ink.”
Then Azoun dropped his grand manner, grinning at them like the reckless lad he must once have been, and added, “And now that all the bellowing’s done, we can go back in and eat!”
He turned to stride back into the Eye-and almost fell over Lady Narantha Crownsilver, who flung herself to her knees before him. “Your Majesty, a boon if you will!”
“Oh?” Azoun asked, gazing down into a face that looked humbled and windblown, far indeed from the haughty brightlass he remembered being presented at court. “What desire you, Lady?”
“I… Your Majesty, may I join the Swords? Ah, as an envoy, or something of the sort, for I must confess I’m useless in a fight.”
“Oh, I’d not go quite that far,” Delbossan muttered from close behind her, amid the general amazement. “Not when armed with rabbit stew.”
The king gazed gravely down upon Narantha, and shook his head almost sorrowfully. “My heart leaps at the thought,” he said, “just as I’m certain yours does. Yet duty of birth has a stern call that falters not, and must always be obeyed. I must, by blood and the needs of the realm, forbid the name of Narantha Crownsilver from appearing on this or any adventuring charter. The Crownsilvers lack an endless supply of daughters, to be hazarded on the wings of adventure!”
Azoun reached down and drew Narantha to her feet, kissing her gently on the brow. Then, still holding her hands in his own, he turned to the Swords. “Yet in the Cormyr I reign over, friend may freely ride with friend-so keeping this precious lady safe and away from you or safe in your company is entirely your affair.”
What was left of the crowd gaped in unison, and the king winked at Narantha and gave her the tiniest of shoves toward Florin.
A moment later their arms were around each other, they were kissing each other, and a ragged cheer was rising around them.
Florin’s parents stepped through the shield-wall with their own Purple Dragon escort before and behind them, and amid the happy chatter as the king led the way in to table, Florin’s mother drew her son firmly aside and asked pointedly, nodding at Narantha, as she laughed in the arms of both Doust and Semoor, “Is she now a close friend of yours, my son?”
As the last lingerers by the now-empty porch became aware of the increasingly flinty glares of the Purple Dragon guard and started toward the tents whence a happy hubbub was already rising, a tall and plain-faced woman in the robes of a priestess of Chauntea walked among them.
No war wizard had detected disguising magic about her person, for the robes covered her from chin to booted ankles, and her breast and hooded head were all hargaunt.
Beneath its warm flowflesh, Horaundoon was thinking. Yes, he could make very good use of these Swords. War wizards were all around him now, but later he’d start scrying them.
’Twould be simple enough to prepare a mindworm to ride the mind of one foolish young Sword or another…
Chapter 10
The chances and mischances of human folly and the whims of the gods hurl some of us high in life, and have some of us buried before we get any chance to leave our mark. The Year of the Spur saw the founding of a fellowship that was to shake thrones all across Faerun. And it also saw the beginnings of some moderately successful adventurers, such as the Company of the Cleaver, Setesper’s Shields, and what was to become the Knights of Myth Drannor.
Thardok Duirell
Cloaked Whispers Behind Doors:
Cabals, Cults, and Fellowships published in the Year of Wild Magic
I t’s all been so… sudden.” Jhessail shook her head. “These horses-gods, what splendid beasts! — a gown, dagger and boots that’re finer than I ever hoped to own, and a belt full of lions from the king’s own hand; bestowed with a kiss, no less!”
“Nice to know your bed-price, in his eyes,” Semoor said.
“ Some day, Stoop, that far-too-clever tongue of yours is going to get you-”
“Raised to exalted rank and showered with appreciative wenches, yes. Lathander smiles brightly on those who dare new roads, new views, and-”
“Wilder follies,” Islif grunted. “What’s wrong, Lady? What’re you staring at?”
Narantha Crownsilver smiled and waved at a grassy roadside verge in the trees. “My pavilion was pitched just there. It seems like an age ago, now…”
“So you’re feeling it, too,” Doust said. “A touch of bewilderment, a feeling of emptiness. Such sudden splendor, followed by-a letdown.”
“Nay. For me, it has been… I am different now than I was then. Before I met Florin, and knew what a forest was.”
Riding beside her, the tall ranger kept his eyes calmly on the road ahead, turning his head only to look behind them, as he’d been doing since they’d started out, but Semoor cleared his throat loudly and meaningfully. “Aha. So what exactly did the pride of Espar show you, out in the green fastnesses?”
The Lady Narantha turned in her saddle to fix him with a direct and serious gaze, and said, “What it is to be a man.”
She let Semoor’s smile broaden and his voice begin a whoop of delighted derision before she added icily, “ Not a lover, dirtyminded priest! Really, Master Wolftooth, your tongue is more suited to the tavern-or the gutter- than the cloisters of the Morninglord!”
There was applause from the riders all around them, to which both Doust and Islif added the same words: “Well said!”
Semoor tried to look innocent, raising an finger like a mild-mannered tutor seeking to make a point. “Priests must say what others dare not, in their ceaseless task of delving into morals and inner truths and-”
“High-heaped ripe verbal manure,” Islif snorted. There was more applause.
“Yet if he can win past his fascination with beds and lovemaking in the woods,” Jhessail said ruefully, “Semoor has a shrewd point. We chased bright adventure in our dreams for so long, seeing it as glorious freedom, and yet”-she indicated the horse beneath her, then the Way of the Dragon under its hooves-“our road ahead seems to have been rather firmly chosen for us.”
“By the king,” Semoor said darkly, “heeding certain furious parents.” He glanced meaningfully at Narantha.
Who sighed, shrugged, and said, “The king is the king. He does what he believes is best for Cormyr. Would you want adventurers with blades and spells looking for trouble in Espar? In Marsember? Arabel? Suzail? Well, neither does he. I… I hope I’m not going to just scream and run, when the first orc I see is coming at us. Hungrily.” She shivered.
“Dathen Brook,” Islif interrupted, pointing ahead. “Time to stop and water the horses.”
“And that’s what successful adventuring is about,” Semoor said brightly. “Taking the time to stop and water the horses.”
The innkeeper had called this his “neither my best nor yet my worst” room, but it was little better than a closet. No window, two narrow bunk beds-Horaundoon undid his carry-coffer’s shoulder-slicing harness with relief, and tossed the heavy burden onto the lower bunk-and a rickety chair drawn up to a small, scarred table. A shelf with a towel and a cracked water-ewer. A candle-lamp with scrips and a striker. A chamberpot under the bed, with a mouse scurrying past it. Doubtless bugs in the bed.
So this was upcountry luxury.
The Zhentarim closed the door. It fit loosely; the floor was warped. At least there was a wooden toe-wedge to hold it shut. Horaundoon augmented it with three wedges of his own and tacked up the black blanket he’d be
