Arkyn Hornblade was headless, encrusted with his own dried blood. Renglar's gaze traveled down the dirty brown trails to find the Harper's staring, severed head. It had been set neatly down between his boots.
"Gods!" the old seneschal gasped hoarsely.
The headless Harper moved, lunging forward for one heart-stopping moment before toppling to the floor. He landed with a heavy thud-but no blood flowed. Arkyn had been dead for hours.
The seneschal swallowed, spun around to strike the call-gong on the wall by the door-and froze.
A moment later he pivoted again, grabbing for the knife at his belt. If Arkyn had died so long ago, who'd answered from inside the closet?
Nothing moved. The dead Harper lay sprawled on the carpet, and silence hung heavy in the room. The seneschal spat out an oath and kicked open another closet door to snatch his hanging sword from its scabbard. With blades gleaming in both hands, he shifted from closet to closet, kicking open door after door. He panted in mounting fury, waiting for a killer to burst forth. There was no one lurking in any of his closets; the doors swung almost mockingly as he stared at them, breathing hard.
He roared out for the guards, and added to his bellow, "Bring me war wizards-and fast, damn you!"
Who had answered him from behind that closet door?
TWO
All summer long her hounds had been running along the old tree trunk fence. Last night, it had finally given way, collapsing with a dull double crack and leaving easy passage for deer. As much as Storm Silverhand loved to look out the window in the misty dawn and see deer prancing among the trees, she didn't want to see them out the other window-in her fields of lettuce and squash and asparagus. So, this early morn found her puffing down the back trail, a full-grown duskwood tree on her shoulders; one just right to fill the gap.
It was as long as three horses, and weighed almost as much. Storm's face was dark with effort as she bent to put it in just the right place. One of the wolfhounds raised its head and smiled at her. She tousled its ears affectionately. "Thanks for the help, Old Boldblade," she told it in mock disgust, and then headed for the rain barrel to wash off the sweat.
It was early, yet, and chill mists were still drifting along the ground like vengeful ghosts. Even so, the Bard of Shadowdale wore only floppy old boots, elbow-length gauntlets of heavy leather, and a fine sheen of sweat. Halfway to the barrel, she changed her mind about washing. By the looks of the fast-brightening sky, the sun was going to be hot today. It would be more comfortable, by far, to get a good lot of firewood chopped and split before full sunlight reached the chopping floor.
She sang an ancient elven song about a maiden who rode a stallion across half the Realms without realizing the horse beneath her was in truth her lover. He had been trapped in stallion-shape by the wicked spells of a rival. As she sang, Storm hefted her largest, sharpest axe, and set to work.
It felt good to put her shoulders fully behind a blow, swing hard, and see the wood cleave and leap. Storm laughed aloud and picked up the pace, flinging her finished work in all directions. The split segments could be tidied away later.
One shadowtop was particularly dry. It spun up from the chopping block almost into her face. Storm smote it away with the back of the axe head, sending it spinning end over end across the hollow.
"Hoy! Mind out!" an amused and familiar voice called.
Storm tossed hair and sweat aside from her face with one deft hand and grounded her axe with the other. The protest had come from a floating, disembodied head that hung in midair. The head trailed long, flowing tresses of a silvery hue that matched Storm's own. It was floating right about where the piece of wood must have flown.
"Why? It's not as if you're solid!" Storm replied, stretching.
"It's the principle of the thing," the floating head replied tartly, and then added, "Nice ribs, there."
Storm put her hands on her hips and stuck out her tongue. Her sister laughed and added, "Besides-I could be."
"Principled?" Storm asked, plucking up her axe again.
"Solid," Sylune replied, floating over to hang at her shoulder for a better view.
"Huh," Storm said, exhaling with sharp effort as her axe came down on a duskwood trunk that had been drying for most of the season. It split crosswise, with a satisfying crunch. The bard kicked one end of it askew to have more room to split the other. "Why aren't you using your body, now that you've got one again?"
The Witch of Shadowdale made the little hopping motion in midair that meant she'd shrugged but forgotten she currently had no shoulders. "One has one's reputation to maintain. Besides, I'm used to being able to drift about, now-and my body's perfectly safe where it is."
"Reputation? My shapely behind!" Storm snorted, as wood clunked and flew again. "More like you didn't feel like helping to chop wood this morn, eh?"
Sylune smiled. "Now, would I admit that?" She slid around to hover by Storm's other shoulder as the first bright rays of the rising sun stabbed down into the hollow, over the tall stacks of split firewood. "And what would the wood-chopping Chosen of Mystra desire for morningfeast this fair day?"
"Fresh milk, dove eggs and sage, sharp cheese topped with hot nutmeg sauce, fried mushrooms and bacon slabs, a handful of radishes and another of grapes, and a mince tart or two, with a little mint wine to wash it down," Storm rattled off without hesitation or any pauses for breath.
Sylune gave her a withering look.
Storm said cheerily, "You asked. Did you leave your body in the kitchen, as usual? Well, then-you can have it all ready by the time I'm finished here."
"I can?"
"Nothing's too much for the free-floating Chosen of Mystra," Storm replied grandly, bowing like a court noble.
"That gesture looks a little grander if you're wearing clothes," the Witch of Shadowdale observed.
"Such criticism is more kindly received from folk who're wearing bodies," Storm told her. "Now get out of here. There're two shadowtops crowning that pile over there, and I want to try a little axe-throwing without a clever-mouthed flying head in the way!"
Sylune thrust out her own tongue, and then flew idly away across the raspberry patch in the brightening morning.
Storm chuckled, shed her gloves, spat on her hands, and picked up the axe again, narrowing her eyes to judge the throw. The head of a doe rose above the two trees she was staring at, and gazed at her with soft, thoughtful brown eyes.
"Boo," she said. It knew her too well to be afraid of her, and came clambering down the bank to leap a stack of firewood and nuzzle her for anything sugary she might be carrying.
Storm sighed, picked the deer up, and trudged up out of the hollow, ignoring its startled kicks. "Back to the other side of the fence, little one," she told it. "It's not as if I don't provide you with your very own grazing garden already!"
Brown eyes met her own silver-blue ones, and the deer sniffed loudly.
"I see," Storm replied, as the animal kicked again. "No, you're coming with me.. "
The stone posts that flanked the rose-girded arch were graven deeply with swirling moons, stars, and harps; this was her farm, all right. The man in the dapple-gray cloak and mottled, smooth-worn brown leather armor put a hand into his shoulder-pouch and slowly drew out something silver. He showed it to the watchful wolfhound that stood in the entrance: a silver harp pin, gleaming on his open palm in the bright morning sun.
The dog nodded to him, for all the world like a respectful human gateguard, and stood back. The man gave it an answering nod and cautiously stepped past. The lane ran under a huge grape arbor and on toward a low-lying, grass-roofed farmhouse that seemed to grow out of the garden beyond. Birds were singing and flitting among the trees of an orchard to his right, and there was no sign of farmhands or livestock. Even the usual reek of manure was absent.