Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

“Yes,” Storm said simply.

“Why is it, then, that you aren’t ruling a realm somewhere? Why do you live on a farm and go about harping to earn a few coppers now and again? And why do the Harpers you belong to meddle in all sorts of lands, and not rule openly?”

“Good questions, all,” Storm told him, and then counted off her replies on her fingers. “I don’t want to rule anyone, so I don’t. I do love growing things and being able to walk among forests and gardens, so I do. I love music, and meeting people, so I harp. And the Harpers want to help people and fight evil by turning out secrets before they become bigger, darker things—they don’t want to rule, either, and so don’t.”

“I’ve heard that the Harpers serve a dark and evil god,” Erlandar cut in, “and that you and your sisters are immortal because you drink the blood of men you entice.” His eyes were dark with anger.

“My, people do say a lot of silly things, don’t they?” Storm replied lightly. “I often hear that the nobles of Cormyr summon fiends to build their castles, and breed slaves until the offspring look to make promising heirs—and that King Azoun sleeps with every woman over the age of sixteen between Baldur’s Gate and Telflamm … but of course such tales are ridiculous.”

More than a few eyes flickered along the tables; Azoun’s courting was a matter of vivid legend in the realm.

Erlandar half-rose in his seat, glaring in challenge across the open space, and said, “ Now you insult our king! Truly, wench, you go too far!”

Storm saw the seneschal, the Lady Shayna, and one of the war wizards wince at the word wench . Storm kept her easy smile and said, “Is it to be a duel between us, then, Uncle? Wet trout in the pigs’ mud-wallow, at dawn?”

“I’m not your uncle,” Erlandar snapped, “and I don’t duel women or anyone of lesser rank. Is that the only response you know when someone objects to your wild words?”

Storm shrugged, spreading her hands. Her goblet flashed in the firelight. “Perhaps I misjudge you, Lord Summerstar,” she said mildly. “I assumed it was the only response you’d understand.”

Someone muttered something grimly affirmative under his breath, somewhere along the tables. This time, both Erlandar and the Lady Pheirauze leaned and craned their necks like gawking youths in an attempt to discover the speaker. Shayna Summerstar and her mother drained their goblets in unison, and rang forks against the bases of them to summon refills. At the same time, steaming platters of roast boar were set on the tables. Storm appreciatively sniffed, and helped herself heartily.

As forks flashed into boar, Broglan Sarmyn of the war wizards cut into the silence with a hearty sally. “Pray, forgive me, Lady Silverhand, if this is a question one does not ask, but why were you ‘Chosen’ by the Divine Mother of Magic as one of her mortal servants? You’re not—so far as we know—of the first rank of archmages, or even particularly powerful in magic.”

Storm raised an eyebrow. “There is never a crime in asking such things … but seldom a clear response, either. I truly don’t know how much I should reveal of the nature of the Chosen. Why don’t you offer a prayer to the divine lady I serve and we both—I presume—worship, and see what she makes clear unto you?”

“Of course,” Broglan said politely, unsurprised. “I shall do so later this night.” He lapsed into silence with a satisfied air, his purpose accomplished. As they’d spoken, the Lady Pheirauze had leaned over to hiss something in Erlandar’s ear—something about adopting a less confrontational manner.

Erlandar leaned forward, raised his glass to Storm to get her attention, and said in coldly polite tones, “I’d forgotten that as a guest here, you may be unfamiliar with your surroundings. You’ve probably wondered where the name ‘Firefall Keep’ came from, for example …”

Storm, who knew very well how the keep had won its curious name, said nothing, but favored Erlandar with an encouraging, wordless smile.

“Well, this great fortress we Summerstars call home is named for the vale it stands in—but the vale got its name centuries ago, when our house was founded. A nest of red dragons laired high in the nearby peaks—wyrms so fierce and hungry that elves dared not dwell in the vale, despite whatever bargain had been struck between the old Purple Dragon and the elven Lord of Scepters.”

Erlandar’s voice rose in volume and passion as he chanted the well-known sentences that followed—and he rose with it, standing with arms spread. He stared almost defiantly across the table at Storm. “Dragons that suffered no elf to stride uneaten in the vale welcomed men even less—or perhaps, welcomed them into their gullets even more. When the founder of our house, Glothgam Summerstar, led his men into the vale, he won past repeated swooping attacks. In time, the dragons retreated to their caves high in Mount Glendaborr—caves you can still see today, if you don’t mind facing the ghosts of dragons! There, they worked a mighty magic.”

Erlandar leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Storm as if his very glare could slay her. “Then, as now, Turnwyrm Brook flowed down the heart of the vale to join the Immerflow, and Glothgam was camped beside it. As he and his men were watering their horses and bathing, the brook’s flowing waters became a roaring river of flame! Many died screaming in this Firefall, but Glothgam did not quail. The wyrms swept down from on high to see what death they’d wrought—and he called on the powers of the enchanted blade he bore, the Sword of the Summer Winds, and soared aloft to meet them, slaying three before the others fled. ’Twould make a handsome ballad, Harper!”

Storm nodded. “It has.”

“What?” Erlandar cried in astonishment. “So why’ve I not heard of such a song?”

“The song centers on the sword, not on Glothgam,” Storm said quietly, “and speaks of the greatness the blade could bring Cormyr. Years after minstrels first sang the song, rebels borrowed its words so they could recognize each other at midnight meetings. When the rebellion failed, the king of the time outlawed the ballad—and the Summerstars of the day were only too happy: they’d grown very tired of visiting thieves tearing down every third panel and tapestry in the keep, looking for the lost sword.”

“That sword,” Erlandar snarled, “is indeed rumored to still lie hidden somewhere in this keep. Do the Harpers know anything of its whereabouts?”

Storm shook her head, trying hard not to yawn. There were so many tales of lost enchanted blades that would save the world—or make the finder ruler of some handsome part of it—if they could only be found. “I’m afraid not, Lord Summerstar … but I do thank you for Glothgam’s tale, simply but strongly told.” She smiled. “Would you like to become a minstrel?”

Erlandar scowled. “No,” he said, obviously biting back other words that had sprung to his mind. He sat down again, shoved aside a platter of boar that had grown cold, and angrily signaled a servant to bring him fresh meat and more wine.

Silence followed Erlandar’s last angry bark. Servants scurried, bringing out bowls of green mint-water and table fountains of sweet syrups.

The seneschal and the worried-looking Broglan Sarmyn simultaneously began speaking, trying to carry the conversation brightly onward. They spoke as one, deferred to each other uncomfortably, and tried again, launching into a discussion of the last great royal hunt. It had left from the vale to try to reach Mount Glendaborr. En route, many monsters had been slain. The true nature of the ‘ghost dragons’ that drifted half-seen around the nearby mountains was obviously a matter of hot local controversy, and an argument erupted that almost everyone except Storm and the senior Summerstars joined.