Stormlight - Ed Greenwood [28]
A flame of hope kindled in Drimmer's old eyes. "Gods bless you, lady," he whispered. "Gods bring you victory."
Storm looked at the seneschal's skull-smile and his fear-filled, staring eyes. She swung her gaze back to meet the steward's own. She managed a wan smile, and said, "They don't owe me a victory, Ilgreth. But they do owe one to four men no longer with us-and perhaps many more if the cause of all this isn't soon found and stopped."
As the words left her mouth, the seneschal's skull suddenly toppled from his shoulders, bounced once on his thigh, fell to the floor, and rolled to her feet.
As its dead eyes gazed up at them, Drimmer burst into fresh tears. Storm held him, and then, softly, lifted her voice in the first mournful cry of the "Soldier's Farewell."
At her feet, Renglar Baerest went on grinning.
Five
DEATH OLD AND NEW
"Legendary godservant, my left elbow!" Erlandar Summerstar snorted. Elbow was not the word he'd first thought of. "She's a saucy wench who wraps herself in a few protective spells and knows a few tricks."
"Good uncle," the Dowager Lady Zarova Summerstar said firmly, "can we speak of other things? Unwelcome a guest as she may be to some of us, my son's written wishes did bring her here. I am more shocked at what befell her than I am at the discovery that if her clothes burn away, she's naked. I trust none of these mages here would deal in such deadly magic-and yet who else could have done it?"
All of the diners stared at her; the younger dowager spoke so seldom that some of the servants in the had never before heard her voice.
Her daughter Shayna, heiress of the Summerstars nodded. "I, too, would like to hear what the gentlemen of the Sevensash have to say for themselves,” she said firmly. “Lady bard or no lady bard, flames nearly brought down the roof of this hall, and I would know why.”
She turned her head, emerald eyes flashing, and caught the frowning gaze of Broglan Samyrn. Pheirauze and Erlandar added the weight of their regards, and Broglan suddenly found himself dancing on the ends of six hard gazes, and finding them all too much like daggers.
“I-It’s no doing of any of us,” the worried-looking senior wizard said hastily, looking from one hostile Summerstar to another. “We’re just as… mystified as any of you.”
"Why?" Pheirauze said cuttingly. "We're not the experts in magic here-you are. We've dined in this ball for more nights than I can count, year after year, never seeing flames roar up out of nowhere-until now, when you are here: a row of war wizards, skilled in battle magic. What else but your guilt am I-are any of us-to conclude? I've half a mind to summon that Purple Dragon commander here to send a complaint about you to the court, forthwith."
"Lady," came the deep voice of Ergluth Rowanmantle from behind her, "I am here."
The diners turned in their chairs, startled.
"I don’t recall summoning you," Pheirauze snapped at him, nettled. “Why-?”
“Nevertheless,” the eagle-eye officer said flatly as he strode forward, “I am here. My duty to the king requires it of me. I bring a question: where is Thalance, and when did he leave you?”
“Why?” the elder dowager lady almost snarled. “What are you accusing him of?”
“Nothing, lady,” the boldshield told her, towering over her chair. “I need to know where he is, so that I can protect him.”
"Against what?" Erlandar asked, eyes narrowing.
"Against whomever-or whatever-murdered your seneschal in my bedchamber," Storm Silverhand replied, stepping out from behind the Purple Dragon. Instead of a gown, she wore a well-used leather war harness-armor that bristled with swords and daggers in plenty.
The steward of the feast hall quavered behind her for a moment, a neatly folded tablecloth shaking in his hands. He then scurried to the sideboard to serve sherries and wines to the assembled company.
Most of them looked like they needed such bracing refreshments. They stared at Storm's warrior garb, even more astonished than they had been after the flames.