffle Laspeera, myself, Elminster, and every last one of his ex-apprentices, for all I know. I won't tell you anything grandly foolish about knowing you'll pull through, and such nonsense. Just do the best you can, Broglan. If you have to flee from the place or bring Firefall Keep crashing down, do so. Try to stop short of butchering the entire Summerstar clan, if at all possible."

  "I–I'm heartened to know that you understand," Broglan said hesitantly. "I have just two more questions. Firstly, how far can I trust the local boldshield, Ergluth Rowanmantle?"

  "Absolutely, so long as you do nothing he sees as a threat to the realm. The man is loyal through and through, and is far more. . perceptive than most Purple Dragon commanders. Next question."

  Broglan took a deep breath-this was it, there was no ducking the matter now-and plunged right in. "It looks like we're going to have a senior Harper who also happens to be of the Seven Sisters on our hands, here, any moment now. Storm Silverhand is named prominently in Athlan Summerstar's will."

  "Did he deed the vale to her, or just the keep?"

  "Neither-quite," Broglan replied. "There's nothing that diminishes the authority of the crown of Cormyr. . but she is guaranteed freedom to arrive, leave, dwell, and hunt in the vale as she pleases, unless or until a subsequent royal decree deems otherwise. I think Athlan was aiming to protect his lands and kin by surrounding them with a Harper training facility, if anything happened to him."

  "You think he knew he was going to die soon," Vangerdahast asked, "and specifically how, or at whose hand?"

  "It's impossible to say. It feels like he was just being cautious-unusually cautious, for one so young."

  "Indeed," the royal magician agreed. "As for Storm-watch her. There's not a lot any of us can do to stop her. Just be polite to her, and watch."

  "But what if she's our murderer?"

  "Why would she slaughter some back-country noble in another land? Use your head, man-if Storm took any interest in Summerstar at all, it's because he was mixed up in something the Harpers didn't approve of … slaving, dealing with the Zhentarim, or the like. All the more reason to be wary. Doesn't this Firefall Keep have a haunted quarter, or something?"

  "A 'Haunted Tower,' Lord," Broglan replied.

  "And what better way for someone at the keep to hide-or explain away-funny goings-on? 'You didn't really see that-it was ghosts!'"

  "I see where you're leading, Lord. It could be someone striking out against Lord Athlan because he uncovered the secret, or threatened to."

  "Exactly. And if Storm is a danger, get away from there and get word to me, above all else! That spell-reflection amulet I gave you ought to protect you against at least one attack, if she offers you violence. If that happens-don't waste your chance to flee, even if means abandoning the others, or a pretty young lady of the realm, or all the Summerstars and their horses and servants too! Got it?"

  "I understand, Lord-and I thank you."

  "Speak to me whenever you feel the need," Vangerdahast said briskly. The stone crackled once and started to sink toward the cushion. Broglan sat back wearily and watched it fall.

  Encouraging words, but no aid. He was on his own, at least for now. How many more deaths would it take, how many more war wizards would die before the royal magician sent serious aid? And would that aid, if it did ever come, reach Firefall Keep in time?

  Broglan rubbed at his eyes. He did not see the darkness that shifted in one of the shadows beyond the wards to slink away to the next shadow. One of the wards flared for an instant, as if powerful magic had been used nearby, but Broglan did not see that soundless flash, or its cause.

  Sometimes mighty mages are just as tired and careless as the rest of us.

  "My thanks for your work in getting to me so quickly," the Bard of Shadowdale said, turning in her saddle and slowing her mount to lay a hand on Vrespon's knee, "but I must leave you here."

  "Leave me?" the Harper in worn leathers asked warily, looking around at the desolate, rolling wilderness. "Here?"

  "Just ahead-at the top of this hill."

  "I wondered why we were riding up rather than just going around," the Harper muttered, the lift of his voice making his words a question.

  Storm tossed silver hair out of her eyes and gave him a level look. "If I am to do any good at Firefall Keep at all, I must get there at once-or at least, far sooner than they expect me. You half-killed your horse getting to me as swiftly as you did. I want you to rest her on the way back. Ride mine. Consider it yours now." She lifted one leg, put both hands on her saddle, and propelled herself a good dozen feet off to one side, to land crouched and facing him. The horse continued its patient walk up the grassy hill.

  "You're going to walk to Firefall Keep?" Vrespon protested. "Dressed like that?"

  Storm chuckled. "No, I'm going to gate there-and what's wrong with what I'm wearing, anyway?" She put hands to hips and tossed her head in mock indignation. Gods, but this lad was young. Right now, his eyes were shining in delight. He mustn't get many chances to do anything exciting, or be a part of any adventures. Ah, well-time to give him something to remember. Inspiring the young is part of the Way of the Harp, after all.

  She strode on up the hill, still wearing her floppy old boots. She'd added torn and dirty trousers and a field smock that was more dirt and dung than garment. The rents they sported demonstrated repeatedly that she had nothing on underneath … and Storm hadn't even brought a dagger, let alone a purse or even a pouch to hold a meal or gear. Though she hadn't given it an order or even a glance, her horse trotted after her like a large and contented dog.

  They reached the crest of the hill together, and Vrespon gaped in surprise. The little bowl that
dimpled the hilltop wasn't visible from below-nor the small ring of standing stones that filled it. The ancient, moss-covered sentinels of craggy, fissured dark rock reached to the sky like the fingers of some long-forgotten, half-buried god. They stood in a tight circle, enclosing nothing.

  Storm strode toward them without hesitation. "I take it you didn't know these were here?"

  "No," said Vrespon, still looking amazed.

  "And I take it you'd like to be back in Hillmarch as soon as you can, without a long ride through or around the mountains, entertaining bandits along the way?"

  "Y-Yes," Vrespon replied warily.

  "Then get down from that saddle and hold your horse quiet," the lady of the Harp told him, and tore a long strip from her trousers. Stuffing that scrap of fabric into one of her boots, she calmly took off the rest of her filthy clothing and tossed the smock to him. "Cover the horse's head with it," she directed. "They hate this, and always bolt if they see that instant of falling, amid the stars."

  "What instant of… falling?" the Harper messenger asked.

  Storm whipped what was left of her trousers around the head of her mount, and led it ahead into the stones. "Come and see," she called back to him, and when he hesitated, beckoned in the sultry fashion of a tavern dancer. This time, he did not look hastily away, but neither did he advance.

  "What is this place?" Vrespon asked, bewildered-but he was asking the empty, wind-whipped air. The space between the stones was empty.

  He swallowed once, took a last look around at this uninhabited corner of southeastern Daggerdale, with the Moonsea Ride a ribbon of mud in the distance. He squared his shoulders and led the horse steadily on into the stones. . not hurrying, but not hesitating either.

  Storm was suddenly elsewhere, and her feet were wet. The gelding snorted nervously and danced, its hooves splashing up water around her. The bard held its bridle firmly, patted its flank in reassurance, and led it out of the pool just below the well.

  Two startled pairs of eyes looked up at her from the grassy bank. The man and maid lay in each other's arms, the remains of their luncheon and books of poetry strewn around them.

  "Sorry," Storm told them gravely, and arched her eyebrows impishly. "Pray, continue."

  She marched past them, flopping boots and snorting gelding and all, as the man hissed a startled oath and shot a look at the pool where they'd just-appeared, out of thin air!

  As he stared, a man in worn leathers appeared. Another hooded horse splashed where, a moment before, there'd been nothing but roiling waters.

  The man with the horse looked at him, and he stared back, his astonished lady-love still nestled against his shoulder. "What's going on?"

  "Ask her," the newcomer protested, sounding almost hurt. He pointed ahead and down the hill, where the lady with the silver hair had gone. "Ask her!"

  "Phernald," the maid quavered, suddenly finding her voice, "shouldn't we-?"

  "No! Whatever it is, no!"

  With those last, shouted words, the man was on his feet and sprinting for the safety of the trees. He dragged his lady with him, heedless of the fate of her finest gown as he hauled her through brambles. Poetry, wine, and all lay forgotten behind them.

  "Oh, Phernald!" she wailed as they disappeared.

  Vrespon shook his head, hauled the smock off his mare's eyes, mounted, and urged her into a trot to catch up with the Bard of Shadowdale.

  When he reached Storm, he said almost accusingly, "You scared the wine right out of those two, you know!" She was thoughtfully draping around herself the woefully inadequate strip of material she'd stuffed into her boot earlier. Perhaps, Vrespon thought, all senior Harpers were crazy.

  This one certainly seemed to be. She turned and smiled at him. "I did apologize," she said, "and they'd finished their meal but not gotten beyond whisperings, if you know what I mean. . There's no harm done. They've just enjoyed an invigorating race through the forest, that's all!"

  The Harper stared at her for a moment longer, and then burst into shouts of astonished laughter. Both horses snorted and shifted, and Storm told him severely, "Stop that-you're frightening the horses."

  "And I suppose you're through frightening me?" Vrespon demanded in mock exasperation.

  Storm clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit," she said. "Now you know how to cross the Thunder Peaks from east to west, from the Farlight Stones to Muskrin's Well, here. It doesn't work in the other direction. Don't forget, now."

  Vrespon shook his head. "Muskrin's Well… I must be a little north of… let's see…."

  Storm took him by one ear, swung him close, and kissed him. "It's been a joy," she said lightly, "but I must go. Take Lazytail, here." She steered the gelding's bridle into his hands and walked away.

  Vrespon stared at her. "You're going to Firefall Keep like that?"

  Storm frowned. "Of course not. I'm a lady." She snapped her fingers, muttered something-and the tattered strip of cloth draped about her suntanned skin became a high-bosomed, filigreed glossy court gown, pleated and slit, with flaring sleeves and lace panels. She struck a pose, spreading silken-gloved hands to show off her finery. "Like it?"

  Vrespon's jaw dropped. After a moment of making inarticulate sounds, he closed it firmly again, and nodded. In truth, he'd never seen so expensive, elegant, and, well, beautiful a gown. The wild woman who'd ridden with him was suddenly every curving inch a Cormyrean lady of stunning beauty and monstrous wealth.

  He was still nodding when Storm gave him a cheery wave and vanished again.

  Even the Chosen of Mystra have limitations. Of the Seven Sisters, Storm outstripped only Dove in her mastery of magic. There would be no more teleporting until she got some time to study-and, oh, yes: something to study with. She glanced around to be sure that she was unobserved, murmured an incantation, and moved one hand in a sweeping, circular gesture of beckoning.

  Obediently a bulging strong chest burst into being in midair, floating in front of her. A moment later, the strain of overloading popped its lid open, revealing satchels, duffels, coffers, and trunks within. Storm smiled and started around the rocky ridge where she'd arrived, with the luggage floating along behind her. If she'd remembered the place rightly, Firefall Keep should be just over this next rise.

  The next few days were probably going to be full of the unpleasant tensions and bloody actions that adventurers call fun, once such doings are safely in the past. Storm smiled. Ah, well-it was what she was here for.

  Beyond immunities most folk could only dream of, the Bard of Shadowdale had surprisingly few tricks left. Depending on her wits and strong arms had always been her way, rather than spending long years in dusty towers learning spells for everything. Some folk thought the Seven Sisters no more than a pack of deceitful manipulators. Such a view was closer to the truth than the idea that they were nascent goddesses, transforming the Realms around them at will.

  This little business of uncovering a murderer or two, for instance. Contrary to popular belief, the bold and brave Storm Silverhand couldn't call on Mystra directly to find out things; that had always been one of the Forbidden Things. Moreover, since the ascension of the young mortal Midnight to the Mantle of Mystra, the Lady of Mysteries really didn't know much more than her Chosen. She was still learning how to use the powers available to her … a process that would probably continue until long after her present Chosen were dust and fading memories. So this wayward bard was going to have to do her own detecting.

  At a gentle stroll, Storm came over that last rise. A broad and pleasant smile filled her face. The keep rose dark and imposing ahead of her, more a border castle than a country manor. There were plenty of armed and watchful men on the walls and at the gates.

  Storm walked on until the walls loomed up over her. She fully expected the keep to be one vast, patient trap, with the murderer waiting for her-as well as a reception committee of suspicious, resentful Cormyrean nobles.

  The Purple Dragons at the portcullis of the gate tower could s
ee her face clearly now. They were studying her closely, shifting their halberds to the ready and taking paces to one side to get clearer looks at the luggage floating serenely along behind her. She neared them. Two moved to either side of her, halberd points held respectfully down-but ready. Two more barred her way, and in front of them stepped their swordcaptain.

  "Halt, lady traveler. You are come to Firefall Keep, a house in some present turmoil. We are commanded in the king's name to keep its gate closed to the uninvited. Surrender to us your name, I pray."

  Storm gave the officer a smile that made his eyes melt above the bristling mustache that hid the rest of his face. "I am Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale."

  The man gave her a quick bow and trotted away, into the keep, leaving her to stand in the hot sun. The two guards who'd stood like a wall behind him stepped forward in unison, forming an unbroken wall of armored flesh to block her advance.

  Storm lounged back, sitting on empty air as if it were a comfortable throne. She looked around at the warriors sweating in their armor and scrutinized each one in frank admiration. The guards shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, unaccustomed to such boldness. They glanced sidelong at her beauty. This one seemed every inch the high court lady, outstripping even the Dowager Lady Pheirauze in elegance, and far outdazzling her in beauty.

  Storm assumed a more comfortable position on empty air and started to sing-a sad ballad. The song told of a soldier who rode into battle, knowing his love, from whom he'd been parted for a long year of fighting, had gone into the arms of another man. Her voice rose, rich and enchanting. Though the guards coughed and tossed their heads and pretended not to be caring or even really listening, they leaned forward to hear better, and broke off all of their muttered, side-of-the-mouth comments about her.

  When she swung into the sequel, tears began to appear in certain eyes. She sang of the dead soldier's ghost coming into the garden of his former love, where she sat sadly with her new babe, the father having abandoned her. When she came to the soft, almost whispered passages where the spectral soldier pledged to watch over and guard the child as it grew up to be the son that should have been his, some of the men were weeping openly, tears running down their faces and their shoulders shaking.