Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

Well, there’d be fewer of them soon enough. It was time to plot and plan in earnest … no matter how hard that was becoming.

Hard indeed. A tremulous sigh echoed within the roiling ring of mist.

The fire brought spells, and the skills to cast them. It could bring also important knowledge, and useful powers akin to spells—whatever mental properties the victims had possessed. But with such treasures came annoying memories.

Floods of memories, bright and sharp and roaring and … oh, so heavy. Crowding and clamoring for attention, always, jostling along in an alluring flow that could spin one way, breathless, into being a man shivering on his first battlefield, side torn open, as the wolves came trotting nearer; then a woman shrieking under the brutish cruelty of her lord, in a room where the rippling blaze of candles brought no warmth nor comfort; and then a man again, watching from the battlements on a day of chill fog, as a falcon came streaking down to tear a dove from the air in a flurry of bloody feathers, and …

On and on, for one heart-wrenching moment after another, until strength came to rise up out of the endless flood and know what was truly befalling here and now. The seneschal had known damned near every chamber and passage of this old keep, and the ways of the vale beyond. What he hadn’t known was familiar to the Harper. Even those with paltry lives were best subsumed when met with—for a body emptied by the fire was forever mindless. Even if some meddler transformed an errant finger into a whole body, that body would be a brainless husk … and brainless husks could be trusted to keep secrets.

Secrets that must stand for a time longer, until no alarm among the Harpers or the Zhentarim or the Red Wizards or those who defended the crown of Cormyr could spell doom for the rising power in these two hands—the power that must triumph.

Dimly, through the ever-increasing, racing chaos of stolen memories, the watcher could recall the taste of divinity. It had a tang like the iron of blood in a mortal mouth … and yet, so much more. He ached to know that taste again, ached to be revered, and worshiped—and feared. It would come again. It would come again!

Usurpers commanded the priests who should still be his. Usurpers wielded the power that was rightfully his. Usurpers made decrees and blundered through divine dealings, speaking where he should have spoken. All of this would end. Hands clenched in the dimness of this chamber at the heart of the Haunted Tower. Aye, all of this would end.

It would take much more power, though. The power of that servant of accursed Mystra.

His hands itched at the thought. Ah, to wield what she had. But he must take care. Subsuming the essence of a mortal was all too easy with the fire at his command … but she could destroy him even without the aid of the others she could call on. He must be very careful.

It was prudent to skulk within spell-spun walls of magical mist, to hide behind gibbering skulls and other madnesses folk wouldn’t dare pass. Prudent, but hardly subtle. He must take great care in the days ahead.

And he must feed again. He’d gained the wits and wariness of a hardened Harper and the wiles and local knowledge of a veteran warrior—but his magic was still all too feeble. There were only five war wizards left. The two older ones might have something of worth … but slaying them was sure to bring more mighty mages, who’d arrive well prepared for trouble.

What choice was there? For him to regain his rightful place, many must die. He needed to do more than shapeshift and subsume. He needed true power—the power to withstand the mightiest of spells once more, such as the wish magics of mortals. No one in this vale, perhaps in this realm, had what he needed.…

But Storm Silverhand came close.

He must move softly. Best to take the powers of some more mages first, and at least one better fighting man, before making any move against the woman with the silver hair. The Purple Dragon commander was probably the best target outside the ranks of the war wizards—but getting to him would take careful planning.

The watchfulness of veteran soldiers and Storm Silverhand, though, were nothing when measured against the peril offered by the probes of a competent priest. There was a Harvestmaster of Chauntea about, and other clerics who’d known adventure, and seen life, and learned things.

At all costs, he must avoid being recognized for what he was. Thoughtful hands stroked a chin. Yes, the form of an attractive maid might be safest for what would have to come next.

Perhaps, after ascension, he’d take a Twisted Skull as his symbol. Lips twisted wryly in the darkness. That would be a worthy jest, seeing as he was having to change from one forlorn form to another all too often these days. It would be a good sigil to make mortals know terror. He’d made mistakes before—mistakes that had cost him nearly everything, leaving him a thing like a howling shadow, able only to fly and moan and claw … and subsume.

Aye, subsume. It was time, and past time, to feed again. The memories rushed past in an endless torrent, but he heeded them no more. He’d mastered them, and grown stronger … and it was time to seize more.

The dark figure dwindled and took on fullness—smooth, buxom curves of flesh, half revealed by a low-cut, ruffled bodice above a dark sash and slit skirts. Bare feet padded on stone. An anxious-looking maiden blew a kiss to one of the skulls, and stepped into the mists.

On their other side, a pale form waited—a warrior with no eyes. It howled soundlessly, raising the stump of a shattered sword with menacing intent. Another of the real phantoms of the keep.

The chambermaid laughed and strode right through it, using the light it radiated to adjust her garments more provocatively. Still laughing, she went on into dusty darkness.

It was time to feast again.…

“Mystra guard me,” Storm muttered as she set the door bar in place and went wearily around the room, checking for intruders. She’d already looked for secret entrances and moved the bed to one side, just to be safe. Now exhausted, she wanted to relax within that safety, however false or flimsy it might really be.

She yawned, and felt suddenly homesick. She wanted to be in her own bed, with the green growing things of Shadowdale all around her. “You’re getting old, lass,” she told herself. “Wanting to stay in one place and become a part of it—that was the sign Mystra warned of.”

… The Mystra who is now gone, she reminded herself silently. The Mystra who’d dared to challenge Helm, and so left all her Chosen to go unguided into this new age. And how she needed guidance. The man she’d loved—and seen brutally torn apart in battle, years ago—apparently roamed this backcountry keep burning out men’s brains.

Sudden tears rose raw in her throat, threatening to overwhelm her. “Maxan,” she gasped aloud. Memory brought his smiling face in front of her again, and she remembered the warm strength of his arms.…

Storm shivered, fought down a sob, and shook her head in denial. She waved at empty air to bid the memories of her dead man begone and leave her in peace.

She was suddenly tired of it all. When such good men were torn away from her and all Faerûn, who could care about self-important magelings and sneering Summerstars? Let them all go down, and …

Storm shook her head as she turned back the covers. Nay. Nay, not so harsh. Shayna Summerstar and Ergluth Rowanmantle were swimming in her mind’s eye. Behind them, coming up with that weary smile, was Renglar, the seneschal. They mattered. All of Cormyr mattered.

“It matters to me,” she told the silent room. She unbuckled the dagger sheath on her left shoulder. “It always matters to me.” She tossed the sheathed dagger onto the bed and reached for the matching one on her right shoulder. “That’s the problem,” she told it with a rueful smile.