Elaine Cunningham: Realms of Mystery

“Aye, that you did. I’m sorry, child.”

Lynaelle nodded solemnly. “So what is a ward token, Ambriel?”

Ambriel shrugged. “A ward token allows the bearer access to parts of Silverymoon where few are allowed to go, and even to cast magic that is otherwise restricted by the wards. I suspect he was trying to get somewhere he shouldn’t have been.”

Lynaelle gasped. “Why in the world did you give such a thing to me, then?”

Ambriel smiled. “I knew it would be safe with you. Anyone who knew of its existence would come to me looking for it, not you. Besides,” he added, a warm smile in his eyes. “I hoped someday you might wear it as a member of the Spellguard.”

Lynaelle smiled and hugged her teacher.

“By the gods,” Gorlin muttered quietly. “Three different contracts, all offering him handsome sums to retrieve that token and use it to get to Queen Alustriel.” The hunter’s face was ashen. “He meant to assassinate the High Lady herself…”

“The ghost is one of the family, you see. The Doom of the Paertrovers. We couldn’t banish him if we wanted to.”

The young lord was in full fettle, his voice as polished as that of any master bard. Immult Greiryn, the seneschal of Taverton Hall, ran an irritated hand through his steel-gray hair and turned away, melting into the deep underbrush with practiced ease and silence. Not for him the fripperies of the high and mighty, nor was it his station to be seen listening or intruding when they were at play. Bad enough that he had to step around their bodyguards behind every second tree and bush…

It was late in the warm summer of the Year of the Banner…and a busy summer it’d been, to be sure. All sun-dappled season long three ambitious noble lords of rising power had dragged their beautiful daughters the length and breadth of the realm, seeking suitable-that would mean rich, Greiryn reflected with a sour smile-husbands for their precious Flowers of Northbank, Farrowbrace, Huntingdown, and Battlebar. Oh, the three ladies were a delight to look upon, even for an oldsoldier, and well-educated to boot, but their whole journeying was so…calculated. Did these noble lords have iced wine in their veins, instead of blood?

Immult spat thoughtfully onto a fern, and traded cold and level gazes with yet another bodyguard whose gloved fingers were fondling the hilt of his belt dagger. Arrogant lapdogs, lording it over him in a garden that was his to defend!

Arrogant? Aye, and their masters were worse. In their foray up and down the realm, presenting their young ladies to the eligible young noblemen of Cormyr, they’d passed the gates of Taverton Hall thrice at least-more times, perhaps. Oldest and smallest of the great estates in Northbank this might be, but these three oh-so-noble lords must have been saving it for last, like a favored food at a feast. Taverton Hall was the seat of Lord Eskult Paertrover, Baron of Starwater and Horse Marshal to the Crown of Cormyr, bluest of the old blood houses to currently hold important court rank. Any lass who wed his son and heir, young Lord Crimmon, would gain her father an important ear at court.

Oh, yes, a very important ear. Doddering and lost in nostalgic glories Lord Eskult might well be, but his hand wrote the orders that conferred court ranks-and moneys and powers with them-upon nobles, and assigned other nobles standing garrisons of Purple Dragons. Soldiers that one had to feed, and that were always, so the suspicions went, in your home to keep an eye on you for the throne. So one lot of nobles gained wealth and power, and another saw their purses go flat under the weight of a lot of hungry, swaggering soldiers. Yes, there were many nobles who made a point of being “old friends” of Lord Eskult. Many a case of fine wine came in through the gates at feast days…Immult licked his lips at the memory of a particularly fiery sherry from a Rowanmantle wine-hall.

Another guard glared at him suspiciously, but the seneschal swept past him, pretending not to notice. Bah! Let these dogs snarl. They’d all be gone from here soon enough.

“Yet,” Lord Crimmon said earnestly, knowing he had their breathless attention, “the ghost always reappears.” He gave them a suitably ghostly half-smile, and broke his pose to gesture grandly at a rather crumbling expanse of old, close-fitted stones. The rings on his fingers sparkled like miniature stars as the warm light of morning caught them and set them afire.

“Here, he seen as a shape on the wall, no matter how often Paertrovers tear down these stones and rebuild with new ones.” He waved his glittering hand again, in a wide circle above his head, three pairs of beautiful eyes following his every move. “Everywhere else on the estate, folk see a floating, grinning face in a long-plumed helm.” He gave them the smile again, knowing just how dashingly handsome-and rich-he looked. “It quite put my father off courting in these gardens.”

“And has it had the same effect on you, Lord Crimmon?” Lady Shamril Farrowbrace’s voice was a low, throaty purr, almost a challenge. Her large, dark eyes held his with a look that was more promise than challenge, as one of her slim hands played in apparent idleness with the glistening string of silver-set pearls that adorned her open bodice.

“Lady,” the young lord told her in mock reproof, “that would be telling rather more than it is good for the nobly bred to know.”

One elegant eyebrow arched, on the brow of another of the three Flowers. “Because it ruins the game, Lord?” the Lady Lathdue Huntingdown asked. “Do you seek to slight our sport, or just that of our over-reaching sires?”

Lady Chalass Battlebar stiffened, eyes flashing for a moment as she gathered herself to take proper offense. Her head snapped around to see just where her father was-and found that he and the other elder lords had strolled out of sight, their bodyguards drifting off in their wake. The remaining guards had carefully situated themselves just out of earshot of normal converse, but quite within hailing distance. She relaxed, turned back to face Lord Crimmon-he was an engaging rogue, not the thick skull or dribble chin one might expect to find as heir of an old-blood house-and smiled.

“For my part,” she told them all lightly, “I care not if my lord father dies of old age snooping behind every stone in Cormyr for a ‘suitable’ mate for me. I have no interest in courtship at all this fine summer. Dalliance, now…“ She lowered her lashes delicately as she put the tip of one slender, long-nailed finger to her lips, and licked it with slow languor.

“Oh, Chalass, a little subtlety, please,” the Lady Shamril sighed. “There’ll be plenty of time for thrusting ourselves at our gracious host here-and his father or yours, for that matter-when the dancing begins. I was enjoying the tale; his a change from gallant young lords showing us their prized stallions and making clumsy, leering jokes about riding, and wanting to see our saddles, and all the rest of it.”

She waved a disgusted hand, and all three Flowers tittered together at shared memories that were obviously strong enough to dash away the irritation that had flashed across the face of Lady Chalass under Shamril’s chiding.

“Yes,” Lady Lathdue Huntingdown agreed, leaning forward in real eagerness, rather than with the slower flour, is she’d performed earlier to best display her jeweled pectoral. “Our fathers may be after an ear at court and the warehouses of Paertrover gold, but we-I think I can safely speak for all of us in this-are not hunting husbands. Yet.”

She caught the eyes of both other ladies, saw their agreement and confirmed it with a nod that set her splendid fall of hair rippling along her shoulders-and then abruptly dropped courtly manners to address Lord Crimmon plainly. “Crimmon, tell us more of your ‘grinning ghost.’ I love a good scare.”