An archway silently appeared, outlined in soft radiance, beyond Khelben.
Hesitantly, the Swords went to it. The room behind them went dark, Khelben vanishing with it, even as the one ahead began to brighten.
By the kindling light that came from no source they could see, the Swords beheld a throne with a regal- looking crowned woman sitting on it, and a half-moon table beside it where a wise-looking man sat, writing furiously.
He looked up, set down his quill, and stood. “Kneel before your queen. Adventurers, behold Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr.”
The Swords gaped at the smiling woman on the throne, and then hastily went to their knees.
Filfaeril waved her hand. “Rise, and be at ease,” she said. “Enough of that nonsense, Alaphondar. Swords of Eveningstar, I propose a trade. I need a task performed, and in return I believe I can amend your charter. Cormyr would dearly like to have friends we can trust in Shadowdale, as a bright light on the road that brings so much Moonsea metal and coin to us, and sends our food and horseflesh thither. So turn thy back and open thy codpiece, Florin; the charter is needed.”
Smiling at their startled looks, the queen said serenely, “Cormyr has many watchful eyes. Some of them make me quite confident the knighthoods I am now going to bestow are fully deserved. Florin, for example, made such fine work of the Lady Narantha that several scores of nobleborn mothers desire to send her daughters to him, forthwith.”
“My, my,” Islif murmured at the ceiling, “won’t that prove diverting?”
In a room whose midair glowed with a life-sized, moving duplicate of the room where Filfaeril was now busily granting knighthoods, Dove Silverhand threw back her head and laughed aloud. “Ah, Islif,” she murmured, “we might be sisters!”
Then she lost her mirth and murmured, “Not that I’d ever wish such a doom upon you.”
Alaphondar had been busy writing the proclamations, it seemed-for he now spread them out on the table before the dumbfounded Swords.
“Knighthoods always come with a grant of lands,” Queen Filfaeril added, “or a keep, or coins-gems, actually; ’tis hard to carry twenty thousand lions in one’s hands-in lieu. Alaphondar, pay them.”
The sage hesitated. “Your Majesty, one heraldic necessity must be seen to, first.”
“Well?”
“They must be named knights of somewhere.”
“Well, of Shadowdale, man!”
“Nay, good Queen, it must be the name of their granted lands in Cormyr-or, failing that, a legendary place.”
“A legendary place?”
“Aye, such as ‘of the Forest Eternal,’ or ‘of the Castle Unseen.’ A place not of mere invention, but one known to heralds and loremasters, that’s either lost or ruined.”
“Well, pick one!”
“Nay, Highness — they must choose one.”
Filfaeril shrugged and turned to the Swords, spreading her hands in an unspoken question.
The adventurers stared at her and then at each other.
“Uh…” Doust began, then ran out of words and fell silent. Pennae shrugged, and Florin and Islif stared at each other blankly.
High in the tallest tower of his mansion in Arabel, the wizard Amanthan smiled over a tiny crystal ball that held the room in Blackstaff Tower in its glowing depths, and cast a quick, deft spell.
A bell tolled warningly in Blackstaff Tower, the light in the room shivering in its booming echoes.
Khelben appeared behind Filfaeril’s throne, eyes narrowed above a deepening frown… and something made Jhessail and Florin say together, “Let us be Knights of… Myth Drannor.”
“Ah,” Alaphondar said in satisfaction, dipping his quill in the floral-shaped metal inkwell before him. “Perfect.”
The Blackstaff regarded the Swords thoughtfully as Filfaeril fished something on a fine chain out of her cleavage: a signet. Rocking it in an oval ink-dish Alaphondar held out to her, she applied it to all six parchments in turn, scribbled her signature in an oval around each signet-mark, and announced, “Done. The gems, Alaphondar.”
The sage trailing behind her, the queen walked to the Swords, drew her dainty belt dagger, nicked each of them, leaving the tiniest of pricks on the backs of their hands, and said, “I dub thee all Knights of Myth Drannor. And now the task.”
The newly made Knights held their breath, expecting the worst.
Filfaeril smiled.
“After being torn so precipitously from my husband’s side, I’d prefer to return to Suzail with rather more dignity-with, in fact, a knightly escort. There’s a royal remount stables on the Way of the Dragon nigh Zundle, and an easy ride home from there. If you’re agreeable, my knights?”
Florin swallowed, seeking words, but Islif’s tongue was swifter. “Command us, Highness.”
As Alaphondar scrambled to pack his things, Filfaeril turned to Khelben. “Blackstaff?”
“Of course,” Khelben replied. “I know the place.” He raised one hand idly-and the Knights of Myth Drannor, the sage Alaphondar, and Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr were suddenly standing in strong-smelling straw, blinking at each other.
“I’ll never get used to that,” Filfaeril sighed. Then she gave the dazed adventurers a little girl’s grin. “Knights, choose your mounts!”
A handful of hairs flared up in sudden flame. Horaundoon looked at them in satisfaction.
His spell had worked. Florin’s hairs, torn from him on that moonlit night above Starwater Gorge by Narantha Crownsilver’s ardent hands, were now giving this particular cunning Zhentarim a way to reach Florin once more.
So the ranger was outside the wards of Blackstaff Tower, and in… Cormyr?
“Azuth mount Mystra,” the Zhentarim cursed disbelievingly. Was the Blackstaff with the forester?
Horaundoon cast a spell over the bowl of water, watched it ripple violently then smooth out-and found himself gazing down at a stables, with three-no, all six surviving Swords leading forth horses… splendid beasts… and two others: a courtier and Queen Filfaeril.
“Mystra return the favor,” he swore in astonishment.
And then clapped his hands, raced across the room for what he’d need, and set to work. Victory comes never to the mage who casts not.
Swinging his fire-tongs with all his strength, Amanthan shattered the crystal ball into a thousand shards. Just to be safe.
In life, Old Ghost had been a mage few could match, but the Blackstaff was one of Mystra’s Chosen.
Poor doomed bastard.
Eyes glowing eerily with Old Ghost’s riding presence, the young mage hurried into the next room, to fetch another crystal ball. ’Twas time to scry Horaundoon-before that Zhent fool got up to any more mischief.
“There!” Horaundoon beamed triumphantly, stepping back from the flying snake. It was frozen in spell-stasis, wings spread and head thrust forward, its body a graceful curve. He’d just placed the last of the eight mindworms around its snout. Six Swords were grand quarry, but a senior courtier of Cormyr now… and its queen!
He snorted in sheer glee, and worked the teleport that would snatch his serpent to the air just behind Florin Falconhand’s head, whence it could easily swoop and strike.
Amanthan was feverishly working a spell of his own, glancing up betimes at one of the two crystal balls flanking him-the one scrying Horaundoon.
Done. Whew. The hairs he’d plucked from the vial that had appeared in front of him melted away, and the mage sat back in satisfaction.
Old Ghost would prevail. As always.
He waved the second crystal into life and looked from the first-Horaundoon-to the second: the newly minted Knights of Myth Drannor, riding along a road with the royal sage and the Dragon Queen of Cormyr in their midst.
