Ed Greenwood - The Herald

“Possibly because you’ve learned the trifling beginnings of a sense of how the world works during your years thus far, Lord Delcastle,” she replied, as haughtily as any dowager duchess of Cormyr.

Arclath grinned at her. “You’ve never stopped being a marchioness of the Forest Kingdom, have you?”

Storm smiled back at him. “I’ve never felt the need to stop. It comes in useful. Briefly and every century or so.”

Rune sighed. “If you two ornaments of belted nobility are quite finished being arch …” She indicated the stairs with an elaborate flourish that would have done the most flamboyant servant proud.

Storm chuckled as she strolled to the worn stone steps. “Lady Delcastle, you’re a fellow belted ornament now.”

“ Don’t remind me. Bad enough that I seem to be some sort of echo of Elminster.”

Storm snorted. “I’ve heard similar sentiments a time or two before, from others.”

“And what befell those others?” Arclath asked.

“They’re dead. Of passing years, not some sort of curse or inevitable lurking doom. Now belt up , I pray you. This is a battlefield, remember?”

And with that, Storm led the way up the rubble-choked stairs, her silver tresses holding swords and daggers at the ready and swirling out to probe the walls, steps, and ceiling ahead.

Beams had fallen, to lean and slope in a crazy maze, but the lady bard picked her way calmly through them, stepped delicately over a crushed body from which a lone rib jutted up like a dagger, and headed for a narrow strip of daylight where a door stood ajar, jammed half open by what had fallen on it from above.

The two young Cormyreans joined her, halting abruptly as she flung out a wall of silver tresses like a barrier in front of them. More of her hair had drifted past the edge of the door to hold up a polished silver vial from her belt to serve as a mirror.

Storm studied what was reflected in its tiny side, sighed so softly they could barely hear her, and drew her hair back in around her into a sedate mane that would arouse no comment until she passed someone who happened to notice its sheer size; it was as if she was wearing a large trader’s carrysack down her back, but all made of solid hair.

She shot them a silent, severe “Behave!” warning look over her shoulder, then stepped smoothly around the door.

They came out into leaf-dappled sunlight and found themselves in a field hospital of sorts, a litter of cots among the roofless remnants of a hall that had been attached to the tower. On all sides wounded elves lay in suffering silence or murmuring pain, tended by elves, half-elves, a dwarf, and two humans.

One of those humans was a lame, badly limping barrel of a man, a warrior or former warrior by the looks of his sword scars and the filthy remnants of what had once been a leather war harness. Standing in the path that led down from the tower door through what had been the main aisle of the hall, he turned quickly at the sound of footfalls in the rubble before the tower door, snatching at a long, wicked dagger at his belt and growling wordless challenge like a dog.

At his first sight of Storm he froze, jaw dropping open in astonishment that became a wide smile of joy. He left off drawing his dagger to put hands on hips and stand and stare, grinning.

Storm strode toward him serenely, having seen his jovial, crude and worldly wise sort a time or thousand before.

“Hoy, now!” he exclaimed. Then, catching sight of Arclath striding just behind Storm, he grinned. “Snuck off into the tumbled stones for a bit o’ privacy, hey? Well, can’t say as I blame-”

The warrior broke off as he espied Rune behind Arclath. He sidestepped, leaned, and peered hard to make sure there were only three people coming toward him out of the fallen tower where there should have been no one. He hadn’t seen any women among the besiegers before, but …

Then his leer returned, even more broadly. He gave Arclath a wink and growled, “Well, if some jacks don’t have all the luck in fair Faerûn! Still, if you’re man enough …”

“Crude oaf,” Rune commented, but almost fondly.

The man chuckled. “Well, lass, if you ever wear him out, keep me in mind, hey? Thardyn Hammerhar; ‘the Hammerer,’ they call me, and it’s not for-”

“Your subtlety,” Storm completed his sentence for him dryly, striding past. “Now, where is the coronal most likely to be found?”

“The coronal ?”

“Yes,” Storm said crisply. “Ilsevele. Or Fflar, if he’s not too busy fighting at the moment.”

The man gaped at her. “Who are you?”

“Just one of many you should treat a trifle more politely,” Storm replied gently, as several of her long silver tresses darted out to encircle the wrist of a half-elf healer at a nearby cot, and forestall his stealthy drawing of a dagger. She whirled to confront him.

Thardyn Hammerhar grabbed again for his own dagger-but froze once more as he felt Arclath’s sword tip at his throat. The young noble watched him sternly from right behind it.

Amarune stepped past them all to regard the rest of the wounded and those tending them, and announced, “No trouble, please. We are not here to do you harm.” She raised her hands as if she was a mighty-and calmly confident-archmage, and stood waiting.

Behind her, the half-elf healer tugged with all his might, but couldn’t make his sword arm more than tremble in the grip of silver hair that was suddenly as immovable as a wall of iron, as he and Storm stared expressionlessly into each other’s eyes.

More of her tresses were moving, doing other things. One of them was plucking up a stone, a shard of the ruin, and holding it beside her face, in front of his gaze.

Still other tresses reached out as gently as a windblown feather to a wound that was seeping blood through its bindings, to return blood smirched, and with the wet gore draw a symbol-two vertical lines bracketing two identical ovals-on the stone.

Storm watched the eyes she was gazing into closely, but saw no recognition there. Her tresses smeared the blood across the stone to obscure the symbol she’d made, and she released the healer.

Arclath watched. Had that been a Harper rune, or an old sigil of the elves? He knew better than to ask Storm, even as he tried to fix the symbol in his memory for later. If there was a later …

“Ilsevele?” Storm repeated, to all of the silently watching, astonished healers. “Fflar?”

One of the elves among them shook his head a little helplessly, but offered her a bowl. “Broth?”

“An acceptable alternative,” Storm replied with a smile as dazzling as it was sudden.

He’d seen the monks frowning after him as he’d hastened back out of the kitchens. Obviously, it wasn’t like Chethil to journey down into Candlekeep’s extensive cellars and forget to fetch back anything at all needed for the evening meal. Not to mention something so large, obvious, and awkward to carry as onions …

Maerandor shrugged. His fellow workers in the kitchens would be noticing other small and no doubt odd changes in their senior cook, henceforth; he couldn’t help that.

He took care not to look back as if he was checking to see if he was being followed. The creaking door at the head of the second stair he’d be taking was all the alarm he needed; if he heard it not, there was no pursuit.

Not that he cared overmuch, though it would have been very inconvenient to have to kill Rethele or Shinthrynne just now, and be saddled with even more cooking.

All he needed was long enough to hasten along this old, well-worn hall, and back up the other stair into the Long Passage-he could tell it was deserted just now because he couldn’t hear the Endless Chant echoing along it-to do what must be done next.