Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [35]
"Cast down?" Lhaeo almost whispered. "By whom? Who has such power?"
Storm spread her hands. "In the oldest writings he was called the Overgod. Nowadays, to those who know of him at all, he is the 'One Who Is Hidden.'" She smiled. "If you meet him, you might ask his truename and aims. There are a lot of souls, mortal and divine alike, who'd like to know."
Jhessail drew a deep, ragged breath and smiled. "I'll get straight to work on it," she jested, and shook her head in rueful disbelief. Her hands trembled as they reached for the second decanter. When she put it down, it held far less than when she had taken it up.
Storm shook her head. "Easy, lass," she murmured, "or we'll have to carry you back to the tower."
Jhessail crooked an eyebrow. "Who, wench," she said readily, "will be carrying whom?"
Lhaeo sighed and rose. "Come, Jhess," he said. "Elminster and Sharantyr are on their own, and we've done enough harm this night. Storm needs her sleep, even if we do not."
Storm thanked the scribe with her eyes. Jhessail read that look and blew them all a kiss before taking Lhaeo's arm and slipping swiftly out into the night.
A long time passed. As the candles died, one by one, the two sisters sat at the table unmoving, eyes far away.
At last Storm moved unwilling lips. "Did you see or feel anything when you reached for Shar? Anything at all?"
"No," the Simbul said shortly, staring down at her empty hands. "Nothing. I was like the worst apprentice I've ever had-alone, wavering, helpless in the dark."
"I saw three things, sister," came the eerie voice they had feared not to hear again. "Fire and tears and stars, overhead it seemed, though they were all mixed together. Our stars."
Storm raised her head, and there were tears in her eyes. "Sylune," she said softly, "my thanks. They're not dead, then."
"Yet," came the voice of Sylune's ghost dryly. "Yet."
* * * * *
It was dark in Dagger Wood, save for an upright oval of amber light, an unsleeping eye staring into the night. Overhead, glittering stars watched what the eye's glow illuminated: two blades that glimmered, leapt, and sang as they dealt death.
The two men who held the blades said nothing as they danced and ducked. Both knew they must keep the seven black-armored guards-well, only three guards now- from fleeing through the oval radiance to raise the alarm.
The men in full armor were strong, hardened veterans, efficient experts at dealing death with cold steel by night or day, in alleys or high streets, in open battle or in crowds.
The two men in dusty leathers, however, were Harpers and men who'd just spent some goodly time crossing blades with Storm Silverhand. They knew who'd win this battle.
As frantic moments passed, their opponents came to know it too, with the cold, sinking certainty of death. The Harpers caught each other's eyes once, in the skirling dance of steel, and laughed together. A few panting breaths later it was over.
Belkram and Itharr faced each other across the black-clad fallen, looked all about with trained wariness, and nodded to each other, signaling that they were both unharmed. Then they turned together in silence to look at the flickering, man-high oval of light. It glowed silently back at them, waiting.
Belkram's eyes descended to a corpse that lay in front of the gate. He bent forward. "What's this?"
"Harper signs?"
"Aye." He leaned closer get a better look at the slashes on the corpse's leather tunic. " 'Trap ahead,' it says. 'Keep low.'" Belkram hefted his bloodstained blade. "Well? Ready?"
Itharr chuckled, and stroked the wispy beginnings of a moustache in a gesture Belkram had seen before. "Remember, adventure is where you find it," he replied, waving with his own blade at the light to indicate that Belkram should go first.
"Why, thank you," Belkram replied in exaggerated, courtly tones, and stepped through, keeping low.
7
A Night of Murdered Peace, and After
Beyond the gate, all was dark and silent. Grass whispered underfoot, and there were trees ahead-and a strong smell of recent