Storm sighed. 'Aye, this dale is going to be very different if Elminster is no more.'
'He was a father-and a friend-to you more than any of us,' Sylune said softly. ' 'Tis I should be comforting you.'
Storm shook her head wearily, as if to clear it. 'I did not feel him die. I can't be sure… he may still live.'
'And if he does not?'
'Then it is as Azuth told us: time for us-all of us Seven-to truly be heroes, without his comforting aid and guidance… and vigilance for our safety.'
Sylune sighed. 'I never thought I'd be alive without him to turn to. He seems as permanent a feature of the Realms as Mount Waterdeep, or Anauroch, or the Shaar.' They climbed a stile and descended into a field of parsnips. Halfway down one of its long rows, she added, 'Sharantyr is beside herself! I thought she'd tear the two prisoners apart with her bare hands.'
'She gave her blade to Mourngrym because she feared she'd want to use it,' Storm said softly. 'My own fury is past. El told me how tired of life he'd become more than once this last season.'
'Should we let those two go?'
'Mercy has ever been our watchword here, and yet…'
Storm's voice trailed away, and with slow deliberation she sheathed the blade she held. 'I may come to feel the rage Sharantyr holds again, tomorrow. Since Doust became lord, we have always shown the people that justice by fair trial holds sway in Shadowdale. So we will have a trial and justice, and Mourngrym will have the hard task of sentencing.'
She was silent for a long time before she added in a whisper, 'I am glad of that, because I don't feel like holding trials at all… I want to go out and kill things.'
'Your sword arm?' Sharantyr asked, watching Itharr wince and reach for his shoulder.
He nodded. 'I've worn it out these last two days.'
'And seen enough death to last several lifetimes,' Belkram added quietly, handing him a goblet. Itharr took it in his good hand and hastily sipped at it to prevent a spill.
Sharantyr dug her fingers into the muscles of his shoulder, and he shuddered uncontrollably. He handed the goblet back to Belkram hastily.
'Thanks… I'll want the rest of it when this long-taloned beast here stops tearing my shoulder apart!'
Sharantyr managed a playful snarl, but then fell silent again, her face sad. She shook her head when Belkram offered the decanter to her, and asked him, 'When will you get Sylune back?'
'In the morning, Storm said.' Belkram poured himself a goblet and drained most of it at one gulp. 'I imagine they're meeting to talk about what they must do to defend the dale now that Elminster's gone.'
'That's a meeting we must have, too,' Itharr said, looking up. 'Whither now, for the three of us?'
'What have we to jaw about,' Sharantyr asked with sudden fierceness as her fingers worked on his stiff shoulders with iron tenderness, 'until we've dealt with the Malaugrym? Elminster gave us a task, and it's unfinished. Harpers-and Knights of Myth Drannor-don't walk away from their duty. Not now, not ever!'
When she caught Belkram's look of wonder, she blushed, turning her head away. 'I'm sorry,' Shar mumbled, her voice quavering for an instant. 'I… his dying… I'm too upset to make sense.'
'No, Lady,' Belkram said, advancing to take one of her hands in his own. He knelt and kissed it in one smooth movement. 'You make perfect sense-now, and always.'
Sharantyr turned her head away again from the rising fire she saw in his eyes, and tried to blink away her sudden tears, tears that would not stop falling.
Uncaring crickets were chirping as the Bard of Shadowdale turned in at her arched gate. She brushed past its roses and stumbled in her weariness. Sylune drifted with silent grace at her shoulder.
The door ahead of them was open, and the lamps were lit. Storm sighed and reached for her blade again, wondering if she really felt up to another fight against some sinister Zhent intruder… then relaxed with a heavy sigh of relief when she saw the short and familiar figure of Lhaeo come out to greet them.
'Tea is made, Ladies,' Elminster's scribe said in a small, forlorn voice.
'Oh, Lhaeo,' Storm said, touched, and held out her arms to him.
A moment later, the last prince of Tethyr was weeping into her breast, clutching her as if she were his last anchor in a storm-racked sea. 'El told me I'd know if he died,' he gasped when he could speak again, 'and yet I don't know! The touch of his mind is gone!' He burst into fresh tears, weeping uncontrollably.
Storm stood in the moonlight, holding him in silence. There was nothing she could say. Her silver hair bent over him as her own tears began to fall. They wept together, and the ghostly form of Sylune hovered over them both, her spectral hands reaching out to console… in vain.
There was nothing at all she could do.
11
It was a bright morning in fair Shadowdale. The tower, the inn, and the streets were still buzzing with talk of the disappearance, a day and a night ago, of Adon and Midnight, the two prisoners convicted of the murder of Elminster of Shadowdale. Some said they'd been spirited away by agents of Zhentil Keep, lurking in the dale even now; others that they were archmages, foul fiends, or Bane and Manshoon themselves, who wore false shapes and escaped by magic as soon as they were bound in the dungeons. Shadowdale had lost its greatest protector, a wise old uncle-albeit a cantankerous and mischievous uncle-to just about everyone who'd lived in Shadowdale.
Nor was he the only man mourned in the dale. Many a family wept over sons or fathers who would come back only on a shield, to be buried by an honor guard led by the grim-faced lord of Shadowdale. No one could spare the time for full mourning rites or long nights of grieving, however; there was too much that had to be done.
Magic still spun wild in Faerun, and news of strife and god-caused devastation came to Shadowdale with every new, heavily armed caravan. The Zhentarim could strike again at any time, and Daggerdale was an open battlefield roamed by hungry wolves, orcs, and worse. To keep such perils at bay, the few warriors still able to fight were standing guard on all four roads out of the dale, fervently hoping not to see blackhelms in the distance.
In the dale, dead Zhents and horses lay everywhere, some half devoured by bold night scavengers. The returned priests of Lathander were busily blessing the dead to ensure that they would not rise undead to stalk Shadowdale in the years to come. The old women of the dale were stripping the bodies of anything that could be used again, and the foresters surveyed the burnt woods with an eye to replanting.
Yestereve, six full carts piled high with weapons and helms had groaned up the road to the tower. The clangor of their being stockpiled had gone on all night, wherefore this morning Lord Mourngrym had a headache that felt as if someone were repeatedly stabbing a dagger through the top of his head.
'Why must I get up?' he asked Shaerl. 'I'm lord of this dale. Can't I lie abed just once in a year?'
'You did,' she replied sweetly, 'three months back. We were trying for a daughter, remember?'
Mourngrym growled something wordless about her cheerfulness and rolled up to a sitting position on the edge of their bed. His arms and ribs were gold and purple with bruises, and two raw scars marked his forearm where Zhent blades had split through his best armor.
Shaerl hissed in sympathy as she traced one of those scars with a slim finger. She handed her lord a tankard of steaming bitterroot tea.
Mourngrym sipped it, made the same disgusted face he always did, and rose, handing the tankard back to her. 'Here-you drink the stuff. It should cure your confounded cheerfulness!'
He took from its peg the silken robe she'd made for him. As always, he admired the blazons she'd sewn so carefully. The arms of the dale shone on one breast, his own arms on the other, and a target prominently on the back-their private joke: he'd been her target when Cormyr sent her to Shadowdale to gain influence here.
Mourngrym smiled at the robe in his arms, leaned against the smooth-carved corner post of the bed, and mouthed a silent prayer to Tymora. Swinging the robe around his shoulders, he made his way across the
