Stormlight - Ed Greenwood [75]
"Gods, lady," Erlandar growled, "you're a laughing lunatic to top all!"
Storm tossed her head as she shook her sleeve back down into place. "I fear so. Folk always seem to remember my kinder side, and forget what an imp I am." She bowed to them gravely, and added, "My apologies."
There was a general shout of relieved laughter. The understeward glided serenely into the midst of it to announce, "Marsemban tarts, roast pheasant, and roast quail in a sauce of cheese, saffron, and white wine."
"All right," Corathar said disgustedly. "What are Marsemban tarts?"
There were chuckles, and Erlandar rose, said grandly, "May I? Pastries topped with parsley and potato, containing diced salmon and crab in a sauce of almond milk, wine, leeks, and persimmons."
There was a smattering of applause-but then, there were few diners left to give it. Erlandar and Storm both sat down.
The old Summerstar noble said, "I must thank you, lady, for making what I feared would be a grim meal indeed into something… entertaining."
Storm shrugged. "Death comes for us all, and unpleasantness, too," she told him, filling her glass with amberheart sherry. "Some of us are given very little time to live, so why not enjoy all we can and share that joy with others? It's better than melancholy moping, to be sure!"
"Magely philosophy?" Broglan asked with a smile. Storm shrugged. "I'm more an adventurer than I am an all-knowing sorceress, Broglan. Far from it; Mystra wants her Chosen not to be tower-girded tome-studiers." She saw Insprin and Corathar leaning for ward again in keen interest, and added. "It's Mystra's Way to let us all forge our own paths in life; we know only what we can learn ourselves… and I've spent far more time with a sword in my hand down the years, than a spellbook."
Broglan nodded slowly. "Do you… speak of such things often?"
Storm shook her head. "Only with Harpers-or, most recently, with the foe, as we fought," she told him. There were gasps and dropped jaws up and down the table.
Erlandar swore. "Gods, but you're a cool one," he murmured, shaking his head and reaching for his decanter.
"I'm not, you know," Storm told him intently, her tone making him look up and meet her gaze. "I've just had more years of learning control and acting than the rest of you."
"Chicken livers in spiced cream broth," the understeward said then.
Corathar made a face. Thalance ignored the tureen placed before him. Erlandar, Insprin, and Broglan however, lifted the lids and ladled out generous portions.
As soon as her first spoonful touched her lips, Storm waved her arms and snarled, “Don’t eat this!” Insprin dropped his spoon, and Broglan spat out the spoon that had just entered his mouth. Erlandar-who’d just swallowed-stared at her in horror.
“Oh, Mystra aid me!” Storm moaned in exasperation, and dived over the table, scattering dished and decanters in all directions.
Erlandar was already turning purple around the lips when she leapt on him, knocking noble and chair over with a crash and coming down on top of him. In frantic haste, she glued her lips to his and called forth the silver fire. She’d just have to hope the foe didn’t test the barrier now…
He didn’t, thank the gods. The Summerstar noble bucked and squirmed under her, trying to speak. He then fell still, and slowly raised his hands to cradle her in his arms, as tenderly as any lover.
When Storm lifted her head from his at last, he was grinning at her, eyes shining. She gave him a slap and rolled off him.
"You old rogue," she said affectionately. She looked up to the others. "Let those livers be cast into the braziers without delay! What's in them could kill anyone who takes a mouthful. An earlier dish held poison meant just for me, but this time it seems the foe decided to leave me as alone as he could, by eliminating everyone else.
"Corathar, please hasten to the boldshield and tell him two things: he must check on the Lady Zarova without delay-and he must consider the understeward dead, and