What Thauglor had not seen was fear. The black dragon felt resolution and strength in the elf’s gaze, and in his poise. He fled from dragons not out of terror but from wisdom, choosing to withdraw from Thauglor’s might. Were he to return later, he would do so on his own terms.
Thauglor found the brief encounter disquieting. He sat in the great tree for a long time, stirring only when the first shadows from the distant mountains reached their cool claws towards him. Then he rose suddenly, scattering the last fitful embers of the dying fire with a lash of his tail, and paddled the air hard to gain height in the cool evening sky. This time he headed east, toward his lair.
The newcomer would have to be watched. So bold…
The elf neither attacked like a warrior nor fled like an animal. If he were alone, so much the better, but Thauglor had heard more than once that in a forest, elves were like vermin-if you saw one, another watchful hundred were waiting behind nearby leaves.
One last reason to visit his family, the King of the Forest Country decided. If they were encountering intruders as well, something would have to be done. For a brief time, refugees from the north might be allowed to find their way into his kingdom… before he visited them. The survivors would warn others of the perils of intruding into Thauglor’s domain. Then it would be time to smile, Thauglor thought, imagining the smell of mortal terror that kept his realm secure.
But there had been no fear in the eyes of the elf.
And that troubled Thauglor more than all the goblins of the northern peaks.
Chapter 1: The Hunting Party
Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
The king of all Cormyr raised the bright silver hunting horn to his lips. Three short, sharp blasts floated out through the forest, a small silence following their echoes. A faint creak of saddle leather was the only sound from the other three hunters as they listened to the echoes fading into far places. Then, faint and far off, came the expected response-three short, high notes, followed by a long enthusiastic blast that rose mockingly at the end.
The king grinned, his even teeth flashing briefly beneath his graying mustache, and said, “That’s Thundersword’s windwork, to be sure. By the sound, they’re about a mile and a half east of us… with quarry and without any great desire to return yet. We shan’t have to worry about them for a while.”
Two of King Azoun’s three companions, men as old as the man who wore the crown, nodded and chuckled at some shared joke. The third, a younger warrior in stiff, new hunting leathers, nodded solemnly, as if the king had delivered sage words from on high.
“Perhaps they’ve found the Ghost Stag,” came the deep voice of the stouter of the old hunters, accompanied by a sly smile. Baron Thomdor was a massive man even without his protruding stomach. His shoulders were as broad and as muscled as the withers of many a stallion. He was cousin to the king, as was the old hunter on Azoun’s far side. Thomdor ran one gloved hand through unruly dark hair that was shot with gray and leaned forward in his saddle to better see his brother, the Lord High Marshal of Cormyr.
Duke Bhereu, the king’s other cousin, shook his bald head. “Then know ye they bid fair to be gone for most of the day, my lord,” he replied in mock, courtly tones, sketching as much of an elaborate bow as one can in an old and worn hunting saddle, before erupting in easy laughter and continuing, “to return to the lodge with empty hands, tremendous stories-and raging thirsts-this evening.”
“Agreed,” said His Majesty, “And you, young Aunadar Bleth. What make you of this possible portent?”
The younger man took a ragged, obviously nervous breath, but there was only a slight stammer when he spoke. “If-if they’re chasing the legendary Ghost Stag of the King’s Forest, I’d not bet against the stag. They’ve Warden Truesilver among them, true, and Bald Jawn as their guide, but the Ghost Stag has eluded us all for generations. And besides, would even so noble a hunting party seek to bring down the chosen prey of the King of Cormyr?” As an afterthought, he added, “Sire.”
The king allowed himself a relaxed smile. “Perhaps that’s what’s been keeping the stag alive all these years. It’s waiting for me, eh?”
He nodded at the younger man and added, “Let’s go down toward the river-the ruin you wanted to see is there. And so long as we’re out here in the woods, you can drop the ‘Sire.’ Azoun will do very nicely, it’s a name I’ve heard a time or two before.”
“As you wish, Si-er, Azoun,” said the youth, and then added “my lord” with a quick smile.
The king matched it as he wheeled his destrier and reined it down a ferny slope toward a trail that led to the riverside. The youth followed, his mount tossing its head at the uncertain footing. The two royal cousins held back, watching their king and the young knight bobbing through the trees.
“What do you make of young Bleth?” asked Thomdor, pointing at the receding back of Aunadar Bleth with his chin.
Duke Bhereu shrugged broad shoulders. “This one has some potential. Courteous without being unctuous. Respectful without overmuch groveling. Has book-learning enough in his head to be interesting and enough wits not to show it off all at once. Filfaeril approves already, you know. He’s better than your average pick.”
“Not only the queen thinks so,” the baron rumbled. “The crown princess likes him, too.” As they urged their horses down the loose slope where the king’s war-horse had preceded them, letting the massive beasts choose their own leisurely paths, he added, “Did you know the two of them met in the palace library?”
“I’ve heard the story,” Bhereu replied wryly, “though with each retelling, the court gossips adorn it. The strains of harps and songhorns positively swirl about it these days, grown as sweet and syrupy as any minstrelry of the Brokenhearted Knight. The last time I heard it, the tale had their eyes meeting, and without another breath, our bold young Bleth sweeps the Crown Princess up and onto a table, scattering tomes and scrolls in all directions. They say he practically kissed the lips-to say nothing of a good court gown-off her before the maids clawed him free of the royal person. Whereupon she leapt up, snatched him away to another table, laid him out on it, and bestowed a mighty kiss upon him, to return the favor.”
The two men shook their heads in amused disbelief, and Thomdor murmured, “The worst of it is, some folk’ll believe it when it comes to their ears, half a world away, in a tenday or two.”
Duke Bhereu nodded, ducked under a tree limb, and said, “Yet a full glass to it all, and more, if Tanalasta is fond of him. It’s better than the king trying out future sons-in-law on her… and forcing an unhappy marriage.”
“I can’t see Azoun playing that game,” Thomdor replied, frowning equally at his brother and the offending low tree limb. “Other kings, perhaps, but you know our Purple Dragon dotes on both his daughters. Truly, not mere honeyed words and kisses.”
“Aye, but our pet wizard has been going on of late about storied heritage and ancient bloodline and solemn succession. Pointing out none too delicately that age stalks us all, and Azoun’d best get his house in order before it overtakes him. You may guess how successful that argument has been.”
Baron Thomdor, Warden of the Eastern Marches, whistled air out sharply between wryly curled lips. “Azoun probably smiled, nodded, and serenely ignored the Royal Magician,” he judged, hefting a boar spear in his hand. Then he shrugged. “Vangerdahast worries about everything, you know. I swear the Obarskyr bloodline keeps Azoun young just as magic keeps old Vangey alive.”
He patted his stomach and added in grand, courtly tones of doom, “Age stalks us all.” An errant branch poked at his middle, and he backhanded it aside with a mock scowl, adding darkly, “Some, of course, more than others.”
“Some more than others,” echoed Duke Bhereu, passing a meaningful hand over his bald pate. “As the royal cousins, we’ll always be in Azoun’s shadow, growing old while his youth and vigor rides on. The day’ll come when we’ll both be doddering graybeards, counting our teeth as they fall into our laps by warm firesides-and he’ll still be using these hunts to check out suitors for his lasses.”
“And grandlasses,” said Thomdor with a rueful smile. “And bite your flapping tongue about counting falling teeth. May the watchful gods deliver us both from such a fate!”
“Grandlasses? Well, perhaps, if either daughter ever marries,” the duke replied, doubt heavy in his voice. “Tanalasta’s almost a wizard herself, at least with her ledgers and sums, but no taste for rulership there. You’ve
