Stormlight - Ed Greenwood [48]
Storm smiled. "I guess not. Fare thee well, Thunderspells."
"Don't call me that, blast it! A man has to have some dignity," the stone said, quivering. It started to sink down toward its cushion, "And keep safe, Storm, Deliver our kingdom to us and save the day and all that wind and roar… but keep safe." "You, too," Storm said gently as the stone settled onto the black velvet. She gave it a last smile, and the looked up at the four silent men above her and said brightly, "Now, this won't hurt a bit…"
* * * * *
Orling the Bold unhappily strummed his harp, eyes on the bright-and empty-display case beside him. This was the last string that needed tuning. When it was done, he'd have to go tell someone about the ring vanishing. That would be the end of his night of revelry, over before it began-and perhaps of his career as a Harper. Or even his life, if they took it really amiss.
Orling gulped as he plucked the last string repeatedly. He certainly didn't feel 'Bold' right now, or even just 'bold.' No one would believe he'd not even touched the case, and the ring had just up and…
He blinked at the case again, and let out an uneasy laugh. His forehead was suddenly wet with sweat, and outside the room he heard the first trumpets echoing through Twilight Hall to start the fun. He looked wonder at the case, shaking his tense fingers to loosen them and hardly daring to believe his eyes.
The ring was back. Floating there, turning slowly, as it had been for years. The little electrum dragon, the silver orb under it, and the plain gold band. Orling smiled.
The ring was back, as silently as it had gone. It winked almost mockingly at him-turning just as it had been turning for years.
*****
The poison was rather more subtle this time, but it was still there. In the stuffed pheasant, the lemon juice and the pepper overwhelmed the burning, oily taste that Storm'd come to expect from the kitchens of the keep. There was nothing wrong with the good, sharp stonemountain cheese on her side dish, and the white sauce for the birds was simply exquisite.
Storm ate with gusto, washing down bird after bird with wine, and enjoying the sniping attacks of the Summerstars down the table. It was good entertainment-even if the chilly atmosphere was made even colder by the retention of the same seating arrangement, with empty seats where the seneschal and the two dead wizards had sat. Uncle Erlandar had also decided to miss the meal for some undisclosed reason or other, Pheirauze was preoccupied, and that left the mice free to play.
Just now, the two maiden aunts were taking turns sharpening their tongues on the outlander guest.
"Have your… kind… lived in Shadowdale long, dear?" Margort asked with kindly condescension.
"Humans?" Storm asked brightly. "Oh-for centuries, now."
"Oh, surely not as long as there have been Summerstars in Firefall Vale, dear," Nalanna put in. "We're a very old family, you know."
Not far from them, Thalance rolled his eyes, favored Storm with a sympathetic look, raised his glass to her, and drained it, all in one smooth motion. He got up from the table. Both of the dowager ladies favored him with frowns, but neither said anything as he loped down the feast hall and departed.
"A Summerstar was at King Galaghard's side when he went in to see the Last Elf, on the eve of the battle where he broke the power of the Witch-Lords," Margort said haughtily.
Storm nodded. “I remember”, she said, tapping her goblet. “I wanted to see Othorian myself. He was very rude to Thanderahast, as I recall.”
“You don’t expect us to believe that you were there, dear? I mean really!” Margort said in pitying tones.
Pheirauze said coldly, “I’m sure this could go on all evening, but in defense of our… distinguished lady guest, it must be said that all she has done is answer your questions, Margort and Nalanna. Is there some point to this… inquisition! The lineage of our house is a matter of record, you know.”
Margort darted a glance down the