Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

Encouraging words, but no aid. He was on his own, at least for now. How many more deaths would it take, how many more war wizards would die before the royal magician sent serious aid? And would that aid, if it did ever come, reach Firefall Keep in time?

Broglan rubbed at his eyes. He did not see the darkness that shifted in one of the shadows beyond the wards to slink away to the next shadow. One of the wards flared for an instant, as if powerful magic had been used nearby, but Broglan did not see that soundless flash, or its cause.

Sometimes mighty mages are just as tired and careless as the rest of us.

“My thanks for your work in getting to me so quickly,” the Bard of Shadowdale said, turning in her saddle and slowing her mount to lay a hand on Vrespon’s knee, “but I must leave you here.”

“Leave me?” the Harper in worn leathers asked warily, looking around at the desolate, rolling wilderness. “Here?”

“Just ahead—at the top of this hill.”

“I wondered why we were riding up rather than just going around,” the Harper muttered, the lift of his voice making his words a question.

Storm tossed silver hair out of her eyes and gave him a level look. “If I am to do any good at Firefall Keep at all, I must get there at once—or at least, far sooner than they expect me. You half-killed your horse getting to me as swiftly as you did. I want you to rest her on the way back. Ride mine. Consider it yours now.” She lifted one leg, put both hands on her saddle, and propelled herself a good dozen feet off to one side, to land crouched and facing him. The horse continued its patient walk up the grassy hill.

“You’re going to walk to Firefall Keep?” Vrespon protested. “Dressed like that?”

Storm chuckled. “No, I’m going to gate there—and what’s wrong with what I’m wearing, anyway?” She put hands to hips and tossed her head in mock indignation. Gods, but this lad was young. Right now, his eyes were shining in delight. He mustn’t get many chances to do anything exciting, or be a part of any adventures. Ah, well—time to give him something to remember. Inspiring the young is part of the Way of the Harp, after all.

She strode on up the hill, still wearing her floppy old boots. She’d added torn and dirty trousers and a field smock that was more dirt and dung than garment. The rents they sported demonstrated repeatedly that she had nothing on underneath … and Storm hadn’t even brought a dagger, let alone a purse or even a pouch to hold a meal or gear. Though she hadn’t given it an order or even a glance, her horse trotted after her like a large and contented dog.

They reached the crest of the hill together, and Vrespon gaped in surprise. The little bowl that dimpled the hilltop wasn’t visible from below—nor the small ring of standing stones that filled it. The ancient, moss-covered sentinels of craggy, fissured dark rock reached to the sky like the fingers of some long-forgotten, half-buried god. They stood in a tight circle, enclosing nothing.

Storm strode toward them without hesitation. “I take it you didn’t know these were here?”

“No,” said Vrespon, still looking amazed.

“And I take it you’d like to be back in Hillmarch as soon as you can, without a long ride through or around the mountains, entertaining bandits along the way?”

“Y-Yes,” Vrespon replied warily.

“Then get down from that saddle and hold your horse quiet,” the lady of the Harp told him, and tore a long strip from her trousers. Stuffing that scrap of fabric into one of her boots, she calmly took off the rest of her filthy clothing and tossed the smock to him. “Cover the horse’s head with it,” she directed. “They hate this, and always bolt if they see that instant of falling, amid the stars.”

“What instant of … falling?” the Harper messenger asked.

Storm whipped what was left of her trousers around the head of her mount, and led it ahead into the stones. “Come and see,” she called back to him, and when he hesitated, beckoned in the sultry fashion of a tavern dancer. This time, he did not look hastily away, but neither did he advance.

“What is this place?” Vrespon asked, bewildered—but he was asking the empty, wind-whipped air. The space between the stones was empty.

He swallowed once, took a last look around at this uninhabited corner of southeastern Daggerdale, with the Moonsea Ride a ribbon of mud in the distance. He squared his shoulders and led the horse steadily on into the stones … not hurrying, but not hesitating either.

Storm was suddenly elsewhere, and her feet were wet. The gelding snorted nervously and danced, its hooves splashing up water around her. The bard held its bridle firmly, patted its flank in reassurance, and led it out of the pool just below the well.

Two startled pairs of eyes looked up at her from the grassy bank. The man and maid lay in each other’s arms, the remains of their luncheon and books of poetry strewn around them.

“Sorry,” Storm told them gravely, and arched her eyebrows impishly. “Pray, continue.”

She marched past them, flopping boots and snorting gelding and all, as the man hissed a startled oath and shot a look at the pool where they’d just—appeared, out of thin air!

As he stared, a man in worn leathers appeared. Another hooded horse splashed where, a moment before, there’d been nothing but roiling waters.

The man with the horse looked at him, and he stared back, his astonished lady-love still nestled against his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Ask her, ” the newcomer protested, sounding almost hurt. He pointed ahead and down the hill, where the lady with the silver hair had gone. “Ask her!”

“Phernald,” the maid quavered, suddenly finding her voice, “shouldn’t we—?”

“No! Whatever it is, no!”

With those last, shouted words, the man was on his feet and sprinting for the safety of the trees. He dragged his lady with him, heedless of the fate of her finest gown as he hauled her through brambles. Poetry, wine, and all lay forgotten behind them.

“Oh, Phernald!” she wailed as they disappeared.

Vrespon shook his head, hauled the smock off his mare’s eyes, mounted, and urged her into a trot to catch up with the Bard of Shadowdale.

When he reached Storm, he said almost accusingly, “You scared the wine right out of those two, you know!”

She was thoughtfully draping around herself the woefully inadequate strip of material she’d stuffed into her boot earlier. Perhaps, Vrespon thought, all senior Harpers were crazy.

This one certainly seemed to be. She turned and smiled at him. “I did apologize,” she said, “and they’d finished their meal but not gotten beyond whisperings, if you know what I mean.… There’s no harm done. They’ve just enjoyed an invigorating race through the forest, that’s all!”

The Harper stared at her for a moment longer, and then burst into shouts of astonished laughter. Both horses snorted and shifted, and Storm told him severely, “Stop that—you’re frightening the horses.”

“And I suppose you’re through frightening me? ” Vrespon demanded in mock exasperation.

Storm clapped him on the shoulder. “ That’s the spirit,” she said. “Now you know how to cross the Thunder Peaks from east to west, from the Farlight Stones to Muskrin’s Well, here. It doesn’t work in the other direction. Don’t forget, now.”

Vrespon shook his head. “Muskrin’s Well … I must be a little north of … let’s see.…”

Storm took him by one ear, swung him close, and kissed him. “It’s been a joy,” she said lightly, “but I must go. Take Lazytail, here.” She steered the gelding’s bridle into his hands and walked away.