Fire in the Blood, page 45
“Where the blazes is Arabel in all this?” Oversword Huntcrown demanded. “Still picking off goblins?”
“Arabel remains sieged by monstrous raiders,” Battlemaster Cormaeril said. “And their portion of war wizards are at work trying to seal of the Forgotten Keep, the portal Marsheena’s army came through.”
“Well, you lot are rather good at sealing portals, hmm?” Oversword Huntcrown said to Ganrahast sourly.
“Your manners, Oversword,” Raedra said. “Lord Ganrahast made a decision in the interest of Suzail’s safety. A portal is little good when it starts devouring people.”
“Your pardon, Your Royal Highness, but with a siege on and our sources for food dwindling, that portal could have come in handy.”
“We still hold the harbor,” Oversword Greatgaunt reminded him. “We can all get by with a little more fish and kelp in our diet.” He reached into the table’s drawer and drew out another figure, a dusty little dragon made of jasper that she set on the town of Hilp.
Raedra’s stomach dropped. “Another one?”
The oversword nodded. “It’s sweeping closer. Always at night.”
“Another of Marsheena’s ploys,” Raedra said. But the oversword didn’t look convinced.
“It would be very clever,” she allowed. “But controlling a black dragon of that size …” She looked to Ganrahast.
“Difficult,” he agreed. “Not impossible, but very difficult for the level of spellcasters she has on hand.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Oversword,” Raedra said, a bit archly, “that you think Thauglorimorgorus, the Purple Dragon, has risen from obscurity and thrown in with Shade?”
“No, my lady,” she said soberly. “I mean to tell you that a black dragon is circling toward the capital, while no Obarskyr sits upon the Dragon Throne, and that your subjects have noticed.”
Raedra had no answer to that, at least, none that would suit. Baerovus could hardly sit upon the throne unless he woke, and if people grew anxious enough to start asking if she might take his place, what could she say? She could not agree—the crown was Baerovus’s so long as he breathed—but she couldn’t disagree that the lack of a proper king was dangerous.
The council departed, off to send messages to overswords and lords far, far from Suzail. Raedra considered the painted map, the markers. The little jasper dragon.
“It cannot be Thauglor, can it?” she said.
Ganrahast stroked his beard. “At this point, I don’t think it wise to say no. The gods seem to take too much pleasure in upending us.”
Raedra sighed. “We shall have to be more tenacious. I find it works with sour nobles, so why not gods?” Ganrahast gave her a disapproving look, and she smiled. “Do you know where my mother is?”
Ganrahast’s expression grew distant, as his magic searched the palace. “Princess Ospra is visiting the temples. She’s just left the Shrine of Tempus, headed for the Temple of Good Fortune.”
By the time Raedra caught up with her mother, she had finished at Tymora’s altar and was heading down the Promenade to the temple of Oghma. Raedra met her there.
Grief had dimmed the princess’s radiant beauty, but not destroyed it. Her dresses were still black, touched only by modest jewels to prevent herself from being overswaddled in Shar’s dark colors. She smiled wearily at Raedra as her daughter climbed down from her carriage.
“Well met, my dear,” she said, taking her hand.
“Well met,” Raedra said. Then, “I haven’t seen you in so long.”
Ospra looked as if she were wilting in the rain. “I’m sorry, Raedra. I haven’t been altogether myself, have I?”
“How much of that tincture are you taking?”
“Enough to sleep,” Ospra said. “It will not last forever. I …” She smiled again, as if by doing so she could banish the grief that welled up in her. “But let me have it for now,” she finished.
Raedra tucked herself close beside her mother, the faint perfume of roses surrounding her like a cloud. “Here,” she said, “we’ll go in this one together.”
The loremasters stood and bowed as the two royal women passed through, two princesses who might have been queens, had Tymora thrown a different die. They made their offerings, their ablutions, and laid their foreheads against the altar stone at the heart of the massive library.
Give me the wisdom to keep Cormyr together, Raedra prayed. Please don’t let me make a mistake that costs lives.
The two women were shown to a little alcove behind a screen, where they could sit in quiet contemplation in the hopes that Oghma’s answers would bless them. Raedra found her own thoughts raced from Arabel to Sembia, to Marsheena to Thauglorimorgorus, and to the darkness that had birthed Wheloon fifteen years ago. She clutched her mother’s hand tight, concentrating on the feel of her rings against her palm.
The sound of someone running through the temple jerked away whatever semblance of peace Raedra had managed. Ospra didn’t move, her head bowed, her lashes fluttering.
“Lord Ganrahast!” Raedra heard a woman shout. “Lord Ganrahast you must come right away.”
“War Wizard Abielard,” he said, in that sharp way he had with all his war wizards, “it is hardly necessary for you to run, slap-sandaled through the Silent Room to—”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the war wizard panted, “but Prince Baerovus is awake.”
22
16 Marpenoth, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)
Suzail, Cormyr
THE PALACE MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN ON THE OTHER END OF THE world; Raedra and Ospra could not reach Baerovus’s sickroom swiftly enough. Already there were nobles milling outside the room, bowing as the princesses were hurried past.
“Do not open that door again until we say so,” Raedra ordered the Purple Dragons.
Baerovus sat, propped up by so many cushions he might have been an angel descending on a cloud. As he slept, Raedra had noticed the flesh melting from his already rangy frame, magic and thin gruel not enough to keep up with his body’s needs. But awake, his dark eyes sunk into their sockets and his cheekbones stood out like knives.
“Oh, my dear sweet boy!” Ospra cried. She rushed to him, gathering him up in her arms.
“Mother,” Baerovus said, his voice rough and tense. “Raedra.” He pushed Ospra away, searching her face. “I don’t know what happened,” he finally blurted. “They’ve asked if I know, and I don’t and they won’t tell me. But this is not my room, and I know you wouldn’t put me in another room unless there were a reason. Please tell me.”
Ospra smoothed his hair. “My darling, you’ve been asleep. Asleep for a very long time.”
“How long a time?
“Two months,” Ospra said, folding his hand in hers. “Nearly three.”
“You were struck by Netherese magic,” Ganrahast said. “We managed to dispel it, but there was damage.”
Baerovus swallowed. “Am I all right?”
“We will make certain that you are,” Ganrahast said.
Baerovus nodded to himself. “And father?”
Ospra’s eyes welled up with new tears. “Your father … vanished, trying to escape the same battle. We never found him.”
All the air came out of Baerovus in a great rush. His wide eyes found Raedra’s, but she could only nod. “No,” he said, his own tears rising. “No.”
“There is more,” Ganrahast said.
“Can’t it wait?” Raedra cried. “Give him a chance.”
“Your pardon, Highness, I don’t think it can.” Baerovus looked up at the Royal Magician as if he held a sword to his throat. “King Foril has also passed on. He died last month.”
Baerovus covered his eyes, to hide the tears, to hide from the truth.
“Rover,” Raedra said. “Stay with us.”
“I’m the king, aren’t I?” he said in a small, flat voice. “Grandfather’s dead, and father’s dead, and so I’m the king.” He sighed, a long shuddering sound edged with unspent tears. “Hrast!”
“Your Highnesses?” a Purple Dragon beside the door said. “I know you asked the door to remain closed, but is there any news we can relay?”
“We demand to see the king!” Lord Turin Huntcrown shouted.
“And I have to see them, don’t I?” Baerovus said. “They’ve already waited for a month. Oh gods. Hrast, hrast!”
It was invitation enough for the lords beyond the door. Pheonard Crownsilver, Turin Huntcrown and more than a few others crowded the door. They bowed, those who could enter. But Baerovus only nodded, his eyes locked on his feet beneath the covers, his face blank of comprehension. As if he were sliding back within himself, trying to escape this waking nightmare.
“Out!” Raedra barked. “Everyone but Lord Ganrahast and Princess Ospra needs to leave.”
Pheonard gave her an oily smile. “With all due respect, Princess, that is King Baerovus’s prerogative. You are not regent any longer.”
Raedra nearly told the Purple Dragons to take hold of him, just to call his godsbedamned bluff. But Ganrahast’s warning came back to her: You are not your grandfather’s cheeky bird any longer.
“A fair point,” she conceded. “Your Majesty,” she said to Baerovus, with a deep curtsy. He wouldn’t look at her still. “Would you like these people to leave you alone for the moment?”
Baerovus glanced at Ospra. “I should be talking to them, shouldn’t I?”
“You’re king, my lord,” Raedra said sweetly. “Who you do or do not speak with is your prerogative. Do you want to talk to people right now?”
Baerovus gave a small shake of his head. Raedra gracefully interposed herself between her brother and the courtiers. “There you are, my lords. I’m afraid the king would prefer to rest. You may call on him another time.”
Pheonard gave her another oily smile. “Of course, Your Majesty. We’ll be waiting.”
The first arrows, Raedra thought as Lord Crownsilver left, in a very long war. And now you have far less to fight them with.
But for the moment, all that mattered was Baerovus. Ospra hugged him close again, clutching his head to her shoulder. He looked up at Raedra.
“If I must be the king,” Baerovus said, “then I want a law that you cannot call me ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘my lord.’ Ever. It sounds as if you’re someone else. I don’t care if it’s protocol.”
“I will only do it if it makes those bastards listen,” Raedra said.
“Raedra!” Ospra said disapprovingly. “Choose a different word.”
“The word I’d like to use is far more uncouth,” Raedra said. She sat at the foot of the bed. “Rover, we don’t have to talk about all of it now. But you must have a coronation. It can be small and quick. They can do it right in this room—”
“No,” Baerovus said. “I really must insist I go back to my own room. As soon as possible. Now. Preferably.”
“Of course,” Raedra said. “Just give them a chance to make it ready for you.”
Baerovus winced. “They’ve touched everything, haven’t they?”
“They know better,” Ospra said. She released him, and Baerovus pulled his knees up to his chest, laying his head against them. “We could do the coronation in the Royal Court,” Ospra said. “We ought to do it in the Royal Court.”
Baerovus tensed all over, and Ospra pursed her mouth. If there were a place in all of Suzail that Baerovus liked less than the Royal Court, Raedra had not been there with him. So many people, so many rules about where one could sit or go, and when one could speak—and then everyone tried to twist and bend them so that he couldn’t be sure what he was supposed to do or not supposed to do. It overwhelmed him.
“Perhaps we ought to do it in the stables,” Raedra said. “Make it clear it’s the king’s prerogative.”
“Raedra,” Ospra chided.
“I should think there would be a lot of complaining about that,” Baerovus said, missing the joke. “Everyone would wear their good shoes and be surprised there was muck. And then I shall be known as ‘Mad King Baerovus’ for certain.” He lifted his head, setting his chin on his knees. “But that will surely happen anyway.”
It nearly broke Raedra’s heart.
“What about the Hall of Gazes?” she said. “It’s proper enough—who can complain at the king swearing his oaths before the portrait of Faerlthann First-King?” She laid her hand on his ankle. “And it is narrow enough, so that we must limit the guests and cannot swarm you easily.”
“I like it,” Ospra said. “Eccentric, but well-reasoned. And deeply symbolic with everything else happening.”
“What else is happening?” Baerovus asked.
“We’ll worry about that next,” Raedra said. “But keep in mind, you have us beside you. And you are king—you may always decide what you need to have done.”
Baerovus eyed the edge of the covers. “All right,” he said, and Raedra knew he didn’t believe her. Rules, after all, were rules.
“Raedra has been a very good regent for you, Baerovus,” Ganrahast said from his corner, and a strange pang of grief hit Raedra. “You can rely on her.”
“I always have,” Baerovus said, taking her hand and squeezing it.
“LORDS OF THE Nine,” Sairché muttered from their hiding place behind a row of rocks at the top of the rise north of the village of Gladehap. “At this rate we’re never getting out of here.”
“Is it still there?” Havilar murmured.
“Winging around like an imp on a string,” Sairché said. She slid back down to sit beside Havilar and Zoonie. Havilar slunk low around the bracken to where she was in sight of Brin and the others where they’d camped beyond another rise, and signaled with a thumbs down. Whoever was visiting Lady Marsheena on a bat-winged veserab, they were still there.
The road out of Juniril had flooded before they could leave, the bogs around the road turning into lakes and sodden islands. Lord Santedul had been pleased—Shade would hardly come slogging through the bogs to capture a fishing village—but the only way out had been a fishing boat across the Wyvernwater and then too many days picking their way through the trail-less hills and moors and abandoned farms, toward the Way of the Manticore and the road back to Suzail. Twice they’d run into goblin bands, which was to Havilar a welcome distraction, but it slowed them down. Too many times, they’d been forced to detour and delay by parties of Shadovar soldiers heading the same direction. As much as Havilar knew she wasn’t the only one itching for a proper fight, she had to concede that giving them a chance to spot Irvel would be very bad indeed.
And then they’d finally come close to the road, to the village of Gladehap, which Irvel had waxed long and nostalgic for. “Loveliest little place you’ve ever set eyes on,” he said. “Pretty little dell, charming green. Shops,” he added, with a smile at Havilar, “with all the very nicest wares. Ospra and I used to come up here when we were young, let Baerovus toddle around the picnic field.”
Of course, when they’d come to Gladehap there was no one there, except Marsheena’s army, camped on the picnic field and rifling through the little boarded-up houses.
“We should move quickly,” Mehen had said when they’d retreated far enough to be sure the lookouts wouldn’t spot them. “Get around them while we can.”
But Irvel had shaken his head. “We wait. The path they take to Suzail is critical.”
“We’ll risk them beating us there, Your Majesty,” Mehen said. “We could bring critical information to Suzail if we hurry.”
Irvel pointed up at the hawk circling overhead. “They know. Let’s see if we can divine anything they can’t.”
So they watched and they waited and then a veserab came diving into Gladehap. The creature, which looked like nothing so much as a flying lamprey to Havilar, had been tethered by a long lead and flew in circles around the encampment, shrieking to itself.
“Does your sweetheart think we’re dealing with a Prince?” Sairché asked. “Or just another grasping lackey?”
“I don’t know,” Havilar said. She and Brin were avoiding each other, circling each other, one advancing and the other evading, like two opponents on a sparring circle. Irvel and Constancia kept Havilar from approaching him, just as Desima and Zoonie seemed to make Brin keep his distance.
Sairché raised an eyebrow. “So are you through with him then?”
Yes. No. Havilar scowled at Sairché. “All I said is I don’t know if a prince rode the veserab. Why should it matter?”
“Because a Prince of Shade is no one we want to be anywhere near,” Sairché said. “They’re powerful shades, all of them, and some degree of lunatic enough to throw in with the goddess of loss and utter destruction in order to reclaim an empire, so I don’t imagine there’s much hope they’re going to ignore the Crown Prince of Cormyr sitting a hundred and fifty yards away.” She shot Havilar a withering look. “ ‘Why should it matter?’ Honestly, it’s a testament to the laziness of your plane that you’ve survived this long without caring about local politics.”
Havilar stuck her tongue out, and patted Zoonie’s side. The hellhound rubbed at the muzzle with one paw, and Havilar wished she could take it off—it probably chafed terribly. But there was absolutely no way she’d do that now. Constancia had insisted on telling Irvel what Zoonie was, and Havilar was a little glad that Brin was still mad at his cousin about it.
But Irvel didn’t seem to care—since Juniril and finding out about his father’s death, there was a grimness to him that made Havilar miss the man who saw good signs in all manner of ordinary sights. “We take what weapons the gods give us,” he’d said. “If it gets us to Suzail faster, I don’t care if it’s part veserab.”
Havilar was wondering what it would take to steal the veserab now circling the Shadovar army, when Zoonie rolled up onto her feet, ears pricked. Sairché drew her wand. Havilar shifted into a crouch, glaive in hand, and eased forward enough to see around the line of bracken.
Tattered, bruised, sunken-cheeked, and sallow as a corpse, Moriah stood on the other side. Her breath came in a faint wheeze, her eyes bright and fevered. Sores covered her bare arms and one marred her cheek.
