Cormyr c-1, page 17
part #1 of Cormyr Series
The priest of Tempus bowed his head. “Lord, it shall be so.”
Vangerdahast took a ring from his belt pouch and pressed it into Abather’s hand. It bore a device shaped like a golden lion and inscribed with the numeral 3.
“Redeem this at the treasury after the solemnities are done,” he murmured. “They will have instructions to render unto you nine thousand golden lions, one thousand for each priest of Tempus who walks with the duke.”
The priest bowed his head. “Tempus thanks you, lord.”
“And I thank Tempus,” the wizard said, startling Abanther with the ritual response known only to faithful followers of the god of battles. Then he inclined his head in dismissal and gestured to the guards to depart. They and the priest went out together, leaving Vangerdahast alone. He looked around, noted the two belarjacks, the unarmed servants guarding the door he’d come in by. The wizard nodded at them, then murmured a word he’d not used in a long time.
Utter darkness came down, darkness only he could see through. One of the servants cried out in alarm, but the Royal Magician spoke no word of explanation or reassurance as he drew forth the key he’d been reaching for earlier, went to a wall panel that very few living folk knew was a door, and unlocked it with the key while murmuring a spell to keep the enchanted guardian of the portal at bay.
There was a moment of swirling, fairylike chiming, a stirring of the air, and he was through the ward. In the room he’d left, the darkness should be clearing already. Ahead down a long passage stood a row of motionless guards in full armor. Vangerdahast strode right up to them and on past, and they stood like statues. “Helmed horrors” some called them, in truth, they were nothing more than empty suits of armor animated by his own spells. They guarded a door that the touch of his palm opened-a door that led into the Hidden Chambers.
Bright sun spilled down from a vaulting skylight into the comfortably furnished room before him. Bookshelves lined the walls, and on a huge table gleamed, colorful maps of the Dragonreach lands, from Tunland as far east as the Vast. At the heart of the room, comfortable high-backed chairs and lounges surrounded a dragonhide rug. It yielded under his feet, soft and warm, as the Royal Magician strode from where his door opened, in the wall beside the fireplace, to face the two folk who sat waiting for him: Alaphondar, Sage Royal of Cormyr, and Filfaeril, The Dragon Queen. There were few people in the realm that the stout old court wizard knelt to, but he did so now, in true reverence.
Queen Filfaeril Selzair Obarskyr was blessed by the gods and her breeding with ice-blue eyes, golden blond hair, exquisite carriage-so that she drew the eyes of all men and most women whenever she moved-a slender figure and alabaster skin. What had attracted the interest of the young Azoun-for whom there was not shortage of available, even eager, stunningly beautiful women-however, was less her looks than her mind. Filfaeril was brilliant. She noticed everything that befell around her and understood people and implications better than many widely respected sages.
Her once exceptional beauty had begun its slow fade, but to men who respected intellect and stubborn bravery-and Vangerdahast was one of those-she was more beautiful than ever. Her poise and dignity still bewitched eyes that saw only external beauty, all that betrayed her deep grief at the probable death of her husband now was the deep blue rings around her eyes. They gave Filfaeril an air of vulnerability, and Lord Alaphondar was obviously smitten with her, but Vangerdahast reminded himself of how often the queen bested the Dragon of Cormyr over the chessboard.
“Rise, old and faithful friend,” she said quietly. “You of all men are the realm Azoun and I serve. I need your counsel and strength now, not your courtesy.”
Vangerdahast rose and said gently, “Great lady, my courtesy is my strength.”
She nodded, eyes flashing briefly in acknowledgment of, and agreement with, his words, then asked, “What news?”
“All Suzail-and probably most of the realm by now, for I know word has reached both Arabel and Marsember-has heard of Your Majesty’s madness of grief and retreat to seclusion in Eveningstar. In the early hours of this morning, someone unleashed a flight of flying daggers and over a dozen helmed horrors into the temple of Lathander where you were supposedly staying. They made straight for the private apartments given over to the war wizardess posing as you, my queen, and took the lives of several underpriests and all of the openly posted Purple Dragon garrison. A full sword of additional knights-veterans ennobled by the king, not drawn from the established noble families of the realm-were stationed in the private apartments and did their utmost to protect the lady they thought was their queen. Four gave their lives, the others are all of the opinion that the attacking constructs they fought, and were forced to destroy in order to prevail, were directed by someone able to observe the fray at all times.”
“In these days of magic for hire,” Filfaeril said with a shrug, “almost anyone in the realm beyond a simple woodcutter or yeoman farmer could be involved in such an attack.”
Both men nodded. “What is clear, great queen,” Alaphondar said bluntly, “is that someone is willing to pay much to see the Obarskyr line broken, or at least a young, easily wed or easily swayed daughter on the throne.”
“Safety demands that you disappear for a time,” Vangerdahast added. Filfaeril looked at him for a long moment, her eyes locked with his.
“I see the wisdom in that,” she said at last, “and yet, my lords, I must warn you that if Alaphondar’s words are true-a most likely conclusion, I agree-you yourselves both stand in as great peril as I. If one is to sway my Tanalasta or Alusair, one will want all her trusted sources of support and advice permanently removed from the scene.”
The Royal Magician shrugged. “For me to flee now would be to leave the realm unattended, surrendering the throne to anyone who wants it. We would thereby thrust the realm into chaos as every greedy hand grabs for the crown and inevitably battles other claimants. Moreover, if we all disappear, an observer can reach no other conclusion than that we have all gone into hiding-and a long and devastating hunt will begin.” He shook his head and strode forward. “It would be Tethyr all over again.
“Nay, Highness,” he continued, “our only hope lies in spreading the tale that more than one attack was made upon you in Eveningstar, and that the second succeeded, taking the lives of yourself and Lord Alaphondar here in a fireball or something else that left no bodies behind.”
“While you remain behind to face the storm almost alone, in the greatest danger of all of us,” Filfaeril said quietly, eyes troubled.
Vangerdahast smiled grimly and corrected her. “While I remain behind to enjoy the lion’s share of the fun, watching the disloyal in our realm fall all over themselves and each other trying to take the Dragon Throne.”
Something that was almost a smile rose to touch the queen’s lips for just a moment, and she murmured, “I do almost envy you, my lord. I would dearly love to see some of the things that will unfold in fair Cormyr in the days ahead.”
“So you accept, Your Majesty, that you must ‘disappear’ for a time?”
Filfaeril nodded slowly. “Know you both that my greatest desire is to remain with Azoun-in life and in death. Were the realm strong and a clear and rightful heir ready to take the crown, I would command you and all in the court, by your oaths, to make my husband’s passing as painless as possible.”
“It is a pity that you cannot take the throne yourself,” said the wizard.
“It is a pity indeed,” said the queen, “but only one born into the Obarskyr line may rule. I may wear a crown, but I cannot rule without my husband.”
She rose and took two restless steps toward the fire. “The realm is not ready for smooth passage to the rule of an unchallenged heir… so I accede to your wise scheme, for crown and country, for king and Cormyr.” She stared into the distance for a moment more, then turned to face Vangerdahast and Alaphondar. Next she took the slim everyday circlet of her rank from her head and held it out before her. The sapphires on its two brow spires flashed. “Do what you must do.”
Vangerdahast bowed. “Lady Queen, my intent is to send you and the Sage Royal to Waterdeep, your shapes disguised by magic, to a household where certain loyal war wizards of the realm have already been installed to watch over you.” The eyes of the Royal Magician and Lord Alaphondar met briefly, behind the queen’s back, the sage nodded almost imperceptibly.
“If you lay your hand upon the bowl on yonder plinth and then put your crown in it, the circlet will sink into the metal and lie hidden, cloaked from all by the bowl’s magic. Only your hand upon the bowl again can make it rise up and reappear.”
Without hesitation, the queen did as he directed. When she turned around again, Alaphondar was gone. In his place stood the stooped, pox-marked figure of a stout, aged merchant in food-stained robes. The merchant bowed to her and grinned, displaying a smile that was missing rather more teeth than the Sage Royal had ever lost.
She smiled thinly. “And what am I to call you now, Alaphondar?”
“Ah, ‘sluggard,’ ‘good-for-nothing husband,’ and ‘old fool’ are all handy phrases,” the old merchant told her, “but my name is Flammos Galdekund, and yours is Aglarra, my queen.”
Filfaeril’s eyebrows rose. “Won’t the neighbors be a trifle surprised to see new inhabitants of whatever house or apartments you’ve chosen for us?”
“Nay, lady,” Vangerdahast said. “Both Flammos and Aglarra really exist, and since their luggage has preceded them from the docks, they’re expected back this very day from a long vacation in southern Amn, where they went to take healing waters at Iritue’s Firesprings, because you fell so ill that your memories left you and your manner and even your voice changed.”
The queen’s smiled broadened, and she asked, “Yet I suppose I look as dumpy and shrewish as ever?”
The Royal Magician bowed. “Your Majesty is as quick and as wise as ever.”
Filfaeril laughed, looking briefly like a much younger woman, and held out her arms. “Change me, then. I’ve a feeling I’m going to enjoy this!” Then she frowned. “Are there servants, or is Flammos going to grow very sick of partridge, hocks, onions, and mushroom stew? They’re the only things I could ever make really well.”
Both men snorted in amusement and said more or less in unison, “There are servants, great lady.”
Flammos scratched himself and added, “But, O queen of my heart, you could tell them how to make your stew as often as you like. They might never get it just right, you know.”
Unexpectedly she giggled. “Change me, Vangey,” she said almost pleadingly.
“You’ll lose something of your height and grace,” the wizard warned, “and almost all of your great beauty.”
“Understood,” she said firmly. “Must I wait longer? Change me and let us go, before I start to want this and that from my chambers and my resolve starts to go…”
Vangerdahast touched her hand, her foot, her breast, and her forehead, stepped back, and carefully cast a long and rather involved spell. There was a brief flicker of light, and the Dragon Queen was gone.
A shorter, almost mannish woman with a pot belly, bodice to match, and large, pimpled chin glared at him from where the queen stood. “Well?” she rasped. “Is it a good idea to ask you for a mirror?”
Vangerdahast shook his head. The queen nodded ruefully, took a few experimental steps, wiggled her hips as she looked down to watch her heavy midsection sway, and stamped her feet. “Right,” she announced gruffly. “I’m ready.”
She ran an exploratory hand over her chin as Flammos stumped up to take her arm, and said, “Hmm tell me, husband mine, do I need a shave as badly as I think I do?”
Both men hooted with laughter, and Vangerdahast reached to take her hand and kiss it. “You’re itching to be the terror of the young men of Waterdeep, I see,” he said, “so I’ll bid you farewell for now, and-“
Aglarra Galdekund snatched her hand away from him, growled fiercely, “Well!” and then seized his ears firmly with both hands, dragged the wizard’s face down to where she could kiss it firmly on the lips. After she had done so, she said, eyes inches from his, “Guard the realm for us, lord wizard, as our thoughts guard you. Guard it and keep it safe for us all.”
“Lady,” Vangerdahast replied, feeling suddenly humble again, “I shall.” He stepped back, murmured, “Keep still now,” waved to them both, and cast the spell.
A glow grew about the Galdekunds as they stood there on the warm dragonhide before the fire. The glow blazed with sudden brilliance, then faded-and when it was gone, they were gone, too.
The Royal Magician shook his head wearily and went to the nearest chair, sinking down into it thankfully to discover that Filfaeril had left behind a dainty little glass and her silver-mounted bodice flask on the table beside it. He picked it up, finding it still warm from her body, and brought it to his nose to smell… yes, the last faint wisps of her perfume. He smiled and opened it. Gods, but he was tired.
Spiced wine-Tethyrian tanagluth, his favorite!
“Thank you, great lady,” he murmured, pouring the ruby-hued liquid into the tiny glass with slow, deliberate care.
Raising it to his lips, Vangerdahast sipped gently at the welcome fire and thought about the days ahead. Azoun had been-nay, at this moment still was-a great king… perhaps too great. Even in the crusade there had been little thought he would ever die. Very few plans had been made… plans that should have been made.
The glass had somehow become empty. Vangerdahast reached for the flask again. Had there ever been a change of power so precipitous and dangerous as this one?
And would a certain Royal Magician be strong enough to do what he would have to do?
Chapter 12: The Insufficient King
Year of the Dun Dragon (245 DR)
Sagrast Dracohorn, nobleman of Cormyr and steward of the Royal House of Obarskyr, fidgeted in his duskwood chair, wondering if he were strong enough to do what needed to be done. An upstairs room in the Ram and Duck would not have been his first choice for a meeting of traitors. Indeed, Sagrast would prefer not to be a traitor at all, but the reigns of mad Boldovar and now poor, inept Iltharl had given him little choice.
The room itself was rough-hewn and ill-kept, a memory of Suzail’s early days. There were fewer and fewer of these rough inns in the city itself these days, though they were common enough beyond the city’s walls, in the countryside and in distant Mabel. The timbers were exposed, with muddy patches of dried wattle crumbling between them. Most of the furniture had been broken and inexpertly repaired several times. None of the line of peg-hung mugs on the wall matched. Every tread on the floor reverberated through the loose floorboards of the building.
There was one advantage to this place, Sagrast thought. There was little chance of meeting any of the aristocracy here. That’s probably why the wizard had suggested it.
The window shutters, mostly wooden slats set with broken bottle bottoms, had been swung fully open, allowing the sounds and smells of the street below to waft into the room. It was the first hot spell of the summer, and the rot of meat and smell of bodies and offal and horses rose to Sagrast’s nostrils. The stench almost took away the bitter taste of the dark, grainy ale that clung tenaciously to the sides of the nobleman’s mug.
Sagrast hung back from the open window, knowing on one hand the chance of being seen was minimal, but fearing such a discovery nonetheless. Even if this meeting should prove innocuous, being seen in this place would raise questions in King Iltharl’s delicate court.
From his viewpoint, he could see a small part of the city. Most of the buildings were wood-and-wattle, with rough thatched roofs. A few builders on the hillside had taken to using stone for the foundation and lower floors. Only after several goblin raids on the city and complaints from the soldiers about trying to fight in the thick smoke of a wall set alight by brush-carrying foes had Iltharl approved replacement of the wooden palisade with a real stone wall.
Faerlthann’s Keep was stone, of course, from shallow dungeon to highest battlement. The great tower, seat of the Obarskyr power, rose from the hillside like a stake from a vampire’s chest and seemed to accuse Sagrast of his intended crimes. The keep’s windows were barred slits, a memory of Boldovar’s time, and Sagrast wondered if anyone stood behind those slits, scanning the city… watching for traitors. Watching for him.
The wizard was there when Sagrast turned back to the room. The nobleman hadn’t heard him enter, but then again, he never did. Despite himself, Sagrast started at the sight of the mage sprawling like an ancient spider in the chair on the opposite side of the table.
Baerauble the Venerable, High Wizard of Cormyr, sprawled across the chair like a discarded child’s doll, all elbows and knees. The mage had always been thin-nay, emaciated, a scarecrow of a wizard. His beard showed only the slightest streaks of its original red, and his hairline had retreated to the crown of his head. His eyes were as cold and ancient as a dragon’s. He was dressed, as ever, in the forest green that had become known as “his” color, but the cut of his robes was archaic, harking back-like this tavern-to older and better times in Cormyr.
“Good of you to come,” he said simply.
“When a wizard calls, you cannot pretend to not be at home,” said Sagrast, bowing slightly. The High Wizard was the most powerful man from Suzail to Mabel, and with the death of Boldovar three winters back, the most dangerous.
“How are matters with Iltharl, the young king?” asked the mage.
Sagrast blew the air out of his cheeks, taking the seat opposite the mage. “As bad as before. He makes no decisions and allows no one else to make any, either. He prefers to be among his sculptures and paintings or listening to lutes and poems, or hosting his parties and feasts. Elvish is becoming the court language, for any who speak it gain his attention first.”
