Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

"Tea is made, Ladies," Elminster's scribe said in a small, forlorn voice.

"Oh, Lhaeo," Storm said, touched, and held out her arms to him.

A moment later, the last prince of Tethyr was weeping into her breast, clutching her as if she were his last anchor in a storm-racked sea. "El told me I'd know if he died," he gasped when he could speak again, "and yet I don't know! The touch of his mind is gone!" He burst into fresh tears, weeping uncontrollably.

Storm stood in the moonlight, holding him in silence. There was nothing she could say. Her silver hair bent over him as her own tears began to fall. They wept together, and the ghostly form of Sylune hovered over them both, her spectral hands reaching out to console… in vain.

There was nothing at all she could do.

It was a bright morning in fair Shadowdale. The tower, the inn, and the streets were still buzzing with talk of the disappearance, a day and a night ago, of Adon and Midnight, the two prisoners convicted of the murder of Elminster of Shadowdale. Some said they'd been spirited away by agents of Zhentil Keep, lurking in the dale even now; others that they were archmages, foul fiends, or Bane and Manshoon themselves, who wore false shapes and escaped by magic as soon as they were bound in the dungeons. Shadowdale had lost its greatest protector, a wise old uncle-albeit a cantankerous and mischievous uncle-to just about everyone who'd lived in Shadowdale.

Nor was he the only man mourned in the dale. Many a family wept over sons or fathers who would come back only on a shield, to be buried by an honor guard led by the grim-faced lord of Shadowdale. No one could spare the time for full mourning rites or long nights of grieving, however; there was too much that had to be done.

Magic still spun wild in Faerun, and news of strife and god-caused devastation came to Shadowdale with every new, heavily armed caravan. The Zhentarim could strike again at any time, and Daggerdale was an open battlefield roamed by hungry wolves, orcs, and worse. To keep such perils at bay, the few warriors still able to fight were standing guard on all four roads out of the dale, fervently hoping not to see blackhelms in the distance.

In the dale, dead Zhents and horses lay everywhere, some half devoured by bold night scavengers. The returned priests of Lathander were busily blessing the dead to ensure that they would not rise undead to stalk Shadowdale in the years to come. The old women of the dale were stripping the bodies of anything that could be used again, and the foresters surveyed the burnt woods with an eye to replanting.

Yestereve, six full carts piled high with weapons and helms had groaned up the road to the tower. The clangor of their being stockpiled had gone on all night, wherefore this morning Lord Mourngrym had a headache that felt as if someone were repeatedly stabbing a dagger through the top of his head.

"Why must I get up?" he asked Shaerl. "I'm lord of this dale. Can't I lie abed just once in a year?"

"You did," she replied sweetly, "three months back. We were trying for a daughter, remember?"

Mourngrym growled something wordless about her cheerfulness and rolled up to a sitting position on the edge of their bed. His arms and ribs were gold and purple with bruises, and two raw scars marked his forearm where Zhent blades had split through his best armor.

Shaerl hissed in sympathy as she traced one of those scars with a slim finger. She handed her lord a tankard of steaming bitterroot tea.

Mourngrym sipped it, made the same disgusted face he always did, and rose, handing the tankard back to her. "Here-you drink the stuff. It should cure your confounded cheerfulness!"

He took from its peg the silken robe she'd made for him. As always, he admired the blazons she'd sewn so carefully. The arms of the dale shone on one breast, his own arms on the other, and a target prominently on the back-their private joke: he'd been her target when Cormyr sent her to Shadowdale to gain influence here.

Mourngrym smiled at the robe in his arms, leaned against the smooth-carved corner post of the bed, and mouthed a silent prayer to Tymora. Swinging the robe around his shoulders, he made his way across the bedchamber.

He winced as each step made his head pound-he hadn't had that much to drink last night, surely-but doggedly pursued his goal: the curtained archway that led into the morning room. There he would break his fast on the great table whose glass top covered gloriously hued maps of the dales. He loved those maps, a wedding gift from the Rowanmantles, and peering at their exquisite details never failed to cheer him.

He shouldered through the curtains, sniffing the welcome aroma of sausages and melted cheese and eggs on bread, and froze midstride.

"Storm! Well met and welcome, but what are you doing sitting in the middle of the table? — Oh, war council time again, is it?"

The Bard of Shadowdale smiled at him and tossed her head in greeting; her silver hair cascaded down one shoulder, and Mourngrym swallowed at her beauty, remembering the last time she'd sat on the table, wearing rather less, and the wild war council that had followed then. It was too early in the morning for all this…

Eyeing the sausages on the platter beside Storm's boots, the lord of Shadowdale went to the long sideboard, took up a flask of firewine, and drained it at a single gulp.

When his eyes came back into focus, Storm was shaking her head. "You'll regret that, you know."

"My head already feels like a blacksmith's anvil," Mourngrym told her. "Is there any more of this stuff about, do you know?"

"End drawer down the window end," Storm and Shaerl said together, then broke into chuckles (Storm) and giggles (Shaerl) of mirth. Mourngrym gave them both a look of long-suffering disgust and went to the drawer indicated.

"It's too much," he told the Realms at large. "No man should have to deal with such cheery females. Haven't either of you heard of respectful silence?"

There was no reply. Mourngrym had taken the decanter back to the table, sipped from it without bothering with a flagon, and lifted his fork to deal with the sausages before the silence registered. He looked up-into Storm's impish eyes, dancing with mirth as she regarded him, lips pressed tightly together. He shot a look along the table to Shaerl, who had seated herself with dignity and was regarding him, chin on hand, in equally amused silence.

Mourngrym opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and shrugged. "That's certainly more peaceful," he told the first sausage as he raised it.

"Unhand that sausage!" a voice bellowed from somewhere very near.

Mourngrym choked, tried to spring up, arms flailing, and toppled sideways, gabbling for breath.

He and the chair met the flagstone floor with a solid, head-ringing crash amid an explosion of laughter. Mourngrym found himself then face to face with Rathan Thentraver.

The stout priest was crawling out from under the table. He winked, deftly plucked the sausage off Mourngrym's fork, bit into it, and said, "Umm. Very good! Thank you for offering me this excellent viand!"

"I am going to kill someone," Mourngrym announced calmly to the ceiling, "and probably soon. How long have you been under here?"

"Not long," Rathan rumbled cheerfully. He emerged. "How long do you plan to sleep in every morning? Not turning into a vampire, are you?"

"No," Mourngrym told him shortly, and rolled to his feet. "No fangs to you."

"Ah," Storm said, "that's better. I was afraid you were going to play the grim stone-headed tyrant all day." As she spoke, the wall gong chimed.

Mourngrym looked at it sourly and sat down again. "And what does that signify?"

" 'Tis the signal that you've finished your morning feast, my lord," Shaerl said sweetly, "and that yet another Realms-shaking war council is about to begin."