Ed Greenwood - Silverfall - Stories Of The Seven Sisters

Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters

Ed Greenwood

Prologue

Rise, and be not afraid.

I have no need to be feared. I am more of a goddess than that. Look upon me, and know

Magic. I am Mystra.

Priests may prattle of this god or that, but over what mortals of Toril call

"magic"—because they understand it not—there is no other.

I am the Weaver, the Road Ascending, the One True Way.

Terrible I must be, all too often, and the mortals whom I so love—for I was one of you, not

so long ago—often cry out at me, or entreat me to work magic for them, or unfold all its mysteries

to them at once, like a child who desires all that is good to eat to appear upon his platter in an

instant.And if I gave the mysteries that are mine to nurture and keep, unfolded and bright in all

their myriad glory, who among mortals could behold them and remain sane?

Aye, think on that, and for the love I bear you and all your kind, leave off cowering. I

smite or give aid as I see needful, not in whatever wise trembling supplicants—or those who

threaten—desire to move me.

When you feel lonely, or lost, and think dark magics raised against you, remember this

moment. Feel the weight of my power, as it flows—not turned against you, but so vast that it

could sweep you away, cries unheard, in an effortless instant. My power, bent upon you as I

regard you now . . . and touched and awed by it, you yet live. I am always here, all about you. You

are never truly alone. I flow wherever life flows, wherever winds blow and water runs and the sun

and moon chase each other, for there is magic in all things.

This vast, ever-changing, living Weave is a tapestry of power beyond the minds of mortals,

though with each passing year my work gives me back bright pay-ment, and those who work

magic can do a little more, and see a little more.

Yet those who can see and work with much more than most are rarely sane. The power

burns them, twists them, and makes all that is flawed and mean greater. Wherefore we have cruel

tyrants, liches walk-ing beyond death who desire to destroy or use all that lives, and wild-eyed

dreamers who think that to reshape all Toril to their own visions is to master it. We have lands of

mages who destroy or ruin more than they ever raise up; we have doom and devasta-tion, and

lives wasted or shattered. Mortals know the pain of such darkness, but I share it. I have the work

of banishing the gloom and seeking to temper the blades that are mortal souls so that each time

they can take a little more, do a little more, see a little more.

In this work, my hands are manyfold, thanks to the few mortals who can see and work

with more Art, and remain sane—or, as some of them have put it, "sane enough."

I deem these rare few, if they will serve me, my Chosen. And they are rare. Mortals are so

easily bent to willfulness by power, so easily broken into tools I can no longer use, for I work with

love, and must be served willingly, by those who love me. I shall not compel serv-ice, ever. I will

not become what my predecessor did, in the despair of her long waiting. I shall give, with love,

and never cease in my giving.

The power I oversee, because of its might, is a danger to mortals, to gods, and to Toril. All

three may be blighted or ruined if the Weave is torn or misused enough. I stand against that. I am

the Guardian of the Weave, and its lover. Those who serve me must be the very best of mortals,

so that they blunder little, and love the Weave as much as I do, coming to understand it as best

they can—and far better than others.

Chosen do my work best when they feel my hand but lightly; when they feel free to move

and act as mortals do, finding their own vision of the Weave, and serving me in their own ways.

Chosen are not easy to find. Chosen are so special that I have managed to keep no more

than a bare two handfuls of those my predecessor raised to their sta-tion. The greatest work of my

predecessor—the Mystra who was not once a mortal who took the name "Mid-night"—was the

birthing of Chosen she could not find, and so had to make.

I speak of the Seven Sisters, born under Mystra's hand, to be the sort of mortals she

needed, and that I need even more these days. Mortals are wondrous, com-plex things; my own

power is not yet risen enough that I dare attempt to make or bear Chosen as she did . . .

wherefore I look endlessly about Toril, seeking fitting mortals who have arisen on their own.

I watch over all who work with the Weave, or meddle in its workings. I watch most those

who fascinate me with their daring, their accomplishments, their charac-ters ... or their love. I

watch these Seven often, almost as much as the old rogue who kept my predecessor's power in the

time of her passing, and gave it so will-ingly to me. She lives on in him, and in me.

She lives on more splendidly still in those who could be termed her daughters: the seven

mortal women who share a sex, silver hair, beauty, and wits. They have outlived most mortals,

and still enter each day with gusto, a constant delight to me. My only disappoint-ment is that they

do not work together more often.

Yet once in a passing while—in particular, when I nudge them ever so gently from behind

all the curtains of concealment I can spin—they do ... and I love to watch them at work.

Watch them with me now.

Aye, my eyes shine. When I was a mortal, I wish I'd lived as these magnificent ladies of

mine do.

I am Mystra, and to you all I give this gift . . . the Seven Shining of my Chosen. Aye, I

weep; whatever you may think, mortal, it is a gift given with Love.

Dove

No More in Armor for My Sake

No sword of war lay long idle in her hand. Ardreth, High Harp of Berdusk

from the ballad A Dove At Dawn

composed circa the Year of the Lost Helm

Sometimes Mirt had his private suspicions that the magic of the ring didn't work at all.

He thought that right now, for instance, on an all-too-warm spring day in the Year of the Gauntlet

as he stumbled through the moist and uneven green dimness of a forest sane folk never dared enter. The

damp leaves were slippery underfoot, and he was getting too old for creeping about on uneven ground in

deep gloom. He fetched up against perhaps his hundredth tree this afternoon, ramming it solidly with his

shoulder, and growled in pain.

Well, at least it made a change from wheezing for breath. The fattest working merchant in all the

city of Waterdeep shook his head ruefully at the thought of lost strength and slimness—gone thirty years,

and more, ago—and waved his arms in frantic circles like a startled chicken so as to find his balance.

When he won that battle he strode on, his old, worn boots flopping.

A serpent raised a fanged head in warning on the vast, moss-cloaked trunk of a fallen tree ahead,

and the Old Wolf gave it a growl worthy of his namesake. What good are enchanted rings that quell all

nonvocal sounds one makes, and allow one to slip through ward-spells unnoticed, if one still lumbers

about like a bull in a mud-wallow . . . and the ring-spells do nothing about the confounded heat?

Mirt wiped sweat out of his eyes with a swipe of his sleeve as he watched the snake glide away

in search of a more secluded spot to curl up in. He was wheezing again. Gods curse this heat—wasn't

deep forest shade supposed to be cool?

A rattlewings started up in alarm under his boots, whirring away through the gloom in a

squawking welter of wings. Mirt sourly watched it go, threw up his hands—so much for stealth—and

plunged on through the damp leaf mold, spiderwebs, and mushrooms.

Oh, aye—and thorn bushes. Never forget the thorn bushes. They had their own abrupt and

painful ways of making sure of that. The fat merchant growled again as he tore free of a barbed, biting

tangle—not his first this day—leaving some of his blood behind, and stumped on through the endless

forest. Why by all the gods had a Chosen of Mystra—who could have any-thing she damned well

wanted—sought out such a far and hidden place, anyway?

Because she wants—needs—to be alone, he thought, and I am come to shatter the peace that

must be so pre-cious to her.

Mirt growled again at the thought, and waved a hand in anger. Sweat was dripping off his nose

again, running down his face like a brook, more salty sticki-ness than water.

"Puhwaugh”

Mirt found himself spitting out a moth that had darted into his mouth amidst his wheezing. Now he

was eating insects. Grand, indeed.

Sweating and stumbling, the only fat merchant for miles—or so he hoped—lumbered on up a

slippery slope of mosses and little leaf-filled hollows, gained the top of a ridge . . . and stopped abruptly,

catching at a tree for support as he stared down at what lay ahead.

His jaw dropped open. Oh, he'd known there'd be a dell in the trees somewhere hereabouts,

warded and hidden, with Dove Falconhand in it. And here 'twas, without the singing of shattered wards

or any magic menacing him. Evidently the ring was working after all.

An eerie blue light of magic pulsed down in the dell, radiance that spun like sparkling mists

around a strange dance. A woman taller than Mirt was dancing in midair, her booted feet almost his

height off the ground, whirling with smooth grace in an endless flow-ing of limbs and swirling silver hair.

Gods, but she was beautiful! The Old Wolf growled deep in his throat, like the animal he was

named for, as he watched her dance held aloft by her own magic. Her shoulders were as broad as his,

their sleek rippling making light play and gleam along the shining plates of her full suit of black and silver

armor. She wore nei-ther gauntlets nor helm, but was otherwise encased in war steel, all slender

curvaceous strength and long, strong legs. Her height and deft grace made her seem smaller and more

slender than she truly was—not a squat, burly swordswinger like Mirt, not even "buxom"... but in truth,

she overmatched him in size, reach, and probably strength. Her unbound silver hair flowed with her,

licking and dancing about her shoulders. Her dark brows arched in concentration as she watched her

deadly, moaning partners.

Dove of the Seven Sisters was not dancing alone. Singing in the air around her were a dozen

scabbardless swords, their bared blades cutting the air in whirling dances of their own. Mirt saw runes

ripple down their shining flanks, and at least two of them were moaning—one high-pitched, one

lower—as they spun through air that crackled with power. In the heart of their deadly ballet, Dove

Falconhand was singing, low and word-lessly, her voice quickening and growing louder.

A darting sword point struck sudden sparks from Dove's armor then whirled away. Mirt was still

watch-ing its tumbling flight in wonder when two blades slashed at the dancing woman, their steel

shrieking in protest along the curves of her armor. Without thinking, the Old Wolf pushed away from his

tree and stumbled forward, almost pitching onto his face as he caught one boot heel in a tree root, Dove's

song was insistent now, almost hungry. The swords were circling her and darting in, striking like sharks

tearing at a stricken fish. Screams of metal raking metal rose to drown out her keening as Mirt sprinted

down the leaf-slick dellside, snatching out his own sword with the vague notion of smashing down the

flying blades from the air. Was she caught in some sort of magical trap? A spell that turned her own

powers against her to bring her swift death?

He wasted no breath in roaring a warning—in case someone who might be directing the blades

would thereby be warned—but Dove soon saw him. Her head turned, mouth opening in surprise, just as

a blade slid under the edge of a plate, bit through an unseen strap, and sent the black and silver plate

spinning away. Three swords plunged into the gap where the plate had been and Dove stiffened, clawing

the air in obvious pain.

Her gasp was almost a sob. It rang in Mirt's ears as the wheezing merchant raced forward,

waving his sword. Three blades drew back from the dancing woman, trailing flames of blindingly bright

silver, and one of them rang high and clear, like a struck bell. It sounded almost triumphant.

"Blazing . . . gods . . . above!" Mirt panted, swinging his sword at one of the flying blades so hard

that when he missed he found himself staggering forward help-lessly, about to kiss the ground again.

"Dove! Hold you them—I'm coming!"

He fell hard, skidding in soft mud and wet leaves, and his next shout was lost in a mouthful of

moss. It tasted terrible.

The swords were racing through the air now, strik-ing sparks from Dove Falconhand's armor

when they missed the plume of silvery smoke that marked her wound. She was dancing again, arching

her body to the world instead of clasping her hands to where she hurt. Through the sweat that stung his

eyes as he wallowed in the forest mold, Mirt saw her wave at him to stay back. She resumed her dance,

seeming almost to welcome and beckon the blades rather than strike them aside. He thought she must be

spell-thralled.

Mirt reeled to his feet just as another sword slid into Dove, sinking so deeply it must have gone

most of the way through her. He saw it draw back dark and wet, silver smoke boiling away along its

length as the danc-ing woman reeled in midair. He wasn't going to reach her in time.

There was real pain on Dove's face as she met his eyes again and shook her head, waving at him

to begone. Mirt stared in horror at a blade racing right at her face. He used one of the precious spells that

slumbered in the other ring he wore; a magic to quench magics.

The sword plunged obediently to the ground, bounc-ing lifelessly to rest—just as two other

blades thrust themselves into the silver-haired woman, their quillons clanging against each other as one

slid past the other.

Dove gasped, shuddering in the air as her body bent involuntarily around the transfixing steel.

Mirt was only a few running strides away now, almost close enough to snatch at those quivering hilts. He

had his own sword, two gnarled old hands, and—a dose of irony—the only spells left in his ring were a

flight magic, and one that conjured up scores of whirling swords. He'd have to do this the hard way.

A blade slashed at his ear as he lumbered forward to lay his hands on the hilts of the two swords

buried in Dove. He'd have to leap up to reach them.

Gods, he was getting too old to jump about like a stag. With a grunt and a gasp, the Old Wolf

launched himself into the air, battered old fingers reaching . . .

He was in the air before he saw it. A sword curving up and around from behind the drifting silver

smoke, soaring toward him like a hungry needle.

Mirt could do nothing to evade its bright point, and the old, supple leathers he wore would be as

butter beneath its keen strike.

"Must I die like this?" he growled in despair as his leap carried him helplessly on, his fingers still

shy of reaching two vibrating pommels.

A wave of magic—obeying a slender, bloodied hand—hurled him back. Mirt saw the dark blade

speed between them, its bright edge winking at him, as he locked gazes with Dove again.

There was calm reproach in her eyes, and yet a hint of lurking mirth, too ... an instant before her

face changed, alarm rising in her eyes again. Something struck him behind and above his ear, hard enough

to spin him around and down into an echoing red void, a world that darkened as he tumbled through it,

on the slow roll down to death.

Rapture awakened him, greater shuddering pleasure than he'd ever felt before. The low sound

he'd been hearing in the dreams that were falling away from him now, receding into forgetfulness like

sun-chased mists, was his own endless moan of pleasure as he writhed on his back in the forest mold.

Dove was kneeling above him, clad in a simple white shift, armor and blood and racing blades all

gone, one slender, long-lingered hand—dappled with blood no longer—was outspread in the air above

his breast, and a gentle smile was tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Wh-what?" Mirt managed to ask, his throat rough. "Lie easy, Old Wolf, and let me finish.

You've been a very bad boy, down the years . . . but I suppose you're well aware of that."

Fresh waves of pleasure washed over him before he could reply, and he kicked his heels against

the soft moss, needing some sort of release.

"What're you doing to me?" he groaned when he could find breath to shape words again.

"Healing you," Dove replied serenely, holding up something small in her other hand. It glinted

between her fingers as she held it out. "Recognize this?"

Mirt shook his head, gasping as old, long familiar aches melted away. "What is it?"

"Part of someone's sword tip. You've been carrying it around for two score summers or so; that

stiffness in your back, remember?"

The fat merchant twisted experimentally. His limbs were as supple as when he was a young lad.

"'Tis gone," he rumbled in wonderment, feeling flesh that hardly felt like his, stripped of accustomed pain.

Dove nodded. "That, along with a lot of fat you didn't need, those crawling veins on your legs, a

rupture in your gut I could put my hand through, balls of bone built up around your joints . . . and I've

forgotten how many places where your bones were broken, or once broken and poorly mended. You

might have taken better care of yourself."

"And never been the great lord of adventures I am," Mirt growled up at her, "and so never met

you, lady. Nay, I think I chose the right road." He patted at his belly, then ran his fingers over his chin and

was reassured to find familiar girth, calluses, and hair. Ah, she hadn't made a boy of him—or, gods, a

girl—or anything like that.

"No, Old Wolf," Dove murmured reassuringly. "You'll recognize yourself—wrinkles, scars, and

all—when next you look in a glass."

Mirt lifted his head for a moment, saw shards of hacked black and silver armor strewn around

them in the trampled moss, sighed, and let his head fall back.

"You give me a gift beyond measure," he rumbled, let-ting her see the love in his eyes. Then,

because he had to, he added bluntly, "Why?"

Dove nodded, her smile gone now. "Because, in your own way, you serve Faerun as I do—a

service for which you are all too unlikely to be otherwise thanked. I could hardly leave you to bleed to

death in the center of my Dancing Place when you'd taken your wound trying to protect me."

She folded her fingers as if closing an unseen book, and acquired an impish smile as she drew her

hand back from above his breast. "Even if doing so would greatly please a large and ever growing host of

folk spread all across the continent of Faerun."

Mirt grunted at that and snaked out a hand to touch her knee. A surge of power washed through

him, as if he'd been touched by a spell. His entire body jumped ere something happened inside Dove

Falconhand, and the flow was cut off as if cut by a knife . . . leaving him holding a knee. A shapely knee,

but mere flesh and bone now, not some storage keg of stirring magic.

"My, but we're greedy," said the silver-haired woman in calm tones, firmly disengaging his stout

fingers, with a hand that—for all its smooth slenderness—was stronger than his.

She rose in a single graceful movement and stood look-ing down at him. "I can see a question or

three fairly bursting out of you," she said with a smile, and word-lessly beckoned forth his speech with

two imperiously hooked fingers.

Mirt looked up at the woman who could kill him with just one of several dozen even smaller

gestures, and asked in a raw, bemused voice, "If it pleases you to tell me, lady, I must know this: why,

before all the gods, were you dancing with a dozen swords?"

She held out a hand to help him rise, Mirt rolled to a sitting position, marveling at a strength and a

physical ease he'd not felt in himself for thirty winters, and took that proffered hand. He barely needed it,

and stood flex-ing his arms in sheer pleasure.

"All of us Chosen," she replied gently, as they stood together in a glade where eerie spell-glow,

drifting smoke, or darting sword kept the calling birds at bay no longer, "have our own magical

pursuits—hobbies, even 'secret schemes,' if you will. What you blundered into was one of mine."

"I'm deeply sorry that I did so," the old merchant said quickly, "even if it did win me years of

hurts healed. I—"

Dove laid two gentle fingers across his lips. "Please don't babble more thanks at me, Mirt. I have

too few friends and too many admiring worshipers." Her lips twisted. "They almost outnumber the foes

who'd dance on my dead body with glee."

The Old Wolf nodded. "Then say on about your dancing and the swords, lady," he bade gently.

"My name is Dove ... or to certain angry Lords of Waterdeep, 'Clever Bitch,' " the silver-haired

woman told him serenely, and Mirt flushed scarlet to the very tips of his ears.

"Ah, now, lass, I meant it not. Gods, 'twas years back, that! And how could you have heard me

clear across the city? 'Twas just th—"

Those fingers tapped his lips again. "Just call me Dove, hmm? I hope you'll have sense enough

not to cavort around like a youngling in days to come, or speak of what happened here. I don't want to

end up leading a procession of wrinkled-skin lordlings around the North, all of them pleading to be made

vigorous again. Nor do I want parties of axe-wielding, torch-bearing idiots blundering around in this

forest seeking a glade where magic swords can be found flying around."

"Lady," Mirt said gravely, "you have my wor—I-I mean Dove, I promise you I'll tell no one at all.

Truly." Dove nodded, her eyes studying his face a trifle sadly. She was not smiling.

"Is—is anything wrong?" Mirt asked anxiously.

Dove shook her head. "Memories, Old Wolf, are per-sonal gems ... or curses. I was just

remembering another man who used almost the same words you just did, and what became of his

promise—and him. And before you ask, no, I won't tell you his name or fate."

The old merchant spread helpless hands and took a restless stride away from her. "Of course

not, great lady. Is there anything I can do for y—"

A firm hand took hold of his arm and turned him around. "Hear the secret you sought, and keep

it," she replied simply. "Mirt, you saw no hostile spell at work on me, but merely my own sloth. I was

enhanc-ing the enchantments of those blades the easy way, by borrowing powers from one to echo into

another. I do such augmentations at Mystra's bidding, making the magic I spawn last by means of my

own blood."

"The silver fire that legends speak of," Mirt whis-pered. "Tears of Mystra . . . the blood of the

Seven."Dove nodded. "The Lady Steel used to do sword dances—alone, in remote forest glades—to

swiftly transform blades of minor enchantment into duplicates of a more formidable weapon. I thought

others avoided such practices because of the danger and their dislike of pain, but I've discovered another

reason."She waved a hand at the scattered armor, "That is now twisted in its magic," she explained.

"What some folk called 'cursed.'"

Mirt nodded. "And if you hadn't worn it?"

"You'd have found my body lying here with a dozen swords in it," she replied calmly, "or blown

to blood and dust. That many enchantments at once would hamper my own powers in strange ways."

The fat merchant looked down at the scattered frag-ments of black and silver steel again and

Dove smiled thinly. "There are those who feel far too many Chosen of Mystra walk the face of Toril

these days," she said. "This is one secret you'd best not spill with your over-loose tongue."

The Old Wolf shook his head. "And you trust me .. ." he murmured in wonder. He shook his

head again, then cleared his throat and said formally, "Dove Falconhand, know that I will obey you in

anything. You have but to call on me."

The silver-haired woman regarded him soberly and said, "Be careful, Mirt. I may one day collect

on that promise—and my calling may cost you your life."

Mirt kept his eyes on hers as he went to his knees. "La—Dove, I will answer that call right gladly,

even if it comes with the clear promise of my death. We must all die ... and in your service seems to me a

goodly way to go."

Dove shook her head and turned away, but not before Mirt saw what might have been tears in

her eyes. When she spoke again, however, her voice was calm and composed. "Words spoken near

death tend to lay bare the heart more than grand and formal prom-ises. Forgive me if I wonder aloud

why a man so eager to promise me his death now, cried out as he did, ear-lier, just before he was struck

down?"The Old Wolf nudged a piece of armor with the scuffed toe of one of his boots and replied, "If

die I must, I'd rather it not be in the throes of my own mistake, or a calamity I've caused. That's why I

spake thus, then." He looked up at her, discovered her eyes steady upon him, and added quietly, "You're

waiting for another answer, though, Lady Falconhand . . . aren't you?"

She smiled and almost whispered three words: "Lady? Clever Bitch."

Mirt smiled ruefully. "Dove," he began carefully, "know that I came looking for you because I

knew of both your skills and the approximate location of this your Dancing Place, though nothing of how

or why you danced."

The silver-haired woman made a cycling motion with her left hand, bidding him say on.

Mirt drew in a deep breath, let it out in a sigh, and began to speak in a rush, as if emptying

himself of a heavy burden. "As you know, I've been a rather busy merchant for some years. I've done

business with many folk in most cities between here and the Sea of Fallen Stars. I'm known

professionally to a score of men, or more. In Scornubel, perhaps ten times that many trust me with some

secrets, or seek my counsel."

Dove bent her head and regarded him sidelong. "And what currently troubles bustling

Scornubel?" she asked softly.

Mirt threw back his head in thought, framing his next words, and caught sight of one of the flying

swords. It was hanging motionless in midair above the lip of the dell, pointed toward him and half hidden

among tree branches. He turned his head and saw another, and another, hanging silent in a deadly ring.

Waiting.

He looked back at Dove's calm face, and said, "Lady, please understand that alliances and

formal pacts in the Caravan City come and go with the passing hours, not merely by the day or tenday.

Few of my contacts there habitually trust or confide in each other. In the matter that brought me here they

spoke to me sepa-rately, each driven by his own fear."

Dove nodded and he continued, "Folk have been slow to realize this, and therefore we can't say

with any surety as to when it began or how widespread 'tis. Scor-nubel is experiencing a stealthy influx of

drow." Dove raised an eyebrow. Drow. Most humans of Faerun had an almost hysterical fear of the

dark elves.

The evil, spider-worshiping Ones Who Went Below cleaved from their fairer elf brethren

millennia ago to descend under the earth and dwell there. Vicious and stealthy, masters of fell sorcery

whose skins were the color of the blacksmoke obsidian sold in Tashlutan bazaars, the drow were a

mysterious race, all but unseen but for the rare, terrible nights when they crept up to the surface to raid,

cruelly slaughtering at will. Drow never stayed above, for fear of their magic losing its efficacy and finding

every creature's hand raised against them. So how were they invading Scornubel? Burrowing up under

warehouses to make a building above seem part of their dark realms below?

"Drow are dwelling in Scornubel?" she asked.

Mirt shrugged and said, "It seems someone is giving the dark-skins the magical means to adopt

the shapes of humans—for months or tendays, not mere hours—and they're then practicing copying

human ways, speech, and mannerisms. At times, various mer-chants have told me, 'tis like talking to a

bad actor lampooning a grasping horse monger or an oily dealer in scents . . . and 'tis chilling, if you know

the mer-chant well and were joking with him only a day or two before."

The silver-haired ranger nodded. "Folk of Waterdeep tend to suspect dopplegangers when they

encounter such impostors," she observed. "Why then are you so sure these are drow?"

Mirt spread his hands. "I know no details, but at least two mages learned so with their spells.

One left the city shortly thereafter; the other's not been seen for a little more than two tendays now."

"And the drow are taking the likenesses of—watch-blades? Lord inspectors? The richest

moneylenders?"

The Old Wolf shook his shaggy head. "One Scornubrian merchant company or family, then

another, not local authorities. Their purpose, if they share one, is as yet unknown. They seem uninterested

in seizing control of the city, but very interested in gaining control of its most important shipping and

caravan concerns. We don't know if the humans they displace are enslaved or simply slain. There've

been no bodies found—and they seem to take the places of everyone in a target family, down to the

children and chamber servants."

"While I can see no good in this," Dove said slowly, "I've little stomach for slaughtering my way

through a city of drow—and starting wildfire rumors that will bring about the deaths, one way and

another, of many 'suspected drow' in cities all over Faerun. I serve Mystra, not the Lords' Alliance or

some 'humans over all others' creed."

The fat merchant nodded. "I expect no whelmed Harper army to descend on Scornubel this

season, or next. . . I just want to know why."

Dove frowned, then smiled wryly. "An eternal human need," she commented, "wherefore we

have a grand variety of altars across this world, and others."

Mirt stood looking at her anxiously, like a dog await-ing either kind words or a kick. When she

saw his face, the silver-haired ranger smiled and strode forward to clasp his forearms, as one warrior to

another. "Your journey wasn't wasted, Old Wolf. Someday soon, if I can, I'll tell you a story set in

Scornubel."

The fat merchant smiled as she patted his shoulder, then he turned back to her and asked

curiously, "Do you—Dove, tell me—do you ever grow tired of racing around Faerun righting wrongs and

setting the crooked straight?"

They stared into each other's eyes for a long, silent time, and Mirt was shaken by the sadness and

longing she let him see before she smiled, shrugged, and replied, "It's what I am, and what I do."

She turned away then, the folds of her shift swirling around her bare feet, and added briskly,

"Return to Waterdeep, Lord Mirt. Follow me not, nor linger over-long in this place."

She strode across the trampled moss to where rising ground marked one edge of her dell, and

turned to look back over her shoulder at him severely.

"And don't let your invigorated body make you a young fool again," she told him. "You're not to

go look-ing for other trouble or trying to find again the adven-tures of your youth. I don't want all of my

healing work wasted."

"You condemn me to a life of boredom," Mirt protested, half seriously.

Dove's merry laugh rang out across the dell. "Would it be impolite, my lord, to remind you how

much some folk of Faerun would give to enjoy such boredom?"

Without waiting for an answer she moved her hands in two quick gestures, and spell-glow filled

the dell once more, blue-white and swirling, as the swords she'd danced with flew down from their

hovering stations to swirl around her.

Mirt took a step toward her, opening his mouth to speak, then came to a halt. He'd seen that

warning ges-ture before, and tasted a sword blade when he ignored it. The blades boiled up around

Dove Falconhand in a bright blue whirlwind that rose a trifle off the ground, snarled up into a furious

spiral, then all at once van-ished, leaving a fat merchant blinking at emptiness beneath the trees.

All at once, the birds began calling again. Mirt stood on the trampled moss facing no swords,

spell-glow, nor barefoot Chosen of Mystra.

"Ah, lass—?" he asked the empty air. "Dove?" Silence was his only reply. A rattlewings came

swooping heavily across the dell and veered aside with a squawk of alarm when it realized that the

motionless tree trunk ahead was in truth a human engaged in the rare occupation of standing still and

silent. It flapped on into the forest, crying the fear of its discovery to the world. Mirt turned to watch it

go, then turned slowly on one boot heel to survey the dell.

Aside from the deep marks his own boots had left here and there in the mud and the scattered

shards of black and silver armor, it looked like any other part of the wild forest.

Might Dove have left magic hidden here, buried close to the surface where she could readily find

it? Well, it wouldn't hurt to just look . . .

Even as Mirt put his hands to an upthrust, helm-shaped clump of moss, the air around him sang in

high, clear warning, and the ring that allowed him to pass wards unchallenged throbbed upon his finger.

Ah, well. Mirt shrugged, smiled, and straightened up. "Clever bitch," he told the dell

affectionately.

When he bent again to take up a shard of armor the air around him almost screamed, but despite

the danger its skirling promised, the Old Wolf stood turn-ing it in his hands, lost in unhurried thought for

some time before he stooped to gather all of the armor plates and carefully stack them against a rock. He

covered them with other stones to keep them from weathering overmuch, took a last, long look around,

and started the long walk back to Waterdeep.

In a certain corner of the plains city of Scornubel, overly curious visitors can find a narrow,

nameless pas-sage that plunges from a garbage-strewn back alley down a short and slippery way to an

open cesspool. The only folk who customarily visit this noisome spot are hairy, reeking men in old carts,

who come to empty bar-rels of night soil. Rats often scurry along the walls of the passage, but on this

particular afternoon one of them was quite surprised to see the empty, dung-smeared cobbles ahead of it

suddenly grow a gnarled old woman. She appeared out of empty air an inch or so above the cobbles,

holding a cane. With a grunt she slammed to the ground with a clatter, and quite nearly fell over.

Reeling upright, this aged bundle of rags cast a level look around, seeking to find anyone who

might have seen her arrival, then settled her cane into a bony hand. She stumped up the passage into the

alley beyond, spitting thoughtfully in the rat's direction. The rodent blinked, and decided to forage

elsewhere.

The old woman staggered on around the corner, making slow work of her short trip down the

alley. She turned onto a street where the houses were old, cloaked with ivy, and leaned close together

among their iron-barred fences and refuse-choked yards. Old and stunted trees thrust weary branches

into the late afternoon sky. Many of the houses looked empty. Those who snored within them, huddled in

the corners of empty rooms in clothes no better than the old woman wore, wouldn't awaken until

nightfall. The old woman planned to be long gone by then.

She stopped in front of a house ringed by tall stone garden walls capped with a gleaming row of

jagged bottle-shards and looked up and down the street, but it seemed empty. The gate, flanked by two

squat pillars, was unlocked. The squeal of its opening roused a large black dog in the yard within into a

wild fury of barking and howling. It bounded the length of its chain, teeth snapping about an arm's length

short of the path that led to the house. The beast kept up its noisy and vigor-ous threats for the entire

length of the old woman's journey to the front door. Straining as it was at the links that held it, someone

watching might have been forgiven for expecting the old, moss-girt, leaning statue to which its chain was

fastened to topple the rest of the way to the ground and set free one frantic canine.

The old woman knew the length of that chain, though its captive had changed since her last visit,

and she didn't spare the dog a glance. Her eyes were on the pair of bored-looking warriors now rising

from stools flanking the door, slapping at the hilts of their swords and dag-gers to ensure these were

ready, and staring back at the old woman with barely concealed irritation. One door-sword prudently

moved to one side—to be out of range of any spell that might smite his fellow if this old crone turned out

to be some sort of sorceress—and stayed on the porch, drawing his dagger to be ready for a throw. The

other guard strode forward down the path to bar the old crone's progress a good twenty paces from the

porch. "This is a private abode," he announced briskly, "and my master does not make welcome beggars

or unso-licited vendors. Would you have other business here, this day?"

"Mmmnh, mmmnh," the old woman said, as if work-ing long unused gums. She turned her head

as slowly as any tortoise might and fixed the doorsword with an eye that was startlingly cold, keen, and

blue. "I would."

The guard towered over her, waiting. The old woman blinked at him, and made a "step aside"

wave with her rough-knobbed cane.

He stood his ground and prompted with just a hint of testy impatience beneath his smile, "And it

would be?"

"Best conducted inside," the old woman rasped point-edly, taking a step forward.

The doorsword stood his ground, clapping a hand to the hilt of his sword. "That's something we'd

best dis-cuss," he snapped. "My master has given me very specific instructions as to who should be

allowed to disturb him,"

"Lean closer, young bladesman," the stooped woman replied. "I'm supposed to whisper one o'

them secret passwords to ye now, see?"

Warily, the doorsword drew his blade, held it like a barrier between them, and leaned forward,

eyes nar-rowed. "Spit at me," he remarked almost pleasantly, "and die."

"Kiss me," the old woman replied, "and be surprised." She was smiling as the guard's startled

eyes met hers and he almost drew away. The smile was almost kindly though, and the old woman did

have both of hands clearly in view, clasped on the cane at her hip, bony fingers laced together.

She leaned a little closer and whispered hoarsely, "Firebones three."

The guard straightened, astonishment flashing across his face for a long moment before he gulped,

became impassive, and said, "Pray forgive the delay I've caused you, lady, and come this way. The

house of Blaskar Toldovar welcomes thee."

"Mmmnh, mmmnh," the old woman agreed, setting herself once more into motion. "Thought it

would, I did. Thought it would."

She toiled up the steps with some purpose, and smiled and nodded like an indulgent duchess at

the two doorswords as they ushered her within. The house hadn't changed much, though the servant who

led her up the long stair flanked with blood-red hangings was a burly warrior now, and not the young

lady clad only in chains that she recalled from earlier visits.

He left her in a chair in the usual shabbily genteel, dim room, where she sat in silence, knowing

she was being watched through spy holes. It wasn't long before a voice that rasped even more than her

own asked out of the darkness behind her chair, "Well?"

'"Blaskar," the old woman said, "I need to ask you something, and get an honest answer. I'll need

to cast a spell on you, to know that it's truth—and that you're indeed Blaskar Toldovar."

Ed Greenwood - Silverfall - Stories Of The Seven Sisters

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