Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

When the servers had done the same and turned away, Corathar leaned forward and whispered, “Right—what’re ‘old coins’?”

“Egg, cheese, and marrow pies,” Storm and Insprin told him, more or less in unison. The bard was still standing, calmly rolling her sleeve down, when the unmistakable crack of a crossbow firing echoed across the hall—followed by the loud, rising thrum of a streaking quarrel.

With an angry buzz, it zipped between Thalance and Broglan, burst right through Storm’s body, and splintered against the far wall. Everyone at the table whirled around—except Thalance, who kept his awed eyes on the lady bard. Storm herself was already gazing at her would-be slayer.

Everyone else saw a Purple Dragon hurl down his crossbow and flee, the doors banging wide in his wake. The passage beyond was strewn with the bodies of other guards.

“Gentlesirs, the foe,” Storm announced calmly.

The doors at the other end of the hall, behind them, burst open, and the boldshield hastened in with his sword drawn, Purple Dragons all around him. They glanced quickly around the tables and then ran on down the hall, toward their dead comrades.

As if in unspoken accord, everyone at table turned to look at Storm. She was unhurt, no mark left in her breast—where the pectoral glittered almost tauntingly. Calmly buckling her dagger back into place, she looked up and said brightly, “Oh, did I forget to mention that this collection of baubles is also a protection against missiles?”

“Gods, lady,” Erlandar growled, “you’re a laughing lunatic to top all!”

Storm tossed her head as she shook her sleeve back down into place. “I fear so. Folk always seem to remember my kinder side, and forget what an imp I am.” She bowed to them gravely, and added, “My apologies.”

There was a general shout of relieved laughter. The understeward glided serenely into the midst of it to announce, “Marsemban tarts, roast pheasant, and roast quail in a sauce of cheese, saffron, and white wine.”

“All right,” Corathar said disgustedly. “ What are Marsemban tarts?”

There were chuckles, and Erlandar rose, said grandly, “May I? Pastries topped with parsley and potato, containing diced salmon and crab in a sauce of almond milk, wine, leeks, and persimmons.”

There was a smattering of applause—but then, there were few diners left to give it. Erlandar and Storm both sat down.

The old Summerstar noble said, “I must thank you, lady, for making what I feared would be a grim meal indeed into something … entertaining.”

Storm shrugged. “Death comes for us all, and unpleasantness, too,” she told him, filling her glass with amberheart sherry. “Some of us are given very little time to live, so why not enjoy all we can and share that joy with others? It’s better than melancholy moping, to be sure!”

“Magely philosophy?” Broglan asked with a smile.

Storm shrugged. “I’m more an adventurer than I am an all-knowing sorceress, Broglan. Far from it; Mystra wants her Chosen not to be tower-girded tome-studiers.” She saw Insprin and Corathar leaning forward again in keen interest, and added, “It’s Mystra’s Way to let us all forge our own paths in life; we know only what we can learn ourselves … and I’ve spent far more time with a sword in my hand down the years, than a spellbook.”

Broglan nodded slowly. “Do you … speak of such things often?”

Storm shook her head. “Only with Harpers—or, most recently, with the foe, as we fought,” she told him. There were gasps and dropped jaws up and down the table.

Erlandar swore. “Gods, but you’re a cool one,” he murmured, shaking his head and reaching for his decanter.

“I’m not, you know,” Storm told him intently, her tone making him look up and meet her gaze. “I’ve just had more years of learning control and acting than the rest of you.”

“Chicken livers in spiced cream broth,” the understeward said then.

Corathar made a face. Thalance ignored the tureen placed before him. Erlandar, Insprin, and Broglan, however, lifted the lids and ladled out generous portions.

As soon as her first spoonful touched her lips, Storm waved her arms and snarled, “ Don’t eat this!” Insprin dropped his spoon, and Broglan spat out the spoon that had just entered his mouth. Erlandar—who’d just swallowed—stared at her in horror.

“Oh, Mystra aid me!” Storm moaned in exasperation, and dived over the table, scattering dishes and decanters in all directions.

Erlandar was already turning purple around the lips when she leapt on him, knocking noble and chair over with a crash and coming down on top of him. In frantic haste, she glued her lips to his and called forth the silver fire. She’d just have to hope the foe didn’t test the barrier now.…

He didn’t, thank the gods. The Summerstar noble bucked and squirmed under her, trying to speak. He then fell still, and slowly raised his hands to cradle her in his arms, as tenderly as any lover.

When Storm lifted her head from his at last, he was grinning at her, eyes shining. She gave him a slap and rolled off him.

“You old rogue,” she said affectionately. She looked up to the others. “Let those livers be cast into the braziers without delay! What’s in them could kill anyone who takes a mouthful. An earlier dish held poison meant just for me, but this time it seems the foe decided to leave me as alone as he could, by eliminating everyone else.

“Corathar, please hasten to the boldshield and tell him two things: he must check on the Lady Zarova without delay—and he must consider the understeward dead, and anyone who looks like him to be … the foe.”

As the young wizard hurried from the room, Erlandar looked up at her with something like worship in his eyes. She reached out a hand and hauled him to his feet.

“Consider yourself honored, Lord Summerstar,” Storm told him. “You’re one of the few mortals to taste the divine fire of Mystra—and live.”

“Lady,” the old noble said huskily, “I shall worship the Mother Of All Magic henceforth, to my dying day.”

“Dare we touch anything else on our plates,” Broglan asked faintly, “or is it too late?”

Storm spread her hands. “Poison’s not so easy to get or make as some think, but I doubt … well, let me taste a bit of everything, and then you can eat and drink all you like.”

“Right now, Lady Storm,” Insprin said heavily, “that won’t be much. What with crossbow bolts, and men lying dead by yonder door, poison on our platters, and the fire of Our Holy Lady of Spells, I’m … no longer hungry.”

There was a general rumble of agreement.

Thalance grinned and said, “I feel a trifle ill, lady—kiss me?”

“Perhaps later,” Storm told him with a grin. “I’m still hungry.”

Broglan’s eyes narrowed. “This silver fire,” he asked, “it can’t sustain you while it’s holding that barrier, can it? You have to eat, to stay strong enough to go on—that’s it, isn’t it?”

Storm’s eyes met his gravely. “Broglan, you see far too well for your own safety. Say nothing of this, any of you—or the foe will know of another gap in my armor.”

“There’s something else I should tell you, lady,” Broglan said awkwardly. “We kept Athlan’s notes from you. Frankly they don’t hold much of use. They were largely what any novice mageling would write of his discoveries, plus a lot of dream visions, and—”

Storm frowned and held up a staying hand. “Did he dream a lot about dragons watching him?”

“Why, yes,” the war wizard replied, matching her frown. “Do you know what it meant?”

Storm shrugged. “No. Not yet. Please say on.”