Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

“And how do I know that?” she purred. “You are kind, and modest, and a mage who’ll grow to be powerful and wise—what more can a woman ask for?”

What else, indeed? The coronet’s flash became a steady glow, now, and as Corathar cast a startled glance at it, she gave him an encouraging smile and pointed. “The bed must be just about there … about a dozen feet in, I’d guess.”

“What if it’s crushed?”

Shayna shrugged. “I don’t think tradition demands that the bed be a certain size or condition—we’ll make do.” She flashed a dazzling smile, and then leaned close and whispered, “Hurry, my lord to be. Hurry.”

Corathar smiled, nodded, and drew back his sleeves. “I’ll need a little room,” he said apologetically. She peeled herself away from his side and stepped back with another slow smile.

The youngest wizard of the Sevensash swallowed, collected his wits carefully, and then worked the most precise and exacting telekinesis spell he’d ever cast.

First that rock … no, think of Shayna’s smiles later: rocks first … now that one … and that one …

Block after shattered block rose from where they’d fallen and swayed through the air off to one side, to clatter down into a shattered chamber beyond. About a score or so of rocks into this work, Corathar lifted a stone block that was almost intact, and thought he saw a hand lying under it. He blinking, feeling a sudden chill—but when he peered again at what he’d uncovered, it looked like the edge of the headboard. The bed!

He moved another stone, and another, with renewed eagerness, tumbling them out of the way, tossing and smashing them aside as sweat broke out on his brow—until a battered bed lay bare. With a flourish, he swept the last of the dust and rubble from its coverlet, and turned to the Lady Summerstar.

Shayna laughed delightedly and scrambled over the stones to reach it, coronet flashing. Corathar dismissed his spell and watched her, mouth suddenly dry. She reached the bed, lay down with slow grace, ran a hand up one hip of her gown, and beckoned to him.

“Come, my wizard,” she called softly, opening her arms. Corathar obeyed.

His last memory was of how sweet her lips tasted as her eyes flashed in sudden triumph. The bed grew hands that sank iron-hard fingers into his throat, and strangled him.

He struggled for breath, but Shayna kept her lips pressed to his. It was from lower down that he felt sudden fire. He twisted, or tried to, and arched … and then a chaos of memories that were not his own flooded into and over him. With a despairing cry that he never voiced, Corathar Abaddarh rolled over into darkness, forever.…

“Spells, more spells,” the man who was not Maxer muttered, and grew a tentacle to embrace the young woman beside him. WELL DONE.

He was so kind, Master . She sighed as she watched the husk fall back into ash and scatter on the rocks beneath them. The handsome head beside hers snorted and grew a long, long arm that reached up into a shattered room far above, and drew them up toward the moonlight.

“Kindness,” the shapeshifter said aloud, scornfully. “Is that what you want me to give you?”

It would be a change, Master .

He stared at the young noblewoman in his arms, and suddenly shook with laughter. Gods, what spirit! He was beginning to feel the glimmerings of some respect for the nobility of Cormyr after all. ’Twas a pity, really, he’d have to destroy them all … including this one.

IF I HADN’T TOUCHED YOU WHEN I DID, he asked, suddenly and acutely aware that this young woman had chosen to rescue him from helpless death, and fought down strong urges and emotions to do so, WOULD YOU HAVE JOINED WITH THIS WIZARD?

She turned her head away from him, and he did not bother to grow an eyestalk to force a meeting of gazes. It was a long time before she said simply, Yes .

YOU HAVE MY THANKS, he told her gravely, wondering how soon it would be before he dared to destroy her. No one he might depend on could be permitted to survive. He must never lower his guard—and so, no one must be in a position to betray him … as she had betrayed another for him.

It was an even longer time before she said, in the depths of his mind, You’re welcome .

She sounded so humble that he did not become alarmed at how deeply into his defenses she’d penetrated.

They sat together on the broken edge of a riven chamber and looked out over the moonlit rubble. The dust had largely settled, and they could see far into the Haunted Tower—and through it, trudging forward in answer to the master’s call, the Hungry Man.

The Dark Master was in a hurry to transfer the puny spells he’d just subsumed to his mindless servant; the shambling husk hastened its tireless walk. It never saw what lay just beside one of its footfalls: a scepter whose metal shaft caught the moonlight and winked back from the watchful eye that surmounted it.

The dragoneye swiveled to watch the Hungry Man pass, and blinked once or twice as the shapeshifter stretched down his head so that two pairs of eyes faced each other from a pace apart—and blue-white beams of magic began to flow.

“Hold hard!” barked one of the guards at the doors, swinging a halberd up from the floor to menace her.

Storm raised an eyebrow. “To what?” she asked tartly. From somewhere beyond the ruined door at the guard’s back, she heard Erlandar Summerstar laugh.

“It’s her,” the boldshield and the senior war wizard told the guard in unison, and he scowled and lowered his weapon.

“The way she came running up here …”

“You’d do more than run, man,” Thalance Summerstar told him crisply, “if you were trying to make it through all those blasts and falls of stone!”

Broglan stepped forward a pace ahead of Ergluth Rowanmantle. “Are you—well? Did you meet with the foe?”

“I’m fine,” Storm said, stretching. “Just a little weary—I’d grown unused to doing things without Mystra’s power. No, I didn’t see him, but I watched him bring down an entire turret, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t stop with just one, eith—”

She broke off and spun around. Someone was running toward them in the darkness, someone panting and not young and fit to begin with. Storm took two quick steps and put her hand on the guard’s ready halberd, forcing its point down to the floor.

“What’re you—” he snarled at her, straining with all his brawn to wrestle his weapon up again, and finding it as immobile as stone.

“Stand easy,” Ergluth ordered gently, putting a hand on the Purple Dragon’s shoulder.

Storm raised a hand. Everyone there fell suddenly silent as they saw a lone silver flame rise slowly from it. She held her palm up by her shoulder as if she held something she could hurl, and asked the darkness, “Who comes in such haste?”

The running steps halted, staggered, and then came on more slowly. “Insprin Turnstone, lady,” a breathless voice called back.

“The dragon watches!” Broglan snapped.

“And never smiles,” a reply came wearily out of the darkness. The speaker came forward into their torchlight. The senior war wizard relaxed; Insprin had obviously given the correct password to his challenge.

The older mage came up to them, still gasping for breath. He was covered with dust, and his sparse hair was in a wild twist of disarray.

“Are you all right?” Broglan demanded. “Did you see Corathar? Or Lady Shayna Summerstar?”

Insprin shrugged. “Corathar’s out there somewhere—we’d best look for him if we want to find him before the foe does.”

He looked down at his hand, and held up what was still clenched in his fingers. Erlandar made a wordless sound as he recognized the tatters of Shayna’s gown.