Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

It was also said in the family that Maerla’s room was haunted—more strongly than the entire Haunted Tower, if folk Maerla disapproved of tried to sleep in her bed. The seneschal thoughtfully regarded the soaring gray canopy of that central sleeping-place, bowed, and told the empty air around him, “Pray, excuse this intrusion, Lady Maerla. As seneschal of the keep, it is my paramount duty to see to the security of us all, so I must search the belongings of the lady who’ll be sleeping here this night: Storm Silverhand, a Harper of some repute. Forgive me.”

The silence was deafening. Renglar shrugged, bent over the largest trunk, and lifted its lid. Thankfully, the Lady Storm felt confident enough in her power not to bother with locks, and the old amulet he wore ought to ward off at least one spell trap. Its feeble powers might not protect against a second magic, though—which is why he was starting with the things least likely to be protected. An old, scratchy gray wool cloak covered everything. Renglar took careful note of the way it was folded, lifted it aside, and cautiously plucked out what lay beneath.

A belt bristling with sheathed daggers, several slim-heeled boots that a Purple Dragon would look ridiculous in … and a spare sword. Best leave that sheathed for now; it probably did bear magics. The next item glowed with faint enchantments even when closed and undisturbed. By its shape, the seneschal recognized the smooth wooden case as the home of a harp.

Well, of course. She was the Bard of Shadowdale. Renglar turned to the next trunk. It seemed to be full of tattered silk … well, no.

He held one garment up, frowned, turned it around—and swallowed. He let it fall onto the lid and plucked up the next one. And then the next. His frown deepened. These were not the sort of gauzy underthings respectable women wore.

His frown turned into a smile when he saw what lay at the bottom of the trunk, beneath thirty or more scarves, sashes, and silken nothings: a leather war harness. It was the plain, sturdy sort that a working soldier would wear, as slashed, mended, and sweat-stained as most. Renglar restored both trunks to the way they’d been and turned to nearest duffel.

Being a seneschal in Firefall Keep involved more than one man’s share of odd tasks. Like this one: unwrapping a canvas bundle to reveal a garment that seemed to be made entirely of lengths of fine chain. He’d give a lot to know when she’d have occasion to wear a gown like this .…

No, he couldn’t think of any prudent way to ask her. Renglar sighed, and reached deeper into the duffel.

Wait—what was this?

“Weather magic has always been a temptation,” Storm told them, “but the teachings of Baerauble—if any of his own words have survived—should tell you why it must be avoided. Weather magic affects more than one’s own land. Things can quickly escalate into wars that ruin realms and break the power of both combatants. I’ve seen it happen.”

“Oh, of course,” Hundarr Wolfwinter agreed derisively. “You’ve lived since before there were sunrises, and seen it all … of course. Still—”

He broke off, staring, even before Broglan Sarmyn could voice a rebuke. They all followed his gaze to the source of his amazement: a huge silver platter bristling with the slim spires of wine and liqueur bottles. The platter and its burden were both splendid, but hardly unusual at a feast such as this. What was unusual was that it was drifting slowly across the empty space between the tables, approaching the senior Summerstars.

“Pah!” Erlandar half-rose, his hand going to the dagger at his belt. “Wizards’ tricks!”

“But no,” Broglan protested. “None of us has—”

“Ah,” Storm said firmly, “but one of us has.”

She raised her eyes to look steadily at one of the war wizards and said softly, “Clever, Corathar Abaddarh. A deft little spell that very few would notice you casting … but is such a working prudent, given the situation here? The talk of hauntings, and the bereavement of the Summerstars? The danger we may all face?”

The platter crashed to the floor in a thunderous shattering of glass. “I’m not a child, lady, to be told off so,” Corathar snarled, eyes flaming, “and I’ll thank you to—”

His face paled, and he fell silent. The platter trembled, rose slowly, and proceeded on its interrupted journey. The shattered bottles rattled nervously atop the silver.

“Enough!” Storm said sharply. “Consider us all impressed by your little cantrip, and end your magic at once!”

“I’m … I’m not, now …” Corathar stammered, swallowed, and then managed to add, “lady, this is not my doing!”

Storm looked along the row of war wizards, and then at the Summerstars. Frowning perplexity showed among the former, and growing, suspicious fear filled the eyes of the latter. Even Pheirauze looked uneasy. “Stop it,” Storm said firmly, “whoever is working this!”

The platter continued on its unhurried, drifting way. Storm sighed and vaulted the table in a swirl of silver hair, reaching out both hands to grasp the platter with its cargo of toppled and shattered glass.

She murmured the words that should have spun away all magic as her hands closed on the chased and fluted silver handles. Instead of the peaceful silence that should have followed, the world exploded in roaring flames.

White-hot and hungry they howled. Fire raced up from the floor to scorch the lofty beams of the feast hall. It rushed out of empty air and entirely hid the lady bard from view.

Wizards gasped curses and lady servants screamed as the flames roared on. In the rafters, a banner burned through and fluttered down in a lazy ribbon of sparks. Still the flames roared on, until Shayna was sobbing and even Erlandar was on his feet staring up at the ceiling of the hall and cursing in fear—fear that the whole roof would come crashing down on them.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, the flames were gone. They left behind cracking tiles, groaning stones, and the reek of burnt wood and human hair. The diners all stared at the thing of tottering bones and ashes that should have held a melted platter—and gasped in unison.

Droplets of silver and glass lay like glistening rain on the blackened and shattered tiles, yes. But standing at their heart was a faintly smiling, weary-eyed woman. Her silver hair was curling and writhing lazily around her, a forest of roused snakes. The ends of those silver tresses were blackened and shriveled, but Storm Silverhand was otherwise unharmed. They could see that clearly enough. Most of her clothing had gone with the vanished flames. Her gown was now no more than ashes and blackened tatters, clinging to limbs that seemed … unharmed!

The others stared at her. Storm returned their look, arms still spread to grasp a platter that no longer existed. She said mildly, “My roast boar was quite well cooked already, thank you.”

Her eyes darted from diner to diner as she spoke, seeking traces of guilt or disappointment or baffled fury in their eyes … but she found only smirks or looks of horror on the female faces, and the beginnings of avid admiration from the males.

There were two exceptions. Broglan of the war wizards looked even more worried than usual—genuine concern, she judged. And the elderly steward of the hall was aghast. Black beard and mustache trembling in his haste, he swept a cloth off a bare section of the serving table, and hurried toward her, raising it like a shield.

Storm thanked him with a smile. He reached her, gabbled out mortified apologies—as if what had befallen her was his fault—and whipped the cloth around her as an improvised gown. What was his name, now? The seneschal had rattled it off, complete with a list of the battles the old man had fought in, in his days as a Purple Dragon … Ah, yes: Ilgreth. Ilgreth … Drimmer.