But what choice had she had?
Athlan's choice, she told herself. She looked down over the battlements again. Then she shook her head, went to her knees against the old parapet of her home, and started to cry in earnest as a soft and magnificent sunset came down over Firefall Vale.
The man who was not Maxer shook his head to banish the ever-crowding memories. He wearily descended a flight of steps into the great vaulted hall at the heart of the Haunted Tower.
Let me take charge, Pheirauze Summerstar said in his mind. I can handle such things.
NO DOUBT, he grunted mentally. He sank down into a high-backed seat that still bore the stains where one Summerstar had killed another on it, a century ago.
He thrust the knowing voice of the dowager lady firmly from his thoughts and hummed to himself, feeling bloated and tired. This subsumption was useful, but burdensome. His mind was awash in the thoughts and passions and scenes of others, crowded until he could scarcely think-unless battle brought him fully to the here and now.
Battle. Yes, it was almost time. Let night fall and grow long, and the guardians slumber. Then he'd fare forth again in beast-shape and slaughter servants and guards without subsuming, whittling down those who could stand against him until his awed quarry would have to challenge him.
Yes. That would be best. First the hun-
He looked up, startled. A glowing figure appeared on the balcony above him. It was robed, bearded, and gaunt. As he watched, it gabbled something silent, pointed its hand down at unseen foes, and hurled a bolt of soundless, ghostly light. He tensed and almost sprang from his seat, but the apparition faded. It and its spell were but harmless phantoms; visions of the Haunted Tower.
But what if a phantom were not harmless? What if he could create his own automaton to surprise Storm Silverhand with attacks when her power and attention were bent on an annoyingly successful shapeshifter? What if she faced more than one foe?
Yes … he did spring up this time, and strode through an archway toward another part of the keep. He needed a servant, one who'd scarce be missed….
Some places in Faerun attracted and fostered and preserved hauntings-battlefields, aye, but what was it about places like this dark and gloomy tower? It was so rife with ghosts that the family who dwelt here had abandoned it. They spent their lives walking around it, not talking of it. Was there some magic here he couldn't feel, or something else he could use? He must return when the next victories were his, return and find out….
Right now, he needed a servant. One like this one. A water-bearer, spending his days groaning under the weight of buckets. He was bent over now, dipping water from the well pool into a jug, with loud splashing sounds. He did not even see the hands that descended to his ears and flashed fire between them.
The man staggered, squealed in astonished pain, and grabbed blindly at the edge of a nearby tapestry, trying to claw his way erect.
The old, rotting tapestry tore away in his hand, and he fell on his face into the water. The fire flashed again, and Mathom Drear, cellarer of the ewer, shuddered once and lay still.
Delicately, the shapeshifter seared the brain, burning away all thoughts but obedience and love for … a certain mind like this. He smiled, turned, and hastened back to the Haunted Tower, his mindless slave dripping along in his wake.
"Mathom Drear," he muttered, surveying the empty-eyed face. "Gods, what a name." He'd have to strengthen his control over the mind that now held only thoughts of him, and no memories of its own; an exacting task….
He made the cellarer sit on the stained high seat. He stared thoughtfully at the mindless man. Once the shapeshifter's newly gained memories surged and swirled, threatening to overwhelm him, but he snarled, bit his lip until the blood flowed, and fought the maelstrom down.
"Let there be two enemies seeking Storm Silverhand," he said aloud, his voice echoing in the dark, dusty room. "The Foe, and … Hungry Man." He laughed. "Aye, I'll make you hungry for her doom!"
He stroked his chin, considering just how to feed the mindless husk with spells and energy, to make it capable of striking a Chosen of Mystra and holding her- just long enough for her true foe to overwhelm her!
"Yes!" he shouted. YES YES YES! The memories swelled up with a roar and burst through his tattered control….
An observer, had one dared to venture into the dark and lofty hall at the heart of the Haunted Tower, would have seen a slack-jawed man sitting in a chair, staring endlessly at nothing. Another creature danced around it, cackling in wild, deranged glee … a creature who was sometimes a darkly handsome warrior, and at other times a stout, nude woman of mature years. Then again, it was also a warrior in the armor of the Purple Dragons, and at other times a young, sly-looking man in plain robes-and a war hound, or a water snake, or a griffon, or a handsome, imperious young man, or a grim old seneschal, or another young man, or …
The shifts in shape became faster and wilder, with tentacles and glossy black biting mouths rearing up out of a dancing blur. Always, the cold laughter went on, high and wild and free from all reason.
What was it about this Haunted Tower?
TWELVE
When a weary Storm Silverhand returned to her chambers, the Purple Dragons at the door saluted her as a fellow warrior, clapping their hands to their chests. She smiled, matched their salute, and strode in through the open door-to find a war wizard waiting for her. He smiled tentatively, looking every bit as tired as she.
She raised an eyebrow. "Broglan Sarmyn? Smiling at me, an ancient marchioness?"
He sighed. "Aye, Harper tricks and all. We dare not go further, lady, as uneasy allies. No sooner had you left us than the beast attacked in the shape of a Sharn-" Storm raised both eyebrows at once, truly surprised. "-and all I could think of, as we fired all our wands to beat the thing off, was that if you'd been there to hurl a slaying-spell or to hold it where we could empty all our magic missiles into it, it would be dead now, and our troubles over."
Their eyes met, and Broglan continued slowly, "Lord Vangerdahast did tell me to obey you as I would him … but, lady, I have measured him, many times, and it has taken me longer to measure you." He extended his hand, looking even more worried than usual. "Will you-command me?"
Storm took that hand. "Only if I have to, Broglan. I'd prefer to stand shoulder to shoulder with you, not distantly bark orders through a speaking-stone, like a certain Royal Magician of Cormyr."
Broglan smiled ruefully. "Yes, I'm one of Vangerdahast's tame dogs, and-as we all do-I sometimes chafe at glib orders from afar."
Storm smiled. " 'Tis the human thing to do," she replied, taking off her gloves. "What is your counsel now?"
Broglan drew himself up. "Lady, the first dishes have already been served, but if you'll have me do so, I would escort you to evenfeast."
"I'd like nothing more!" Storm said heartily, feeling suddenly how hungry she was. "Let's go!"
"But, lady," the war wizard said, blinking. "No gown? No gems?"
Storm waved a hand dismissively. "I feel better dressed like this," she told him, "but if you'll be more comfortable…"
She hauled her tunic off over her head. Broglan beat a hasty, embarrassed retreat-not fast enough to avoid receiving the wadded-up garment in his face. He caught it reflexively, in time to see Storm dabble perfume behind her ears, down the open front of her shirt, and up her sleeves to the elbows. Winking at him, she snatched out a pendant from a coffer and hung it down her breast.
She strode toward him. He extended his arm to her and swallowed as her hair shaped itself, a smooth forest of silver snakes moving in unison, into a spectacular upswept high-court plume.