She dropped them, shaking, and tried to collapse, but Andur’s arms found her and held her up, strong and tender … and cold.
Tears blinded her, sweeping her away like a waterfall. Cold, so cold…
* * * * *
The brightness on her face was warm and golden. Sunlight— afternoon sunlight Wearily Dove opened her eyes, tensing against the pain.
There was none.
How could that be? She was lying on her back, naked but covered with her own quilt. Outside?
Someone snorted softly beside her—a snort of awakening that sounded somewhat familiar.
Dove turned her head. A sleepy-eyed Storm was stretching like a cat. Laeral lay asleep beyond her, in the same pool of sunlight. They were all on the mossy bank outside the cottage, lying under their bed-quilts—and a long, familiar shadow lay across the bottom of Storm’s quilt.
Its source was sitting on his favorite stump, watching them, a rather sad smile on his face.
“Andur?” Dove asked Uncle Elminster quietly.
“Buried with honor. His body served me well, for the brief time I needed it.”
She closed her eyes, drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded.
Elminster gave her silence until she was ready to ask something else.
“The priestess of Shar?”
“Dead, and taken far from here. The Mother of Mysteries was less than pleased.”
“What happened to The Place?” Storm asked softly.
“Swept away by Laeral’s spell—both the wild magic and all trace of the stones.” Uncle El’s voice held just a trace of what might have been admiration.
Dove sighed and turned back the quilt to look down at herself. As she’d expected, there was no trace of the gory wounds that should have been there. “You healed us, and yourself, too. The Weave?”
“The Weave,” Elminster confirmed calmly.
“Is… is this the way it’s always going to be?” Storm asked. “With the right magic, you can make everything better?”
Uncle El gave her a long, level look. “Most cuts and the like I can banish, scars and all.” He reached up and tapped his forehead. “Scars up here are much harder things to make go away. So don’t go looking for more trouble than ye want to embrace.”
Dove saw Laeral’s eyelids flicker, and knew she’d come awake and lay listening.
“So my Andur is gone,” she said, managing to say the words without a quaver, “and we all got a scare, and felt much pain, besides. And you let us fight with each other and get into scrapes like this and do nothing to stop us, when you could shout in our heads and even ride our minds and force us to walk and act and speak as you will.”
She sat up, looked at both of her sisters then back at Elminster, and added, “We’ve been right proper little bitches to you, time and again—yet you let us. Why? Does Mystra command you thus?”
“Nay,” the wizard replied. “Just as I try not to command ye three.”
“Even when we stride right into trouble?”
“Aye. Life is learning, lass—or ‘tis no life at all, but mere existence. And the lessons learned best are those ye learn on thy own, and learn hardest.”
“But you were almost slain,” Laeral said suddenly, sitting up to fix him with bright eyes. “I felt it, when…”
“When Mystra thrust the full power of the Weave into ye. I was nearly done, aye.”
“But why? Did you do something… foolish?”
“Several things. Ye see, little one, I’ve learned all too few lessons yet.”
“And Mystra trusts you to raise and train us?”
“I believe ye three enjoy her full confidence.”
“What?”
“That’s hardly a ladylike query, now, is it? Choose words again.”
Laeral pursed her lips, wrinkled her nose, then said disgustedly, “Pray pardon, good Uncle, but did my ears betray me? I almost believe I heard ye—uh, you say we three sisters enjoy the full confidence of the goddess.”
“Aye, ye did.”
“And what, precisely, is she confident we can do?” Elminster smiled wryly. “Why, teach me necessary lessons, of course.”
THE WHISPERING CROWN
The young Lady of Dusklake stood alone in her feast hall in the last golden gleam of the setting sun, and waited to die.
Dusklake and Grand Thentor had been at war for only a day, but the battle between Aerindel and Rammast, Lord of Grand Thentor, had begun when they were both children. He had wanted her to be his toy, slave, and plaything for more than a dozen years.
And Rammast was not a man accustomed to waiting long for anything.
He would come for her, and soon. Aerindel wondered if she’d be strong enough to hold on to the three things she valued most: her freedom, her land… and her life.
Knowing what was coming, she’d sent the servants away—but she also knew that eyes were watching her anxiously from behind parted tapestries and doors that somehow hadn’t quite closed, all around the hall. The eyes of those who feared she might take her own life.
The news of her brother’s death lay like a heavy cloak over the household—but it rested most heavily on the Lady Aerindel. Somehow she could not quite believe she’d never hear his bright laughter echoing in the high hall again, or feel his strong arms lift her by her slim waist and whirl her high into the air.
But the news had been blunt and clear enough. Dabras was dead by dragonfire, the grim old warriors had said, proffering his half-melted swordhilt and their own scorched wounds as proof. And that made her ruler of Dusklake.
A small realm, Dusklake, but long ago widely known— and feared—for the man then its master: the mage Thabras Stormstaff. Thabras, Aerindel’s faintly-smiling, sad-eyed father. The mightiest of a long line of famous heads of House Summertyn, from the grandfather Aerindel had never known, the warrior Orbrar the Old, to Asklas and Ornthorn and others in the early days known only in legends. A small but proud hold, it was the oldest of all the Esmeltaran, the holds nestled in the rolling woodlands between Lake Esmel and the Cloud Peaks. Hers, now.
If she could hold it. Aerindel looked grimly out through a window that was seven times her height at the lake the land was named for. Its waters were dark and placid, at the end of a bright, cool summer day. The Green Fields to the north were still a sheet of golden light, but westward the purple peaks of the Ridge rose like a dark wall, bringing an early nightfall down on her hall.
A night that would surely bring Rammast. Dusklake was small but verdant, perhaps the fairest of all the Esmeltaran. Rammast wanted it even more than he wanted her.
Aerindel looked at the fire-scarred blob that was all she had left of dear Dabras, and drew in a deep, unhappy breath. She would cry no more, whatever the hours ahead brought. She was a Summertyn, even if her slim arms were too feeble to swing a warrior’s sword.
Her spells might serve her where his sword had failed him, though she hoped never to be foolish and battle-hungry enough to go off to the distant Dales, as he had, hunting dragons. It was the year 902 there, she thought dully, recalling the words of a far-traveled trader… but there, as here, it was The Year of the Queen’s Tears.
How fitting. She had wept for hours, two nights ago, clinging to the fire-scarred warriors as if their unhappy memories and awkward soothings could somehow bring Dabras back to life.
Sometime the next day—yesterday—she’d been awakened in her own bed by a frightened chamberlass, bringing in an oh-so-polite missive from Rammast.
He grieved for her loss, the flowery-scrolled words read, and hoped to be of help in her time of need. With the world growing ever darker and more dangerous, there was no one in Faerun who could stand alone in safety, without friends.
Dusklake stood in need of strong swords to defend it against brigands and the ores of the mountains, Rammast’s words went on—and Grand Thentor had need of her magic, just as his heart had need of her hand. A wise woman would gladly see that the union of their two lands would set them all on the road to a brighter future; but if she lacked that wisdom or inclination, his duty was clear. His people needed the protection of a sorceress, and he must win her by formal duel if not by her willing submission. At sundown he would come for her answer.