Stormlight

ONE

"Look!"

The cry burst forth from one of the Purple Dragons as the honor guard stood back from the pyre. Heads jerked up, wearing the annoyed expressions of folk embarrassed by an unseemly outburst. Frowns melted away in awe.

Athlan's sister even broke off her sobbing to give a cry of near-delight. In the dusky sky over the distant Stonelands, a solitary light was plunging to earth: a falling star.

"Praise be," one guard muttered, "a good sign."

The Harvestmaster of Chauntea drew breath to thunderously acclaim this mark of divine favor. The old priest raised his voice in a tremulous declamation.

The gods-some god, at least-saw good or at least important times ahead for the noble. House of Summerstar, here on the very edge of Cormyr. The assembled family members looked suitably gratified.

A moment later, the crackling flames rose with a sudden roar, hiding from them all the shrouded form that had been Athlan Summerstar.

The seneschal's gaze went from the racing flames to the icily beautiful face of the dowager lady. Even before he could have tactfully suggested such a thing, the matriarch of the Summerstars-Dowager Lady Pheirauze Summerstar-had ordered her grandson burned by holy handfire to banish any harmful magic. She now stood watching-calmly, even haughtily. But then, she did everything haughtily, carrying herself with the smooth sophistication that sixty winters of high station and great beauty had brought.

She stood at the center of the gathered family, tall and slender, and the firelight that found her danced on a face that showed more annoyance than sorrow. Athlan had failed her, tearing asunder her schemes of greatness for the Summerstars. She'd probably not live to see another male Summerstar heir ready to ride to Suzail and impress whichever king sat the Dragon Throne then. Worse than that, he'd failed her in a way that left her unable to get even with him. . and Pheirauze Summerstar always got even.

Athlan's younger sister, Shayna, was suddenly the family heir now. Her stunning beauty had built to a peak, and her willfulness was making her dalliances with every second or third young and handsome Purple Dragon armsman in the vale increasingly difficult to hide.

Impossible to hide, more like, thought the seneschal. He'd soon have to call in war wizards to nose about in every corner and cranny of the keep. Murders of nobility might be hushed up, but never the sudden deaths of heirs or of any noble in a border hold. These days, Sembia was looking westward with ever-hungrier eyes. Renglar sighed.

No, the folk that the Purple Dragons privately called "the Happy Dancing Mages" would come. This was murder, all right. No young noble heir goes alone into a so-called haunted tower of a castle and gets his tongue slashed to prevent any screams, a sword thrust through him from behind-and some spell or other that burns him to a shell-by accident!

Later, he said as much. Most of the ashes had been placed on the traditional saddle bowl and the dead lord's horse had been whipped into a gallop to strew them wide and far over the vale. The Summerstars retired to their quarters-no doubt to yell at each other over the details of Lord Athlan's will. They hadn't even bothered to accompany the priest of Chauntea on the solemn march down to the family crypt to inter the traditional lone handful of still-smoking ashes in Athlan's upturned helm. The seneschal and his guest, however, both did.

When it was all over-after the crypt doors had boomed shut and been sealed with a final benediction and the priest had scuttled away with the traditional gold goblet full of gold lions as payment-Renglar sighed once more and turned to his tall, solid, sharp-eyed guest. "Care for some wine? We need to talk."

"Yes, and we do," the tall man agreed simply. They went up the stairs together. "He meant a lot to you?"

The seneschal shrugged. "He was a good lad. Lots of dreams-and the dreams of young men light the fires that brighten Cormyr in years to come. I liked him, aye, and I put a lot of hours of sword-work in on him; all wasted now."

"Would he have grown into another Pyramus?"

Renglar shrugged again, and stopped to unlock a seldom-used door. "It was too early to say. He had a touch of the let's-use-magic-because-it's-quick-and-easy streak, and was drifting into poking into small magics because of that. Another Pyramus? I don't think so."

They went through the door. With a heavy clang and a rattle of chain, it swung to behind them. The seneschal of Firefall Keep took a torch from a wall-bracket ahead, and led the way. His guest followed, eaglelike eyes moving this way and that, missing nothing. … Then again, it might be his task to besiege this place some day.

Below those alert eyes, Ergluth Rowanmantle was growing stout. There were white hairs in his side whiskers, but the veined and corded hands that swung his mace of office were still strong. He wore a heavy broadsword in a plain battle scabbard at his belt, not the glittering rapier favored by his fawning counterparts who dwelt closer to Suzail. The boldshield of the district of Northtrees March was a sensible man and a veteran warrior, risen to his present rank out of competence and not gentle birth. There was not a man within a hundred miles that Renglar Baerest respected more.

They both knew a storm was coming, a storm of war wizards. The mages would skulk about, ask prying questions, use spells to peer into the mind of the seneschal to be sure he hadn't murdered his pupil and liege. If there were going to be glasses of wine drunk, and calm and reasoned words exchanged, now would be the best occasion, possibly the only chance, for a long time to come.

This little-used back passage led to a steep stair up. Both men took firm hold of their swords and dug into the climb, swinging their arms. They were puffing in unison by the time they reached the top. The two guards there saluted smartly as the seneschal and the local Purple Dragon commander passed between them and turned right, to another locked door.

"Simple quarters," Ergluth commented as Renglar let fall his chain of keys and swung the door wide. In the room beyond was a cot, a desk, a sideboard, and an armor stand. One wall of the room was all closets, and the seneschal waved to them.

"All the clutter goes in there, and I keep the place tidy out here," he said, and then grinned. The boldshield's gaze had already fallen to the map on the gleaming desk-of course. Every room in Firefall Keep was on it, with Renglar's scribbled comments about needed repairs liberally adorning the layout. The seneschal laid a finger on one ink-outlined chamber.

"My Lord Athlan was found here, by a guard who's going to have to answer some hard questions from the mages. It's pretty clear the guard was passing through what we call the Haunted Tower-it does have some phantoms, plus the usual rats and bats, and isn't used-to meet with young Shayn-. . ah, Lady Summerstar."

Ergluth carefully did not grin. "Yes," he announced to the world in carefully neutral tones. He stared down at the mapped heart of the Haunted Tower. "I think wine would be a very good idea."

The sideboard proved to contain a veritable arsenal of decanters. The seneschal soon steered a tall glass of Arabellan Dry into the boldshield's hand.

"To you, and to Azoun," Ergluth made the traditional toast.

"May one of us find his grave before the other," Renglar made the accustomed reply, even more dryly than usual. He might have retired from the Purple Dragons decades ago, but such habits weren't lightly forgotten. "I presume you see my problem at the proverbial single glance."

The Purple Dragon commander nodded. "Your slayer must be someone who knew the young lord well-and the keep, too. Only someone familiar with both victim and ground could have found him there. . too many corners for any light to give Athlan away. Your murderer dwells under this roof."

"Exactly," the seneschal said grimly, twirling his glass. With an absent astonishment, he realized it had somehow gone empty already. "But how long will it take our Happy Dancing Mages to see that, I wonder? And how many innocent folk will they upset first?"

"If they tangle with the old dowager," Ergluth said dryly, "my money's on her."

Renglar grunted in rueful assent and refilled both their glasses. "The roaming apparitions and the endless little noises in the Haunted Tower ought to keep them occupied for a tenday or more."

"During which time, they'll near be-damned eat you out of turret and cellar!" The Purple Dragon commander chuckled, and drank deeply. Coming up for air, he looked into the depths of his glass and said, "Yet you have no choice. The war wizards must be called in. Shall I do it? That'll earn you their deep suspicion but save you the wrath of the Summerstars."

"Of Lady Pheirauze, you mean," the seneschal corrected with a smile. "Nay, I know my duty. Let the Summerstars detest me. I serve Pyramus first, the realm second, Athlan third, and the rest of the kin a poor fourth. Best they be gently reminded of that.

"If they want me to walk away from vale, I've a place where I can sit out my last years watching adventurers ride by; hear tales race around the realm and come back again, all twisted; make bad wine and protect the realm by drinking it myself.. and chat coyly with ladies not so young as to be cruel when refusing me."

Ergluth shook his head. "You make retirement sound good. I've kin who'll wear my feet down to stumps dancing every night, and keep me awake until dawn with the noise of young bucks rushing my nieces off their feet."

"You're not still angry with Shaerl for deserting us all to go to Shadowdale? I hear it's a beautiful place-now that Zhent troops aren't trying to burn it down or overrun it every second tenday."

Ergluth waved a dismissive hand. "Nay, she was fun. It's the pompous court boot-lickers among my kin that drive me wild. Be glad you've no noble kindred to embarrass you half so much."

"Truly, the gods felt I'd be better as a humble man," the seneschal observed. "I just sometimes wish they'd not had in mind a state quite so humble."

The boldshield chuckled in reply, and put his glass down. "Call in the wizards; I'll leave a rider in your gate tower should you want us here in haste."

"Let us hope no such frantic summons is needed," the seneschal said grimly. "If it is, there'll no doubt be a death behind it." He clapped his hand on the boldshield's armored shoulder. "My thanks, whatever lies ahead. When you're gone, I'll send Janrath on a fast horse for the wizards."

"By sheer coincidence," Ergluth told the ceiling casually, "we should be riding along the same stretch of road, at just about that time, watching for arrows from the trees, brigands … that sort of thing."

"Sort of thing, indeed," Renglar agreed, and went to the door. "Thanks again."

The boldshield shrugged, and demonstrated that it was his turn to clap a comrade on the shoulder. "Whenever you need folk hacked to the ground, just call on the Purple Dragons. We also do parades, stand around beside doors looking menacing, and trample crops into the fields, given the slightest encouragement."

"So I've heard," Renglar said. "How are you at replacing slain young lords? Or dragging folk who killed them behind your horses at a fast gallop for a mile or so? My Athlan should not lie in ashes now. He should have served Cormyr until he was as old and fat as you and me."

"I hear you," Ergluth muttered. "If the spellhurlers miss somehow, call me back in for a few more glasses of wine-and we'll turn Firefall Keep and everyone in it upside down and inside out for you."

He went out into the passage. The two veterans stood looking at each other for a breath or two, not smiling or speaking. Then the boldshield raised a hand in salute and went back down the stairs. The guards fell in before and behind him, as an escort of honor. When the seneschal heard the thuds of their boot heels joining those of his guest, he closed the door, leaned against it, and sighed heavily.

Athlan, gone forever. His fingers tightened suddenly around the glass in his hand-and it sang and shattered, spilling in shards between his fingers.

The seneschal watched the slivers bounce, dark with his blood. He set his jaw. Not bothering to stop the bleeding yet, he crossed the room to a certain closet door, and spoke to it.

"You heard? Janrath has orders not to hurry; you've got four days, mayhap five, before Ergluth gets a letter written and delivered to Laspeera. I need you to investigate everything the war wizards can't-or daren't. Do you agree?"

"Aye," said a muffled voice inside the closet.

The seneschal smiled grimly. "Good," he replied, and went back across the room to find a cloth to wind around his cut fingers. It took longer than he'd expected.

When he was done, he frowned and looked up, wine decanter in hand. "Well, you can come forth now, Arkyn-unless you like spending the night in a closet."

There was no reply. The seneschal's eyebrows rose, and then drew down into a darker frown. "Arkyn!" he called sternly. "Wake! Rouse!"

He went to the closet and pulled the door wide. The gruff jest he'd drawn breath to bark became a gasp of horror. The decanter found the floor, shattering in a thousand skittering shards.

The Harper agent was standing in his accustomed place in the closet, among the weather cloaks, but he wasn't wearing his usual grin.

Arkyn Hornblade was headless, encrusted with his own dried blood. Renglar's gaze traveled down the dirty brown trails to find the Harper's staring, severed head. It had been set neatly down between his boots.

"Gods!" the old seneschal gasped hoarsely.

The headless Harper moved, lunging forward for one heart-stopping moment before toppling to the floor. He landed with a heavy thud-but no blood flowed. Arkyn had been dead for hours.

The seneschal swallowed, spun around to strike the call-gong on the wall by the door-and froze.

A moment later he pivoted again, grabbing for the knife at his belt. If Arkyn had died so long ago, who'd answered from inside the closet?

Nothing moved. The dead Harper lay sprawled on the carpet, and silence hung heavy in the room. The seneschal spat out an oath and kicked open another closet door to snatch his hanging sword from its scabbard. With blades gleaming in both hands, he shifted from closet to closet, kicking open door after door. He panted in mounting fury, waiting for a killer to burst forth. There was no one lurking in any of his closets; the doors swung almost mockingly as he stared at them, breathing hard.

He roared out for the guards, and added to his bellow, "Bring me war wizards-and fast, damn you!"

Who had answered him from behind that closet door?