’Tis this Florin lad, late of Hawkstone’s forges-where he acquitted himself well, I’m told-who’s on the brink of knighthoods and royal favor and riding off to Suzail in mirrorbright armor and all. We’ve chewed over our elder days oft enough, and can again when other fancies falter. What I want to know is: Is he a shining hero sent to Cormyr by the gods, or a dullard who just happened to do the right thing when excitement landed atop him, or something in between? Is he really a brilliant bladesman, and a swift-as-a-hawk fearless strategist, and truly noble of heart and character? Or do we just want him to be?”
“Those are thoughts every loving mother wrestles with.” A calm, quiet woman’s voice came out of the night, from the shadows nigh Tarreth Oldhall’s back shed. “I’m no different than most, Thorl.”
The men fell silent, abashed, as Florin’s mother stepped out into the moonlight. Imsra Skydusk’s spells and the regard they all held for Hethcanter Falconhand, whose name still held weight in Purple Dragon barracks ten years after he’d last worn the king’s armor, had kept her from the bother of any man of Espar trying to romance her, or even leer and wink at her over tankards. Yet her every stride was liquid grace, and she was the darksome half-elf beauty many local men thought about, when lying in their beds seeking sleep that would not come. Cloaked in moonlight, she was throat-tighteningly beautiful.
“I…” Thorl Battlestorm tended to dominate any gathering, and men of Espar looked to him. He felt he should say something now, and rather uneasily continued, “owe you an apology, ma’am. We-ah-meant no offense, but merely-”
“And you’ve given none, Thorl. None of you have. Every mother loves her son and wants to see him rise high and far in life, to be happy and looked to by all. Yet I very much fear my Florin will put a foot wrong-and the more exalted the company, the harder will be his fall. More than that, I can’t and won’t chase after him and spy on him every day, and so see not all that he does. Though I’ve seen nothing to make me worry, I’m afraid he may have put a foot or two wrong already.”
Semoor spread his hands. “Why ‘Eveningstar’?”
Florin shrugged. “The king suggested it. He said I’d learn why when he presented the charter to us.”
“He’s giving us a mission,” Islif said flatly. “Go and get yourselves killed in the Stonelands, and mind you report in to Lord Winter along the way.”
Jhessail rolled her eyes. “Grimtongue! A little cheer, please! ”
Islif drew herself up, strode over to Jhessail, loomed over the flamehaired mage-and put a wide, idiotic smile onto her face, all teeth and oh-so-wide eyes. Then she let it fall right off her face again, leaving her looking as stern as ever.
“Soooo,” Semoor drawled, regarding the ceiling. “What really happened between you and the lovely Lady Narantha Crownsilver during your little walk in the woods? It gets cold out there in the dark night, I’m thinking…”
“You’re thinking? Does divine Lathander know? He might just change his mind about having a dangerous thinker among his ordained priesth-”
“Sabruin, gallant Falconhand, and answer my impertinent question.”
Florin wrapped his arms around the back of a vacant chair, leaned his chin on them, and told his friends, “Nothing romantic or lustful happened between us. Nothing. And you can cast spells on me to be sure of that, if you’d like. Beauteous she may be, but she was a raging spitfire most of the time we spent trudging through the trees-and I’m not so addled by raging lusts that I want to have my pisspipe sliced off and my neck stretched in a hangman’s noose, for all to watch. I can’t think noble lords and ladies are too pleased with anyone who ruins one of their daughters.”
“Unless they happen to be King Azoun,” Semoor murmured.
“Silence!” Islif snapped. “All the realm may know about that, but ’tis surely the act of a death-welcoming fool to talk about it!”
“Yes, Semoor,” Jhessail said reprovingly. “ Try to behave yourself for the next day or two until we have the charter. Then, being an anointed adventurer, you can revert to your usual charmingly discreet self.”
“ After we get over the border into Sembia,” Islif growled. “Where we can all walk away from you if your overclever mouth gets us into real trouble.”
Semoor gave her a quizzical look. “You’re worried about ‘real trouble’? When we’re going to be chartered adventurers? Just what do you think chartered adventurers do, anyhail?”
Then he looked pained. “Behave myself for an entire day or two? Whatever will I do? ”
“Hear ye! Hear ye all! Good people of Espar, His Valiant Majesty Azoun, King of all this fair land of Cormyr, is pleased to grant a right royal charter this day, upon this spot and before all your eyes! Attend, all!”
The herald of Espar was in fine form, his voice rich and loud without seeming harsh. Effortlessly it rolled out across the crowd-a close-packed throng that filled the village green shoulder to shoulder, and extended right back to the inn and smithy walls, entirely blocking the Way of the Dragon.
The Watchful Eye had gained a splendid new porch for the occasion, hurled up by High Horn’s best carpenters in a day-and standing on it beside the herald, sweating a little uncomfortably in the sun, stood four young Esparran, the friends Doust Sulwood, Semoor Wolftooth, Jhessail Silvertree, and Islif Lurelake. Idle younglings of scant regard a few days ago, but objects of intense curiosity and bright if fleeting fame, now. Semoor gave many winks and grins, and Islif glowered out at the crowd as if she’d happily hew the lot of them to the ground, while Doust and Jhessail kept their hands firmly behind their backs, so they could fidget largely unnoticed.
On the other side of the four friends stood Lord Hezom, the King’s Lord of Espar, resplendent in a new greatsleeves doublet, half-cloak, and bright bold hose. He smiled out across the crowd in genuine pleasure, and many goodfolk of Espar shared his feelings, for the king was paying for the feast they’d soon share and the mead and ale they’d soon down, and royal coins had already given many of them-whose homes fronted on the green- bright new roofs and balconies, where Purple Dragon bowmen were stationed watchfully. Others had rented out their every last room and slept in their own stables, and were thanking the gods-and Florin Falconhand-fervently for the windfall of much-needed coins.
More Purple Dragons, out of uniform and trying not to look uncomfortable about it, stood among the sea of faces, striving to look like merchants or drovers. They shared space in the throng with war wizards trying their best not to look like war wizards, some with the aid of shapechanging spells. Undercloak or just what they seemed to be, the onlookers were many: curious wagon-merchants halting on their travels, peddlers, outlying crofters, the scores of bright-cloaked courtiers who followed the king whenever possible-and every last person in Espar who could walk, totter, or be propped up on sticks or in a chair to see the wonder of the season.
“You have all heard,” the herald began, “how your own Florin Falconhand, a young forester of this place, came upon a lost noblewoman of the realm in the forest not far from here, and gallantly guided her in safety, days and nights through, to be restored to us. And how, when at last they reached the royal road not far north of here, in the place called Hunter’s Hollow, they came upon a large force of murderous men who’d shot down Horsemaster Delbossan’s honor guard-sent forth from here by your own gallant Lord, Hezom-”
The herald knew his job, and indicated Lord Hezom with a flourish, allowing time for cheers. The Purple Dragons and war wizards in the crowd knew their tasks, too, and provided those cheers lustily-but were pleasantly surprised to hear themselves drowned out by the very real acclaim of the folk standing around them. The local lord stood high in the regard of the folk of this backwater, it seemed; he must be more than just a haughty nose and a hand that smote with the king’s authority.
“-and did battle with them, seeking to rescue the wounded horsemaster. The gods saw fit to send His Majesty the king thither at that moment, while riding out to a royal staghunt, and boldly did the Purple Dragon charge into the forest to slay the miscreants-whom, it now appears, had come creeping into Cormyr for the sole and most base purpose of slaying him. Florin Falconhand was already harrying these dastards, armed with but a sword and a dagger, and he and the king and the wounded Master Delbossan did great battle upon them, slaying all but one of the foe, whom the king graciously spared. In that affray, saith His Majesty, did Florin Falconhand personally save the royal life!”
Espar’s voice had risen into an impassioned shout, and it was answered with a mighty roar. Purple Dragons on the rooftops rapped dagger-hilts on their breastplates in ringing chorus, to keep the applause from falling into vigorous chatter, and the herald rushed in to recapture the attention of all.
“So now, in recognition of this valiant and loyal bravery, His Majesty has seen fit to grant-free of charge-a charter founding a new adventuring company this day! For this was the one reward your modest Florin desired, to lawfully pursue a dream he hath nurtured to his bosom lifelong: to adventure with these his fast friends who stand
