Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

“I’ll not listen to more of this,” the Lady Zarova said grimly, rising from her seat. “Thurdal, serve me the rest of my dishes in my quarters!”

“And ours!” the aunts said in outraged chorus, flinging the contents of their glasses at Storm. She nodded to them, ignoring the wine coursing down the side of her face, and said, “The pleasure was mine, charming ladies.”

“Trollop!” Nalanna snarled as the three ladies whirled away from the table to storm out.

Erlandar shook his head and reached across the table to take up the decanter from beside Zarova’s glass.

“Uncle Erlandar?” Storm asked with a smile. “You, too?”

“No,” he said gruffly, fixing her with a look, “I’m staying to hear it all—whatever you’ve got to say. After that bit with the flaming platter in here the other night, lady, I believe what you say about battles.”

He plucked up Zarova’s unused dabble-linen and tossed it to Storm. “For the wine you’re, uh, wearing,” he said.

As Storm thanked him and wiped her face dry, the understeward glided in again to announce, “Lambs’ kidneys in a sherry sauce, set about with chestnut and parsnip fritters.”

It only took one taste of this most recent dish for the familiar oily fire of poison to spread out through Storm’s chest. Grimly, she called on the silver fire to purge it, having no choice but to weaken the barrier for a moment.

Broglan saw her eyes flicker and close for a instant. The rise and fall of her breast halted, and sweat glistened suddenly at her temples, but he said nothing as she slumped back in her chair, opened her eyes again, and gave him a grim smile.

“Stuffed stags’ heads with sage, apples, and sandalwood,” Thurdal continued serenely, as more platters arrived.

“As the ladies have left us,” Thalance said carefully, “I find us poised on the threshold of a unique opportunity: the chance to speak openly and plainly for once, laying the usual courtesies and silent subjects aside. Lady Storm, I must confess that I am eager to hear more about this foe you speak of—and something of your own experiences, down the centuries.”

Storm smiled thinly. “As with most lives, the bits others find exciting are few and far between, set in long stretches of more mundane things. I break a lot of harp-strings.”

“No, really,” Thalance said, frank admiration showing in his eyes. “If you are centuries old, how is it that you look no more than twice my cousin’s age? And is it true, what I heard about your being a marchioness of Cormyr?”

“The divine fire of Mystra keeps me young,” Storm replied quietly, “and I should add that at the moment it is also protecting the realm—but endangering everyone at this table—by keeping Firefall Keep enclosed in a barrier to keep the foe within.”

Erlandar looked around, as if he expected to see a flaming wall dancing in the air. “Barrier? Where, and for how long?”

“As long as we need it, I hope,” Storm replied. “And yes, Thalance, I am the Marchioness Immerdusk—so I fear I dare not go out on the battlements to watch a moonrise with you. Ladies of exalted station, I must remind you, have reputations to protect.”

Her last sentence was delivered in a perfect mimicry of the cold, cutting tones of the elder Dowager Lady Summerstar; Thalance snorted with mirth, but Erlandar said heavily, “Pray don’t mock Pheirauze, lady, for all her faults. She was … the storm wind that shaped me.”

Storm bowed her head. “My apologies, Lord Summerstar. I have an impish streak that often gets the better of me.”

“Is it true you spent years in the South as a tavern-dancer and pleasure slave because of that streak?” Thalance asked eagerly.

The war wizards leaned forward in interest.

Storm was even more amused by the lift of the understeward’s eyebrow as he glided in between them to murmur, “Venison haunch in crust.”

Thurdal kept his face otherwise carefully expressionless, and Storm gave him a broad smile as she replied, “Yes—and I enjoyed most of it, too. Did you know that many elven men can be transported to the heights of passion by stroking the tips of their ears?”

Erlandar shook his head in exasperation. Storm helped herself to the haunch—one of her favorites—generously. “No, I didn’t, lady, but frankly I care not. Elven men aren’t likely to be high on my list of conquests—or anyone else, for that matter, if this shapeshifter decides to slaughter me! What else can you tell us about … well, Shayna, and just what this foe can do?”

“Our foe can somehow drink knowledge and abilities—spells he can cast, for instance—from his victims. This power has something to do with the burnt-out state of the bodies we’ve found,” Storm told them. “As to Shayna—well, she refers to this shapeshifter as her ‘Master,’ and can talk mind to mind with him … presumably another power he’s gained.”

“You said he had her in thrall,” the wizard Insprin said quietly. “Can this foe do the same thing to the rest of us?”

Storm shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, “but surely his killings could be fewer, and he could show himself less, if he could control anyone from a distance.”

“Azoun’s eyes,” the understeward announced, carefully not meeting Storm’s gaze.

“What’s ‘Azoun’s eyes’?” Corathar whispered, eyeing the steaming tureen set down in front of him.

“Oysters in spiced ale,” Storm told him, leaning forward conspiratorially.

Erlandar’s gaze went involuntarily to the pectoral gleaming on her breast—and his eyes narrowed. “That jewelry you’re wearing … isn’t it the same design as one I see often on Queen Filfaeril?”

“Yes,” Storm told him, filling a bowl with a hearty helping of Azoun’s eyes. “It bears some magical defenses.”

“Such as?” Thalance asked.

Storm smiled thinly. “It’s unwise to reveal such things when anyone may be your foe, but I’ll show you just one.” She pushed back the sleeve of her open shirt, unbuckled the dagger strapped to her forearm, and fastened it high up by her shoulder, to hold the sleeve up.

Extending her bare arm out across the table, she said gently, “My Lord Erlandar, I know that the death of Pheirauze troubles you—and you ache to have something to smite and carve with your sword. So strike at me now, with all your strength and savagery!”

Erlandar frowned at her. “This is—not right, lady,” he said in protest, shaking his head.

“Please,” Storm said. “Thalance needs to see a little magic.”

She held up her other hand in warning. “Only pray balance yourself, as if you might miss, to avoid a fall.”

Erlandar stood up, still frowning at her, and his blade slowly slid out. “It’s a trick, then—the magic will make me miss.”

“Try to cut my arm off,” Storm replied gravely, “and you’ll see. You will not be harmed.”

Erlandar shrugged, and then raised his blade. With a smooth lift of his shoulders, he swept his blade down in a cut across her forearm. The steel slid through her flesh as if it were empty air, and left no wound behind. Her arm was untouched. Thalance stared at it in fascination.

“An ironguard,” Broglan said, and Storm nodded. “Try again, Erlandar—really hack; you’ll feel better.”

The eldest Summerstar man gave her a hard look, and then growled and swung his blade down again, hacking and hewing like a man possessed. In the midst of the flashing steel the understeward came in at the head of another line of servers, glided to a stop, and waited politely until Erlandar lowered his blade, panting—and Storm withdrew her unmarked arm.

“Old coins,” Thurdal announced gravely, setting down the lead platter.