Elaine Cunningham: Realms of Mystery

“She’s going to do it,” Lathdue said in low tones, as if pronouncing doom fast coming down upon them all. “Oh, gods above.”

It was coming down to full night now, but the lamps gave light enough to clearly show what befell at the heart of the maze. They saw Shamril glide past Battlebar and her own father, duck under Lord Huntingdown’s arm. Lathdue erupted in swiftly-smothered giggles at the look of horrified astonishment on her father’s face at the swj den, bobbing appearance of a young lady clad in a very scanty green silk gown from under his own languidly-waving arm-and come up to Lord Eskult Paertrover.

The Baron of Starwater chuckled at whatever Shamril said then, and proffered his arm with exaggerated gallantry. Rather than surrendering her own arm, the young Lady Shamril spun past the old lord’s hand to press herself against him, lace-cloaked breast to medal-adorned chest, and thigh to thigh. Lord Eskult looked surprised, but pleasantly so. His teeth flashed in a smile as she raised her lips, obviously demanding a kiss, and he bent over her as if he was a young brightblade, and not an old and red-faced baron of the realm.

Chalass bit her knuckle to keep from screaming in delight as Shamril stretched her white throat a trembling inch or two farther, ignoring a sudden startled oath from her father. Lathdue shook her head, murmuring, “Crimmon should be watching this! His father’s got more than a bit of the old fire in his veins yet, I…”

A sharp snapping sound echoed through the soft evening air, followed by the vicious hum of a crossbow bolt snarling through the air toward the two trembling bodies. It seemed to leap out of the gloomy air like a bolt of black lightning, stabbing between old lord and young, playful lady.

Blood burst forth in a sudden, wet torrent as the bolt took Shamril through the throat. Hair danced as her head spun around with a horrible loose wobble. The Flower of House Farrowbrace made a bubbling sound- the last sound she’d ever utter-as the bolt hummed On across the garden, plucking her out of the old lord’s grasp to fall sprawled across the highthorn, a limp and bloody bundle.

Eskult stared at his own empty hands for an instant, blinded by the bright blood that was fountaining everywhere-and then clutched at his chest, made a sound that was half roar and half sob, and toppled slowly, like a felled tree, to crash down on his face in the highthorn.

There was an instant of shocked and disbelieving stillness before the shouts and screams began. With one accord, everyone present turned to stare at where the bolt must have been fired from-and the shouts were cut off as if by a sword. Stunned silence returned.

A head could be seen above the weaponless, otherwise deserted stretch of garden wall they were all staring at. It looked for all the world as if it had just risen up from behind the wall to peer at the carnage below in grinning satisfaction. Teeth flashed white and fierce in its chalk-white face, luminous beneath the dark helm it wore. The Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall was smiling again.

It grinned at them over the garden wall for the space of two of Lathdue’s long and quivering breaths before it abruptly sank from view behind the wall. As if that had been a signal, folk stirred all around the sunken garden. There was a ragged roar, and then servants and bodyguards were sprinting toward the wall, swords and belt knives out. Even Lord Battlebar, down in the maze, plucked at his own knife and crashed across the highthorn in a lumbering run.

Chalass and Lathdue, white-faced, could only stare in silent horror. However fierce and grim the pursuit was now, as men converged on the garden wall in a frantic rush, it was too late for Shamril Her daring was stilled forever. It might well also be too late for Lord Eskult Paertrover.

Chalass sagged soundlessly to her knees, staring at the two bodies as servants hurried to kneel over them, but Lathdue sobbed suddenly and loudly, and spun around to sprint after the rushing bodyguards. That crossbow had been fired from just where they’d seen the ghost, and…

Panting, she charged up the stair from the sunken gar den and turned at its head, almost falling in her haste. A hand in livery caught her arm to steady her, and she swallowed, gasped for breath, and fell silent again.

There was no sign of the Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall. A grim ring of men with drawn steel in their hands stood around the spot where the crossbow had been fired from. It dangled, string loose now, in the hands of Lord Crimmon Paertrover. His sword glittered in his other hand, beneath a face that was white and empty. His eyes stared past Lath due, unseeing.

“Everyone I love…taken from me,” he blurted-and fell forward on his face, even faster than the rough hands that snatched away his blade and caught at his arms. As half Faerun rushed down on the young lord, Lathdue felt a deeper darkness than night rise up around her, and close its merciful grasp over her eyes.

“Any man may say he has business with Lord Paertrover. To gain entry here, many a beggar and old soldier has said as much. His friend and secret business partner you may be, too…but I know you not.”

The old seneschal’s voice was cold, his stare as wintry as a blizzard howling across the Stonelands, but the man across the table from him smiled with easy affability and replied, “Neither do I know you, goodman, but has that ever been a barrier between men of goodwill? You have the look of a retired Purple Dragon, and I respect all who’ve fought to keep our fair land safe. Might I know your name?”

“Greiryn,” the bristle-browed man on the far side of the table said shortly. “Seneschal of Taverton Hail.”

The stout man with the shaggy sideburns bounded from his seat to stretch a welcoming hand across the tabletop, for all the world as if he were the host, and not the visitor. “Glarasteer Rhauligan, dealer in turret tops and spires,” he boomed. “No embattlement too small, no embrasure too large, no crenellation too eccentric. If you can draw it, I can build it! I’ve come from bustling Suzail herself, turning my back on insistent barons and eager knights alike, to keep my appointment with the Lord Eskult Paertrover.” He gestured imperiously with the hand that Greiryn had been ignoring, and added firmly, “I do have an appointment.”

“Saw you the black banner?” the seneschal asked, in grim and reluctant tones. Rhauligan shrugged in a “no, but what of it?” gesture, and Greiryn said icily, “My Lord lies dead in the family crypt, of heartstop, and won’t be seeing anyone. Good day to you, merchant.”

The fat man in silks and furs made another imperious gesture, more hastily this time. “His son, then,” Rhauligan said eagerly, “the young blade who makes half the ladies in Cormyr swoon, and the rest sigh! He’ll be Lord Paertrover now, right?”

“If he lives to take any title,” Greiryn replied in tones of doom that were almost drowned out by the sudden blare of a hunting horn sounding from the gates.

He rose at the sound, reaching for his cloak. “You must excuse me-that will be a Wizard of War, sent from Suzail to see to Lord Crimmon’s fate.”

The royal arms gleamed on the door of the coach even through the swirling road-dust. Rhauligan counted no less than sixteen black horses in its harness, stamping and tossing their heads impatiently as that regal door opened, and a man in stylish robes of lush purple alighted.

The servant with the hunting horn blew a too-loud, wandering-note flourish, and the newcomer didn’t trouble to hide his wince and frown. He extended his left hand in a fist, displaying a ring to the already-bowing seneschal, and snapped his fingers.

In answer to this signal, a servant still hastening out of the coach declaimed grandly, “All hail and make welcome Lord Jalanus Westerbotham, Scepter of Justice, Dragonfang Lord Investigator for Northbank, Starwater, and the Western Coast!”