Anthologies 05 - Realms of the Arcane by Forgotten Realms

Author:Forgotten Realms [Realms, Forgotten]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast
Published: 2012-09-01T18:12:05+00:00

The Whispering Crown

Ed Greenwood

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 now—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 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 hadn't quite closed. 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. She could not quite believe she'd never hear his bright laughter echoing in this 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 sword hilt and their own scorched wounds as proof. And that made her ruler of Dusklake.

Though a small realm, Dusklake had once been widely known—and feared—for the man then its master: the mage Thabras Stormstaff. Thabras was Aerindel's faintly smiling, sad-eyed father. He was the mightiest of a long line of famous heads of House Summertyn, from Orbrar the Old, the grandfather that Aerindel had never known, to Asklas and Ornthorn and others in the early days, known only in legends. A small but proud hold, oldest of all the Esmeltaran, Dusklake was nestled in the rolling woodlands between Lake Esmel and the Cloud Peaks. And it was 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 more even 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

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