Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

Lhansig Dlaerlin reeled back, dazed. Deft hands plucked his tunic up and over his head, blinding him. He was struggling to draw breath when two very sharp things burst through the cloth and into his eyes … and there was no longer any need to scream.

White fire surged through the brain of the man who was always smiling and joking, and he opened his mouth in a last, soundless laugh as all he had ever been was sucked away. It did not take long.

Quick hands laid a silver harp pin on the wizard’s breast—and then whimsically plucked up his unlaced codpiece and perched it on Lhansig’s nose. It was a gesture worthy of the man, after all.

“Great gods above!” Broglan gasped, rising from the body, looking old and sick as well as worried. “The effrontery of this!”

The somber circle of shocked faces around him remained silent. Insprin, on his knees by Lhansig’s motionless form, looked up and said quietly, “Nothing my Art can find.”

“Then put his codpiece back and cover him,” Broglan said in sudden, savage anger, face going red, “before one of the guards comes in here, and the jest spreads all over the keep!”

“S-Some jest,” Corathar said, white to the lips.

“Death is never far away, lad,” Insprin said almost absently. Corathar turned a glare of mingled hatred and fear down at the older wizard. Not seeing it, the veteran mage added, “This was a clear warning to us.”

Broglan looked down again at Lhansig’s eyeless, staring skull. The flesh had been burned away, leaving the death-grin of the bones beneath. He shivered. “Even the Harper badge told us nothing?”

Insprin shook his head, and plucked the pin from Lhansig’s breast. One of the younger mages drew in his breath, as if expecting deadly magic to be unleashed—but nothing happened. Insprin shot a reassuring look in that direction, and mutely held up the badge.

It gleamed in front of Broglan’s nose in the flickering candlelight, and he took hold of it. “Why a Harper badge?”

“One who was slain here—Hornblade—” Murndal said, “his was found on him, the seneschal said.”

Broglan Sarmyn frowned, looking worried again. “This must be the work of Storm Silverhand. We were warned about her for good reason. She must be here already, lurking in the keep!”

He strode to the door, and then turned and snapped grimly, “Insprin, inform the seneschal and the boldshield about Lhansig’s … demise. Have the Purple Dragons search the Haunted Tower. I’ll go to farspeak the royal magician.”

The wards flickered one last time before settling down to a steady glow. Satisfied, Broglan Sarmyn seated himself at the table, sighed, and unwrapped the bundle he’d laid there. Black velvet unfolded into a circle with a diamond-shaped cushion at its center. On its puffed softness lay a flat-bottomed but spherical chunk of glossy black obsidian as large as Broglan’s fist.

He took a deep breath, glanced around the room warily, and tapped the stone with a finger, murmuring a certain word under his breath.

The stone quivered and slowly lifted away from its cushion, wavering up into the air to hang above the table at about the level of Broglan’s nose.

Broglan stared at it less than happily, the worry lines on his forehead deep again, and said, “Broglan Sarmyn, speaking from Firefall Keep. Lord High Wizard?”

“I hear you,” the royal magician’s voice rasped from the stone. It sounded sharp—but then, through speaking stones, it always did. “What news?”

“One of my team has been slain, presumably by the same creature or magical attack that killed the Lord Summerstar and the Harper agent,” Broglan said heavily. “Lhansig Dlaerlin is no more—and we’re no wiser as to how it was done. A Harper pin was left on his chest for us to find, and the body was arranged in such a way to mock us.”

“Burned out, and barred to all magic, as before?”

“Aye.” It was a measure of how upset Broglan Sarmyn was that he forgot to use any of Vangerdahast’s titles. His next words made that agitation very clear. “What should I do?”

The stone turned slowly in the air and emitted a sound that might have been a sigh. “I can’t spare the time just now to investigate,” the distant Vangerdahast said bluntly, “and I’m leaving this in your capable hands. I realize this is something that could kill you all—and baffle Laspeera, myself, Elminster, and every last one of his ex-apprentices, for all I know. I won’t tell you anything grandly foolish about knowing you’ll pull through, and such nonsense. Just do the best you can, Broglan. If you have to flee from the place or bring Firefall Keep crashing down, do so. Try to stop short of butchering the entire Summerstar clan, if at all possible.”

“I—I’m heartened to know that you understand,” Broglan said hesitantly. “I have just two more questions. Firstly, how far can I trust the local boldshield, Ergluth Rowanmantle?”

“Absolutely, so long as you do nothing he sees as a threat to the realm. The man is loyal through and through, and is far more … perceptive than most Purple Dragon commanders. Next question.”

Broglan took a deep breath—this was it, there was no ducking the matter now—and plunged right in. “It looks like we’re going to have a senior Harper who also happens to be of the Seven Sisters on our hands, here, any moment now. Storm Silverhand is named prominently in Athlan Summerstar’s will.”

“Did he deed the vale to her, or just the keep?”

“Neither—quite,” Broglan replied. “There’s nothing that diminishes the authority of the crown of Cormyr … but she is guaranteed freedom to arrive, leave, dwell, and hunt in the vale as she pleases, unless or until a subsequent royal decree deems otherwise. I think Athlan was aiming to protect his lands and kin by surrounding them with a Harper training facility, if anything happened to him.”

“You think he knew he was going to die soon,” Vangerdahast asked, “and specifically how, or at whose hand?”

“It’s impossible to say. It feels like he was just being cautious—unusually cautious, for one so young.”

“Indeed,” the royal magician agreed. “As for Storm—watch her. There’s not a lot any of us can do to stop her. Just be polite to her, and watch.”

“But what if she’s our murderer?”

“Why would she slaughter some back-country noble in another land? Use your head, man—if Storm took any interest in Summerstar at all, it’s because he was mixed up in something the Harpers didn’t approve of … slaving, dealing with the Zhentarim, or the like. All the more reason to be wary. Doesn’t this Firefall Keep have a haunted quarter, or something?”

“A ‘Haunted Tower,’ Lord,” Broglan replied.

“And what better way for someone at the keep to hide—or explain away—funny goings-on? ‘You didn’t really see that—it was ghosts!’ ”

“I see where you’re leading, Lord. It could be someone striking out against Lord Athlan because he uncovered the secret, or threatened to.”

“Exactly. And if Storm is a danger, get away from there and get word to me, above all else! That spell-reflection amulet I gave you ought to protect you against at least one attack, if she offers you violence. If that happens—don’t waste your chance to flee, even if means abandoning the others, or a pretty young lady of the realm, or all the Summerstars and their horses and servants too! Got it?”

“I understand, Lord—and I thank you.”

“Speak to me whenever you feel the need,” Vangerdahast said briskly. The stone crackled once and started to sink toward the cushion. Broglan sat back wearily and watched it fall.