Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [30]
“I heard it was magic raging through it that they couldn’t stop, that made them shutter yon wing and leave it abandoned—for years, now! Surely we’ve priests enough to end the hauntings in all that time, no matter how many there are!”
“Essard, Essard, you should find one of your servants with kin working at the palace and ply them with drink some night—your worst wine will do—and hear the real tales told around here! They’ve tried priests in plenty! They’ve even reclaimed rooms here and there, for a few months … but again and again they find courtiers and war wizards lying dead in its passages!”
Despite herself, despite having heard wilder rumors about the haunted wing of the palace scores of times, Amarune trembled in delicious fear.
The whole palace knew the Princess Alusair rode the halls of the haunted wing on a spectral horse. In utter silence and in full armor she went, wild-eyed and with a bloody sword in her hand, passing through walls, floors, ceilings—and foolish courtiers—freely. The touch of her sword slew, and her ghostly hand passing through you chilled you to the bone and left you shivering for days. Those she just glared at were haunted by her eyes, seeing her cold gaze again and again in their waking hours thereafter. Why—
Amarune felt a sharp pain just under her ribs. Lord Bloodbright had noticed her head turning away and had pinched her, hard. She looked swiftly back up at him—and found herself meeting an almost murderous glare.
She grimaced a swift and silent apology and hastened to move against him like a roused wanton, grinding against his hip. That restored his smile, but Amarune found herself right beside some old blowhard of a fat merchant in wine-stained velvet who’d evidently decided that this chatter about the Ghost Regent was sorely in need of some supercilious correction.
“You would do well to remember,” he brayed, “that the Princess Alusair is what is popularly known as a tormenting ghost, and shares those shadowed halls with risen-from-their-graves courtiers who now walk as skeletons, decrepit skeletons, and shambling horrors—these last being the same walking dead known in less refined cities, such as Waterdeep, as ‘zombie rotters.’ ”
He winced, lip curling in exaggerated disgust at such nomenclature, waved a chubby and many-ringed hand that glistened with the grease of the batter-fried prawns he’d been devouring with zealous greed, and added, “There are also a few battle wights—once palace guards—and even sword wraiths, these last being the remnants of corrupt highknights, who fly about wielding black swords. Deadly, utterly deadly.”
“You’ve seen all these grisly spirits personally, Orstramagrus?” The younger Lord Dawntard was a sly, sardonic man, and even his friendly utterances sounded like sneers. This one was none too friendly and was delivered in a voice already slurred with drink.
The fat merchant flushed. “More than a few, young Kathkote. More than a few.”
A hiss of gleeful anticipation arose among the cluster of courtiers and young nobles standing near. Even Amarune knew that reply was a deft dig, to be sure; the elder Lord Dawntard, Kathkote’s father, had been a bold farfarer across the Realms in his day, whereas the son had never ventured farther from Suzail than the family hunting lodges, upcountry. Dawntard’s usual companions, the younger lords of Windstag and Sornstern, chuckled aloud as they pressed closer, so as to miss nothing of Dawntard’s furious reaction.
Unexpectedly, Kathkote grinned. “Oooh, cleverly said, Old Ostra, cleverly said. You do have some dash left in you.”
Lord Broryn Windstag’s face actually fell in disappointment. The big, florid, blustering scourge of stags and bold warrior had obviously been hoping for a fight, with his everpresent toady Lord Delasko Sornstern at his elbow.
A cellarer deftly steered full tallglasses of dragonslake into the hands of all three lords, pointedly serving the merchant and the courtiers from a decanter of Charsalace