Cormyr c-1, page 25
part #1 of Cormyr Series
The main doors of the warehouse, facing the manor house, burst wide open, and a press of humanity streamed out: serving girls and cooks, merchants and toadies, all sprinting and stumbling. And behind them, led by Dheolur himself, came the household guards. Behind those armored forms, framed in the growing radiance of the fire, was the shadowy hulk of Magrath himself
The women and servants fled from the reaching flames to the manor, sobbing, and Duar’s men let them go. The warriors saw their waiting foes and strode forward without pause. With a cry, the Purple Dragons engaged them.
Dheolur, resplendent in black plate armor brought all the way from Chondath, charged Duar. The chased and fluted armor was Dheolur’s pride and joy, and he’d apparently wanted to impress his guests by wearing it. The renegade noble’s helm was down, and he looked like an angry clockwork figure. His blade was long and slightly curved, and its edge glittered in the moonlight.
Duar stood to meet him, blade held out to one side, his tattered robes barely covering the chain mail beneath. The gold circlet gleamed on his head. As Dheolur rushed, Elvarin shouted and charged forward, leading with her unwounded side. She did not try to use her blade, but instead slammed into Pella with her shoulder, sending the woman sprawling. The wicked dagger spun away into the darkness.
The force of their meeting sent the staggering Elvarin to the ground as well, losing her grip on her blade. Pella recovered before she did, and in a moment, she pounced on the Crownsilver warrior with serpentlike grace. Throwing herself on top of Elvarin with thrusting knees, she clawed at the warrior’s face.
Elvarin heaved and gasped, trying to shift the woman off her, but Pella seemed to have the strength of a huge beast, not the puny might her fairly small frame should have commanded.
Then one of those clawing hands drew back to strike-and Elvarin saw the horror of Pella’s palms. Instead of unbroken, cupped skin below her fingers, Pella Dheolur’s flesh was split with twisted mouths filled with sharp teeth and framed with oozing green lips. Elvarin struggled frantically and turned her head to one side, but Pella brought her open, toothy palm down on the Crownsilver’s bare cheek. Elvarin screamed as needle-sharp teeth bit into her flesh. Pella’s haglike laughter rose harsh and shrill around her.
And then the laughter broke and ended. A slender hand had taken Pella by the hair, pulling her backward. The Dheolur noblewoman was unprepared, and the jaws closing on Elvarin’s face loosened for a moment.
Elvarin blinked back tears of pain and shook her head to shake away the blood and let her see.
Amedahast was hauling Pella over backward by a hand locked in her hair. The noblewoman was clawing the air vainly, trying to reach the wizard, as she was peeled bodily away from Elvarin.
Then the High Mage shouted a spell, and her free hand burst into a ball of cold blue flame. Pella clutched at Amedahast, but the fangs in her palms seemed unable to gain purchase on her.
Amedahast shoved the small fireball into Pella’s face. The noblewoman screamed and writhed as roaring flames spread along her cloak and into her hair. The High Mage let go and stepped back. Pella tried to rise, her eyes glowing holes against an ashen skull beneath. She staggered forward, faltered, and with a banshee’s wail collapsed in a tattered heap of burning rags.
Pella’s final scream distracted Magrath the Minotaur, and that was all Duar needed. He drove his blade forward, glancing off the axe to catch the minotaur at the base of his breastbone, and shoved the steel upwards into the creature’s rib cage.
The great beast was pinioned on the blade like a bug on a needle. The great axe fell, and a choking howl burst from the pirate leader as blood gushed from his mouth. Then slowly the minotaur sagged down on the blade, flung up one arm, and twisted around, convulsing. Finally he fell backward.
With the death of Magrath, the fight went out of the rest of the defenders of the hold. Some laid down their weapons immediately, while others, particularly the goblins, sought to flee from the stockade. They were stopped by Amedahast’s sealed gates. The would-be escapees tried to make a stand, but the king’s men grimly cut them down where they stood.
Elvarin stood up slowly and painfully, retrieving her blade. The wound in her side and the deep cut on her face rivaled each other for pain. The gouge on her cheek would likely scar, but at least she’d have a tale to tell for it. Arnedahast could probably tell her what spell or curse had given Pella Dheolur biting mouths in her palms and if the wound itself was poisoned.
There was a flash of blonde hair and blue cloth from the manor house door. Elvarin raised her blade, but Amedahast put a restraining hand on the swordswoman’s shoulder. Threena Cormaeril dashed down the steps and embraced the bloody Duar. The force of their laughing embrace spun the weary king around, and he almost fell over.
Elvarin chuckled, pain making the sound harsher than usual, and said, “So that was our inside agent. I should have guessed. There has always been more than one way to conquer a town.”
Amedahast made no reply. Elvarin looked at her. The High Mage was stony in her silence, her brow furrowed deeply as if she’d been revisited by some old pain. Without a word, she turned and walked away, making for where the wounded were being gathered.
In the light from the blazing warehouse, Elvarin watched the king and the lady holding each other. Victory. They had captured Dheolur, and with Threena’s aid, they’d be able to hold it. The forces from High Horn could then commit to a forest campaign… and with Magrath dead, the pirates might even abandon Suzail rather than face a siege. The days-the years-ahead would not be easy, but Cormyr might survive after all.
Never underestimate the power of the king’s touch, thought Elvarin. Using her sword to support herself, the warrior limped to where Amedahast was already unpacking the healing potions and poultices.
Chapter 17: Meetings
Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
The man in the gem-studded tunic and cloth-of-gold breeches knelt, drew his sword, and laid it at the feet of the silent man in robes.
Still on his knees, the gaudily dressed nobleman looked up and said firmly, “I, Embryn Crownsilver, being mindful of what I do, solemnly pledge my honor, my blade, and the arm that wields it to support you as Regent of Cormyr. I will fight to bring about the downfall of the decadent Obarskyrs, who have ruled far too long.” His last words rang around the small, high-ceilinged antechamber.
“Take up your sword,” the man he was kneeling before said quietly. “Your words will be remembered.”
Rather uncertainly the Crownsilver noble rose from his knees, jeweled blade in hand. Sheathing it with a flourish, he turned, half-cloak swirling, and strode hastily away.
The man in robes watched him go. The nobles of this realm certainly talked to one another swiftly. That was the fifth pledge this morning, and nothing had been said in public yet about a regency. Not that such a silence was all that surprising, to many, in Suzail especially, the word ‘regent’ was synonymous with ‘tyrant.’ Or one could just say, ‘Salember.’
Vangerdahast the Royal Regent. The robed man smiled thinly and struck a dramatic pose, shading his eyes as he stared at the far wall of the chamber, an imaginary crown on his brow. Then he snorted in self-mockery and turned back to his spellbooks. Strange things happen to kingdoms when folk start getting ideas…
Not all that far away from the palace, in the nearest wing of the court, one nobleman turned to another and said, “If my son ever gets back from traipsing around the wilderness with Princess Alusair, I’m going to send him away from the realm for a month or so. I don’t want someone thinking he might make a good king, then sliding a sword through him to preclude that chance.”
“A Skatterhawk on the throne?” Sardyn Wintersun mused. “You know, I can see that. Does your son still think the moon, sun, and stars ride in the heart of the wayward princess?”
Narbreth Skatterhawk looked a little smug. “He does, my lord, and I can say more. A Purple Dragon she sent back from Eveningstar with their last report says he saw her kiss him, right on the lips, and hungrily, like a tavern wench, in front of everyone!”
Sardyn chuckled and ran a hand through his white-streaked hair. “I mean no slight to our friendship, my lord, but it’s not for nothing that the common folk say Alusair would kiss her horse if it trotted up to her!”
The head of House Skatterhawk laughed, a little stiffly, but whatever he might have said was swept aside by a cheerful greeting from behind them both. “Well met this fair day, pillars of the realm!”
Sardyn rolled his eyes once in silent eloquence before he turned, and Narbreth almost sputtered with laughter. Almost.
Ondrin Dracohorn was resplendent in flaming scarlet, his swept-sleeve tunic open clear down to the waist to reveal a heavy row of golden spanglestars and medallions that resembled, but did not exactly duplicate, some of the medals awarded by the crown to valorous soldiers.
The hue of his wardrobe was matched by the daringly slit gowns worn by the ladies on each of Ondrin’s arms, ladies whose beauty both of the other nobles had admired at feasts and revels before. They were the finest that discreet money could buy in Suzail. Their graceful elegance made the little man strutting between them look like a puffed-up peacock.
Neither Sardyn nor Narbreth bothered to tell him that, of course. Their houses, the Skatterhawks and Wintersuns, were minor nobility and country nobles to boot, and it would be ungracious to offend one of the more established city families. Instead, they put on broad smiles and said, “Ondrin, old friend!” and “How goes the Dracohorn all men of sense listen to?”
“Things couldn’t be better, my lords, couldn’t be better,” Ondrin said with an airy wave of his hand. “I’ve just heard that Embryn Crownsilver’s been to see our court wizard about a certain matter.”
The heads of House Skatterhawk and House Wintersun exchanged glances.
“We’ve heard about that affair, Ondrin. You can speak freely,” Sardyn replied, and then winked at one of the hired ladies. Said lady, a safe pace behind Ondrin and a head taller, was mouthing a wide-eyed and silently dramatic ‘No! Please, no!’ plea against his invitation to Ondrin to talk.
Ondrin chuckled like the man of the world he was. “I have secrets that I dare not yet reveal, even to such old and trusted friends as you! I’ll say only this,” He leaned close, like a small boy furtively passing secrets, and whispered loudly, “You’d better go see the Royal Magician. I’m setting him up as regent, you know.”
Ondrin’s supposed regent was at that moment slipping behind a curtain in the garderobe attached to his chambers. The little corner of the room facing him held a marble bust of a bored-looking Baerauble on a pedestal to Vangerdahast’s left, and a shelf full of neatly folded towels and dishes of scented soaps on his right. A row of carved gargoyle faces, which bore an uncanny resemblance to the four previous High Mages of the realm, ran along the wall, and the floor here was tiled in a chessboard pattern of alternating dark and light squares.
Ignoring Baerauble’s unmoving gaze, the Royal Magician put one hand on his head, stretched forward uncomfortably to touch the fingers of his other hand to a certain gargoyle nose, and then touched the toe of his right boot to a particular tile square. Silent radiance rose and sparkled around him.
When it faded, he was somewhere else, somewhere piled with towels and soaps. It was the servants’ closet off the retiring room in one of the royal apartments. The voices he’d hoped to hear came clearly to his ears as he made a certain gesture, then sat down comfortably on nothing to listen, his generous behind perched on empty air.
“… I know things seem dark, Tana,” Aunadar Bleth was saying soothingly, “but Cormyr has faced tougher times than this and survived. If the gods gather in your father, you’ll just have to take the throne and rule as well as he would have wanted you to.”
The young princess’s only reply was a royal sob.
“Whatever you decide, I’ll be here,” Aunadar went on in a low voice. He was probably holding the crown princess with one hand and stroking her hair with the other, the wizard thought. He almost smiled, but instead, the young Bleth’s next words made him stiffen.
“I, and a few others like me, will stand with you, whatever the old wizard tries to do. He’s gathering the nobles to proclaim him royal regent, you know. I’ve even heard he’s going to use spells to fabricate some document or other, signed by your father, authorizing him to rule… a document whose signature magically comes from some other writ, of course. He’ll say he just plans to run the realm until you feel better able to do so-or until you produce an heir-but once he gets his hands on the Dragon Throne, no one of Obarskyr blood will ever sit on it again.”
There was another sob, and then an agonized, whispering voice. “But what shall I do? He has all those spells! And he knows where all father’s magic and wealth lies hidden, and-and just what old feuds and embarrassments and promises will make all the nobles dance to any tune he plays!”
“Not all, Lady Highness.” Bleth’s voice was firm. “Some few men stand ready to defend the cause of right. Some valiant few. I count myself fortunate to stand among them, when the realm needs me so-when you need me so, dove of my heart!”
“Oh, Aunadar,” the crown princess said with a thankful, tearful sigh. “I don’t know what I’d do without you! All of these grim men stride around demanding that I make decisions, and all the while, they’re waiting for me to say one thing wrong… one thing! Then they can smile and nod and say, ‘Aha! I knew she wasn’t fit to rule! See what a mess she’s made of our land? Best she be slain forthwith, or sent to one of our beds, to produce an heir we shall rear to be a proper king!’”
“I think you are fit to rule, my princess. I stand ready to fight with this sword to give you your chance, and I’ll face all the wizards in Faerun if that’s what it takes!”
“Oh, Aunadar!” Tanalasta gasped again. In the gloom of the servants’ closet, Vangerdahast made a mock vomiting mime of disgust. If he had to listen to much more of this…
The wet, murmuring sounds that were coming to his ears now meant that they were kissing. Long, hungry, tightly embraced kisses of the sort that made ladies-in-waiting swoon and old crones go all bright-eyed with nostalgia. Vangerdahast almost tore the closet door open and growled at them to get on with it.
Then Aunadar spoke again. “I must leave you now, my sweet. The wizard’s plots and schemes are relentless and spread even as we speak. My friends and I must work against them tirelessly, or not a noble house in the land may be truly loyal to the new crowned Queen Tanalasta!”
“Aunadar, don’t say that!” the princess protested. “Father’s going to get well, and-“
“Of course,” the young nobleman said quietly. “And when he does, you’ll be able to show him a decisive, evenhanded, masterful stewardship of the realm-your work of devotion during his infirmity. I know you will. Fare thee well, Tana, until next our lips meet!”
“Oh, Aunadar, do take care! The wizard’s folk are everywhere! Keep safe, will you?”
“Princess, I will,” the young Bleth’s voice came distantly, and a door closed. Tanalasta erupted into sobs.
Vangerdahast listened to her for a time, pity on his frowning face, and then shrugged. So she wanted to be a true Obarskyr? Then ‘twas time, and past time, that she showed her mettle. Rule over a realm was not something to be played at.
He opened the door soundlessly and walked to the low divan where she sat bent over, her face in her hands. It seemed to be her favorite place, and no doubt had seen much use over the last few months, what with the young Bleth sitting sideways on it holding her hands between every court meal!
Vangerdahast sighed loudly and sat down with a thump beside the princess. Tanalasta’s head jerked up. Her face was as white as a statue except where two silvery trails of tears ran down her cheeks from red-rimmed eyes.
“You!” She said in horror. “How did you get in here?”
Vangerdahast gave her a merry smile. “Magic, Lady Highness. You know-waggle the fingers and… It’s what keeps Cormyr strong!”
Tanalasta drew herself up, then rose to stand facing him, eyes glittering with hatred. “Are you threatening me, wizard?”
The Royal Magician met her daggerlike gaze calmly and said, “Child, I never threaten. I promise.”
Tanalasta’s lips drew together in a tight line. “I ought to have you thrown in irons, whipped, and then beheaded for bursting into a woman’s chambers unbidden! You might be here to get a heir for yourself!”
Vangerdahast rolled his eyes. “Nothing so energetic, Lady Princess. No, I’m here for another reason.” He reached into the breast of his robes and drew forth a folded parchment. Tanalasta’s eyes widened when she saw the royal seals. Then they narrowed.
“No, this is not the forged writ that young Aunadar has been going around telling people I was making with magic,” the wizard said testily. “If you care to examine it yourself, you’ll see that the seals are unbroken and that none of them are Azoun’s.”
He held out the parchment, and after a swaying moment of indecision wherein she obviously feared some sort of magical trap, the princess snatched it from him and stared at the seals. The state seal, the old court seal-which was in the keeping of her mother, the queen-and Filfaeril’s own seal, with the two small Obarskyr pendants she always added.
Impatiently Tanalasta broke them, froze for a moment for fear that she might have ignited some waiting magical trap, and then-when nothing happened-unfolded the parchment.
“As you can see,” Vangerdahast said almost wearily, “it is a fresh writ of regency, signed by your mother, Queen Filfaeril. Since both you and your young Bleth seemed so contemptuous of King Azoun’s own authority on an earlier document, and that of his father Rhigaerd, I took the precaution of procuring yet another authorization for my authority. As you can also see, it awaits your signature. My first concern, as always, is the safety of the realm, but I have no interest in ruling over the strident objections of the Obarskyr heir if I can possibly avoid doing so.”
