his dagger lying by itself among rubble, she snatched it up. The stair was just ahead, here…
By the time Broglan reached what was left of the courtyard, he was certain the woman in his arms was alive.
Twice Storm had murmured something. Once she'd twitched, just for a moment. He laid her down gently by the well, and then sat beside her, shaking with exhaustion; she was taller and probably heavier than he, and he was not overly young or overly fit.
When he could trust his arms and shoulders to stop trembling, Broglan drew up a bucket of icy water, drank, and then tried to get some into Storm. It gurgled between her parted lips but just sloshed there; he sat her up, and then held her hand in the bucket. It numbed his fingers to do it, but she did not react.
'Storm!' he hissed, not wanting to shout. 'Storm-wake up!' He rubbed her wrists briskly, and then on an impulse pinched one arm. Nothing. Her head lolled as limply as ever. He dashed cold water across her face, and watched it run down her; she sat unmoving.
'Storm!' He slapped her gently, and then drew back his hand and stared at it. What was he doing?
What could he do?
He looked around wildly in the moonlight-and then remembered the box of leavings he'd found in the stables on his first survey of the keep. Rusty old bells, a lot of discarded pursestraps and single boots, filthy shreds of blanket-and an old, gnarl-stringed harp in a much-patched leather case. Gods willing, it was still there!
It was. With a feeling of triumph, he bore it out into the moonlight, undid the case, and drew it out. Three of the strings were broken, and he knew nothing about harping, but-
He brought his fingers down across the strings, strumming them as he sang,' 'Sleeping maidens wake! Lovers hearts do break! As for me, I seek-a love who'll…' oh, gods' spit, but I can't remember the rest of it!'
In lower, less exasperated tones, he added the observation, 'And I can't sing, either, but-'
'You did well enough,' the bard's voice said by his ear, soft and low.
'Storm!' he cried, flinging his arms around her and kissing her while tears of joy and relief sprang forth from his eyes. 'You're awake! You're-'
His babblings were stopped by a firm kiss. Then two fingers were on his lips, bidding him be silent. She quietly finished his sentence: '-almost as glad to see you again as you are to see me!'
She gave him a smile and added, 'By the grace of Mystra, I've been in fire trance, slowly coming back from, well, a sword's edge away from death. You've been carrying me and defending me, and Mystra knows what else.' She gave him a smile of thanks and admiration, and squeezed his shoulder. Broglan winced; that shoulder had already been hurting.
The bard looked around. 'So here we are, in the moonlight. How stand things in the keep?'
'Horrible,' Broglan muttered. 'The place is a ruin, with most everyone dead-except, I fear, the shapeshifter. Will you lower your barrier so I can call Lord Vangerdahast? If that… fiend is still alive, we'll need all the war wizards we can get here!'
'If we do that,' Storm said quietly, 'they'll be needed all over the realm, wherever they came from. .because our murderous foe will be there, and everywhere, on the loose. No, the barrier stays up.'
'But what then do we do?' Broglan asked, almost pleading. 'The moon'll go down soon, and we'll be at his mercy! We dare not hunt through the keep again, or we'll be slain!'
'We use me as bait,' Storm told him, smiling weakly. 'Care to light the lamps of a lady's bedchamber-and then wait in the closet like any young lover? They're sure to check under the bed….'
Broglan rolled his eyes. 'If we get out of this, I'll have tales to tell my grandchildren. …'
'If we get out of this, Sir Broglan, I'll send you Harpers to wed those grandchildren,' Storm told him sweetly. 'I take it by your tone that my bedchamber survives?'
'There's been no great damage at that end of the keep,' he said, reaching out slowly to stroke her silver hair. Then he looked away, embarrassed.
'I'm sorry,' he mumbled, 'but I've wanted to do that for a long time.'
Storm put her arms around him. 'Go ahead,' she said softly, 'stroke my hair. Kiss me.' Her eyes flashed. 'Anything to stop you trying to play the harp!'
They clung to each other in the moonlight, laughing weakly, as the wolves started to howl again at the head of the vale.
SHAYNA, NOW.
The young heiress paused in the doorway of a wardrobe she'd happened upon, a new gown in her hands. She sighed, let the dress fall, and went back to the passage outside.
She found the Hungry Man standing there like a silent statue, his face vacant.
Master?
YOU HAVE A NEW TASK. TOO MANY PURPLE DRAGONS ARE ABOUT. ELIMINATE THEM.
I've been lucky thus far, but I can't use a sword, and they're stronger than-
BE THE LURE. MY HUNGRY MAN WILL DO THE KILLING.
Yes, Master. Shayna Summerstar looked once at the slack-jawed servant and then marched off down the passage. There were armsmen to slay.
The moon had gone down by the time the master called on her again. In the meantime, Shayna had gotten truly sick of killing. Her ribs burned where a guard's sword had slid along them in the darkness, and her hands were sticky with the blood of men she did not know. The Hungry Man lurched tirelessly along behind her; Shayna stole a glance at him and shuddered. Together they'd sent nearly twenty men to face the gods, and she was trembling with weariness.
There had been one bright thing. One of the guards had been carrying the wand of lightning she'd seen Corathar wielding before the master had claimed him. It rested reassuringly in her hand, now, and-
SHAYNA, GO UP TO STORM SILVERHAND'S CHAMBERS WITHOUT DELAY. BOTH OF YOU SHALL RECEIVE MY ORDERS THERE.
Something inside the heiress of House Summerstar almost broke at that moment, but she fought down an inner scream, straightened, and smiled as she made the mind-reply, Yes, Master.
Gods, would the slaying never end?
It was a long and rubble-littered way up to the bard's guest room. The silence was eerie. This area of the keep seemed undamaged, and someone had even lit the torches along the walls.
Shayna's eyes narrowed. When she could see Storm's door, she stopped and looked at the Hungry Man.
He stared back at her. There was no comprehension in those dull eyes, but-as she'd expected-his orders drove him finally to shuffle past her and lay hands on the door himself.
There was a silent flash as he grasped its handle. The mindless man staggered back. Shayna watched him moan soundlessly as pain stabbed through him, but two breaths later, he was back at the door again.
This time it opened without incident, its magic gone. Flickering light spilled out into the passage. Shayna raised her wand and slipped soundlessly forward to peer through the doorway.
The Hungry Man was walking steadily toward the bed, obviously under the master's direct control, but Shayna could see past him.
The room was lit by many candles, and they seemed to have been arranged to display the room's lone occupant. Storm Silverhand lay asleep-or dead-on the bed, her body arranged under a linen shroud as if for burial.
'It's some sort of trap,' the Summerstar heiress murmured, darting suspicious glances right and left at the corners of the room. The Hungry Man shuffled over to Storm and put his hands around her throat. Shayna expected him to twist his hands until she heard the crack of bone, but he froze.
Shayna swallowed. The bard was not dead, then; the mindless one was there to break her neck if she roused.
USE YOUR WAND. STRIKE UNDER THE BED, AND THROUGH THE CANOPY.
The master's mind was very loud; he must be near, Shayna thought, as she bent to send lightning under the bed.
