Dave Gross: Lord of Stormweather

A trio of chambermaids stared at him dumbly, their mouths forming fearful little moues. Cale knew his bearing could awe the staff of Stormweather Towers, and usually he was glad of it, but he had no patience for hesitation in a crisis.

"Speak, one of you!"

The eldest of the three found her voice. "She left her chambers in search of Lord Thamalon."

"Where?"

The maid shrugged, then saw the danger in the butler's eyes.

"Upstairs," she blurted. "Perhaps the solar?"

Cale dismissed the servants with a chop of his hand, and they scurried away, the tiny bells on their turbans tinkling. The sound was meant to warn when a servant approached, so one could still a conversation or pull one's trousers up, but that night Cale found the jingling more irritating than practical.

Minutes earlier, a terrific peal of thunder had shaken Stormweather Towers, and lightning momentarily blinded all of its inhabitants. Strangely, nothing was burned, and the guards stationed outside reported no unseasonable weather. They had seen flashes only from within the mansion windows.

Such a magical effect was unlikely unless an intruder had penetrated the House defenses. Cale lamented once more the death of Brom Selwyn, the house mage who'd given his life in defense of the family a year earlier. He'd advised Lord Thamalon that a replacement was imperative to House security, but even he had to agree that contracting a trustworthy spellcaster could be a long and difficult process.

If one of the Uskevren's many rivals had found a way past the wards…

Cale set aside the speculation. He was searching for the master of the house, whose own thunder he'd expected but not heard since the lightning. Once he conferred with Thamalon, he could do more than order the house guard to seal the mansion.

He passed through the front hall in two dozen long strides, then climbed the grand staircase three steps at a time.

Cale picked up the lamp always left beside the glass doors and raised the wick. He lifted his light and entered the solar.

It was a vast garden chamber filled with burlbush, honeyvine, and lady's promise, among dozens of other varieties transplanted from forests both near and remote. From pots suspended from the ceiling spilled still more flora, interrupted here and there by bright petals nurtured unseasonably beneath glass windows. Amid it all stood a great fountain, its water trickling down huge chunks of basalt sheathed in Lady's Lace moss before flowing away in a serpentine stream filled with silvery blue fish.

"Lady Shamur?" he called, knowing there would be no answer.

He silently scolded himself for following Lady Shamur rather than trying to go directly to Thamalon. Why had he done that?

He answered his own question as he picked up the lamp and stormed to the last place he'd seen the mistress of the house.

Earlier in the day, Cale had overheard Lady Shamur ordering the maids to tidy mistress Tazi's bedchamber. It was unlikely she intended a guest to inhabit her daughter's room, so Cale suspected she had reason to believe her errant daughter's return was imminent.

If so, why had Cale not already known? Apart from his many contacts among Selgaunt's thieves' guild, he might have expected a message from Tazi herself. Since the young woman had left Stormweather months earlier, Cale had received no word from her.

That silence cut him to the heart, for he had once, perhaps foolishly, believed he meant something to her.

Whatever good is in me exists because of you, he'd written to her, before adding in Elvish: Ai armiel telere maenen hir.

You hold my heart forever.

When he wrote those words, Tazi lay on the edge of death, and he'd sworn to avenge her.

In the days that followed, he forsook his hopes of leaving his past behind him and once more donned the leathers of his former profession. The killer in Cale not only fulfilled his promise to Tazi but also discovered that his future portended to bring him as much darkness as his past held.

Cale returned to Stormweather Towers as a newly awakened cleric of Mask, the Lord of Shadows. While he'd eliminated the current threat to the Uskevren, doing so had required him to delve so deeply into the machinations of the Night Knives that he knew he would never escape his bonds to the dirty underworld of the city-not while he remained in Selgaunt.

After Tazi at last recovered from her soul-shattering injuries, she'd made no acknowledgement of Cale's letter. Whether she rejected his feelings or was simply waiting for the right time to speak of them, Cale could only guess. He longed to resume their late-night conversations and the secrets they shared about their mutual avocation.

When she left the city to pursue an enemy of her own, he realized he couldn't force her to accept his help, even if he wasn't already sworn to serve her father. He could only abide and hope that one day she would speak to him. Cale realized that day might never come. He'd had his chance to ask her about her feelings, and without taking it he watched her leave Stormweather Towers.

The most he could hope for was word from her mother that Tazi had finally returned home. If so, then he would soon have the chance to ask his questions-if he dared.

Another flash of light seared Cale's vision, and he felt the floor rumble beneath his feet. He dashed toward the grand stairway.

At the mouth of the east wing, he encountered a trio of house guards. They saluted briskly and awaited his orders. Since the death of their captain, Jander Orvist, Cale had been their commander. He meant to appoint a replacement, but Thamalon insisted that the men would continue to look to Cale for orders despite any promotions among their own ranks. To tell the truth, Cale enjoyed his interaction with the soldiers. It made him feel more a part of House Uskevren, not a solitary figure whose best work was done at night.

"The east wing is clear, sir."

Cale nodded. "I will check the library. You check the kitchens, then the stables."

"Yes, sir!"

The guards hastened toward the stairway, their hands over the hilts of their long swords.

The library was dark, as it should never have been. Even when the occupants desired low light, a dozen lamps of continual flames normally flickered around the walls-just one of the late Brom Selwyn's lingering contributions to Stormweather Towers. Cale noticed that the hall sconces nearest the library were dark, but those ten feet or farther away still flickered in their glass receptacles.

Cale frowned at that. It meant there was definitely destructive magic at work.

He paused at the entrance, straining to sense any intruder. He heard nothing unusual, but he smelled lamp oil. After an instant's consideration, he set his own lamp on a hall table and plucked one of the functioning magic lights from its holder. Despite the orange flames within, the glass was cool to the touch.

Cale slipped into the library, crouched low and balanced to change course in an instant. His lanky limbs moved as smoothly as river reeds in a breeze. Soon he discovered the source of the odor.

Near Lord Thamalon's writing desk, upon the fine carpet, a dark stain was still spreading from the ruins of another ordinary lamp. Beside the spill, a small table lay overturned, its contents scattered on the floor along with the painting Master Tamlin had sent his father. There was one other strange addition: a white length of exquisite Sembian lace.

Lady Shamur's evening shawl.

Cale had never stopped listening for intruders, and he held his lamp high to spot further signs of a struggle. One of the fallen objects glittered in the dark.

It was a gray crystal sphere slightly larger than his fist. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of points reflected the lamplight through the globe's translucent body. Many of them glittered like silver filings, while others were luminous spots of color. At its center was a tiny dark sphere, its details invisible in the orange light.