"Does any magic await me?" he asked softly, gesturing with one circle of a tentacle at the bed. The bellpull rose up to the ornate canopy above her bed, and the bar settled into its sockets.
"I keep no magic in my bed," the dowager lady told him calmly, "but if you fear traps, choose a spot on the floor yourself."
He shook his head slowly. "That will not be necessary. Lady, you will be remembered with honor."
"It is all I ask," she whispered as he rose over her and grew gentle fingers to encircle her wrists. "It is more than many can expect."
His grip was like immovable iron on her wrists and ankles. Pheirauze shuddered then, at the first, tentative touch of fire-but the firebringer found that he could be gentle and slay slowly. What was even more surprising was that he truly wanted to.
Gods, but she'd been willful! Briefly he'd had to fight down her wants and schemes to keep hold of his own. He forgave her that, and almost any villainy she might have planned, for what she'd yielded unto him. Pheirauze Summerstar had always been able to speak to the minds of humans near her, and even dominate some of them!
He laughed exultantly and looked down almost fondly at the shrunken husk that lay beside him, limbs spread but somehow still proud. Not wanting to crush any part of it, he bent with infinite gentleness to kiss the fire-scorched lips before rolling up off the bed.
In silence for a time, he looked down at all that was left of Pheirauze Summerstar. He half smiled, shook his head, and swept a row of guttering candles onto the bed.
Two strides took him to more candles. A funeral pyre was only fitting for a lady of such splendid spirit; matron of her clan and wielder of such power. Power now his!
He laughed aloud, threw aside the door bar, and ran out into the passage, becoming a hound as he went down the hall. Behind him, the bed burst with a loud roar into sudden, towering flames. The Purple Dragons would have to scramble to save this part of the keep. By then, of course, the man who was more than a man would be long gone.
Storm toweled the last of the bathwater from her limbs and strode toward the bed, where she'd laid out fresh clothes. On the way, she glanced at the tall oval mirror on the wall, and saw that her cheek looked as smooth as it felt; the deep burn was gone. Well, thank Mystra for the small things as well as those that shake all Faerun…
Linen briefs and halter, green hose and stays, her traveling boots-who knows where her hunt for a shapeshifter might lead her?
White shirt, leather tunic, sword belt, and gloves. Gods, but she looked like she was off to some forest war! Storm shook her head and sang softly, "Forth went the maiden, sword by her side. ." Striking a pose, hand on hip, she stretched like some great cat and went to the door.
"Too fair to crawl, but too 'fraid to ride…." she continued. Mouth open to sing the next line, she paused, sniffed the air-and snatched open the door.
Smoke. She was out and down the hall at a run before she'd even selected a curse. Somewhere in the keep, there was fire.
Running feet pounded past the door, and men shouted. There was a distant crash, more shouts-and then more hurrying, booted feet.
"Move, damn you!" an officer barked right outside the door.
The noise brought Shayna Summerstar awake. She sat up, blinking, in the close darkness of her canopied bed. There was a sharp smell in the air. She sniffed. Smoke.
Smoke?
Gods, was the keep afire? Since the Harper lady had come, men had been dying and there had been tumult and much whispering among armsmen and wizards alike… what else would the days ahead bring?
She rolled out of bed, put a bare foot on the soft rug, and took a step sharply to the side, to bring her other foot down on cold stone and jolt herself fully awake.
More men ran past. "The whole floor's ablaze!" someone shouted.
It was a fire. Shayna swallowed and went to her wardrobe. She'd need boots, and her jewel-coffer, and-
She swung the wardrobe door wide, and stared into the eyes of her grandmother, Pheirauze. But those familiar eyes were looking at her out of a man's face!
"Come," said a voice that was almost her grandmother's. A firm hand took hold of hers.
"Yes," Shayna said quietly, not even remembering to whimper.
The man with her grandmother's eyes thrust aside her best gowns as if they were rags, and led her to a dark place at the back of her wardrobe-and through it, into blackness beyond. The young Lady Summerstar scarcely knew when he slid a panel closed behind them, and drew her on down a narrow, damp passage that led straight into the Haunted Tower…
So it was that when frantic chambermaids led two Purple Dragons into the bedchamber to take the flower of the Summerstars to safety, they found her gone from her bed, with no clothes taken and no sign of where she could have gone. The bed was simply-empty. One of the maids shrieked and ran from the room, and another dissolved in sobs, but the two armsmen poked and peered all around the chamber, swearing horribly.
… The man whose face was slowly changing led the Lady Shayna on into darkness, away from the tumult. The sharp smell faded behind them, and the noise with it, as they went. The floor was cold under Shayna's bare feet, and the air chilled her through the thin silk and openwork lace panels of her nightgown. It seemed as if a mist lay on her thoughts, It was a warm, comforting mist, which did not lift even when they came to a chamber of real, luminous fog.
With a hunger she'd seen on other mens' faces before, the man turned to look her up and down. Somehow, this place of eerie, empty darkness was a haven of comfort as long as she stared into those dark eyes. . eyes that seemed to hold two dancing red flames.
The fiery gaze held her bound-and a voice cut like a knife through her head:
I AM YOUR DARK MASTER. ADDRESS ME THUS.
"Y-Yes," she said, lips trembling. She was suddenly more afraid than she had ever been in her life. As she stared into those dark, gloating eyes, a word swam unbidden into her mind: thrall. Thrall…
YES?
Yes Dark Master, she said in her mind.
He smiled and nodded.
Shayna found herself smiling and nodding too. Somehow the title fit the figure standing in the darkness before her.
Then a door in her mind opened. Through it tumbled images, phrases, and iron-hard feelings that burned her and flayed her, surging through her and battering down any self-will she'd managed to cling to.
Grandmare Pheirauze?
ALWAYS, CHILD. I SHALL BE HERE, WATCHING OVER YOU ALWAYS.
[Fear.] Must you?
OF COURSE. WE HAVE WORK TO DO, YOU AND I.
[Confusion.] Who are you, really-changing man?
YOUR MASTER. PHEIRAUZE LIVES IN ME. WE HAVE WORK BEFORE US-SHE, I, AND YOU: WE MUST OVERCOME THE WOMAN WHO SERVES MYSTRA.
The Lady Storm?
YES. YOU MUST HELP LURE HER TO ME.
Why do you need her? You have me!
I MUST HAVE HER POWER, SHAYNA. POWER YOU LACK.
[Disappointment.] [Fear.] If I bring you Storm, will you still want me?
OF COURSE. I SHALL ALWAYS WANT YOU. JUST AS YOU SHALL COME TO WANT-AND NEED-ME. BUT FOR NOW, OBEY: COME WITH ME.
The eyes of flame turned away from her. Shayna trembled, and found herself trotting along in the wake of her Dark Master. He grew long, wriggling arms like eels and hurried along passages she'd never seen, ways in her own home that she did not know.
After a long but swift journey, the changing man abruptly halted, turned, and fixed his fiery eyes on hers.
DO YOU WANT TO SERVE ME?
Yes. Oh, yes, she told him, nodding frantically despite the silent scream that rose somewhere inside her.
THEN OBEY. A tentacle snatched something down from a high ledge-something cold and sharp: a dagger. Its hilt slapped into her palm, hard and reassuringly heavy.