Storm hurriedly swerved behind a tree to avoid being seen; as she'd expected, the shapeshifter halted its descent to skim along the stone walls of an estate, and peered into the trees all around as it went.
The falcon completed its circuit of the walls. Apparently satisfied he was alone, the Malaugrym sank down beyond the wall.
Storm hastily flew nearer, working her way through the trees; she wanted to be inside the walls too, when her spell ran out. Even if this turned out to be a garden of deadly Malaugrym.
Beyond the wall was a cluster of towers, one of the many walled villas that rich Sembians and wizards had built for themselves. They were enclosed for safety against the monsters and brigands that roamed these lush wilderlands. The road past the gate would be one of the long, winding lanes that fed into Rauthauvyr's Road just north of Blackfeather Bridge.
She dare not tarry or work her way along the wall to avoid detection; her spell would run out in moments. Darting over the wall, Storm found herself over deserted gardens and a small ornamental pond. She turned sharply to keep herself over dry land, and dived hastily down, righting herself to land feet first. It was good she did. She was well above the turf when her magic gave out, and she fell precipitously to earth.
"Once more to embrace the soft lips and bruising talons of adventure, friends," she murmured to herself, quoting a ballad she had written hundreds of summers ago. She got up and dusted herself off
The placid waters of a small garden pool showed her a rather fierce-looking lady in leathers, so she stripped off her clothes and sword, bundled them up together, and said a soft word over them.
They vanished obediently-at least that small magic had worked right; now for the next one. She checked that she still had the dagger in its sheath under her hair, at the back of her gorget band. These days, a lady never knew when she'd need a good sharp knife. The gorget itself, stuffed with coins, bore a chased design that was elegant enough to accompany the attire she planned. To it, then…
Standing nude above the pool, she worked a magic she'd not used in quite this way for years, creating an ornate off-the-shoulder gown that would pass muster in the most exclusive circles in Sembia, and elegant high sandals to go with it. Her silver hair would do as she bid it, so she gave herself a sleek fall of tresses over one shoulder, and an elaborate braid over her brow. 'Twould do, indeed.
Taking a last look around to mark the place she'd left her gear, Storm strolled languidly across the gardens, eyes missing little despite her relaxed manner. She spotted the spatters of fresh blood beside a stone bench in a little bower, about where the falcon had landed, and wondered which inhabitant of the household was now a broken, unrecognizable boneless thing hastily buried nearby.
The Malaugrym awaited her somewhere inside these walls, all right. Storm strolled ahead as if no such peril was near, enjoying the gardens. A winding path girt with fragrant flowers took her to two small bridges that hopped from islet to islet across the large pond, to a terrace where stone urns stood in floral ranks along low, scalloped stone walls. Within those walls she could see folk moving-liveried servants.
Calmly she strolled up the path, ascending a broad stair to where a grizzled, monocled man of graying years and mustache was enjoying a row of flagons, each containing a different wine. He stared at her in amazement for only a moment before springing to his feet and saying, "Great lady, be welcome in Low Rythryn Towers!"
He bowed, offered her his hand, and indicated a vacant chair beside his own. "I am Lord Thael Sembergelt, once a battle commander of Sembia, but now lord only of this house. I am delighted the gods have brought me so noble and-dare I say? — beauteous a guest! Pray, make known to me your name."
"I am Storm Silverhand, called by many the Bard of Shadowdale," Storm replied with grave charm, "and I must tender my apologies for arriving uninvited. My spell travels brought me here unintentionally."
"No apologies are needed, not at all! In truth, you filled me with delight, strolling up through the gardens like that as if you were some hidden nymph come to greet me! It seemed this house were showing me one of its treasures!"
"Gallantly said, my lord," Storm said with a twinkle in her eyes. "I fear I've upset the calm tenor of your days. You must have few guests."
"We see few welcome guests in these troubled times," the old lord agreed gravely, offering her an empty goblet and silently beckoning a servant over. "But my house is honored by your presence. I heard you sing once in a tavern in Selgaunt, when you danced on a table for a room of weary soldiers. I'll not forget that."
Storm inclined her head in thanks. The servant, bearing a silver platter of decanters, glided to a stop between them.
"Pray take wine, Lady Storm," the old lord said earnestly, leaning forward in his chair. "I dearly hope you can stay for evenfeast, or even grace us for a few days. My house is yours."
"I would be delighted to dine with you tonight, my lord," Storm replied, watching her host trying to keep his eyes away from where her plunging gown was designed to make him look, "and see the morning sun rise with you. But as for longer, I cannot say."
"I quite understand," Lord Thael rumbled. He questioningly indicated the array of decanters.
"The glowfire, I think," Storm said, and enjoyed watching the gnarled old hands unstop and deftly pour.
He placed the goblet gently before her. "You are my fourth guest this even! There seems to be much strife on the roads in Battledale just now; we seldom see so many travelers this far off the road. You'll meet them at evenfeast."
"We?" Storm asked, raising her glass in salute. "You have a family, Lord Thael?"
"Only a nephew, Oburglan," Lord Thael said gruffly. "You'll meet him, too."
Guessing that the lord's nephew was no family prize, Storm savored the delicate bouquet of the glowfire for a moment, exchanged smiles with her host over the rim of the glass, and sipped. Yes. She kept her face pleasant and drank the wine with apparent relish, trying to ignore the burning sting of the poison as it slid down her throat…
She'd chosen the drink herself. Thael had poured it, a servant had brought it… ah, gods above, the Malaugrym could be anyone!
As dusk came, Storm was still grimly trying to decide which of the folk of the manor was the shapeshifter. The servants came to call them in to evenfeast in the candlelit great hall of Low Rythryn Towers.
The waiting had been pleasant. Lord Thael, obviously enchanted with her, had treated Storm with all the courtesy he knew, discussed politics with a keen worldly interest, laughed appreciatively at her mimicry of dale lords, and gave a shrewd summation of the directionless self-interest that governed Sembia.
Now he escorted her to the best seat at the board, at his right hand. A lady of rank, Storm bowed as an equal to him, and endured a daggerlike glare from a thin and sour young man. Probably Oburglan, furious at being displaced at table in front of guests.
"Well met, gracious lady," said Thael's expressionless seneschal, Burldon Hawklan. "Even in this isolated hall, we have heard of the valiant deeds of the Bard of Shadowdale, and Those Who Harp at her command."
Storm smiled back at him. "Minstrels tend to over-flower what they sing of," she responded gently, "but I thank you for your kind words." Hawklan bowed stiffly and took his place at the far end of the table; to Storm's eyes, he was every inch a professional soldier-one who did not consider himself retired.
The other guests were less impressive. One was a smooth-faced, saturnine trader in spices and pelts from Ordulin by the name of Loth Shentle; the second was a young and handsome priest of Tymora from Selgaunt, Dathtor Vaeldeir, who professed to be very excited at the chaos now reigning over the Realms; and the last was a grim and dangerous-looking man, Thorlor Drynn, introduced to her as a trade envoy of Hillsfar.