Stormlight - Ed Greenwood [33]
“Yes?” Broglan and Ergluth prompted, in unison.
“He fell on his face, onto something shaped and metal. The less likely cause is that his cheek was struck by the quillons of his own sword or the blade of another, as Athlan'a uplifted weapon was driven into it by a hard parry or by the force of a meeting with a wall or attack."
She looked up. "Broglan? What did your spells tell you when you tried to touch the mind of your slain mageling?"
"Nothing" the war wizard told her bleakly. "To magic-all the magics we could think of, that any of us can cast-he was 'not there.' Unreachable, absent… blindbarred."
Storm nodded, and whispered something over the silent shape. A pulse of light raced away from her lips passing swiftly through the thing of ash. When it was gone, though, the ash-corpse looked just as it had before.
Her eyes flickered. The boldshield took a cautious step forward. "Can you bring the dead back to walk among us, Lady of Mystra? Then Athlan could lead the House of Summerstar once more, and we could banish all this strife and upset."
Storm laughed shortly as she circled the shape, looking at the soles of its feet. "For all the tales of the dead rising at a wave of a priest's hand," she said slowly, not looking up, "death is still the final and inescapable fate of all-or at least, one very few find a reprieve from. Not this one, I'm afraid-something bars my every spell."
As the last words left her lips, the ashes gave forth a queer little sigh and collapsed.
She looked up. The wizard Broglan was shaking with weariness. Feeling her scrutiny, he looked up and managed a smile.
"That's-not an easy spell to hold," he said.
There was a stir outside the crypt, and they all looked up as the Purple Dragons standing wary guard stepped back to allow the entry of more of their fellows. They bore something in a covered strong chest, and were preceded by the grim and white-lipped old steward of the feast hall.
“My thanks for guiding my men hence,” Elgluth Rowanmantle told the old man gravely.
Ilgreth Drimmer nodded wearily and leaned back against the wall, silently waving away the thanks.
Broglan had already swept Athlan’s ashes carefully back into their coffin, leaving the stone table clear. He joined the steward against the wall, too tired to do more than watch.
Storm pointed. The armsmen lifted the sheet out of the strong chest and swung the shrouded bundle onto the funerary table.
“Renglar?” Ergluth asked quietly.
Storm nodded. “I hope he’ll do Athlan one last service,” she said.
“But none of the spells you tried back in your bedchamber could reach him,” the Purple Dragon commander said.
Storm gestured to the armsmen to dray back the edges of the sheet. “There is one spell left.”
“A wizard’s wish?” Ergluth ventured. “Can you will overcome the burning he suffered?”
Storm shooke her head and took the seneschal’s blackened skull into her hand. “No,” she whispered. “Hush, now.”
Then, looking into the two shrunken and dusty eyeballs, she breathed some phrases, put her finger to her own eyes, and touched the fingertips to Renglar’s sorry, staring orbs. She turned, still holding the skull, and waved at the war wizards and armsmen to stand clear. The skull stared endlessly across the crypt. Something in the air where it was looking stirred, danced into life, and flickered.
A dozen men held their breath as one and stared intently.
“Storm-?” Ergluth asked quietly, his hand on his sword.
“Nothing to do us harm,” she replied, eyes never leaving the stirring air. "We'll be seeing the last thing the seneschal saw before he died."
As if obeying her, the flickering disturbance suddenly coalesced into a sharp, stationary image: a darkly handsome man with a crooked-bladed dagger in one hand. He reached it forward with a cruel, maniacal grin.
There was a murmur. "So that's our slayer," Erlgluth said sharply. Take a good look, men."
Storm moved and