Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

“Now,” he continued heavily, “how many wandering Harper pins do you think their deaths have produced? Have you ever heard of a Harper marking a corpse as some sort of ‘Harper kill’ by leaving a pin behind? I’ve not—and yet why do we stand here debating such things? We’ve a Harper in our midst. If you suspect this leaving of pins might be a Harper tactic, why don’t you ask her?”

The power of his words was such that even Pheirauze looked to Storm.

She kept her eyes on Broglan’s as she told them all, “No Harper, so far as I know, has ever put a badge on a dead person except as mark of honor for the deceased, when the dead person is a Harper. And to answer the question you’ve not dared ask, Sir Wizard: I’ve not, within any of your lifetimes, slain anyone in this keep … yet.”

There was a stirring. Not even Erlandar quite dared to contest what some of them held to be empty and overblown legend: that the lady standing before them, or any of the Seven Sisters for that matter, had really lived any longer than other folk. They used potions to appear youthful long after age should have stolen their teeth and sleek agility, as many a wizard did … surely no more.

Storm looked a wintry challenge at Erlandar, but when he said nothing, she continued crisply, “I’ve heard something of what Lord Athlan’s body looked like—and that of the wizard Dlaerlin, too—”

Broglan Sarmyn’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Storm brought her gaze to meet his as she continued.

“—and I’ve never seen anything quite like the … wounds left behind by whatever or whoever is doing the slaying. You’d all best be very wary. Not only do you stand in personal danger, but if the cause of these deaths gets out of the keep, Cormyr—and all civilized lands—could well be doomed.”

Storm turned back to Broglan. “I want to examine Athlan Summerstar’s body,” she said quietly. “Now.”

Broglan seemed about to refuse, but the boldshield raised a hand and pointed warningly at him, and he shrugged and said, “The Lord Summerstar was burned upon the orders of Lady Pheirauze. Given the manner of his death, her wishes seemed only prudent. All we have left of him is a handful of ashes.”

“Take me to that handful,” Storm said quietly.

Broglan bowed his head, gathered the other war wizards with glances, and left the table. He headed at an even pace for one of the doors of the hall. The boldshield followed.

Storm paused only long enough to say to Shayna, “My deep apologies for disturbing the peace of your hall so often this even, gracious lady. The viands, and your care and kindness in the offering of them, are appreciated.”

She sketched a bow. The startled heiress returned it. Without another word, Storm turned and went after the boldshield. Cold and thoughtful Summerstar eyes watched them go.

In the passage beyond the feast hall, the ring of war wizards closed in around Storm and the Purple Dragon. Ergluth Rowanmantle raised his hand in a signal, and there were suddenly Purple Dragon armsmen everywhere, melting out of the gloom along the walls to form an outer ring of watchful warriors around them all.

Storm smiled tightly as the war wizards collectively stiffened. “What is the meaning of this?” Broglan snapped, but he sounded more weary than surprised.

“That’s what we’re trying to discover, mage,” Ergluth explained with hearty patience as they strode on into the darkness. “That’s what we’re all trying to discover.”

The leader of the war wizards didn’t bother to reply. He led the way in stony silence. Down a musty stair they went, and across a hall lit only by the faint blue radiance that surrounded an old statue of a Summerstar lord. Another stair led down from that hall, turning several times, into a dank and deserted lower level. This was not the way the boldshield knew, and his eyes were narrow with suspicion before the doors of the Summerstar crypt came into view ahead.

Broglan Sarmyn turned to Storm and said, “Lady Silverhand, beyond these sealed doors lie the fallen who have borne the name Summerstar down long and proud centuries. I’ve never been inside it, but I must remind you and Lord Rowanmantle that the seal was put there by a local priest for a good reason: it keeps undeath in, as well as thieves who fear such walking dooms out. I do not recommend—”

What the wizard chose not to recommend, they never learned. At that moment, a silent blue-white pale figure rose up behind him and reached down long, clawed hands to rake Broglan’s face and throat.

Those talons were like smoke. The startled wizard’s face shone through them as he stammered out a spell.

At the same moment, Storm felt a terrible cold slice through her from behind. A man’s voice by her shoulder hissed, “Stop, it, witch! End your spell, or my next thrust will be through your heart!”

The bard looked down at the blue flickering that was shaping a point just below her right breast. “A spellblade. Murndal Claeron—it is Murndal, is it not?—do you know the price of wielding the weapon you have so boldly used?”

The war wizards had all turned to face her by then, their hands up to hurl spells. The boldshield had his blade half out. Following his lead, the armsmen reached around to put daggers to the throats of the mages. Everyone watched in frozen, wary silence as Storm turned to face the mage who’d struck her from behind.

Murndal made a frightened sound and tried to slash the spellblade sideways, to reach her heart. Storm stepped easily away from it, so that it sliced its way right out through her ribs instead. Spinning gracefully around, she touched it once, and the wizard was suddenly holding nothing but a few blue sparks that flickered and drifted from his hand.

“Let us have peace,” she told her attacker then, towering over him.

Murndal of the war wizards cowered away from her, his mouth dry and his fingers cold with fear.

Silver fire was swirling around the wound in her side, and curling out from between her lips as she spoke. Her eyes were suddenly two pools of soaring silver flames, and Murndal could not help screaming as she took him by the arms. He felt the crackle and surge of powers he could only guess at.

Storm said gently, “I’ve worked no spell, ambitious one … and I can see that the crafting of that weapon was beyond you, too.”

She let go of the trembling mage and turned around again. “Broglan! Mind your manners!” she snapped. “Spellblades? The backlash could have killed this young mageling of yours—and a dozen more folk, if he’d dragged it out at the wrong moment! What were you thinking of?”

Broglan stared at her, naked fear on his face. He licked his lips. The haunting that had startled him and scared Murndal into attack was gone, scattered by his hasty spell. Now Storm Silverhand, every inch a Chosen of Mystra, with the divine silver fire of legend curling out of her very eyeballs, was staring angrily at him.

“Y-Your power, and how we might stop it,” he whispered, unable to think of anything to say but the truth.

She sighed, and tossed her head. Already the wound in her side was smaller, and the terrible silver radiance was blazing and flowing along it, fading away from her face. “Well, at least I’m hearing some honest words from you,” she said calmly. “Do you think you could open the crypt now, and forget such nonsense as this for a while?”

Broglan stared openmouthed at her, and then turned to the crypt doors. The shaken war wizard took a deep breath and bowed his head for a moment. He raised his hand, murmured something, and touched the line of wax marked by the three runes that the Harvestmaster of Chauntea had impressed on it. A small fire blazed up around his fingers. At first a green-white, it became a deep and restless red and raced along the wax.