The Best of the Realms, Book II

NOT THE MOST SUCCESSFUL OF FEASTS

It was the hour of the Casting of the Cloak, when the goddess Shar hurled her vast garment of purple darkness, all a-glitter with stars, across the sky. The last rosy embers of the day glimmered on the long hair of a lone rider who came out of the west, lengthening shadows creeping ahead of her. It had been a cool day, and the night promised to be clear and cold.

The woman looked around at the gathering nightdark as she rode. Her black, liquid eyes were startlingly large and framed by arched black brows—looks that betrayed a stern power and keen wits at odds with her demure beauty. Most men did not look past her regal figure and the warm, honey-brown tresses curling around her pert, bone-white face. Queens might lust after her proud beauty—one at least did, of a certainty. Yet as she rode along, her large eyes held no pride… only sadness. Wildfires had raged across all these lands in the spring, leaving behind legions of charred and blackened leafless spars instead of the lush green beauty she recalled. Such fond memories were all that was left of Halangorn Forest now.

As dusk came down on the dusty road, a wolf howled somewhere away to the north.

The call was answered from near at hand, but the lone rider showed no fear. Her calm would have raised the eyebrows of the hardened knights who dared ride that road only in large, well-armed patrols—and their wary surprise would not have ended there.

The lady rode easily, a long cloak swirling around her. Time and again gusts of wind made it flap forward around her hips. Only a fool-at-arms would hamper her sword arm so thoroughly—but this tall, lean lady rode the perilous road without even a sword at her hip.

A patrol of knights would have judged her either a madwoman or a sorceress, and reached for their blades accordingly. They’d not have been wrong.

The sigil worked in silvern threads on the shoulders of her cloak was not unknown in Faerun; those linked circles of magefire proclaimed her to be the sorceress Myrjala, called “Darkeyes,” feared for her wild ways as much as for the might of her magic. More farmers and townsfolk loved her than did proud lords in castles; she’d been known to hurl down cruel barons and plundering knights like a vengeful whirlwind, leaving their blazing bodies as a dark warning to others. In some places she was most unwelcome.

As night’s full gloom fell on the road, Myrjala slowed her horse, turned in her saddle, and did off her cloak. She spoke a single soft word, and the cloak twisted in her hands, changing hue from its usual dark green to russet. The silver mage-sigil slithered and writhed like an angry snake and became a pair of entwined golden trumpets.

The transformation did not end with the cloak. Long curls darkened and shrank about Myrjala’s shoulders—shoulders suddenly alive with roiling, moving humps of muscle as they broadened. The hands that drew the cloak back on were hairy and stubby-fingered. They plucked a scabbarded blade out from the packroll behind the saddle, and belted it on. Thus armed, the elegantly-bearded man in the saddle arranged his cloak so its newly-shaped herald’s badge could be clearly seen. He then scratched his nose thoughtfully, listened to the wolf howl again—closer now—and calmly urged his mount forward at a trot, over one last hill. Where the most feared sorceress in these lands might be met with arrows and ready blades, a lord herald was always welcome.

The guards were lighting the lamps over the gate as the herald’s horse came clottering over the wooden drawbridge. The badge on his cloak and tabard were recognized, and he was greeted with quiet courtesy by the gate-guards. A bell tolled once within, and the Knight of the Gate bade him hasten in to the evening feast with a wave of his gauntlet and the rote words: “Be welcome in Morlin Castle, if ye come in peace.”

The herald bowed his head in the usual silent response.

” ‘Tis a long way from Tavaray, Lord Herald. Ye must know hunger,” the knight added less formally, helping him down from his mount. The herald took a few slow steps with the stiffness of one long in the saddle, and smiled thinly.

Startlingly dark eyes rose to meet the knight’s smile. “Oh, I’ve come much farther than that,” the herald said softly. He nodded a wordless farewell and strode away into the castle without hesitation. He walked like a man who knew the way—and his welcome—well.

The Knight of the Gate watched him go, his face expressionless in puzzlement. An armsman nearby leaned close and murmured, “No spurs … and no esquires or armsmen … what manner of herald is this?”

The Knight of the Gate shrugged. “If he lost them on the road, or there’s some other tale of interest, we’ll know it soon enough. See to his horse.” He turned—and stiffened in fresh surprise.

The herald’s horse was standing close by, watching him, for all the world as if it were listening to their talk. As it met his startled look, it nodded and took a half-step forward to bring its reins smoothly to the armsman’s hand. The two men exchanged startled looks, and then the armsman rather warily led the horse away.

The knight watched it for a moment, then shrugged and strode back to the mouth of the gate. There’d doubtless be much talk on watch later, whatever befell.

Out in the night, nearby, a wolf howled again. One of the horses snorted and stamped nervously. The knight cast a look back over his shoulder and saw the herald’s mount calmly looking from side to side as it was led off to the inner stables. He shook his head and went up the stairs to his post above the gate.

* * * * *

In the hours after dusk, within the vast and smoky high hall of Morlin Castle, Lord Breiyr sat at ease at the great curved feasting table facing the dance and play of the hearthfire. The spit-frames, their sizzling burdens well seared, had been drawn away from the relentless heat of the leaping flames, whose amber shadows danced on the walls all around the seated company.

That company was only three in number, for all the steaming, shining-plattered feast laid between them.

Plentiful and splendid it stretched, studded with a fair dozen roasts adorning the raised dishes-of-honor. Between these mountains of meat stood a small forest of lesser, shinier vessels. Some lay open-topped, displaying sauces that sparkled in the firelight like dark pools with gems shining in their depths. Ever-curling wisps of steam rose from deep silver bowls that held innards in gravy. These were set amid gleaming brass plates of honey-laced fruit skewers and tall, slender decanters of red wine. Reflected flames flickered in their ruby depths, casting back leaping red shadows on the faces of the diners.

At the center of the curved feasting table sat the Lord of Morlin, Baron of Steeping Falls and Lord Protector of the Sword Hills. He was a stout man, an old lion of a warrior come to the gray shadow of his years. In the bright days of his youth he’d gone up against ore hordes, hobgoblin hosts,

and warbands of giants—and even now, the songs of the wandering bards remembered well his valor. Some called him a simple man, rough of manner and speech, and it is true he had little liking for subtlety or deceit, and much love for good food and mead, and hale friends to share both with. He could still get into his old, scarred armor, and heavy rings of beaten gold adorned his long fingers, knobbed and scarred where they’d been broken by heavy sword-blows through his gauntlets or cut by seeking blades when those gauntlets had failed. The lord’s keen eyes darted under bushy brows from one of his guests to the other—for he was not enjoying his meal, and they were the cause.

An elderly male servant in a worn doublet deftly set down a full goblet and a bottle of the chilled, emerald-hued mint wine from Ardeep at one end of the table. The haughty, sharp features of the elf who sat there softened momentarily in thanks. The brief smile was dazzling, and the servant almost paused to gawk at the tall, sinuous high elf-lord, whose large silver eyes glimmered with a look somehow too sly for an elf. And yet his pointed ears, his fine bronze skin, and his golden-blond hair—a mane as long as a maid’s, pulled back severely to the nape of his neck in a filigreed pin that winked with fine gems and spell-dazzle—proclaimed him one of the eldest and haughtiest race of elves. He wore a white silk shirt with an overtunic of gilden shimmerweave, and lounged at ease in his chair as he reached for the new-brought wine.

At the same time, a serving-lady of like age set a bedewed talltankard of beer in front of the diner at the other end of the table: a broad and broken-nosed dwarf whose scarred face was flinty as he glared unwinking across the room at the elf-lord.

The elf allowed an answering sneer to fall for an instant across his lips, then turned his head pointedly away to address his host at the center of the table. “Are your crops good this summertide, my Lord?”

Lord Breiyr’s ruddy face split into a relieved smile. His two distinguished guests had stiffened at first sight of each other, and he dared not offend either, for all their rudenesses. Both were important folk—barons, or better—in their own realms.

Old realms, and proud; lands wealthy enough to beggar all the human holds in the Northlands. Lands whose folk openly looked down on their newcome human neighbors. No doubt, were he lord of either, he’d do so too. He’d also keep a wary eye on the battle-strength and doings of the lords of men… as both of his guests were no doubt charged to. A cruel whim of the gods must have brought them both to his gates on the same evening. So, at least, he hoped.

The stout, red-faced lord looked warily from one guest to another, then turned to answer the elf. His two guests had traded more than enough elaborate, cutting insults over wine before dusk. If they’d now decided to be civil to each other long enough to enjoy the feast, he’d best seize the opportunity to set them both at ease and make them feel welcome. More than that, it was his duty. Not for the first time, he wished his smooth-tongued wife were still alive. She’d have known so much better what to say.

Lord Breiyr rumbled with friendly uncertainty, like an awakening dragon deciding how best to greet its mate, and said, “We’re hopeful of a good harvest, my lord Falaeve— though we haven’t the way of working with the land that your tree-tenders have.” He turned his head hastily to smile at the glowering dwarf, and said, “Nor have we any wisdom at growing things in sheltered depths—nor any caverns near, this close to the river.” He left a little pause, but neither guest responded, so he gathered himself to fill the silence with just a touch of weariness, like a patient bear after a fish has darted away from its paws yet again, and added, “So long as none go hungry this winter, with so many trees gone.”

“I’ve never seen such fires before,” the dwarf grunted around the edge of the talltankard. He set it down firmly on the board before him and added darkly, “There’s talk that careless magic—or worse, malicious spells—started it.”

“Talk?” The hawk-nosed elf leaned forward. His tone was light, but the word seemed to flash like a flourished blade. “Talk among whom?”

“Dwarves, of course,” the bearded stalwart said deliberately, his beard jutting forward as he leaned across the laden board before him. “Who else would I listen to—or put any credence in the words of?”

The elf raised his shoulders and brows together in an elaborate shrug and pointedly turned his head away again to address their host. The dwarf growled warningly, but whatever unpleasantness might have followed was lost forever in — the scrape of the steward’s staff of office.

All three at the table turned at the sound, and the elf’s face froze in disapproval; Lord Breiyr had named his own daughter to the stewardship rather than some old, loyal warrior. Her clear tones rang out in the cavernous hall as she grounded her staff hollowly on the flagstones thrice, and said, “My Lord of Morlin! I am come with a guest we welcome within our walls: Huntinghorn, Herald of Tavaray!”

There was a faint murmur among the servants who stood about the walls of the hall and were bent to the spits before the hearth; lord heralds were rare visitors this far up the Delimibyr. Still, there’d been talk of risings and unrest in the wake of the devastating fires in the spring, and troubled times always brought messengers and envoys out, both the great and the small. Curious eyes sought the shadows behind the steward as Lord Breiyr, in glad relief at this unlooked-for reprieve from verbal dueling, said eagerly, “Let him be welcome indeed in Morlin, so long as he attend us here, and share our feast! Bring him as soon as his needs of the journey are met, that we may speak together, and share good cheer!”

The steward bowed her head, but did not hasten out. She stepped back and aside, and a dark-clad man, elegant and bearded, strode from the shadows behind her, straight to the chair of the Lord.

There he bowed, and his sword flashed out. It caught the light of the leaping flames as he made the full salute—most often tendered to kings or great lords—to the Lord of Morlin Castle, who blushed with pleasure amid the awed, pleased murmur.

The watching elven lord drew himself up in even greater disapproval at this, glaring at the young, bearded herald— who met his gaze for a deliberate instant with black eyes that held hard, cold disdain, before dropping them again to smile almost fondly at the stout old Lord.

“Down by the sea, I’ve heard only good things about Morlin, and when night finds me here on my travels, I come in and find the words all true,” the herald said in a light yet strong voice. “My Lord, I am pleased to know you. Peace and good fortune attend this fair hall.”

Lord Breiyr rumbled with pleasure and spread a large hand to indicate the food. “As we are honored by your presence, Lord Herald. Be welcome, and be aware we know pleasure at your company. Will you sit with us and feast? This night my humble hall already holds two distinguished guests: Arthlach, Axelord of the Hold of Westdelve in Ammarindar”—the dwarf nodded gravely, talltankard in hand—“and Highlord Falaeve, of Siluvanede. We were just talking of the unfortunate fires this spring past, and of what may have caused them.”

The young man nodded smoothly as he descended into a chair hastily made ready for him to the Lord’s right. “Rumors of dark magic?”

Highlord Falaeve did not quite sneer. “So the—good— Axelord”—he hesitated only an instant at the descriptive word, long enough for all in the hall to clearly hear it, yet not quite long enough for the dwarf to take open offense— “believes, or do his companions among the Stout Folk. What say you, my Lord Herald?”

The man and the elf both openly studied each other—and when their eyes met, there was a greater tension in the room than the Lord Breiyr had ever felt in his home before. He paled and groped at his belt for a sword that was not there.

The man who was not a man looked across the curve of the great feasting-table, into eyes that were proud and cold. A twist was playing about the lips of the high elf-lord that was not quite a sneer, but made his assumption of superiority clear to everyone in the hall. The silver griffon of Siluvanede was worked in gold wire on the gem-adorned bracers the elf wore and they flashed as he slowly raised his slim crystal goblet of mint wine to his lips, without ever taking his eyes from the herald’s.

Highlord Falaeve had stared down many a man before— haughtier, stronger men than this puppy in a tabard. The man wore the crossed trumpets of Huntinghorn, and must have come as one of the regal envoys of the coastal human lords—Elember, perhaps. The man was sleek and slim and wore a neatly-trimmed, short beard that curled about his chin like the fur of a hunting cat. A smooth courtier—the sort of man who thought himself both subtle and clever.

Highlord Falaeve smiled slightly and put his wine down again, making the smallest of signs with one long, slim finger. The servant saw and glided forward silently to refill the goblet.

The silence had lasted so long that it could almost be heard—the high skirling of ready swords, jangling above the crackle of the hearthfire. Or perhaps it was just the sound of taut, restive nerves.

“My—good—Highlord of Siluvanede,” Huntinghorn said softly, precisely duplicating the elf-lord’s deliberate hesitation, “I do not term such beliefs mere ‘rumors.’ It has been my misfortune to see—in a scrying pool cast by my good friend the Aeltagarr, whom I know you revere as the most senior sorceress of your realm—” he paused, and the elf bowed his head stiffly, angry eyes glittering in a face that had paled slightly,“foul sorcery worked to butcher your kinfolk and hurl back the woods, so as to expand the borders of a human realm and win it space for more farms.”

“And what human mage worked this destruction?” Highlord Falaeve asked, voice very soft. “One of those irresponsible children of Netheril?”

Somewhere in the hall, a servant gasped audibly. The rise of Netheril was told of in half a hundred cradle-tales and folk rumors; its magical might had kept even the spellstrong elven lords and the numberless, savage ores at bay when men first came to the North, and though its might had long passed, it remained a shining memory—a memory, the priests said, that had been passed down for more than a thousand winters… the lives of thirty fathers and sons. Could this elf-lord be as old as that?

Yet the herald was shaking his head. “Your pardon, lord,” he said to Breiyr, and then turned back to set calm words before the elf. “Nay, Highlord. No lich nor immortal Netherese sorcerer-king. Nay—‘twas a man high in the councils of a land near this one: the realm of Athalantar.”

Lord Breiyr gaped, and there was a stir in the hall, a wordless rustling of cloth as servants leaned or stepped forward to hear better. The elf-lord’s lips thinned. “Enough foolishness,” he said. “That is a land of simple farmers and boar-hunting swordswingers whose young king has had the sense to gather in a few landless hedge-wizards to advise him. They’ve neither the magical skill nor the want to work such destroying magic.”

The herald smiled without humor. “So I, too, thought. And yet they’ve broken much of the burned lands with their plows this summer, and work at it still.”

“What man would not take advantage of such a happening? Men wait about, and rush in to seize or slay when they find weakness or opportunity. It is their way.” The elf-lord spoke coldly—and in the stillness that followed his bitter words, all in the hall saw the dwarf nod his head, slowly and reluctantly.

“Aye,” Lord Breiyr rumbled hesitantly. “The boar-hunting princes of the Stag? ‘Tis hard to believe.”

The herald spread his hands. “I saw what I saw. Do you tell me the Aeltagarr deceived me, working her scrying falsely? I’ve seen such spells worked many times before, and know them well; there was no deceit in her casting. Moreover, she did not know who the man was in her pool. I did, and have spent much time since then trying to find other tellings and signs to prove her right or wrong.”

“And?” The elf-lord’s soft tones were a silken challenge.

“I work still. I have found certain things that may prove her right. Nothing that proves the other.”

“Yet,” the Highlord said in soft dismissal.

“Would you cry the Aeltagarr false, my lord?” The herald spoke mildly, but there was an edge of rebuke in his tone that made the elf flush. “I would not like to report that when next I see her.”

Highlord Falaeve waved a long-fingered hand in dismissal.

“Enough! One foolish or careless wizard o’erreaching himself, then. Not a plot hatched in such a simple realm … a good neighbor to these folk here.” He waved at the hall around, and won a few nods among the servants along the walls. “I’d not hear such slander against a realm entire, without much more to make it stand. I’ve seen, o’er more years than you or anyone else here—perhaps all of you together, saving only milord dwarf—that many truths and beliefs, especially matters of intrigue, when looked at hard and long by right-minded folk, blow away like mist before the bright sun of late morn.”

Stretching himself like a lean and dangerous cat, he raised his mint wine. Holding it up to catch the firelight, he said, “So let us hear no more dark talk of Athalantar. ‘Tis unseemly, when one is a guest.”

“Nay,” the dwarf rapped out, breaking his long silence. He leaned forward, his bristling beard as amber in the firelight as the mane of a lion, and said, gesturing with a leg of spiced lamb as if it were a scepter, “Say on! Not of wizards felling forests, an’ all that. Tell me more of this Athalantar. We’ve heard of strife there, an’ I know not enough of the place to know what to believe. Tell me more of it, my Lord Breiyr!”

The Lord of Morlin cleared his throat with an uncertain rumble. He was a direct man, an old warrior who liked simple questions, orders, and views; explaining the whys and wherefores of an entire realm was a task beyond him. He spread his hands. “I—well, eh, my lord herald, ye are a better judge of things there, having seen more of other lands to compare…”

The herald inclined his head. “I shall essay a quick guide, my lord.” He turned to face the dwarf and said, “Athalantar is very much as you’ve heard—a land of farmers and foresters, with but one hold of size: Hastarl. It is called the Kingdom of the Stag for its last king, Uthgrael Aumar, dead these eight years. He had seven sons, known widely as the Warring Princes. Since their father’s death, they’ve fought for the throne. One had no interest in such strife; another has grown rich in far Calimshan and has shown no desire to return; at least one, and perhaps others, are dead; and the

eldest, Belaur, seems now to hold the Stag Throne. Among the Heralds, though, we wonder who really rules.”

“Men wonder many things,” the elf-lord said smoothly. “One must always take care lest such wonderments be mere castles of fancy.”

“Oh?” the dwarf shot back. “Among my folk, we value plain speech. Say on, sir herald, and heed not the clack of overclever tongues.”

The elf drew himself up coldly, but the dwarf ignored him, bending his gaze on the young herald, while the Lord of Morlin sat looking uncomfortably from one guest to another.

The bearded man smiled reassuringly at his host, and said, “Our concern over the rule of Athalantar stems from Belaur’s manner of achieving victory. He bought, or allied himself with, human wizards from other lands, who are now a strong force in Athalantar. Men call them ‘the Magelords.’”

“Which men?” the elven Highlord asked smoothly. He stretched again, and shook out his long silken sleeves. The dwarf and the herald both watched narrowly and saw long elven fingers, half-hidden beneath the silk, moving in intricate gestures.

“The snake casts a spell!” the dwarf snarled, as he hurled his gnawed leg of lamb across the space between them. His powerful shoulders rippled with the throw, and the bone spun swiftly, catching the elf full in the face and rocking him back in his chair.

Servants shrieked, shouted, and fled. The elf shrieked in fury, grease and sauce shining together on his face, and thrust out one hand. As he pointed at the dwarf, face darkening with rage, a ring on that hand winked with sudden light.

The dwarf roared in fear and anger. His hand streaked to his belt. An instant later, as the Lord of Morlin bellowed in anger and fright of his own and tried to shove himself up from his table with hands no longer as strong as they looked, metal flashed and spun in the firelight. A war axe of the dwarves, flung as hard and as fast as Axelord Arthlach could hurl it, crossed the air even before the dwarf could get out the roar, “For Ammarindar!”

Highlord Falaeve of Siluvanede seemed to be trying to turn and look at the axe, which quivered by his ear, deep-sunk in the high back of his seat. Blood sprayed and splattered in red rain over the white silk, the shimmerweave, and the table around as the elf-lord’s head continued to turn, then flopped and dangled loosely, almost severed.

The body slumped and slid a little amid its gushing blood as women screamed and men came running into the hall with drawn swords.

Lord Breiyr stood staring in horror at the slain elf-lord, wondering if this would mean his death and the destruction of his hold. Men had died for less, before now. Then all the color drained out of his face, and he husked, in a horrible echo of his usual bellow, “Look! Look ye, all!”

He pointed at the corpse in the chair with a trembling hand. Amid the dark, glistening blood, there in the dancing firelight, it was moving—flesh sliding wetly, shifting and rearranging into the form of… a man.

” ‘Tis Ubriien, Mage Royal of Athalantar!” The shocked, wondering voice belonged to the Knight of the Gate, come from his post in haste with sword drawn.

In the silence, they all heard the herald say softly, “Well, well. It seems I’d best take a sharp look or two around Athalantar, after all.”

Something in that voice had changed; the Knight of the Gate and his Lord both looked at the young herald sharply.

Before their eyes, the sleek and bearded visage of the herald Huntinghorn melted away into the bone-white face of a sorceress known up and down the Delimbiyr.

“Darkeyes!“ A servant hissed, as men shrank back.

Myrjala gave them a slight smile and turned to face the Lord of Morlin. “I have known pleasure and welcome at your table this night. As I said before, my Lord Breiyr, I am pleased to know you. Peace and good fortune attend this fair hall.”

In the heavy, hanging silence, she said to the shocked Knight of the Gate, “Look not for my horse; it knows the way out.”

Gaping at her, he made no reply. Myrjala smiled and met the eyes of the dwarf, who gave her a fierce grin. “May thy axe be ever so sharp and swift, lord—for the sake of Ammarindar and us all.” He bowed.

She returned it, then turned and walked away from them all.

Servants and armsmen alike drew away from her as she strode toward the fire. Two steps short of its flames she wavered, like a wisp of smoke, and was gone.

Lord Breiyr swallowed and looked back at the bloody corpse at the table.

A soft hand touched his shoulder. “Father?”

“Get back, lass,” he said roughly. “Ye should not see this.”

“I have seen it,” was the simple reply, “and I fear ‘tis not going to be an easy time, these years before us, living so close to Athalantar.”

Not for the first time, Lord Breiyr knew she was right.