absent.
But then, anyplace that looked more like a woodland garden than a working farm almost had to be the abode of Storm Silverhand. The man picked up his pace. His soft boots made no sound on the grass path that led to flagstones and a little patio of hanging plants. A stone seat was built into the rubble wall of a raised herb bed, and- through another open arch, without any door that he could see-the path led into the cool dimness of a stone-floored kitchen.
He stood in the farmhouse, surrounded by its stillness. There was still no alarm, or hail, or any sight or sound of inhabitants. Birds flew about, a cat curled in sleep in the morning sun outside another archway, and…
Perhaps seven paces away, at one end of the huge, knife-scarred harvest table in the center of the kitchen, a woman's body was slumped back in a chair.
She wore only a light, filmy robe of flame-colored silk, and looked very dead. Her bare feet were sprawled among the legs of the next chair along. Her arms dangled loosely. Her head hung down over the back of the chair, so that her finely boned throat was uppermost, perched atop the chair back. Silver hair flowed down to curl in a smooth puddle on the ground. Her lips were parted, but no breath made her bosom move. She was as still as a statue … or a corpse.
The man swallowed. The long, slender sword that swung at his side hissed out into his hand. Raising it before him, he crouched to look cautiously all around … and then advanced quietly.
The cat did not move. In the garden beyond, birds sang and flitted about unconcernedly. Somewhere nearby, a tree toad began its lazy buzz. The bright sun that was coming in a dozen windows and doors laid long fingers across the smooth-polished flagstone floor and made the flowers inside and out blaze with bright glory. Their delicate scents came past him on gently stirring breezes as the man took one last careful step, looked all around, and then stretched forth a cautious hand to touch that magnificent fall of silver hair. He'd be able to recognize Storm Silverhand, they'd told him, by her silver hair.
He'd best make sure. Hefting his sword, he touched the glossy strands of silver. They were real, silken to his fingertips.
The man in leathers sighed, gently wove his fingers through the hair, and lifted the woman's head. Lifeless eyes stared into his-and just behind him, a light, furious voice hissed, 'Beware! The dead sleep uneasily!'
The man jumped upright and whirled around, heart in his throat as his blade flashed up-to point at a ghostly, floating human head. The head of a woman with long, flowing silver hair.
'Gods preserve me!' he choked. 'You're-' Without taking his gaze from the head, he gestured at the slumped body behind him.
The head advanced slowly through the air, eyes angry.
The Harper swallowed, and took a step back and to one side to have clear room to swing his sword. His eyes narrowed, judging just how distant the floating head was, and his free hand went to his belt. His fingers closed on- nothing. He felt around, finding the scabbard of his dagger empty.
Then he felt something else-something at his throat. Cold and smooth and very sharp, it was the edge of his missing dagger. Another hand took him by the opposite shoulder, clamping down like a claw of iron. A faint, spicy smell of sweat came to his nostrils.
'Tell me your name, and why you are here,' a melodious female voice said calmly in his ear.
The man in leathers let his sword dangle from his fingertips and stood very still as he stammered, 'I–Vrespon Flarnshan, at your service. I'm a Harper-my pin is in my shoulder-pouch-and I'm here on Harper business, sent from Hillmarch in Cormyr. Ah, where I dwell.' His eyes darted to one side, and he tried to turn, but the hands that held him were as immobile as stone. Gods, she must be strong. 'Have I the pleasure,' he ventured, his voice trembling only slightly, 'of addressing Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale?'
'And if you are enjoying such a pleasure,' the floating head asked expressionlessly, its tone a challenge, 'what then?'
'Then I bring a message to deliver to her ears only. Words from the sorceress Aldaneth of Hillmarch.'
'Who is a secret Harper,' the voice by his ear affirmed, and the dagger and the grip were suddenly gone. 'Catch!'
Vrespon turned-to see his dagger flashing end-over-end toward him! He plucked at the air, managed to catch it, held it up with a grin of triumph-and dropped his sword.
'He's a Harper, all right,' the floating head said in tones of amusement as she drifted past him, heading for the body on the chair. Vrespon glanced up as he retrieved his sword, saw the head settle onto the throat of the slumped body, and decided he really didn't want to watch. He'd remember that exposed throat, those lifeless eyes, and the fright of the voice behind him for days … perhaps years.
'I am Storm Silverhand,' said the melodious voice, 'and I apologize for the fright we gave you. You may speak freely in front of my sister-Sylune, called by some the Witch of Shadowdale. What message do you bring me, Vrespon?'
The Harper turned, rose, and sheathed his blade-to find himself facing a woman, wearing high, battered leather boots. She was leaning against some cupboards, her arms crossed and an expectant look on her face. Vrespon flushed and hastily dropped his eyes to study her feet.
'Tell Storm from Aldaneth, these things,' he recited, adopting a chant as the words tumbled out of his memory. 'The noble Athlan Summerstar, of the Summerstars of Firefall Vale, has been murdered in his keep by mysterious means. Our agent at the keep, Arkyn Hornblade, has also been found slain. Laspeera of the war wizards spoke to me, requesting that the Lady Silverhand come to the keep and investigate. Wizards of war in service to Cormyr will be present, but will not know of Laspeera's request. They and the family expect Storm Silverhand to appear at Firefall soon, because she is named in Athlan's will-much to the displeasure of the elder Summerstars, I'm told.'
Storm sighed. 'Is there more?'
Vrespon kept his eyes on the floor. 'No, Lady. I was told to escort you for as long and as far as you desired my presence.'
A hand squeezed his arm. 'You've done well. Are you afoot, or have you a mount?'
'My horse waits at the Old Skull, Lady' said the Harper said.
Storm sighed again, and it seemed for a moment that a shadow of weariness and despair crossed her face as she looked at Sylune. When she spoke, however, she sounded almost petulant. 'Well, I'll have to go. . though I was hoping to see what Flamerule looks like at my farm, for once.'
'I'll watch over things here,' Sylune told her, her head becoming spectral and sinking into her body. Vrespon turned in time to see it vanish, and stared, fascinated, as the slumped body raised its head, the whites of its eyes rolled up to reveal pupils-and winked at him.
The Harper jumped again. 'Gods!' he swore. 'Don't do that!'
Storm's deeply bubbling laughter rolled out from behind him, then, and Vrespon thought it was quite the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.
The coach rumbled to a stop. Purple Dragons exchanged brief words, and then they were jolted into rumbling motion again. The clatter of the wheels roared back brief echoes as they passed through the clammy dimness of the gate tower, and into a cobbled courtyard beyond.
'Gods above!' one of the men in the back said. 'Couldn't we have flown? My tailbone!'
'Belt up,' one of his companions advised. 'At least you have a seat with cushions.'
'Now I know why messengers ride,' a third muttered, 'even into driving rain….'
'I could have levitated the coach,' a fourth man said haughtily, 'and saved the horses, too-if I'd known things were going to be this bad. Unfortunately, I believed Runsigg when he said Cormyr had the best roads he'd ever walked on, and neglected to study that spell-'
'You belt up, too, Hundarr,' the third speaker said sourly. 'Runsigg was right; you obviously don't walk about much.'
'Huh! His belly tells you that, even before-'
'Climb out and pipe down, the lot of you,' an older voice growled. 'You sound like a lot of wailing apprentices, not veteran wizards of war! Take a little pride in things, for the love of Laspeera!'
'Mother Laspeera provides all,' one of the wizards replied mockingly as they clambered out of the dark, swaying coach. A line of Purple Dragons was standing stiffly at attention. Beyond them stood another, shorter line
