Ed Greenwood
The Best of the Realms, Book II
NOT THE MOST SUCCESSFUL OF FEASTS
It was the hour of the Casting of the Cloak, when the goddess Shar hurled her vast garment of purple darkness, all a-glitter with stars, across the sky. The last rosy embers of the day glimmered on the long hair of a lone rider who came out of the west, lengthening shadows creeping ahead of her. It had been a cool day, and the night promised to be clear and cold.
The woman looked around at the gathering nightdark as she rode. Her black, liquid eyes were startlingly large and framed by arched black brows—looks that betrayed a stern power and keen wits at odds with her demure beauty. Most men did not look past her regal figure and the warm, honey-brown tresses curling around her pert, bone-white face. Queens might lust after her proud beauty—one at least did, of a certainty. Yet as she rode along, her large eyes held no pride… only sadness. Wildfires had raged across all these lands in the spring, leaving behind legions of charred and blackened leafless spars instead of the lush green beauty she recalled. Such fond memories were all that was left of Halangorn Forest now.
As dusk came down on the dusty road, a wolf howled somewhere away to the north.
The call was answered from near at hand, but the lone rider showed no fear. Her calm would have raised the eyebrows of the hardened knights who dared ride that road only in large, well-armed patrols—and their wary surprise would not have ended there.
The lady rode easily, a long cloak swirling around her. Time and again gusts of wind made it flap forward around her hips. Only a fool-at-arms would hamper her sword arm so thoroughly—but this tall, lean lady rode the perilous road without even a sword at her hip.
A patrol of knights would have judged her either a madwoman or a sorceress, and reached for their blades accordingly. They’d not have been wrong.
The sigil worked in silvern threads on the shoulders of her cloak was not unknown in Faerun; those linked circles of magefire proclaimed her to be the sorceress Myrjala, called “Darkeyes,” feared for her wild ways as much as for the might of her magic. More farmers and townsfolk loved her than did proud lords in castles; she’d been known to hurl down cruel barons and plundering knights like a vengeful whirlwind, leaving their blazing bodies as a dark warning to others. In some places she was most unwelcome.
As night’s full gloom fell on the road, Myrjala slowed her horse, turned in her saddle, and did off her cloak. She spoke a single soft word, and the cloak twisted in her hands, changing hue from its usual dark green to russet. The silver mage-sigil slithered and writhed like an angry snake and became a pair of entwined golden trumpets.
The transformation did not end with the cloak. Long curls darkened and shrank about Myrjala’s shoulders—shoulders suddenly alive with roiling, moving humps of muscle as they broadened. The hands that drew the cloak back on were hairy and stubby-fingered. They plucked a scabbarded blade out from the packroll behind the saddle, and belted it on. Thus armed, the elegantly-bearded man in the saddle arranged his cloak so its newly-shaped herald’s badge could be clearly seen. He then scratched his nose thoughtfully, listened to the wolf howl again—closer now—and calmly urged his mount forward at a trot, over one last hill. Where the most feared sorceress in these lands might be met with arrows and ready blades, a lord herald was always welcome.
The guards were lighting the lamps over the gate as the herald’s horse came clottering over the wooden drawbridge. The badge on his cloak and tabard were recognized, and he was greeted with quiet courtesy by the gate-guards. A bell tolled once within, and the Knight of the Gate bade him hasten in to the evening feast with a wave of his gauntlet and the rote words: “Be welcome in Morlin Castle, if ye come in peace.”
The herald bowed his head in the usual silent response.
” ‘Tis a long way from Tavaray, Lord Herald. Ye must know hunger,” the knight added less formally, helping him down from his mount. The herald took a few slow steps with the stiffness of one long in the saddle, and smiled thinly.
Startlingly dark eyes rose to meet the knight’s smile. “Oh, I’ve come much farther than that,” the herald said softly. He nodded a wordless farewell and strode away into the castle without hesitation. He walked like a man who knew the way—and his welcome—well.
The Knight of the Gate watched him go, his face expressionless in puzzlement. An armsman nearby leaned close and murmured, “No spurs … and no esquires or armsmen … what manner of herald is this?”
The Knight of the Gate shrugged. “If he lost them on the road, or there’s some other tale of interest, we’ll know it soon enough. See to his horse.” He turned—and stiffened in fresh surprise.
The herald’s horse was standing close by, watching him, for all the world as if it were listening to their talk. As it met his startled look, it nodded and took a half-step forward to bring its reins smoothly to the armsman’s hand. The two men exchanged startled looks, and then the armsman rather warily led the horse away.
The knight watched it for a moment, then shrugged and strode back to the mouth of the gate. There’d doubtless be much talk on watch later, whatever befell.
Out in the night, nearby, a wolf howled again. One of the horses snorted and stamped nervously. The knight cast a look back over his shoulder and saw the herald’s mount calmly looking from side to side as it was led off to the inner stables. He shook his head and went up the stairs to his post above the gate.
* * * * *
In the hours after dusk, within the vast and smoky high hall of Morlin Castle, Lord Breiyr sat at ease at the great curved feasting table facing the dance and play of the hearthfire. The spit-frames, their sizzling burdens well seared, had been drawn away from the relentless heat of the leaping flames, whose amber shadows danced on the walls all around the seated company.
That company was only three in number, for all the steaming, shining-plattered feast laid between them.
Plentiful and splendid it stretched, studded with a fair dozen roasts adorning the raised dishes-of-honor. Between these mountains of meat stood a small forest of lesser, shinier vessels. Some lay open-topped, displaying sauces that sparkled in the firelight like dark pools with gems shining in their depths. Ever-curling wisps of steam rose from deep silver bowls that held innards in gravy. These were set amid gleaming brass plates of honey-laced fruit skewers and tall, slender decanters of red wine. Reflected flames flickered in their ruby depths, casting back leaping red shadows on the faces of the diners.
At the center of the curved feasting table sat the Lord of Morlin, Baron of Steeping Falls and Lord Protector of the Sword Hills. He was a stout man, an old lion of a warrior come to the gray shadow of his years. In the bright days of his youth he’d gone up against ore hordes, hobgoblin hosts,
and warbands of giants—and even now, the songs of the wandering bards remembered well his valor. Some called him a simple man, rough of manner and speech, and it is true he had little liking for subtlety or deceit, and much love for good food and mead, and hale friends to share both with. He could still get into his old, scarred armor, and heavy rings of beaten gold adorned his long fingers, knobbed and scarred where they’d been broken by heavy sword-blows through his gauntlets or cut by seeking blades when those gauntlets had failed. The lord’s keen eyes darted under bushy brows from one of his guests to the other—for he was not enjoying his meal, and they were the cause.
An elderly male servant in a worn doublet deftly set down a full goblet and a bottle of the chilled, emerald-hued mint wine from Ardeep at one end of the table. The haughty, sharp features of the elf who sat there softened momentarily in thanks. The brief smile was dazzling, and the servant almost paused to gawk at the tall, sinuous high elf-lord, whose large silver eyes glimmered with a look somehow too sly for an elf. And yet his pointed ears, his fine bronze skin, and his golden-blond hair—a mane as long as a maid’s, pulled back severely to the nape of his neck in a filigreed pin that winked with fine gems and spell-dazzle—proclaimed him one of the eldest and haughtiest race of elves. He wore a white silk shirt with an overtunic of gilden shimmerweave, and lounged at ease in his chair as he reached for the new-brought wine.