Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

She cast swift glances up and down the passage again, but the fear that now gripped servants and armsmen alike meant that they went nowhere alone. No one had even replaced the burned-down torches along this hallway. She wondered briefly if the foe had subsumed the servant who usually did that task, and then shrugged and started to undress.

When she was bare, she dropped her pectoral into one boot, snatched up the scabbarded sword and bundled everything else up around it, and stuffed them all down behind a bucket at the back of the closet. Then she stepped into the small room after them and firmly closed the door, shutting herself into the darkness.

She did not need light to work her spell, just a moment of peace to call it forth. In a drifting moment, she would become an unseen, flying phantom that could wander at will around the keep, spying out shapeshifters and their mischief.

A moment of unguarded dreaming … she was adrift amid fire, both amber flames and silver. Out of them swam the red-scaled head of a dragon, watching her. Its great, dark eye blinked at her … and then seemed to dwindle through the mists … no, it was growing smaller , and turning to become—a vivid, glistening teardrop on a brassy handle: an ornate metal scepter surmounted by the dragon’s eye. She slid past it. It was gone in the mists, and she was starting to be able to see the dark walls of the gown-room around her.

As she rose, featherlike, to fly out into the keep, Storm shook her head in puzzlement. What did the dragon have to do with this?

“Saw through my scheme, did she? Hah! ’ Twas but an idle tactic! No one shall escape me! None shall leave Firefall Keep alive! Hahahahahahaha!”

The figure shouting those echoing words lashed out with hands that spat lightning from each finger, scorching the stones of the dark chamber around him. A phantom flew away, as if startled by the outburst, and was chased by deep, bellowing laughter.

The capering, tentacled man making that sound suddenly fell silent, and asked in the icy, patrician tones of Pheirauze Summerstar, “What buffoon disturbs my home?”

He whimpered for a moment, and then said in quite a different voice, “Have they fallen yet? Well, see to it, man! See to it!”

And he raised his hands and hurled fire—a raging, white-hot ball that roared across the chamber and crashed into the far wall, sending flames flying about the room. The man sighed.

“Please,” he said in infinitely bored tones, examining nails that swiftly grew into talons. “Spare me.”

Then he howled like a hound in despair. He set off at a run, cackling and howling by turns, blasting stone walls, steps, and statues around him with golden-green flame. Stone exploded into rubble on all sides as he raged, trying to sing and bark and spit out words all at once.

“I’m rich, sire, and you cannot trouble me anymore!” he called to a mirror that had gathered dust for over a century—before he shattered it with all the fire he could muster.

“Yes,” he breathed a moment later, voice hushed but trembling with emotion. “A Summerstar would do this.… ”

“All I know is,” he snarled, interrupting himself with a harsher, deeper voice, “we as wear the Dragon spends all our spare time dyin’ for the king, that’s all!”

“What gods-accursed plan …?” he asked the empty air as he capered down a hall.

He whirled around. “He made it,” he told the passage with quiet fury, “as if we had never been.”

“I-I-” he said in anguish, and went to his knees. His face melted and ran like butter in the sun. He howled with all the strength in his lungs, “Why can’t I remember my name?”

That agonized shout echoed down the empty rooms for a long time. “Name, name, name” came faintly back to him, as he held his head in his hands and sobbed.

Or tried to. As he clasped his cheeks, his head melted away from between his cupped hands, and ran down onto the floor, glistening like blood. Though the room was dark, it reflected back a dancing radiance as it flowed across the floor: the flickering shadows of silver flames.

“Take it,” Insprin Turnstone told the young noble. “We can worry later if that’s mold.”

Thalance Summerstar nodded, turned awkwardly with the heap of long, curl-ended bread loaves the wizard had thrust into his hand, and started back on his way. Insprin waved four of the Purple Dragons to follow him and turned back to the dusty corners of the pantry.

Everything was a mystery. Why can’t people label their jars?

It’s not as if they’d wizardly secrets to keep, Insprin thought sourly, running his fingers through his graying hair. The question before him right now was—is this oil that’s gone off, or is Calishite olive oil supposed to smell and taste like this?

Urrgh. Forget it; the Calishites could keep it! He put the stopper back and reached for the next jug—only to freeze in midreach as a merry giggle sounded from just over his left shoulder. He turned slowly, fearing each breath would be his last.

Shayna Summerstar was leaning against the pantry wall, a dusty bottle in her hand. Chestnut hair spilled down over her ivory shoulders, and the old wizard almost licked his lips. Gods, but she was beautiful. “The kitchen wine cellar’s around here , silly!” she said, friendly mirth in her eyes. “What’re you trying to drink the fish-oil for?”

“F-Fish oil?” was all old Insprin could think to say, as he felt for his wand.

Shayna’s emerald eyes went down to it as he tore it forth. “Is anything wrong, sir wizard?” she asked. “I’m sorry if I startled you—I only wanted to offer you some wine! You looked so hot and bothered after Thalance left, and …”

She frowned. “How’d you manage to get him to fetch and carry, anyway? It’s more than I’ ve ever managed to get him to do!”

“Forgive me, Lady Summerstar,” Insprin said gravely, holding the wand trained at her from about two paces distant, “but I must ask this: is your mind your own?”

She gave him a puzzled smile. “Is it what? ”

They looked at each other in silence for a long moment, and then she said quietly, “You’re serious. Well, of course it’s my own. This isn’t some strange ritual greeting war wizards use, is it?”

Then she seemed to notice the bottle of wine in her hand for the first time, and added, “Well—do you want some wine, or not?”

“No, thank you, Lady Shayna,” Insprin said, taking a careful pace away from her. “Forgive me for being suspicious,” he added, “but in my admittedly brief time here at the keep, I’ve never seen you be so—ah, forward . Outspoken, instead of shy, and open and easy with a war wizard you’ve scarcely met.” He looked at her narrowly. “I’m not sure I’m speaking to the real …”

Her smile fled. “I see now,” she said. “Lady Storm met with me, yes, and spoke to me of the shapeshifter loose in the keep. You think I might be some sort of monster.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how I can prove myself to be the real Shayna. If, as you say, we knew each other better, you could ask me questions about my younger days, and so be sture, but …”

She sighed, and turned away. “This isn’t turning out the way I meant it to,” she said in a low voice. “I waited until you were alone, thinking this would be a wonderful chance …”

“Chance?” Insprin asked quietly, wand still aimed steadily at her. “Chance for what?”

Shayna Summerstar turned back to face him, and then peered quickly past. Assured that they were still alone, she said in a low voice, “I must now lead House Summerstar, and put away thoughts of gowns and feasts and … handsome men. I—I’ll lose those things before I ever even get to touch them with my fingertips! Snatched away, so I can never have a lover, never—”