Ed Greenwood: Swords of Eveningstar

“Gods above us,” Florin murmured in wonder. All of the Swords were gawking at the splendor around them, walking with slow caution yet disturbing nothing with their movements.

“So, you are-?”

The voice was old, dry, calm, and male. It seemed to come from all around them.

They looked about uncertainly, still seeing only darkness where there should be walls and ceiling.

Florin cleared his throat. “I am Florin Falconhand, unseen sir, an-”

“I know who you are, all of you. I should have spoken more precisely; what have you become, you six? A destructive whirlwind that at least knows what it destroys, as it blunders across Faerun? Or-wonder of wonders-a wind of destruction that begins to care about what it shatters?”

The Swords of Eveningstar looked at each other.

The voice spoke again. “Perhaps that’s too much to hope, yet. Well, then: let me at least aim you, if you’re the sort of weapon biddable to being aimed. How would you like to be wealthy lordlets and ladies of a beautiful backwoods dale, with a castle to call your own?”

Pennae drew in a deep breath. Here’s where we get slain. “What’s the catch?”

There was a chuckle, and the map faded around them-light stealing into the room to replace it, showing them no walls nor ceiling, but a faint, featureless glow.

Standing in it was a stout, burly shouldered man, muscled and vigorous, whose robes were as black as the staff in his hand. His bristling brows and unruly hair were black, his close-cropped beard was black but with a white tuft down its center, and the face above his raven-dark mustache was craggy and stern.

“Blackstaff am I,” he said. “Welcome to Blackstaff Tower, Swords of Eveningstar. I’ve heard good things of you.”

“Really?” Islif asked, startled into speech. “Who the Nine Hells from?”

Khelben laughed-a dry, rusty sound, as if mirth seldom burst from this particular wizard. “Surprising sources,” was all he said, when his laughter ended.

Florin eyed him, waiting for him to say more.

Khelben merely met the forester’s gaze and smiled.

Silence fell and stretched.

And stretched.

Finally Semoor sighed and said, “So tell us more of this lordlets and ladies offer… and as Pennae asked, the downside to it. We know full well: there always is one.”

Khelben nodded-and there was suddenly a pendant floating in the air in front of Florin’s nose.

An oddly twisted thing, hanging from a chain that floated in the air as if around a phantom neck.

“Behold the Pendant of Ashaba.”

The Swords gazed at it in silence.

“The lordship of Shadowdale,” the Blackstaff added. “Yours, if you’ll take it. Meaningless, if you go not to Shadowdale, to the Twisted Tower of Ashaba that stands empty, and assert it. One of you can be Lord of Shadowdale-before the gods, one of the prettiest places I’ve ever laid eyes on, verdant farms walled in by a great greenwood, on the main trade road between the Moonsea and Cormyr. Your fortunes are made, if you but take it.”

His words ended, and silence returned.

“I mean no disrespect, great Blackstaff, but I’m still waiting to hear the catch,” Pennae said.

Khelben arched an imperious eyebrow. “Life,” he replied, “is the catch. Life unfolding has a way of tangling and tripping up the best schemes… the brightest dreams. The gods play with us all-and I am no god, to have any skill at such games. So expect many catches, but be the bold adventurers you’ve been thus far, and they will fall before you.”

The pendant glittered.

“Yon bauble,” the Blackstaff added, “bears only magics that preserve it from time. It does no ill to him who touches it. Florin, will you take it?”

Florin shook his head. “I am a ranger. I want to walk the forests and be free, not sit on a stone throne. I need to feel the wind, see dawns and dusks standing under an open sky. I’d be happy enough to ride hither and yon, bearing Shadowdale’s banner. Yet, Lord Wizard, my fellow Swords are all worthy folk. All of them would probably make good Lords of Shadowdale.”

“The throne holds only one backside at a time,” Khelben said dryly. “Choose among yourselves, then.” All around him, the light started to fade.

Hesitantly the Swords eyed each other then bent their heads together.

“He can slay us just like that, ” Pennae whispered. “I’m thinking taking this lordship is the only way we’ll leave this place alive.”

“Agreed,” Semoor hissed sourly. “So: who gets to be Lord High And Mighty?”

“Why not Islif?” Jhessail whispered. “Must it be a ‘Lord’?”

“No,” Islif said savagely, “I’ll not take it. I might make a good tyrant, but I’d be a bad lord-and I’d hate myself so fiercely as to welcome death, even as I lorded it. I will not do this.”

“Pennae?” Jhessail asked.

The thief grinned. “I’m too restless, and much too corrupt.” She poked Doust in the chest. “How about you? Feeling lucky?”

Doust groaned, and Florin nodded. “The best lord is a reluctant lord.”

“Yes,” Pennae agreed. “Well?”

“He’s got my vote,” Semoor said.

“And mine,” Jhessail added.

“Hold,” Islif said. “Doust, how do you feel?”

The novice of Tymora shook his head, sighed, and said, “Well, if none of you want it, I’ll do it, but don’t blame me if-”

“We won’t,” Islif said, whirling him around by the shoulders and calling, “Lord Arunsun? We have our lord.”

She shoved Doust a few unwilling steps forward.

The Lord Mage of Waterdeep looked amused. “Eager?”

Doust sighed. “Lord, I am-we are all-less than easy about this. We hold a charter from Cormyr, and some promises yet unfulfilled. We are nothing better than outlaws if we break our word.”

Then he flinched, startled, as the pendant vanished from where it floated in the air-and reappeared, solid and heavy, in his hands.

The Blackstaff smiled. “I begin to think you are that wonder of wonders. Your coming was not unexpected-though you found your own way here and were not herded; I daresay Arabel is being turned upside down for traces of you right now. How’s young Amanthan getting on, anyhail? He was one of my more promising app-but let us speak of him later; suffice it to say that your arrival was anticipated. Wherefore, as Alaise delayed you on my steps, I did what was needful. Step through yon door.”

An archway silently appeared, outlined in soft radiance, beyond Khelben.

Hesitantly, the Swords went to it. The room behind them went dark, Khelben vanishing with it, even as the one ahead began to brighten.

By the kindling light that came from no source they could see, the Swords beheld a throne with a regal-looking crowned woman sitting on it, and a half-moon table beside it where a wise-looking man sat, writing furiously.

He looked up, set down his quill, and stood. “Kneel before your queen. Adventurers, behold Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr.”

The Swords gaped at the smiling woman on the throne, and then hastily went to their knees.

Filfaeril waved her hand. “Rise, and be at ease,” she said. “Enough of that nonsense, Alaphondar. Swords of Eveningstar, I propose a trade. I need a task performed, and in return I believe I can amend your charter. Cormyr would dearly like to have friends we can trust in Shadowdale, as a bright light on the road that brings so much Moonsea metal and coin to us, and sends our food and horseflesh thither. So turn thy back and open thy codpiece, Florin; the charter is needed.”

Smiling at their startled looks, the queen said serenely, “Cormyr has many watchful eyes. Some of them make me quite confident the knighthoods I am now going to bestow are fully deserved. Florin, for example, made such fine work of the Lady Narantha that several scores of nobleborn mothers desire to send her daughters to him, forthwith.”