Windstag.
Given his wounds, the stain he’d brought on himself hunting the hand axe, and his vanity, Windstag wouldn’t be setting foot barefaced outside the gates of Staghaven House for days. Which meant he wouldn’t be using his lodge for some time, being as no other living Windstag had any stomach at all for hunting.
That’s where he’d go.
But not alone. Not in those wild reaches. Not when the king’s foresters might well treat him as badly as any desperate outlaw with a sharp knife.
He’d take three of his men, the best bodyguards left that he could trust.
As much as he could trust anyone, of course.
And wearing the wry and bitter grin that thought brought to his lips, Marlin hastened out of the room with his bundle, seeking saddlebags.
After all, he’d also be taking the four fastest horses.
“One spell too many,” El muttered as Storm wearily lay down atop him again and took hold of his chin- Rune’s smooth chin-in both hands to press and keep their foreheads together.
Their minds sank into each other in the familiar melting… and the healing began anew. Neither of them wanted to notice how dark and tired Storm’s mind was.
“Always the grand gesture,” she hissed, her breath holding a hint of cinammon. “The one last touch. The magic too far.”
“ ’Tis important, Stormy One,” he replied. “The right impression can save a dozen battles, or more. Cow thy enemies-”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She sighed. “Just cow them with fewer castings next time, hey?”
“I will, love,” he murmured. “Or ye’ll be the one staggering and falling, I know.”
Storm murmured something wordless and contented against him, her mind warming in a flare of pleasure.
El wondered very briefly what he’d said to cause that reaction… and then forgot it along with everything else, as the healing reached the stage where he always slid into oblivion.
Wonderful oblivion…
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mirt lurched sideways, nearly turning an ankle on a broken cobble, and growled a curse.
A pace farther on he asked, “How much longer are we going to be carrying His Lordship, hey? He’s not getting any lighter!”
“When the spell that’s locked his limbs wears off,” Storm replied, “or El decides he might not need to cast something more pressing.”
“Huh. That’ll be never, if I know mages,” Mirt growled. “Why-”
Rune, carrying the other end of Arclath, turned her head sharply and hissed in Elminster’s deep whisper, “Silence! Head down and look away yonder!”
A jerk of Amarune’s head signaled the direction in which Mirt was to turn; the tone of El’s voice made him obey unhesitatingly.
Two bare breaths later-time El spent murmuring something-four riders on fast horses burst past them, out of the night.
Looking up from under bushy brows, Mirt kept his eyes on the mask dancer’s slender shoulders and was rewarded with the sight of her turning to point a finger at the second rider.
The sound of hooves died away.
“Someone’s in a hurry to leave town,” Mirt commented, “an’ you know who, don’t ye?”
“Young Lord Stormserpent,” El replied shortly, “with some of his bullyblades. I cast a tracer on him.”
“Wisely done,” Storm said wearily, her silver tresses uncoiling themselves from around her head to bare her face again, “but if it lasts long, I’ll be needing healing. Magic or a long and well-tended rest. Preferably both.”
“With warm baths as often as ye desire, hey?”
“You know women well, Lord of Waterdeep.”
“Better than I know magic. This tracer, it drains ye, the longer old Mightyspells here holds it on our fleeing lordling?”
“It does.” Storm sighed, coming to a halt. They’d reached the gates of Stormserpent Towers. El had noticed they stood open in the wake of the four departed riders, and he stopped to peer in.
“No guards that I can see,” he murmured. “Not even servants out to close the gates again. Come. The stables.”
“And if someone confronts us?” Mirt growled. “We’re a mite encumbered.”
“We’re playing a prank on Lord Stormserpent and Lord Delcastle, at Lord Windstag’s request,” El replied promptly. “If they don’t seem to believe us, Storm and I-Rune, that is-will take our clothes off. That usually seems to distract most guards and pompous male servants.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” Mirt growled.
“We’ll need you if they’re female guards or pompous servants,” Storm said brightly.
No one challenged them or even showed a face from the Stormserpent mansion as they slipped into the darkened and deserted stables. El borrowed Storm’s dagger, kindled the faint glowstone in its pommel, and went straight to a corner where an old carriage stood at such a lean that it was obviously not usable. Beneath it was a torn and huddled heap of rotten awnings, thick with dust and the litter of many mouse nests.
“We hide the magic that Glathra and her hounds can trace here,” he announced in a whisper. “Then go.”
They did that, in smooth haste. Storm gave both El and Mirt Harper ironguard rings to wear, and they were back out on the road with the still-paralyzed Arclath to continue their journey to Delcastle Manor in the space of a few breaths.
Mirt looked back seven times, but the Stormserpent gates never closed.
Targrael marched along the sweeping street as if she owned it. She was, after all, a Highknight of Cormyr- the senior Highknight of the realm, regardless of what the living thought-and watch patrols of this wealthy neighborhood of noble mansions were frequent and apt to pounce on skulkers. The haughty, however, they’d learned to treat with respect.
She’d already been several streets south, on the far side of the Promenade, seeking Manshoon-for if he found her before she found him, she’d be swiftly back into slavery. In her fist was a palace gem, a very old Obarskyr treasure. Gifted by elves, so the tales ran. Most of what it did had been forgotten, but it functioned as a keen detector of awakened Art, close by.
Manshoon was far from the only spellhurler apt to be busy this night, in this city crowded with nobles and afire with scheming intrigue, but Targrael knew his love for constant spying, and walked the streets hoping the gem would catch the steady flows of Art that attended multiple scrying eyes.
Yet she found none.
She’d become increasingly mindful that with every step she took she gave the old vampire more opportunity to notice her. And that the longer the gem was missing from where it should be, in Duar’s Retiring Room, the greater the likelihood that wizards of war would come looking for her.
It was probably best to rethink this bold searching, return the gem, and hide herself in the haunted wing. Yet, she might as well pass Stormserpent Towers on her way back and try the gem there. Manshoon had spent much time riding the feckless Stormserpent lord recently, and even if the young fool had more than earned his own violent disposal, there remained the matter of the blueflame ghosts and his ownership of items that controlled them.
She’d have to be swift. The nobles’ streets were well-nigh deserted-though she’d caught a distant glimpse of three revelers carrying a wounded or more likely drunken companion home-and Manshoon was as likely as
