In that moment, Tsantress believed he knew nothing at all about his wife’s dark doings, but allowed herself no shred of pity. He was noble, and the head of one of the oldest, proudest houses of Cormyr to boot; he would bluster He did. “And you think you can just march in here, like the rutting king himself, and-”
“Treason, Lord Crownsilver,” Tsantress said sweetly, making a gesture that turned the icy force holding Maniol Crownsilver so cold he couldn’t breathe. “That’s what those words you’ve just uttered are: clear treason. Spoken before many witnesses, too. And the penalty for treason is…”
She waved her hand, and her magic was gone, dropping Lord Crownsilver with a crash onto his face, breathless and barely able to moan. Death.
The war wizards hurried past him, and up the grand stair.
He was vaguely aware of one war wizard calling, “It’s this one, here!” and another saying, “Stand ye back, all!”
Then there came a loud crackling, laced with cries of alarm-and something that looked like a leisurely, many- forked bolt of lightning spat out from the floor above, writhing and spitting across the empty air high above him almost hesitantly.
Maniol Crownsilver was on his feet before it faded, staggering up the stairs on suddenly weak legs, hauling on the rails with his hands to drag himself up the long flight as more bolts erupted from the floor above.
“ ’Tis spellguarded, all right!” a war wizard shouted, reeling back against the balustrade beside the stairs.
“Enough attempts to grandly impress,” the voice of Tsantress rose, firm and calm. “Cast together, at my command, thus…”
As Lord Crownsilver reached the top of the stair, white light flared blinding-bright, war wizards cried out in dismay-and the radiance faded and the door of his wife’s retiring room sighed open, tiny cracklings and glows playing about its edges.
The room beyond was as femininely opulent as he remembered-save for the blackened area at its heart, where forlorn, still-smoldering ashes outlined the shape of a sprawled, spreadeagled human body.
A stocky young war wizard cast a swift spell, waited with arms spread and eyes closed, then reported, “No one. No one alive.”
Silently the other war wizards stepped into the room, spreading out to either side of it to form an arc along the wall, rather than advancing. At its center, Tsantress turned to the unmoving mage. “Lorbryn?”
He shook his head, hands still splayed out into the air. “No one on this level, clear out to… there’s a turret, that way, that’s shielded against me.”
“End it,” was the curt response.
“What’re you saying?” Lord Crownsilver demanded, as the man opened his eyes and brought his arms down. “Jalassa? Where’s my Jalassa?”
Tsantress turned to face him, face unreadable. “Stay here,” she said. “Come no closer to yon chamber.” She looked meaningfully at Lorbryn, who stepped in front of Crownsilver, blocking his way on.
Over Lorbryn’s shoulder, the lord saw Tsantress turn back into the room and murmur orders. Arms lifted in castings, the air glowed an eerie blue-white, and then… something ruby, orange, and sudden roared up from the ashes, whirling around the room in a shrieking, scouring cloud that left war wizards staggering or on their knees, clutching their eyes or covering their noses and mouths with desperate hands.
Then, quite suddenly, the roaring and roiling were gone, and Maniol Crownsilver was peering into a room that seemed to be full of dust-and dust-caked, coughing and choking war wizards, moving dazedly through the drifting clouds.
“Tsantress?” Lorbryn called urgently, over his shoulder. “Art well?”
“I’ve been better,” came the glum reply, from a soot-faced, barely recognizable apparition that came out of the dust to stand with him. “That was a trap-spell left on her ashes, to mix them with our own sweat and hairs, and make necromantic interrogation impossible.”
Maniol gaped at her. “Necro…? My Jalassa-is she-?”
Tsantress nodded.
“ Nooo! No, she can’t be! My-my-not my Jalassa!”
Tsantress thrust Lorbryn gently aside and stepped forward, a soot-caked scarecrow, to put comforting arms around the sagging, weeping lord.
“Lord Crownsilver,” she said, “I’m afraid Lady Crownsilver is no more.”
“Jalassa! Jalassa! ” the man in her arms sobbed, clawing at her, trying to get past her. War wizards coming out of the room stared at him grimly.
“Bring her back!” Lord Crownsilver howled at them. “You’ve magic, you can do that! Bring her back to me! ”
Tsantress shook her head sadly, her blackened face almost touching his.
“Please,” he sobbed, shaking her. “Please!”
“Lord Crownsilver, your wife was working with an enemy of the Crown of Cormyr. That traitor is unknown to us, thus far-but that traitor murdered Lady Crownsilver to keep us or anyone else learning of them from her. Murdered her, spellguarded the room her ashes were in against scrying and translocations, spell-sealed its doors, and left trap magics waiting for anyone who came to investigate. Take whatever comfort you can from knowing the Wizards of War will leave no hint or trail unfollowed until that traitor is found-and destroyed.”
Maniol Crownsilver threw back his head to gulp in air, still crying, and after a few shuddering breaths managed to gasp, “No comfort at all!”
Tsantress kept firm arms around him. “Would you like to accompany us to the palace? Or have some of us remain here with you? You should not be alone-”
“No,” Crownsilver sobbed, “I don’t want war wizards standing around me speaking empty soothings. I want them at my side, casting every spell they have, to find me my daughter!”
“Your daughter?”
“My Narantha! I must find her. She’s all I have left of my beautiful Jalassa, now.”
Each group of guards searched the three with stony disregard for modesty or gender, removing all the weapons they could find. It took a long time to reach the innermost chamber.
“State your name, each of you,” Dauntless growled then. After Florin, Jhessail, and Pennae had done that, he nodded, raised his hand to indicate the unsmiling woman in worn, unadorned battle-leathers standing behind the map-strewn table, and said, “Swords of Eveningstar, this is Myrmeen Lhal, the Lady Lord of Arabel. In this city, her word is law-and you stand here at her pleasure.”
Florin bowed low. “Lady, we are loyal to the king. What would you, with us?”
The lady lord said, “Produce your charter. Now.”
Florin bowed again, stepped back, and turned his back. Dauntless was at his side in a moment, sword half- drawn, to watch suspiciously as Florin unbuckled his codpiece and flipped it up, to undo a lacing inside, and pluck forth-a much-folded, tiny square of parchment.
Jhessail covered her eyes in disgust, but Pennae, Dauntless, and the guards behind Dauntless were all grinning as Florin tucked his codpiece back into place, spun around, and triumphantly unfolded the royal charter.
Myrmeen Lhal’s wry amusement gleamed in her eyes, but had completely failed to reach the rest of her face. She took the parchment from Florin almost reverently, read it, and handed it back.
“Your charter is in order,” she announced, “wherefore ’tis my duty only to give you fair warning. Swords, your activities within Arabel’s walls haven’t gone unnoticed, and further thievery will not go unpunished. Pennae, you could very easily find yourself imprisoned for a long time, with some of your nimble fingers broken so they’ll heal with rather less deftness than they’ve displayed thus far.”
She started to stroll, hands clasped behind her back like a swordcaptain glowering at disobedient novices, and added sharply, “Cormyr needs gallant adventurers-but Arabel has no room for villainous rogues, miscreants brutish in words and deeds, and impudent, cheating, lying, thieving outlaws. Your charter gives you no right to take coins by force from others, nor swindle them to support lazy, sneaking, or disloyal lives within our walls.”
Florin’s eyelids flickered. He’d heard such words before, from… ah, yes. He smiled. Dauntless tensed.
“Many folk do little but cower and try to keep warm in winter, sewing or whittling or honing blades,” Myrmeen added. “I will understand if you do little while the snows howl and deepen. I will understand far too well if you grow
