Stormlight

FOUR

Candlelight glimmered from end to end of the great hall of Firefall Keep. The air was sharp with the smoke rising from two lines of candle-wheels, which hung above the tables on long, dusty chains. The flickering light danced on dozens of shields, halberds, and suits of armor along the walls, but the loftiest reaches of the hall, above the balconies and minstrels' galleries, were as dark as the night sky. A long table ran down one side of the vast chamber, providing the softly scurrying servants a sideboard to hold steaming covered platters and frosty bottles from the cellars.

The two main tables stood at the midpoint of the hall, well removed from the brightly lit daises at either end. The tables formed a huge V-shape, with chairs along only their outer sides. The two open ends reached toward the long sideboard, outlining an area where dancers might dance, jugglers juggle, players act, and minstrels play.

There was no one in that open space tonight. It didn't take Storm long to figure out why: she was this night's entertainment. Extra candles had been set in man-high candelabra behind her seat, halfway down one wing of one table; the only other well-lit spot was at the meeting of the two wings, where the two dowager ladies of the Summerstars, mother and daughter, sat facing each other.

The nobles who called Firefall Keep home were all gathered here this night, sitting along both wings of the high table. One wing began with the Dowager Lady Zarova, mother to Athlan, known as a woman of serene silence in court gossip-and no doubt cowed into her present timid state by the older dowager lady, Pheirauze. Beside Zarova sat her daughter, now heir of the house, and from her the seats of the lesser Summerstar kindred ran out to where the seneschal sat, with Storm on his right, and only a few ladies-in-waiting and scribes beyond her.

Storm looked again at Shayna. The young Lady Summerstar was truly as beautiful as folk in Cormyr said: slim, graceful, and by the looks of things a trifle shy-not overproud. Waves of glossy chestnut hair tumbled over delicate shoulders. Her skin was almost white, her eyes large and liquid green. A stunning beauty indeed.

As she gazed at the new Summerstar heiress, Storm felt the weight of cold, hostile eyes upon her. She looked in their direction. Across from Zarova sat Pheirauze. She was flanked by a slimly handsome young nobleman, who sat shoulder to shoulder with a lionlike, bearded rogue of a man of about the same age as the dowager lady. His eyes, as they met hers, were both hot with invitation … and cold with dislike.

Storm gave him a slight smile and glanced farther down that table. Beside the sneering sophisticate sat a pair of fearsome old battle-axes. In the candlelight, their jewels glittered like falls of frozen water. The old ladies fixed Storm with identical toadlike glares of hauteur and hatred. The bard gave them both broad, pleasant smiles, and felt a touch of inner amusement as they stiffened in mortification. These two must be the maiden aunts. Beyond them, a handful of kindred gave way to a solid row of war wizards. They faced Storm watchfully-no doubt ready to hurl spells at the well-lit target if she did anything threatening. Storm smiled inwardly. It was going to be one of those evenfeasts.

"Have you. . dined in polite society often, Lady Bard?" asked Uncle Erlandar, curly bearded and suave. His large emerald earrings flashed as they dangled over his steaming soup. His tone made the question a biting insult.

"Many a time, Lord Erlandar" she replied sweetly, "from the table of divine Mystra herself to the breakfast-table of His Majesty, King Azoun. Sometimes, I've even enjoyed myself." She sipped at her peppery soup and thought it was a pity some enthusiast had ruined the subtle flavors of mingled fowl and turtle with the burning buzz of an overly lavish poison. Someone was going to be disappointed when she didn't fall on her face into the soup… and she'd lay money it was someone sitting at this table right now.

"I'm surprised," Erlandar said, his voice dripping false honey, "that a minstrel from such a backwater as Shadowdale has had so many opportunities to pluck strings in exalted surroundings … but of course, one must never cast aspersions on the veracity of a lady's claims-no matter how lowborn the lady."

"She is from the Dales, dear," Dowager Lady Pheirauze said with bright concern. "Folk of such. . ah, unfortunate backgrounds may not realize the importance we place on honesty here in Cormyr."

Storm chuckled as deeply and heartily as any man, and told her goblet, "Yes-Azoun has spoken to me on several occasions of how much he values the all-too-rare commodity of loyalty and honesty among his nobles." She lifted her eyes to regard the diners across from her, and saw glittering amusement in the eyes of several carefully stone-faced war wizards. Cold glares awaited to the left, so she looked instead down her own table. The Lady Shayna was looking down at her plate as she ate, her face crimson … and it was not Storm's replies that were embarrassing her.

Erlandar thought he'd espied an opening in Storm's observation, however, and was roaring, "Do you dare insult the collective honor of the entire nobility of Cormyr, Lady-ah, whatever your name is? Do you actually have the gall to hold yourself in judgment of all the Forest Kingdom?" His words were echoed by hisses of contempt from the two maiden aunts, Margort and Nalanna Summerstar. "By the gods, you lowborn women push us far, sheltered in your immunity from challenges of honor by the sword!"

Storm laughed easily. "Do I understand you correctly, Erlandar Summerstar? Are you. . challenging me?"

"Bah!" he snarled, flicking his fingers in her direction. "I don't make war on women!"

"Ah," Storm informed her goblet, "but I've heard from many lasses in Suzail that you do-and very energetically, at that!"

Down the row of war wizards, someone sputtered as mirth overmastered him. The Dowager Lady Pheirauze immediately leaned forward to try to see who it was, and said sharply, "Oh, Erlandar, don't be tiresome. She only makes you seem ridiculous; waste no more words on coarse country wenches."

A momentary silence followed these words. Another male voice drawled into it. "There is something I'd like to know, Lady Silverhand-and I mean no impertinence."

The speaker was the young and handsome Summerstar male who sat between Pheirauze and Erlandar. This would have to be Thalance, the cousin of Shayna … and, of course, to the dead Athlan.

"Yes, Sir Thalance?" Storm asked, her words a warm, musical invitation.

"I've heard many legends about you and your sisters. Is it true that you're hundreds of years old, and serve the goddess Mystra?"

"Yes, to both of your queries," Storm replied, setting down her empty sipping-bowl of soup.

"So you really have gone all over the Realms and been at many important battles and known famous folk and … all?"

"Yes," Storm said simply.

"Why is it, then, that you aren't ruling a realm somewhere? Why do you live on a farm and go about harping to earn a few coppers now and again? And why do the Harpers you belong to meddle in all sorts of lands, and not rule openly?"

"Good questions, all," Storm told him, and then counted off her replies on her fingers. "I don't want to rule anyone, so I don't. I do love growing things and being able to walk among forests and gardens, so I do. I love music, and meeting people, so I harp. And the Harpers want to help people and fight evil by turning out secrets before they become bigger, darker things-they don't want to rule, either, and so don't."

"I've heard that the Harpers serve a dark and evil god," Erlandar cut in, "and that you and your sisters are immortal because you drink the blood of men you entice." His eyes were dark with anger.

"My, people do say a lot of silly things, don't they?" Storm replied lightly. "I often hear that the nobles of Cormyr summon fiends to build their castles, and breed slaves until the offspring look to make promising heirs-and that King Azoun sleeps with every woman over the age of sixteen between Baldur's Gate and Telflamm … but of course such tales are ridiculous."

More than a few eyes flickered along the tables; Azoun's courting was a matter of vivid legend in the realm.

Erlandar half-rose in his seat, glaring in challenge across the open space, and said, "Now you insult our king! Truly, wench, you go too far!"

Storm saw the seneschal, the Lady Shayna, and one of the war wizards wince at the word wench. Storm kept her easy smile and said, "Is it to be a duel between us, then, Uncle? Wet trout in the pigs' mud-wallow, at dawn?"

"I'm not your uncle," Erlandar snapped, "and I don't duel women or anyone of lesser rank. Is that the only response you know when someone objects to your wild words?"

Storm shrugged, spreading her hands. Her goblet flashed in the firelight. "Perhaps I misjudge you, Lord Summerstar," she said mildly. "I assumed it was the only response you'd understand."

Someone muttered something grimly affirmative under his breath, somewhere along the tables. This time, both Erlandar and the Lady Pheirauze leaned and craned their necks like gawking youths in an attempt to discover the speaker. Shayna Summerstar and her mother drained their goblets in unison, and rang forks against the bases of them to summon refills. At the same time, steaming platters of roast boar were set on the tables. Storm appreciatively sniffed, and helped herself heartily.

As forks flashed into boar, Broglan Sarmyn of the war wizards cut into the silence with a hearty sally. "Pray, forgive me, Lady Silverhand, if this is a question one does not ask, but why were you 'Chosen' by the Divine Mother of Magic as one of her mortal servants? You're not-so far as we know-of the first rank of archmages, or even particularly powerful in magic."

Storm raised an eyebrow. "There is never a crime in asking such things. . but seldom a clear response, either. I truly don't know how much I should reveal of the nature of the Chosen. Why don't you offer a prayer to the divine lady I serve and we both-I presume-worship, and see what she makes clear unto you?"

"Of course," Broglan said politely, unsurprised. "I shall do so later this night." He lapsed into silence with a satisfied air, his purpose accomplished. As they'd spoken, the Lady Pheirauze had leaned over to hiss something in Erlandar's ear-something about adopting a less confrontational manner.

Erlandar leaned forward, raised his glass to Storm to get her attention, and said in coldly polite tones, "I'd forgotten that as a guest here, you may be unfamiliar with your surroundings. You've probably wondered where the name 'Firefall Keep' came from, for example …"

Storm, who knew very well how the keep had won its curious name, said nothing, but favored Erlandar with an encouraging, wordless smile.

"Well, this great fortress we Summerstars call home is named for the vale it stands in-but the vale got its name centuries ago, when our house was founded. A nest of red dragons laired high in the nearby peaks-wyrms so fierce and hungry that elves dared not dwell in the vale, despite whatever bargain had been struck between the old Purple Dragon and the elven Lord of Scepters."

Erlandar's voice rose in volume and passion as he chanted the well-known sentences that followed-and he rose with it, standing with arms spread. He stared almost defiantly across the table at Storm. "Dragons that suffered no elf to stride uneaten in the vale welcomed men even less-or perhaps, welcomed them into their gullets even more. When the founder of our house, Glothgam Summerstar, led his men into the vale, he won past repeated swooping attacks. In time, the dragons retreated to their caves high in Mount Glendaborr-caves you can still see today, if you don't mind facing the ghosts of dragons! There, they worked a mighty magic."

Erlandar leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Storm as if his very glare could slay her. "Then, as now, Turnwyrm Brook flowed down the heart of the vale to join the Immerflow, and Glothgam was camped beside it. As he and his men were watering their horses and bathing, the brook's flowing waters became a roaring river of flame! Many died screaming in this Firefall, but Glothgam did not quail. The wyrms swept down from on high to see what death they'd wrought-and he called on the powers of the enchanted blade he bore, the Sword of the Summer Winds, and soared aloft to meet them, slaying three before the others fled. 'Twould make a handsome ballad, Harper!"

Storm nodded. "It has."

"What?" Erlandar cried in astonishment. "So why've I not heard of such a song?"

"The song centers on the sword, not on Glothgam," Storm said quietly, "and speaks of the greatness the blade could bring Cormyr. Years after minstrels first sang the song, rebels borrowed its words so they could recognize each other at midnight meetings. When the rebellion failed, the king of the time outlawed the ballad-and the Summerstars of the day were only too happy: they'd grown very tired of visiting thieves tearing down every third panel and tapestry in the keep, looking for the lost sword."

"That sword," Erlandar snarled, "is indeed rumored to still he hidden somewhere in this keep. Do the Harpers know anything of its whereabouts?"

Storm shook her head, trying hard not to yawn. There were so many tales of lost enchanted blades that would save the world-or make the finder ruler of some handsome part of it-if they could only be found. "I'm afraid not, Lord Summerstar. . but I do thank you for Glothgam's tale, simply but strongly told." She smiled. "Would you like to become a minstrel?"

Erlandar scowled. "No," he said, obviously biting back other words that had sprung to his mind. He sat down again, shoved aside a platter of boar that had grown cold, and angrily signaled a servant to bring him fresh meat and more wine.

Silence followed Erlandar's last angry bark. Servants scurried, bringing out bowls of green mint-water and table fountains of sweet syrups.

The seneschal and the worried-looking Broglan Sarmyn simultaneously began speaking, trying to carry the conversation brightly onward. They spoke as one, deferred to each other uncomfortably, and tried again, launching into a discussion of the last great royal hunt. It had left from the vale to try to reach Mount Glendaborr. En route, many monsters had been slain. The true nature of the 'ghost dragons' that drifted half-seen around the nearby mountains was obviously a matter of hot local controversy, and an argument erupted that almost everyone except Storm and the senior Summerstars joined.

The Bard of Shadowdale settled into carefully watching other diners, looking for the slight gestures of a stealthily cast spell or the shifting of muscles that might herald the hurling of a blade. She was paying particular care to the coldly smiling mask that was the face of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze. The matriarch was obviously aware of her scrutiny, and was letting nothing slip-if anything ever did.

Storm did, however, notice when Thalance slowly and quietly drew his chair back, to sit sipping wine and listening… and a little later, silently set down his glass and slipped away.

The seneschal obviously thought the debate about the ghost dragons was far too familiar ground to still hold any interest. He turned to Storm to remark quietly, "I must leave briefly to attend my duties, Lady Silverhand-but before I go, I think it best to tell you just a little more about the Summerstars than you've yet been privy to. I'd like to avoid armed battle here in the keep between you and any of them, if at all possible."

"I, too," Storm murmured.

Renglar Baerest smiled tightly, and said, "Know, then: the Lady Pheirauze has never remarried, but persistent rumors have linked her to no less than three generations of the Illance noble line. I'd not speak disparagingly of that family-nor allude to any closeness between it and herself-if I were you."

He inclined his head toward another Summerstar. "You have already measured Erlandar; be warned that he likes to crush women or bed them, and will not rest, now, until he's served you with one fate or the other. We see little of Thalance-he's faded away on us again now, I see-but I'm told the local loose ladies and young drinkers do."

He sighed, and added more quietly, his voice just barely above a whisper, "The Lady Zarova has tried to take her own life more than once, when her mother-in-law was particularly. . difficult. Before wedding Pyramus, she was of the noble house of Battlestar, who dwell on the West Shore, not far outside Suzail. She'll be intensely uncomfortable if you ask her anything in front of Pheirauze or Erlandar."

The seneschal glanced down the table at the two senior Summerstar nobles as he named them, and noticed the eyes of the elder dowager lady were cold, hard as daggers, and fixed firmly on him.

With a smile, he turned back to Storm and said, a trifle more loudly, "An unexpected pleasure to meet a fellow gardener; we must talk again. I've heard how lush you and your neighbors keep Shadowdale."

"And I'm interested in the herb-plantings I saw on my way in," Storm replied promptly. "Yes, let's trade secrets.. and seeds." They exchanged nods of agreement, and the seneschal rose, bowed, and left the hall. The eyes of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze followed his every step-and when he was gone, turned swiftly back to meet those of Storm, who had been watching her.

Storm raised her goblet to Pheirauze in salute, added a merry smile and a nod. Then she glanced toward the war wizards. They seemed to have forgotten their guest for the moment. With heat and scornful disputation, they discussed the legendary and recent hauntings of Firefall Keep.

"Any fool-save perhaps yourself, Hundarr-knows phantoms can't carry or disturb swords and coins and such! If things were stolen or shifted about, we're talking some other sort of undead!"

"Well, Sir Exalted Expert, what sort?"

"Gods take you, Hund-"

"Goodsirs!" Erlandar said firmly. "Entertaining though this may be-and I'm not one to miss a chance to hear a mage make a fool of himself-I've heard about enough nonsense for one night! I doubt our guest appreciates knowing what fearsome thing lurks in the Haunted Tower! It's enough to know that something fell and sinister is there-something that slew young Athlan, pride of the Summerstars. Keeping out of the Haunted Tower is the best policy for us all to follow." He swung his head to deliver a cold, heavy glare across the table, and added, "Even clever and beautiful Harpers."

Storm laughed lightly. "Another of your challenges, Lord Summerstar? They come so thick and fast-almost like the courting comments of an ardent man!"

Erlandar Summerstar grinned slowly. "Aye, so they do … strange the similarities, eh?"

Storm smiled back at him, but let her eyes show her true feelings. If she'd thought to leave just a little of that soup, she could have kissed the man and passed the poison on to him. ..

Erlandar winked at her, and then leered again. No, Storm thought, poison was too gentle. It had to be a sword-deftly wielded, to make his end slow and painful….

Erlandar winked again. Well, Storm thought, painful at any rate.

Renglar Baerest, seneschal of Firefall Keep, stood in the courtyard of the fortress he had come to love, facing a silently floating strongchest. It belonged to a woman who might well be able to shatter the keep and hurl it down stone by stone until only windblown dust was left. Seneschal or not, he might well be making a terrible mistake-but he had to be sure.

Swallowing, Renglar took a step forward and laid a firm hand on the side of the chest. It promptly and silently sank to a gentle grounding on the cobbles, and opened itself. The seneschal stared down at the satchels, coffers, duffels, and trunks crammed into it. He sighed and began carefully lifting them out and placing them on the blanket-padded service carts he'd brought. It was a long way to the quarters he'd chosen for the most distinguished-and dangerous-guest to visit the keep during his tenure, but this was one job he was going to do alone.

He'd have insisted on that even if any of the servants had dared to help him.

"We call it brittle tart," Lady Margort Summerstar said stiffly. "And serve it with dry wine at the end of most high meals." She paused for a moment, and then asked coldly, "You do have dessert in-oh, wherever is it again, dear?"

"Shadowdale," her sister said with a sneer, rubies glittering as she leaned sideways to speak by Margort's ear.

"Ah, yes, thank you, Nalanna," Margort continued. "You do have desserts in Shadowdale, don't you?"

"Once or twice a year," Storm said solemnly, "when dragging the plows around all day and whipping ourselves to go faster leaves us enough energy to eat an extra course. Then we enjoy crushed apples, or sometimes just handfuls of sugar. We're too poor and backward to have oxen, you see."

"Ah," the Lady Nalanna Summerstar said in tones of satisfaction. "I thought so."

"Lady Silverhand," the Dowager Lady Pheirauze said coldly, "stop toying with my kinswomen. I expect better behavior from my guests."

Storm raised her brows as she set the last bones of her roast boar aside. It had been delicious-poisoned again, but delicious. "They do seem to keep disappointing you, though, don't they?"

"We do not," Pheirauze observed frostily, "have many guests here in the vale."

"Aye," Storm Silverhand replied, tossing a stray lock of long silver hair back over her right shoulder to join the rest of the glossy flow there, "that I can well believe."

One of the war wizards snickered, and Pheirauze stiffened. Only pride kept her from looking away from Storm's steady gaze. An instant later, anger broke that reserve, and the dowager lady's head snapped around. By then, though, the mage had recovered his control, and all the war wizards wore frowningly thoughtful faces.

Damn them, Pheirauze thought. Just once, she'd like to wipe that smug standing-above-everyone-but-caring-about-the-realm worldly confidence off their faces. Just once. She wondered what it would take…

Renglar Baerest, seneschal of Firefall Keep, puffed one last time into the room with the soft gray tapestries. Lady Maerla's Room, it was-the most remote and smallest of the guest apartments, and hard by the dusty passages that led into the Haunted Tower. It was a fitting place for Lady Silverhand to sleep. Maerla had been a Harper and a quiet, strong-willed woman who'd dabbled in magic, the family history said. She was an adventuress who'd married a Summerstar out of love.

It was also said in the family that Maerla's room was haunted-more strongly than the entire Haunted Tower, if folk Maerla disapproved of tried to sleep in her bed. The seneschal thoughtfully regarded the soaring gray canopy of that central sleeping-place, bowed, and told the empty air around him, "Pray, excuse this intrusion, Lady Maerla. As seneschal of the keep, it is my paramount duty to see to the security of us all, so I must search the belongings of the lady who'll be sleeping here this night: Storm Silverhand, a Harper of some repute. Forgive me."

The silence was deafening. Renglar shrugged, bent over the largest trunk, and lifted its lid. Thankfully, the Lady Storm felt confident enough in her power not to bother with locks, and the old amulet he wore ought to ward off at least one spell trap. Its feeble powers might not protect against a second magic, though-which is why he was starting with the things least likely to be protected. An old, scratchy gray wool cloak covered everything. Renglar took careful note of the way it was folded, lifted it aside, and cautiously plucked out what lay beneath.

A belt bristling with sheathed daggers, several slim-heeled boots that a Purple Dragon would look ridiculous in… and a spare sword. Best leave that sheathed for now; it probably did bear magics. The next item glowed with faint enchantments even when closed and undisturbed. By its shape, the seneschal recognized the smooth wooden case as the home of a harp.

Well, of course. She was the Bard of Shadowdale. Renglar turned to the next trunk. It seemed to be full of tattered silk … well, no.

He held one garment up, frowned, turned it around-and swallowed. He let it fall onto the lid and plucked up the next one. And then the next. His frown deepened. These were not the sort of gauzy under-things respectable women wore.

His frown turned into a smile when he saw what lay at the bottom of the trunk, beneath thirty or more scarves, sashes, and silken nothings: a leather war harness. It was the plain, sturdy sort that a working soldier would wear, as slashed, mended, and sweat-stained as most. Renglar restored both trunks to the way they'd been and turned to nearest duffel.

Being a seneschal in Firefall Keep involved more than one man's share of odd tasks. Like this one: unwrapping a canvas bundle to reveal a garment that seemed to be made entirely of lengths of fine chain. He'd give a lot to know when she'd have occasion to wear a gown like this. …

No, he couldn't think of any prudent way to ask her. Renglar sighed, and reached deeper into the duffel.

Wait-what was this?

"Weather magic has always been a temptation," Storm told them, "but the teachings of Baerauble-if any of his own words have survived-should tell you why it must be avoided. Weather magic affects more than one's own land. Things can quickly escalate into wars that ruin realms and break the power of both combatants. I've seen it happen."

"Oh, of course" Hundarr Wolfwinter agreed derisively. "You've lived since before there were sunrises, and seen it all… of course. Still-"

He broke off, staring, even before Broglan Sarmyn could voice a rebuke. They all followed his gaze to the source of his amazement: a huge silver platter bristling with the slim spires of wine and liqueur bottles. The platter and its burden were both splendid, but hardly unusual at a feast such as this. What was unusual was that it was drifting slowly across the empty space between the tables, approaching the senior Summerstars.

"Pah!" Erlandar half-rose, his hand going to the dagger at his belt. "Wizards' tricks!"

"But no," Broglan protested. "None of us has-"

"Ah," Storm said firmly, "but one of us has."

She raised her eyes to look steadily at one of the war wizards and said softly, "Clever, Corathar Abaddarh. A deft little spell that very few would notice you casting … but is such a working prudent, given the situation here? The talk of hauntings, and the bereavement of the Summerstars? The danger we may all face?"

The platter crashed to the floor in a thunderous shattering of glass. "I'm not a child, lady, to be told off so," Corathar snarled, eyes flaming, "and I'll thank you to-"

His face paled, and he fell silent. The platter trembled, rose slowly, and proceeded on its interrupted journey. The shattered bottles rattled nervously atop the silver.

"Enough!" Storm said sharply. "Consider us all impressed by your little cantrip, and end your magic at once!"

"I'm… I'm not, now …" Corathar stammered, swallowed, and then managed to add, "lady, this is not my doing!"

Storm looked along the row of war wizards, and then at the Summerstars. Frowning perplexity showed among the former, and growing, suspicious fear filled the eyes of the latter. Even Pheirauze looked uneasy. "Stop it," Storm said firmly, "whoever is working this!"

The platter continued on its unhurried, drifting way. Storm sighed and vaulted the table in a swirl of silver hair, reaching out both hands to grasp the platter with its cargo of toppled and shattered glass.

She murmured the words that should have spun away all magic as her hands closed on the chased and fluted silver handles. Instead of the peaceful silence that should have followed, the world exploded in roaring flames.

White-hot and hungry they howled. Fire raced up from the floor to scorch the lofty beams of the feast hall. It rushed out of empty air and entirely hid the lady bard from view.

Wizards gasped curses and lady servants screamed as the flames roared on. In the rafters, a banner burned through and fluttered down in a lazy ribbon of sparks. Still the flames roared on, until Shayna was sobbing and even Erlandar was on his feet staring up at the ceiling of the hall and cursing in fear-fear that the whole roof would come crashing down on them.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, the flames were gone. They left behind cracking tiles, groaning stones, and the reek of burnt wood and human hair. The diners all stared at the thing of tottering bones and ashes that should have held a melted platter-and gasped in unison.

Droplets of silver and glass lay like glistening rain on the blackened and shattered tiles, yes. But standing at their heart was a faintly smiling, weary-eyed woman. Her silver hair was curling and writhing lazily around her, a forest of roused snakes. The ends of those silver tresses were blackened and shriveled, but Storm Silverhand was otherwise unharmed. They could see that clearly enough. Most of her clothing had gone with the vanished flames. Her gown was now no more than ashes and blackened tatters, clinging to limbs that seemed … unharmed!

The others stared at her. Storm returned their look, arms still spread to grasp a platter that no longer existed. She said mildly, "My roast boar was quite well cooked already, thank you."

Her eyes darted from diner to diner as she spoke, seeking traces of guilt or disappointment or baffled fury in their eyes. . but she found only smirks or looks of horror on the female faces, and the beginnings of avid admiration from the males.

There were two exceptions. Broglan of the war wizards looked even more worried than usual-genuine concern, she judged. And the elderly steward of the hall was aghast. Black beard and mustache trembling in his haste, he swept a cloth off a bare section of the serving table, and hurried toward her, raising it like a shield.

Storm thanked him with a smile. He reached her, gabbled out mortified apologies-as if what had befallen her was his fault-and whipped the cloth around her as an improvised gown. What was his name, now? The seneschal had rattled it off, complete with a list of the battles the old man had fought in, in his days as a Purple Dragon. . Ah, yes: Ilgreth. Ilgreth. . Drimmer.

"My thanks for your swift-witted kindness," Storm told the old man, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, "but I prefer garments a trifle less drafty. Perhaps you'll conduct me to my room?"

Drimmer nodded almost beseechingly. He waved at her to accompany him, and then turned and scurried away. Storm followed, staring thoughtfully at his back. He'd flinched at her touch. . but then, that was understandable when he'd just seen flames roaring up around her. Who knew what might have burst from her fingers?

A few paces away from the table she turned, favored all of the guests with a broad, easy smile, and said, "Save me some wine-I'll be back!"

Then she turned her back on them all, tore off the tablecloth and swung it over her shoulder like a shawl, and strode away in Ilgreth Drimmer's wake.

He hastened to one dais, turned at its doors, and gulped at her fashion rearrangement. "If you'll follow me, gracious lady," he said faintly, whirling back to face the door, "your chambers are this way…."

The route he led her along was a long one, but Storm trailed him for only three passages and two rooms before she caught up with him, laid a firm hand on his shoulder, and said, "Catch your breath, good steward, and talk to me."

Ilgreth slid frightened eyes around to meet hers. With a puff of ash, a strip of blackened gown fell away from her shoulders. He quickly looked away again. "Talk? What about?"

"Lord Athlan's death-and anything untoward that's befallen since," Storm said crisply, ignoring the ongoing ruin of her gown. Another scrap drifted away from the still-sturdy cuff about her left wrist.

"I–I don't know where I stand, Lady," the steward replied frankly. "How far will what I tell you travel?"

"Do you mean, will I reveal that you told me things?" Storm asked, eye to eye. He nodded, and she said firmly, "Not at all. I heard nothing from you except: 'This room is yours, lady.'"

His face split in a sudden grin, and his eyes dipped involuntarily to survey her smooth curves-which made him blush and the smile hastily vanish again.

Storm laughed merrily and said, "Look all you want! I'm not ashamed of this body-but it still amazes me how many men are!"

That make him look quickly away again and sputter through his mustache, "Have done, please, lady. We're almost at a guard post."

Storm sighed, wove the tablecloth around herself, and assumed a stately stride at his heels. He slowed, matching her mood. They swept past the startled guards in silence. They were two rooms beyond, at the midpoint of a long hall lined with statues, when he spoke again.

"There have always been deaths in the keep," he muttered abruptly, so that Storm had to bend forward over his shoulder to hear. "Mainly among us-the servants, I mean-and always in the Haunted Tower. Warnings to us, to keep out. Once it was a chambermaid and a hostler who'd gone there together, if you take my meaning. They were found by the daily guard patrol, lying in each other's arms-headless."

He walked on a few more paces for emphasis before adding, "We never found the heads."

They passed through another door and turned left down the hall beyond. Drimmer looked cautiously up and down it before continuing. "Lord Summerstar was different-as was this last one. They were both found burned out inside, like something had sucked their innards away. Well, no; burned them out from within, more like. I saw ashes trail from the body when they laid my Lord Athlan on the table to be shrouded."

" 'This last one'-the Harper, you mean?"

The steward came to an abrupt halt. "Ah-no, lady … haven't they told you?"

Storm sighed. "Obviously not. Why don't you tell me, then?"

Ilgreth Drimmer nodded. "There's been a third gone, just before your arrival, lady. The war wizards think you struck him down."

"Why?" Storm asked calmly.

The old steward's eyes flicked sideways to assure himself that she was as level-hearted as she sounded. She was. He replied, "A Harper pin was found on the body-and it was not the pin belonging to the dead Harper. I fear Sarmyn thought it was a boast from you."

"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.