All Shadows Fled

14

The falcon winged frantically southward, trailing feathers in reckless haste as no real falcon would dare do-and growing new ones as no real falcon could hope to do.

Storm followed in its wake. Her fly spell thrust her steadily on through the air. She kept low above the trees so she might survive her tumble to the ground when the magic failed or went wild, and to make sure the falcon could not veer off or descend suddenly without her seeing just where it went.

The falcon's flight was southeast over the forest until Essembra lay on their right. Once past the town, it heeled westward, passing south across the road to Sembia and the outlying farms of Battledale, heading for the distant silver ribbon of the fast-flowing Ashaba, where it left the Pool of Yeven. Long before it got there, the falcon turned north again, flew a little way, and dived suddenly to earth.

Storm hurriedly swerved behind a tree to avoid being seen; as she'd expected, the shapeshifter halted its descent to skim along the stone walls of an estate, and peered into the trees all around as it went.

The falcon completed its circuit of the walls. Apparently satisfied he was alone, the Malaugrym sank down beyond the wall.

Storm hastily flew nearer, working her way through the trees; she wanted to be inside the walls too, when her spell ran out. Even if this turned out to be a garden of deadly Malaugrym.

Beyond the wall was a cluster of towers, one of the many walled villas that rich Sembians and wizards had built for themselves. They were enclosed for safety against the monsters and brigands that roamed these lush wilderlands. The road past the gate would be one of the long, winding lanes that fed into Rauthauvyr's Road just north of Blackfeather Bridge.

She dare not tarry or work her way along the wall to avoid detection; her spell would run out in moments. Darting over the wall, Storm found herself over deserted gardens and a small ornamental pond. She turned sharply to keep herself over dry land, and dived hastily down, righting herself to land feet first. It was good she did. She was well above the turf when her magic gave out, and she fell precipitously to earth.

"Once more to embrace the soft lips and bruising talons of adventure, friends," she murmured to herself, quoting a ballad she had written hundreds of summers ago. She got up and dusted herself off

The placid waters of a small garden pool showed her a rather fierce-looking lady in leathers, so she stripped off her clothes and sword, bundled them up together, and said a soft word over them.

They vanished obediently-at least that small magic had worked right; now for the next one. She checked that she still had the dagger in its sheath under her hair, at the back of her gorget band. These days, a lady never knew when she'd need a good sharp knife. The gorget itself, stuffed with coins, bore a chased design that was elegant enough to accompany the attire she planned. To it, then…

Standing nude above the pool, she worked a magic she'd not used in quite this way for years, creating an ornate off-the-shoulder gown that would pass muster in the most exclusive circles in Sembia, and elegant high sandals to go with it. Her silver hair would do as she bid it, so she gave herself a sleek fall of tresses over one shoulder, and an elaborate braid over her brow. 'Twould do, indeed.

Taking a last look around to mark the place she'd left her gear, Storm strolled languidly across the gardens, eyes missing little despite her relaxed manner. She spotted the spatters of fresh blood beside a stone bench in a little bower, about where the falcon had landed, and wondered which inhabitant of the household was now a broken, unrecognizable boneless thing hastily buried nearby.

The Malaugrym awaited her somewhere inside these walls, all right. Storm strolled ahead as if no such peril was near, enjoying the gardens. A winding path girt with fragrant flowers took her to two small bridges that hopped from islet to islet across the large pond, to a terrace where stone urns stood in floral ranks along low, scalloped stone walls. Within those walls she could see folk moving-liveried servants.

Calmly she strolled up the path, ascending a broad stair to where a grizzled, monocled man of graying years and mustache was enjoying a row of flagons, each containing a different wine. He stared at her in amazement for only a moment before springing to his feet and saying, "Great lady, be welcome in Low Rythryn Towers!"

He bowed, offered her his hand, and indicated a vacant chair beside his own. "I am Lord Thael Sembergelt, once a battle commander of Sembia, but now lord only of this house. I am delighted the gods have brought me so noble and-dare I say? — beauteous a guest! Pray, make known to me your name."

"I am Storm Silverhand, called by many the Bard of Shadowdale," Storm replied with grave charm, "and I must tender my apologies for arriving uninvited. My spell travels brought me here unintentionally."

"No apologies are needed, not at all! In truth, you filled me with delight, strolling up through the gardens like that as if you were some hidden nymph come to greet me! It seemed this house were showing me one of its treasures!"

"Gallantly said, my lord," Storm said with a twinkle in her eyes. "I fear I've upset the calm tenor of your days. You must have few guests."

"We see few welcome guests in these troubled times," the old lord agreed gravely, offering her an empty goblet and silently beckoning a servant over. "But my house is honored by your presence. I heard you sing once in a tavern in Selgaunt, when you danced on a table for a room of weary soldiers. I'll not forget that."

Storm inclined her head in thanks. The servant, bearing a silver platter of decanters, glided to a stop between them.

"Pray take wine, Lady Storm," the old lord said earnestly, leaning forward in his chair. "I dearly hope you can stay for evenfeast, or even grace us for a few days. My house is yours."

"I would be delighted to dine with you tonight, my lord," Storm replied, watching her host trying to keep his eyes away from where her plunging gown was designed to make him look, "and see the morning sun rise with you. But as for longer, I cannot say."

"I quite understand," Lord Thael rumbled. He questioningly indicated the array of decanters.

"The glowfire, I think," Storm said, and enjoyed watching the gnarled old hands unstop and deftly pour.

He placed the goblet gently before her. "You are my fourth guest this even! There seems to be much strife on the roads in Battledale just now; we seldom see so many travelers this far off the road. You'll meet them at evenfeast."

"We?" Storm asked, raising her glass in salute. "You have a family, Lord Thael?"

"Only a nephew, Oburglan," Lord Thael said gruffly. "You'll meet him, too."

Guessing that the lord's nephew was no family prize, Storm savored the delicate bouquet of the glowfire for a moment, exchanged smiles with her host over the rim of the glass, and sipped. Yes. She kept her face pleasant and drank the wine with apparent relish, trying to ignore the burning sting of the poison as it slid down her throat…

She'd chosen the drink herself. Thael had poured it, a servant had brought it… ah, gods above, the Malaugrym could be anyone!

As dusk came, Storm was still grimly trying to decide which of the folk of the manor was the shapeshifter. The servants came to call them in to evenfeast in the candlelit great hall of Low Rythryn Towers.

The waiting had been pleasant. Lord Thael, obviously enchanted with her, had treated Storm with all the courtesy he knew, discussed politics with a keen worldly interest, laughed appreciatively at her mimicry of dale lords, and gave a shrewd summation of the directionless self-interest that governed Sembia.

Now he escorted her to the best seat at the board, at his right hand. A lady of rank, Storm bowed as an equal to him, and endured a daggerlike glare from a thin and sour young man. Probably Oburglan, furious at being displaced at table in front of guests.

"Well met, gracious lady," said Thael's expressionless seneschal, Burldon Hawklan. "Even in this isolated hall, we have heard of the valiant deeds of the Bard of Shadowdale, and Those Who Harp at her command."

Storm smiled back at him. "Minstrels tend to over-flower what they sing of," she responded gently, "but I thank you for your kind words." Hawklan bowed stiffly and took his place at the far end of the table; to Storm's eyes, he was every inch a professional soldier-one who did not consider himself retired.

The other guests were less impressive. One was a smooth-faced, saturnine trader in spices and pelts from Ordulin by the name of Loth Shentle; the second was a young and handsome priest of Tymora from Selgaunt, Dathtor Vaeldeir, who professed to be very excited at the chaos now reigning over the Realms; and the last was a grim and dangerous-looking man, Thorlor Drynn, introduced to her as a trade envoy of Hillsfar.

The dinner was excellent, consisting of roasts of just about everything that could be roasted, smothered in a variety of gravies and sauces, with spiced greens served as garnishes. And wine, of course… much wine.

There was poison in her goblet again. Storm took a certain dark amusement in the fact that she could go on drinking it all night without ill effects because of what Mystra had made her into. She let her eyes wander up and down the table, wondering which of the eyes meeting hers belonged to a shapeshifter-and how soon it would be ere the Malaugrym grew restive and attacked.

The conversation began with talk of trade difficulties in these lawless times, and came around to unreliable magic and priests rendered helpless or mad and the Fall of the Gods. At that point Thael declared he'd heard enough about gods and their doings, and diverted talk to the future of trade in the Moonsea lands and the Dales, and the difficulties Zhentil Keep's aggressive nature was causing to all traders.

The grim envoy of Hillsfar spoke up. "For my part, my lord, we in Hillsfar are resolved to meet force with force. For too long the Zhents have taken advantage of the absence of strong nearby opposition to force their will on other folk and territories not their own-in fact, to behave little better than the brigands we universally detest.

"I do not speak of the times they raise armies and march on one of us-which, by the way, seems to happen at least once a spring, ruining harvests-but of their open attempts to control how and where ore is brought out of Glister, and anything at all out of Daggerdale. They try to dictate where and when ships may sail the Moonsea, on what terms we must all trade in the region… and even if we may trade at all with their rivals Cormyr and Mulmaster."

"Bullies will always be with us, sir-if not one, then another," Loth Shentle said smoothly. "The trick is to anticipate their moves and take trade advantage of the side effects; a shortage of food here, rising prices of scarce items there…"

"As a fur dealer, you profit well out of Zhentil Keep's aggression, aye," Thorlor Drynn said coldly. "It has kept the prices of furs falsely high these ten years or more."

"I deal with the world as it is," Loth Shentle replied easily, "not as others might wish it to be."

"Yes, yes," the priest of Tymora said excitedly. "Deal with what the gods hurl your way, taking chances whenever you strive for something that is not the most obvious or easy!"

"But surely, my lords," Storm said quietly, "one should not accept the world as it is. Deal with it, yes-but strive always in one's dealings to get something in return, to make the world give a little… to nudge it in the direction of one's dreams."

Loth Shentle snorted. "I dream of vaults full of coins, Lady Storm," he said wryly. "Have you any that you can yield unto me?"

"Dreams are just that: dreams. Warriors must deal with the real world, with all its harsh brutalities and cold truths," the seneschal said.

Storm turned to look down the table. "I do not see the gulf between dream and reality, Sir Hawklan. We must fight Zhents because they actively pursue their dreams. In Shadowdale, we have fought them army to army, not merely poison in flagons"-she looked up and down the table, but saw no telling expression in the faces turned to her-"and daggers in the dark. Seven open battles these past ten summers. We should all pay very great attention to dreams."

Thorlor leaned forward. "Well said, Lady. I'd say the lords of Zhentil Keep have done quite well in their dreaming. Voonlar is already their vassal town, the Citadel of the Raven, which was to belong to us all, is firmly in their grasp, and Teshwave and Yulash lie in ruins because of them… to say nothing of the harm done to the once-proud cities of the Moonsea North, Daggerdale, the Border Forest, and west along the trade route to far Waterdeep."

"Aye," their host said gruffly, setting down his heavy flagon. "There's a dream: the trade route from here across half Faerun to the Sword Coast. An awesome undertaking, however base the motives and bloody the doing. What say you, Nephew? You once told me you wanted to see Waterdeep."

"I wonder at what tolls I'll have to pay," Oburglan said sullenly, "if I wait for the Black Gauntlet to finish this trade route. I heard there was a Zhent takeover in Loudwater-and some dealings in Saerloon, too… something about a lady sorceress." He looked across the table. "What do you know of this, Lady Storm-as a sorceress yourself?"

Thael turned a look of reproof on his nephew, brows bristling, but Storm smiled across the table at the resentful young man. "I'm hardly a sorceress, Oburglan, though I can cast a spell or two. I leave that to my more capable sisters. As to what befell in Saerloon, the sorceress who seduced those merchants and turned them to stone statues was an agent of Zhentil Keep. Over the years I've never found such tactics to have lasting success."

Someone chuckled, well down the table, and Oburglan's eyes were murderous as he raised his flagon to cover his mouth.

"Stone statues do furnish a garden, though-as Burgusk of Selgaunt found," Loth Shentle joked.

"Not this garden," Lord Thael rumbled. "I'd be too afraid of the spell wearing off and discovering I've got some mad Netherese sorceress at the far end of my pond-and more: that she's furious and happens to have a spell or two that can level mountains! What would I say to her, eh?"

"Care to dance, my lady?" Dathtor suggested. There were roars of mirth.

"How about: my name is… and my ransom is forty thousand pieces of gold?" Loth Shentle suggested.

"No, rather: my name is… and my next of kin are…" Thorlor put in.

Lord Thael looked at the only woman at his table, and his chuckles died away. "I forget that you have freed folk from stone, Lady Storm. What did you say to them?"

Storm looked into her glass, and answered, "I usually told them where they were, that I meant no harm, and what year it was. They always wanted to visit the privy after that."

That innocent and truthful observation brought a general shout of laughter.

When it started to die Storm added, a twinkle in her eyes, "But if I met the Netherese lady you mention, I'd probably say: I've had mornings like you're having!"

Everyone hooted, even Oburglan. Storm mused briefly to herself about the effects of too much wine on folk-it made them laugh, or cry, or rage all too easily. She plunged the table into awed silence by adding, "The only memorable Netherese mage I did meet was a man, and his body had withered away to almost nothing… so he tried to take mine."

"Gods," Hawklan mumbled after a very long moment had passed. "How did you escape?"

Storm shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said gently, "but that's a trade secret I keep as close about as any merchant guards his own. Ask Mystra to tell you-it is hers to reveal."

Oburglan sputtered. "That's right!" he protested. "Say something like that, then turn all mysterious!"

"Oburglan!" Thael rapped out. "You speak to a great lady; do so civilly, or leave this board."

His nephew's face flamed, and he brought his goblet crashing down. "Right, then-" he began, placing both palms on the table to shove himself upright.

"Oburglan," Storm said softly, catching his angry gaze, "please stay. You are right to be angry…'tis a maddening tactic we old wielders of sorcery use, to tell half a story and then fall silent when you want to know all. I would say more if I could, and I apologize for mentioning the Netherese at all."

Oburglan stared at her for a moment. He fumbled for his goblet. "How old are you, then?" he mumbled, eyes surveying Storm's curves. "I mean…" he looked away and scratched at the lip of his goblet in some confusion, "I don't see any wrinkles."

Down the table, someone sighed, someone else loudly stifled laughter, and Lord Thael covered his eyes.

"I apologize for this wild-tongued kin of mine," he rumbled. "Pray, forgiveness, Lady Storm!"

He turned blazing eyes to Oburglan. "Lad, lad, one never asks a lady her age, unless perhaps you're her suitor and must needs know what ground you walk upon! And even then,'tis best to ask her brother, or father, or anyone else!"

"Your advice is good, Lord, and should be followed by all men of breeding," Storm agreed cheerfully, "and yet there are exceptions to every rule… and I am one of them."

She caught Oburglan's eyes again, and gave him the easy grin of a sister. "Never trust a minstrel or bard who speaks of times and ages, for they're always stretching a year here and a year there, speaking of long-ago battles or fair ladies as if they'd witnessed them themselves. But this once, and before all this table, I'll tell you truth: I am half a dozen years shy of my six hundredth summer."

Oburglan gulped, stared at her, started to sneer… then gaped. "You're serious," he whispered.

Storm nodded. With one slim hand she indicated the shoulder that her gown left bare. "Not bad, eh?" she said in perfect mimicry of Lord Thael's gruff tones.

The table erupted again, and this time Oburglan joined in the general mirth. Lord Thael was practically weeping with laughter, his head nodding almost into his platter.

At the other end of the table, Hawklan saluted her with his goblet and said, "Remind me never to say anything before you, Lady, that I would not want to hear parodied!"

"A good rule for every man, Sir Hawklan, when dealing with any man or maid," she returned, raising her own glass. Did his eyes rest on it just a trifle too long?

Ah-no. They were fixed a little lower down. This gown hadn't been such a bright idea after all. But then, sophistication has its price. Moreover, if all of us change what we are and what we do because of the threat of Malaugrym attack, shapeshiflers have won the victory without ever having to fight the battle!

"In that time, I have seen Hillsfar governed in many ways," Storm said, turning to the envoy as the laughter started to die. "I'd be interested to hear what you can tell us of Lord Maalthur's publicly stated aims and intentions."

Thorlor Drynn inclined his head. "I thank you for your diplomacy and understanding, Lady Storm, in the wording you just employed. In reply, I can say only: very little. Lord Maalthur has often promised to make Hillsfar great and to cleanse it of all hardship, suffering, and corruption. Laudable goals that none, I daresay, could seriously contest. By his actions, I think you can safely add to those general aims his intent not to let Zhentil Keep have possession of Yulash, nor to suffer Mulmaster or Zhentil Keep to have control of the river Lis, or Moonsea shipping in general. For what it is worth-my words as a mouthpiece of Hillsfar being, of course, suspect by definition-I see no great preparations for armies to march, nor intentions on my lord's part to seize any other city or territory of Faerun."

"I'm relieved to hear it," Loth Shentle said dryly, "as should be all neighbors of Hillsfar. Two cities of rampaging warlords are more than enough hereabouts."

"You speak overcautiously, Sir!" the priest of Tymora told him, refilling his own goblet for perhaps the fortieth time, his face flushed with its effects. "Strife brings change, and change is the natural order of things. It makes men and maids able, and quick, and alert! Bold, and-"

"Forced to rely on Lady Luck," the seneschal put in from the end of the table. "I've heard the litany a time or two before you were born, good Dathtor!"

The priest turned his red face around slowly to fix Hawklan with a bright-eyed gaze. "Then you should know e'en better than I that 'tis true!"

"I know no such thing," Hawklan said firmly. "I am a simple soldier; I swing my sword, obey orders to the letter, and let others worry about causes and outcomes and grand strategies."

"And on your off days, you drink too much and wench too much-beg pardon, Lady-and let life carry you on, on to the grave without disruption or excitement," Loth Shentle said.

"A summation that sounds familiar, Nephew?" Lord Thael said meaningfully. Oburglan flushed.

"No, Uncle! I mean-" his eyes darted to Storm, then back to Thael with an almost pleading look.

"Don't embarrass me in front of the lady, Uncle?" Storm asked the youth. "Is that what you want to say, but dare not find the words?"

Oburglan stared at her, opened his mouth, and shut it again, turning ruby to the tips of his ears.

"Oburglan," Storm said, setting down her goblet to lean forward, "never be embarrassed to admit truth, or think and talk about life, in front of anyone. I'd be more embarrassed to lie about my life or refuse to admit that things are as they are. I'm not upset to learn that you're drifting the days away here-it's not my life wasting away. If you're upset talking about it, that shows you're not satisfied in doing so, and that's gods-be-damned good."

Heads turned along the table at her language, but Storm kept her eyes locked on Oburglan's. "What you'd best do, when we're all gone, is take a walk in that beautiful garden out there with your uncle, and talk about what you want to do in life. Not to do what he says, but to decide for yourself. We all have to, sooner or later. If it makes you feel better to hear it, I'd passed away almost seventy years before I stopped my wild, witless pursuit of fun and started wondering what I wanted to do for myself."

Oburglan gulped. "Seventy years?" he said faintly. "I didn't know there was that much fun."

The table roared with laughter once more. When Lord Thael could speak again, he slapped Oburglan's arm, "Well said!" He turned to Storm and added quietly, "And very well said, Lady. I don't think I've a tongue nimble enough to thank you rightly for saying those words. I've never heard it said better, in all my… er, sixty-eight years."

Storm smiled at him. "Shall I come back in two years to ask you what you've decided to do with your life?"

There were uneasy chuckles around the table, and Thael shook his head with a rueful smile. "I'd forgotten that the tongue can be sharper than a sword."

"I think you have the quotation wrong, Lord," the priest offered jestingly, but Storm turned on him with a smile.

"What, Hand of Tymora? You stand in service to a goddess and don't know for yourself the truth of that maxim? Truly, you must be a very good priest! All the clergy I know would much rather face the swords of foes than the lashing tongues of their superiors!"

Dathtor Vaeldeir winced. "I begin to see the truth of another maxim, Lords and Lady: 'If thou art captured, do and say anything to keep yourself from the hands of your foe's womenfolk.'"

Deep laughter rolled out around the table, and more than one eyebrow in the room rose to see Storm laughing as heartily as the others.

She raised her glass of newly filled, still-poisoned wine, her heart light, and bid the night continue long.

When the table did rise, her wish had been fulfilled; they'd talked away most of the time until dawn, and the first shift of servants had been replaced at table by a second. Most of the men were stumbling with drunken weariness as they sought out the jakes; Dathtor the priest was roaring drunk, and Oburglan had been emboldened enough by his imbibing to ask her how one best chose a wife. Storm was still smiling and shaking her head over that as she went to the women's garderobe-which, of course, she had all to herself.

No one attacked her there. Afterward, she went for a walk in the gardens in the last faint moonlight, avoiding the torchlit areas. Someone at that friendly table was a shapeshifter… and a Malaugrym dare not leave her alive, when she could call down the Simbul upon him or point him out to half a hundred wizards. The poison raging through her veins was proof enough of that.

No, an attack would come. She kept to the shadows as Loth Shentle strolled past, a little unsteadily, singing an old familiar ballad about ladies fair and fey. He startled her a few steps farther on when he paused on one of the bridges, announced, "Gods, but she's beautiful!" and proceeded to vomit his evenfeast helplessly into the pond.

Someone else was walking among the far fern beds, impossible to identify in the gloom. Storm sat down on a bench in the lee of a spiky bush, only then discerning the seneschal, Burldon Hawklan, who strode softly past, hand on sword, eyes sober and alert, taking care to make little sound.

Storm rose thoughtfully and watched him vanish into the night. In one hand, she hid the small thing she'd taken out in the garderobe.

"Out takin'-takeeng-air, pretty lady?" said a loud voice by her elbow. The drunken priest of Tymora tried to lean against the tree, missed, and went for a short stagger before finding his balance again. Storm brought her hand to her mouth to cover her smile as he grinned loosely at her, sketched a shaky salute, and said, "Doan-doant-don't you worship the Lady Tymora, e'en as I do? C'mere!"

He was upon her, and the smell of wine was strong, and triumph blazed up in his eyes as he embraced her. His arms tightened… and seemed to be changing shape.

This was it. Their lips brushed together, and Storm worked her small magic in careful haste.

An instant later cruel claws raked her back, tearing away her gown and the flesh beneath in ribbons. Storm gasped and stiffened at the raw pain-but instead of trying to pull away from the Malaugrym, she leaned into his embrace, deepening their kiss. His savaging of her back slowed in astonishment, but Storm clung to him with all her own great strength, holding him firmly as her tongue thrust her saliva into his mouth. With it went the powdered silver from the coin she'd dissolved with her spell.

The shapeshifter spasmed in sudden agony, fear, and desperation. The silver was as poisonous to him as the liquid he'd been feeding Storm all night. Had she not been one of Mystra's Chosen, she'd have died hours ago, after the first sip Lord Thael offered her. She kept that in mind as she drew her mouth away from his and watched him closely. The creature who was not Dathtor Vaeldeir shuddered in her arms, convulsed, and died.

When she was sure he was dead, Storm swung his body over one shoulder, letting the claws that still dripped her blood dangle, and carried it grimly toward Lord Thael's kitchen wing, where there should be firewood enough to burn it.

She was most of the way there, crossing the great flagstone terrace, when many doors opened in the manor walls and a score of servants rushed out with lit torches, enclosing her in a wide ring.

Lord Thael stepped out last and faced her, sword in his hand. "What have you done, witch?" he bellowed, monocle dangling. He peered at her, and asked, "Or… is that you, Lunquar?"

Storm met his eyes coldly. "You know what I've done, Malaugrym. And what I must do." She lifted one side of her mouth in a mirthless smile, and asked, "Just to save time, tell me-how many more are there of you in this house?"

"I need no aid to deal with the likes of you, mortal woman," was the cold response. "With your precious Elminster dead, there's no one to watch us… and no one to stop us!" His teeth glinted in the torchlight as they lengthened into fangs, and he added with soft smile, "Faerun will be ours!"

One of the servants screamed. Lord Thael was turning slowly into a thing with a tail and hunched shoulders of corded muscle. He came forward in a slow, careful crouch, eyes gleaming.

Storm let the body fall from her shoulder, kicked off her high sandals, and walked barefoot to meet him in the bloody tatters of her gown.

When she was only two paces away, the Malaugrym sprang and brought his blade around in a vicious arc. Storm strode right at him. His blade whistled through her as if she were smoke, and she grappled with him.

The Malaugrym ducked away and hacked at her again, saw that the blade really could not touch her, and flung it away with a snarl. It was still clanging across the flagstones amid sparks when he flung himself on her.

They strained together in the torchlight, two sets of rippling muscles gleaming. The shapeshifter seized her shoulder and wrist and pulled, roaring triumphantly.

He'd intended to tear her limb from limb, slapping her awake and making her scream for mercy-but he strained and pulled with all his might… and she resisted him easily, smiling all the while, and whispered the words of an enchantment.

The Malaugrym grunted in amazement at her strength, then felt his mouth and tongue moving of their own accord-no, her will! — to utter the single word "Ahorga."

Her magic had forced him to name himself! Enraged, Ahorga grew his neck to eel-like length and his fangs into snapping jaws, and he bit savagely at the smiling face of his foe. She turned her head away and forced his own arm up into the way of his jaws-such strength! He darted his head down and sank his fangs deep into her left shoulder and breast.

Now the screaming would start, and she'd plead for mercy… but no. This Storm woman hissed in pain but did not shriek or collapse. He bit deeply again, and twisted his head to tear a great gobbet of flesh free. Her blood fountained over them both, running freely to the flagstones, and he raised his head to roar exultantly at the high, glittering stars.

Then he felt pain such as he'd never felt before, greater than the fire spells that had scarred him in his youth. He writhed helplessly in his torment. Silver flames licked along her spilled blood, fire the same hue as her silvery hair, blazing up into a pillar now-and he was burning with it!

It was in pain and despair that Ahorga of the Malaugrym roared, struggling to break free of her grip, and failing. He stared once into her face, and saw that her eyes were two silver flames, too.

"Nooo!" he screamed. "Mercy!"

"I shall give you, Ahorga, the same mercy you gave to Lord Thael Sembergelt," was the calm response. "The same mercy Malaugrym always afford mere mortals… none. This is a cleaner death than you deserve." The silver flames roared up to claim him.

When the body was a burnt husk, Storm cast it down atop the body of the Malaugrym Lunquar, and watched them both blaze. The flagstones beneath them cracked and shivered with the heat, and more than one of the servants fainted away, torches toppling to the terrace to gutter out. Storm stood motionless above the pyre until ashes were all that remained of the two shapeshifters.

She looked up, half-naked, front and back in bleeding ruin. Oburglan and the seneschal, Hawklan, gazed white-faced at her, swords in their hands.

"Lady," Hawklan asked, "what are you?"

"One of Mystra's Chosen," Storm answered him wearily. "These were two fell shapeshifters; the real Thael Sembergelt and Dathtor Vaeldeir are dead."

The seneschal licked his lips and asked, "Was that, then, Mystra's silver fire?"

Storm smiled wanly. "It was… pray that you never see its like again."

"Lady," Oburglan asked, his voice husky with fear, "are you… will you be all right?"

"I will be fine soon enough, Lord Sembergelt," Storm said to him. "I grieve for your uncle. I would have liked to come to know him well."

Tears spilled from both their eyes, then, but Oburglan's trembling lips shaped the wondering words, "Lord Sembergelt? You called me…"

One bloody hand came up to trace his chin. He did not raise his blade or flinch away. "You are Lord Sembergelt now," Storm said to him, "and if ever you need comfort or guidance or the aid of Those Who Harp, come to me-or tell any Harper." A trace of a smile came to her lips. "We even help spoiled Sembian lords." She stepped forward and kissed him.

His face was covered with her blood as she drew back, but his eyes shone with a new light through the tears.

"Lady," the seneschal said haltingly, stepping forward, "if there is anything we can do… any aid we can render…" His eyes fell to her wounds, then rose again to her face.

Storm shook her head. "My thanks for your offer, noble Hawklan, but no. I'll be fine. I'll be even better if I know your new lord enjoys the same loving guidance you gave his uncle."

"Lady," Hawklan said quietly, "it shall be so. If you'll permit me?"

And he took her hand, went to his knee, and kissed her bloody fingertips.

Storm smiled at him. "As I bid Oburglan, so also I ask you: Call on me if there is need."

She stepped back from them, looked around at Low Rythryn Towers and the ragged circle of torches, and shook her head.

"One good thing has come of this, at least," she told the two weeping men. "Lord Thael lies where he would have wished: buried in his garden." She smiled at them again, then turned away. It was a long walk back to Shadowdale-and she'd need all that time to heal herself.