It was a good long walk from Twisted Bridge to Northend, but to Maervidal it was seeming all too short, now. His last walk in the clear air-gods blast it all, his last walk anywhere!
How had they found out? Oleir, a tall, blond forester, as strong and as stupid as the trees he cut down and the bears he trapped, was vicious enough, but too slow-witted to put two ends of a broken blade together and see that they matched. Rostin was sly and quiet enough to over shy;hear things, but he was a scribe-for-hire staying at the Old Skull only for a tenday to write letters, contracts, and records for hire, before walking on to Tilverton then back and down to Ashabenford. Samshin was in the dale even less. Just now, he was posing as a farm laborer looking for work. He'd talked idly, as he turned to go, of how when a fugitive gets hunted across a quiet dale, all sorts of inno shy;cent people get knifed by mistake. In other words, if Maervidal tried to run, they'll murder a lot of dalefolk, and blame it on him, branding him an outlaw forever.
The scrivener sighed again. It really didn't matter how they'd found out, did it?
He glanced at the dark, wooded bulk of Fox Ridge ahead on his right, and shrugged. Perhaps it was full of Oleir and a dozen Zhent comrades, perhaps not. It didn't matter now. None of it mattered now.
A figure turned into the road ahead, and his heart leaped in sudden hope. A woman had stepped out of the mouth of her own farm lane. The woman drew every male eye in an instant, even when dressed in an old leather jerkin and breeches, stained from farm work and accom shy;panied by floppy old knee boots that had gone the color of the dust and old mud that had so often caked them.
Maervidal swallowed. It wasn't just her height-she was taller than most knights and smiths he'd seen, the sort of height and shoulders that seemed to fill a doorway-but the silver hair that cascaded down almost to her ankles. It was tied back like a horsetail, with a scarf that looked like an old scrap of black silk-a scarf that every man who'd hoisted a tankard at the Old Skull knew was a dancer's costume that covered so little that Storm rarely bothered to put it on. Maervidal closed his eyes for a moment, his mouth suddenly dry, at the memory of the last time she'd shed her farm leathers to spring up onto a table in that costume-and of the dance and song she'd given them all then.
It wasn't just her dancing, though, it was her walk. All fluid, sensual grace-not the proud strut of a cat that knows it's beautiful, and flaunts it, but the calm, confident lilt of a creature who knows she is stunning to the eyes, but cares not-and it was her eyes. They were dancing and merry, a flashing blue as they looked down the dale, and found the view pleasant. These eyes promised every shy;one good humor, real interest, and a teasing, daring excitement. They were the eyes of the most famous woman in all the dales.
Common folk knew her skill with the harp, but true Harpers knew just how much they, and all Faerun around them, owed the Bard of Shadowdale.
"Tymora and Mystra, smile upon me together now," Maervidal whispered hoarsely to the air. He'd never uttered a prayer so fervently in all his life.
Storm Silverhand had been absent from the dale a lot this winter-down Senibia way playing ballads for rich nobles and stacking up the gold coins they tossed her, some said-and he'd hardly traded six words with her yet this spring. It had been too much to hope for her to be around now, but she knew who he was. "Oh, great gods above, save me now!" he whispered, finding himself very close to tears, and made himself stroll toward her without calling out or breaking into a run.
She was coming abreast of him, nodding to him in pleasant, wordless greeting, and striding by. Now!
Maervidal Iloster turned to the Bard of Shadowdale as if something had just occurred to him, and laughed loudly. It sounded a little wild even in his own ears, and she spun around to face him, hand falling with smooth grace to the hilt of the sword she always wore.
Desperately he hissed out his situation to her, trying not to lose control of his voice. He found himself on the verge of tears only a few words later, pleading with her to come to the revel and rescue him.
She drew herself up and looked stern, and for one awful moment Maervidal thought she was going to rebuke him for being a craven coward, and send him on his way with harsh words, send him on his way to death. Instead, the Bard of Shadowdale stepped forward and embraced him. Maervidal found himself trembling, struggling not to break down and cry, as Storm Silverhand-who stood almost a head taller than he, and smelled distractingly of forest floors and nose-prickling spices-embraced him and said into his ear, "Press yourself against me, Maervi shy;dal. Right in close-don't be shy. Thrust your belly and hips against me. Clasp your arms together, around my neck, and sag against me … aye, like that. Now speak not, and keep still."
The wondering scrivener felt a sudden strangeness sweep over him, a tingling that left him feeling empty and faintly sick. Something stirred, then surged through him. . from Storm's hips, he thought. Or perhaps it seemed that way because he could feel her hands busy there shy;abouts, her knuckles grazing him as she did something that… that…
She was putting a belt around his waist-a waist that was more shapely than he remembered. His hips didn't stick out like that. And he was taller now, looking down at the muddy dale lane from a greater distance than he remembered, looking down even at Stor-ye gods!
Maervidal swallowed. He was looking down at himself. That is, where Storm had stood was a man with untidy brown hair and large, liquid brown eyes. It was the same handsome rake who looked back at him from his shaving mirror each morning. And he himself was … he looked straight down, at the body beneath his own chin.
"Great thundering gods!" he whispered hoarsely, utterly aghast. The man who looked like him chuckled.
"My body's not all that bad," she said, "for something that's seen around six hundred summers. Wear it well."
She clapped him on the arm and turned north, back the way she'd come-or rather, the way he'd been heading.
"But-" Maervidal managed to blurt, noting that his voice sounded lower, and more musical. "But-"
Storm turned around again, winking at him with his own eyes, and said quickly, "We haven't really switched bodies-just exchanged shapes. You'll be yourself again in the morning."
She giggled-Maervidal hadn't known his body could giggle-and he knew he, or rather, Storm Silverhand, the shape he was wearing, was starting to blush. He'd stared down at his new-found breasts in wonder, and without thinking had shaken himself to make them sway and bob. She'd buckled her sword belt around his hips-that'd been what he felt her doing. As for the rest, he was wearing her farming leathers, shiny with hard use at the knees and elbows, and she was him, in his best mauve silk shirt and black finery.
"You'll find coins in plenty slid in all along the sword belt," she said gently. "Now don't forget-you use the ladies' jakes this night, not that smelly corner one you men spray about in, so. Don't worry if it all seems strange. Just smile a lot, say little, and wait for the morning. My house is open. Feel free to eat and sleep as it pleases you. Oh, aye-when you're in the Skull, you'd best be careful who you have a drink with."
"Uh, pardon?" he asked, putting his hands on his-her, oh, to the Nine Hells with this: his-hips as he'd seen Storm do.