Cormyr c-1, page 19
part #1 of Cormyr Series
“What was I to think upon receiving your letter?” Gantharla said, ice water in her words. “We had one of the better-marshaled areas among the western settlements, so naturally you would want to stop that. It makes the rest of the nation look bad.”
“And is our kingdom in desperate straits?” asked Iltharl softly, looking down on his sibling.
“I have told you,” spat Gantharla. “It is ill, but all it needs is a good king.”
“And am I a good king?” asked Iltharl in that same gentle voice, smiling.
Gantharla frowned and chose her words carefully. “You are my brother. You are thoughtful and sweet. But, no, you are not a good king.” The words echoed around a room that was suddenly very still. The woman in green drew in a deep breath, threw back her head, and continued. “But you are my king, and I will remain loyal, regardless of the foolishness of your decisions.”
“I thank you for your loyalty,” said Iltharl, “and I agree with your judgment. I am good at many things, but not at being a king. Therefore I now serve my country as best as I know how.”
And with that, the young king reached his free hand to his brow and doffed his circlet. “Kneel, my sister.”
Gantharla dropped to one knee and Sagrast saw what was about to happen. The young noble stepped forward, but Baerauble reached out and took him by the shoulder. Sagrast winced as he came to a dead stop. Now he knew why the Truesilver page had gasped, the old man had a grip like iron.
Iltharl laid his weapon aside and held the crown in both hands. “I have given this much thought,” he said. “I love Cormyr as much as any who have worn this crown, but I know that it needs one worthier than I.” His voice wavered on the last words but steadied again as he added, “Let me prove that love by abdicating for one worthier.”
He placed the crown firmly on Gantharla’s head, the gold shining against her red locks. “Arise, Queen Gantharla, first Queen of Cormyr.”
The new queen rose unsteadily. “Brother, when you summoned me here and I saw you in armor, I thought
” she began.
“There has been a good deal of foolishness in the past two reigns,” Iltharl replied. “Now comes a time for wisdom and strength. I hope you can do better than I.”
Gantharla looked into her brother’s eyes and slowly nodded.
Iltharl stepped down from the dais to the wizard and Sagrast. “Thank you for not stopping me, old teacher,” he told the wizard, “I’m not sure if I could go through that twice. I hope Gantharla will be easier to protect than I was.”
Baerauble looked into the Obarskyr eyes and nodded, but said nothing.
Iltharl turned to Sagrast. “And thank you, young Dracohorn. I caught wind of your plot, and I realized if I could not command the loyalty of my own steward, how could I hope to rule? As surely as any assassin’s strike, you convinced me to think again, and in doing so I found the best path out. Now I will need your help in convincing the other nobles to follow a woman as their ruler.”
Sagrast’s mouth was as dry as flax. He managed to choke out, “What will you do, my lord?”
Iltharl smiled. “I think I wish to go north to Cormanthor to join the elves. They will take in a hapless king and leave me to my studies and my art. That way no one will be tempted to put me back on the throne. Can you arrange that, wizard?”
Baerauble bowed low. “As you wish, my lord.”
Sagrast looked at the new queen. The young woman was adjusting the crown, setting it firmly on her brow. Looking up, she smiled at Sagrast, and the steward hastily bowed low. How had he missed the obvious? All the planning, all the scheming… and all it took was ignoring two and a half centuries of tradition to choose the best king!
Sagrast smiled to himself. Let Kallimar Bleth pledge his own troth to the new queen. Sagrast wished him luck. He flashed the queen a heartfelt smile and unbuckled his court sword, laying it at her feet so that there would be no misunderstanding as he drew it and offered it to her.
The steel grated out. As he drew it, on his knees and using only one hand, Sagrast was aware of Baerauble moving to one side and raising a hand. Ready to blast him with a spell, no doubt, if he tried any treachery now.
Sagrast smiled openly and laid his sword at the feet of his queen. “I offer you my life,” he said faintly, “though I want so much more to build a bright Cormyr in service to you.”
Gantharla touched his brow with her fingertips, and he looked up.
“Will you, Sagrast Dracohorn, be my loyal man and remain as diligent a steward of the realm as you have been?” she asked, eyes stern, yet dancing with excitement.
“Your Majesty, I will,” Sagrast said. She extended her hand, and he kissed it and knelt.
Gantharla sighed. “Ah, yes… the kneeling part. Get up and take up your sword. Rise as Royal Steward and loyal subject, and may you bear both duties as long as the gods give you just strength to do so.”
She turned her head to look at Baerauble. “Lord wizard-if that is indeed what I should call you-the Royal Steward has knelt to me. What will I say to those who refuse to kneel to a queen and insist that only a man can rightfully sit on the Dragon Throne?”
The old, gaunt wizard smiled at her. “Two things, lady. First tell them that I, Baerauble, have stood by the realm since its founding. I was there when Faerlthann was crowned, and I swore then to serve the Crown of Cormyr, not the King of Cormyr. So long as the crown rests on a head Obarskyr-born, Cormyr endures.”
Gantharla closed her eyes and shuddered as if in relief. “I may live to see this year end, then,” she said quietly, and then opened her eyes and asked, “And the second thing?”
Slowly, and in evident discomfort, the old wizard sagged toward the flagstones. “You may tell them that the Royal Steward of the Realm and the Lord Wizard of Cormyr knelt to you and kissed your hand in fealty.”
There were tears in the queen’s eyes as the old wizard went to his knees. “Rise, rise,” she said swiftly, extending her hand to him.
As he kissed it, Iltharl said quietly, “There is one thing more.”
They all turned to look at him, and he said, “Tell them I named you my heir and bade those who dispute my just right to do this to set forth their arguments in writing. They may bring them to the elven court of Cormanthor. I shall refute such entreaties in writing, for I have some small talent that can still serve the realm.”
Gantharla laughed until she wept, and Iltharl laughed with her. Shaking her head, the queen asked, “Brother, how did you ever find it in you to do this?”
Iltharl looked at his sister and sighed deeply. “It took little time to see I was not serving Cormyr well. It took a little longer to see what I must do. It took a very long time to find the… stomach to do it, especially with all the schemers plotting treason. It was fascinating to watch them work.” He turned his head and added, “And I mean that, Sagrast, with no ill will or sarcasm.” Looking back at his sister, he said, “I wish you luck. I really wanted to be a hero… but it was just… beyond me.”
Baerauble put a hand on Iltharl’s shoulder. “The gods do not grant to all of us the shining mantle of the hero,” he said softly. “Do what you can, and that will be enough.”
The former King of Cormyr managed a weak smile. “Words that should go on my headstone. Come, we should present the new queen to her people before they hurt themselves worrying.”
The four walked out of the throne room and stunned the red-jerkined guards, who were the first common citizens to look upon their new queen. Their swords clattered down in unison, making a crash that brought the whole assemblage gathered in the Great Hall to a halt. People gaped at them in silence for a long moment-and then, from across the chamber, a forester in mottled green cried out, “Long live the queen! Long prosper Cormyr and us all-and long live Queen Gantharla!”
Others took up the cry, and the keep shook with the shouts as Iltharl shook his head ruefully and Gantharla beamed.
In a voice that was thick with emotion, the new queen said, “I-I think I’m going to enjoy this!”
Baerauble smiled. “Ah, well, you’re young yet. There’ll be time enough to discover what it’s truly like.”
But in the swelling cheering, as folk streamed into the keep from Suzail and someone started wildly ringing the signal bells, no one but Sagrast heard the wizard’s words. He opened his mouth to say something, but Baerauble winked at him, and he shut his mouth again and kept silence for many long years.
Chapter 13: Affairs of State
Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
The morning sun reached through the window to tinge his beard with gold as Vangerdahast went slowly down on knees that protested every inch of the descent and said formally, “The gods watch over thee, Lady Highness.”
The crown princess frowned down at him. “Get up, Lord Vangerdahast. There’s hardly need for that-or for this oh-so-private meeting!” She cast an annoyed look at the closed door on the west wall of Brightsun Bower, where she knew a war wizard stood keeping her Aunadar at bay. “You know I’ve little liking for secrets, lord wizard, so…”
She made a gesture-as imperious as her father’s-indicating that he should speak. Now.
Vangerdahast rose. “This must be said in private, High Lady, for both our sakes and the sake of the realm. I am sworn, upon my oath and signature, to serve Cormyr. I will do so in whatever way the realm needs me, but wherever possible I shall continue to obey the Obarskyr king… or the Obarskyr heir.”
Tanalasta frowned but said nothing, waving at him to continue.
“If, High Lady, you feel you’re not yet ready to take the throne,” the Royal Magician said gently, “and the unfortunate event of your father’s going to the gods does come to pass, I want you to know-more than that, I’m obligated to inform you-that you can call on me. I am both willing and capable of serving Cormyr as regent.”
Tanalasta’s face went as white as new-fallen snow, and her eyes blazed. Vangerdahast saw bright tears well up in her eyes, but she bit her quivering lip and visibly summoned her self-control, drawing in a deep breath and putting her hand out to clasp the back of a nearby chair. In an instant, her slim fingers went white on its gilded curves.
“Loyal sir,” she said shortly, “our deep thanks for this news. I’ll… consider the matter.” Her eyes burned into him as if she heartily wished he’d fall to the floor, blazing, and be gone forever.
Vangerdahast stood unflinching in the face of her royal rage. So the lass did have her father’s fire, after all. That was good! He said softly,” ‘Twould be best for the realm, lady, if you consider not overlong.”
“You may go, lord wizard,” she replied coldly and flung out her arm to point at the door in the west wall. “And take your war wizard with you.”
Vangerdahast bowed. “Bright morning shine upon you, Lady Highness.”
Her only reply was a curt nod, her eyes two hard points. The Royal Magician turned and strode toward the door.
“My father still lives, wizard,” she growled under her breath behind him, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“I never presume overmuch, High Lady,” he told the door pleasantly as be laid his hand upon it. “The realm can ill afford such presumption.” And he went out.
He gave the same pleasant smile to the curious frown that Aunadar Bleth sent his way, then signaled the war wizard Halansalim to accompany him.
Three chambers away, he halted abruptly and told the war wizard, “The crown princess is furious with me just now. Take yourself into yonder robing room and hold this!” And he put an ivory dove figurine into Halansalim’s hand.
“I hear voices,” the bearded old mage told him.
“Listen to them, and this evening tell me what orders concerning me, the war wizards, or any court officials or changes in rulership the princess utters. The magic will last until highsun, so long as she doesn’t remove the ring she’s now wearing.”
Halansalim bowed silently and made for the door of the robing room. Vangerdahast strode on, heading for the Roaring Dragon Stair at a fast, rolling pace. He had an important appointment to keep.
The broad, sunlit stair led down to the Trumpet Gate of the palace, which faced the sprawling court at the base of the hill, and gave onto the road between them hard by the Crown Bridge. Ahead lay the court stables, and beyond the stables, all along the southern shore of Lake Azoun, sprawled the vast, many-towered bulk of the court. Bhereu had been taken this way already, to lie in state in the busy Marble Forehall, passed by folk crossing and crisscrossing the mirror-polished pavement between the Inner Ward, the Duskene Chamber, the Retiring Rooms, the Rooms of State, no fewer than four grand staircases that all descended into the forehall, and the Sword Portal.
It was the Sword Portal he was heading for now. Most folk in Suzail had stood before those massive double doors at least once in their lives, gaping at the armor plate that sheathed the thick timbers. Everyone in the city knew that the door was as thick as a brawny man’s forearm, and everyone in the realm knew what the thick tangle of welded-on swords that covered both doors were: the captured blades of “foes of the Crown.” The doors of the Sword Portal opened into the Processional, a long, red-carpeted hallway that led straight to the Approach Chamber, a guardpost of ornate gates and wall-mounted crossbows that in turn opened into the throne room.
What very few folk indeed knew about the Sword Portal was that when it was swung open, the narrow, man-high openings revealed in the thickness of its frame were not only guard niches, though a guard in full armor usually stood in each of them, but also passages that led into a warren of secret ways and closets in the heart of the court.
The Purple Dragon standing guard in the more westerly niche, a usually loyal man named Perglyn, was engaged in a pleasant mental calculation. Namely, how much he’d win if his wager-that Baron Thomdor would join his brother the duke in death before another two sunrises, but the king would hold on a day longer-came good. Of course, for his coin belt to be sixty-two gold lions heavier, the realm would lose its king, but-he shrugged-someone was always dying, and some must lose for others to gain. Of course, the nobles would never stand for that chit of a crown princess on the throne.. at least, not unmarried. He’d just agreed on another wager about that: the fat old court wizard would call a council, and the nobles would draw lots-or compete in paying him bribes, more likely-to see which of them would get to wed the princess and take the throne. Aye, then old Vangerdahast had best snatch his loot and vanish from the realm before the new king decided to make sure no true tale of how much the crown had cost him. The guard blinked, choked, then blinked again. The Royal Magician himself stood not a pace away, raising an eyebrow. “Pray stand aside, Perglyn,” the old wizard said pleasantly, raising his other eyebrow to match the first, for all the world as if he could hear every thought that had just rushed through Perglyn Trusttower’s head. Perglyn gulped, tried to salute and move aside at the same time, dropped his halberd with a loud clang, bent with fervent apologies to pluck it up, straightened, and
The wizard was gone, as if he’d never been there. Perglyn blinked, but young Angalaz, across the portal, was grinning from ear to ear. “Ho, most valiant Perg!” he whispered all too loudly. “Aging so fast you’ve forgotten how to hold a halberd? The Royal Magician gave you a proper pitying look as he went into the passage!”
Perglyn stopped glaring at his fellow guard-young thrust-nose!-long enough to wheel around and peer into the darkness behind him. He saw nothing, of course. When a court wizard wants to stay hidden, there is nothing to see.
The Blue Maiden Room took its name from the life-sized sculpture that stood on a plinth in its center. A modest maiden sculpted of smooth-polished blue glass sat gazing up at the sky-looking for a dragon coming to devour her, legend had it-and in the meantime holding a cloak fortuitously fetched from somewhere over strategic areas of her beauty. The maiden’s hands, feet, and breasts were much too large for the rest of her, and the overall effect was one of bold, gaudy, and surpassing ugliness.
Azoun’s father, Rhigaerd, had hated it, and his feelings of distaste were mild compared to the opinions held by several Obarskyr queens prior to his reign, but several sages swore that the maiden was somehow connected with the good fortune of House Obarskyr and should never be broken up, defaced, or lost.
So when a careless court sage dabbled overmuch in forbidden sorceries and managed to blow up himself and the topmost room of a tower in the court, Rhigaerd had the maiden raised into the room while it was being rebuilt and walled in there. A narrow ladder shaft was the only way into the lofty, enclosed turret room, and the steep climb to get to it, up through the hidden heart of the court, made the maiden a favorite place for disgusted sword captains to send bumbling soldiers. “Go up and polish the maiden” was still heard on the streets of Suzail as a slightly more polite alternative to saying, “Lose yourself-far away, and now!” But only slightly…
Nevertheless, it was relatively unusual for the dusty maiden to have visitors in her dark, lofty chamber, but two men stood leaning on either side of her now, in poses that suggested they were overly familiar with the lass. A drifting globe of soft mage light hovered above them, making the maiden glow eerily, but neither man noticed. They were too busy remaking Cormyr.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Ondrin Dracohorn was saying in a harsh whisper, “when the Royal Magician of the realm would have the time-and desire-to hear my dreams for Cormyr.”
Vangerdahast shrugged. “The day has come, so say on and you need not whisper. My spells have shielded this place against prying magic and people coming up from below. No one can hear us.”
“Aye, good,” Ondrin said with an excited smile. “Then I’ll not waste overmuch time.”
In truth, Vangerdahast hadn’t heard that the man had ever wasted so much as the time it took to blink, in fewer than thirty winters, he’d bought his way from obscurity to prominence among the eastern nobles. Not a tenday passed that Ondrin Dracohorn didn’t-quietly, mind you-buy this farm or that warehouse with the coins that poured into his lap, it seemed, from his busy fleets based in Marsember and Saerloon. There were the usual whispers of smuggling, piracy, slaving, and running provisions out to the Pirate Isles, and in truth, it was hard to think of any honest shipping bringing quite so many coins. But on the other hand, it was hard to think of Ondrin Dracohorn as a competent slaver.
