followers of the god of battles. Then he inclined his head in dismissal and gestured to the guards to depart. They and the priest went out together, leaving Vangerdahast alone. He looked around, noted the two belarjacks, the unarmed servants guarding the door he’d come in by. The wizard nodded at them, then murmured a word he’d not used in a long time.
Utter darkness came down, darkness only he could see through. One of the servants cried out in alarm, but the Royal Magician spoke no word of explanation or reassurance as he drew forth the key he’d been reaching for earlier, went to a wall panel that very few living folk knew was a door, and unlocked it with the key while murmuring a spell to keep the enchanted guardian of the portal at bay.
There was a moment of swirling, fairylike chiming, a stirring of the air, and he was through the ward. In the room he’d left, the darkness should be clearing already. Ahead down a long passage stood a row of motionless guards in full armor. Vangerdahast strode right up to them and on past, and they stood like statues. “Helmed horrors” some called them, in truth, they were nothing more than empty suits of armor animated by his own spells. They guarded a door that the touch of his palm opened-a door that led into the Hidden Chambers.
Bright sun spilled down from a vaulting skylight into the comfortably furnished room before him. Bookshelves lined the walls, and on a huge table gleamed, colorful maps of the Dragonreach lands, from Tunland as far east as the Vast. At the heart of the room, comfortable high-backed chairs and lounges surrounded a dragonhide rug. It yielded under his feet, soft and warm, as the Royal Magician strode from where his door opened, in the wall beside the fireplace, to face the two folk who sat waiting for him: Alaphondar, Sage Royal of Cormyr, and Filfaeril, The Dragon Queen. There were few people in the realm that the stout old court wizard knelt to, but he did so now, in true reverence.
Queen Filfaeril Selzair Obarskyr was blessed by the gods and her breeding with ice-blue eyes, golden blond hair, exquisite carriage-so that she drew the eyes of all men and most women whenever she moved-a slender figure and alabaster skin. What had attracted the interest of the young Azoun-for whom there was not shortage of available, even eager, stunningly beautiful women-however, was less her looks than her mind. Filfaeril was brilliant. She noticed everything that befell around her and understood people and implications better than many widely respected sages.
Her once exceptional beauty had begun its slow fade, but to men who respected intellect and stubborn bravery-and Vangerdahast was one of those-she was more beautiful than ever. Her poise and dignity still bewitched eyes that saw only external beauty, all that betrayed her deep grief at the probable death of her husband now was the deep blue rings around her eyes. They gave Filfaeril an air of vulnerability, and Lord Alaphondar was obviously smitten with her, but Vangerdahast reminded himself of how often the queen bested the Dragon of Cormyr over the chessboard.
“Rise, old and faithful friend,” she said quietly. “You of all men are the realm Azoun and I serve. I need your counsel and strength now, not your courtesy.”
Vangerdahast rose and said gently, “Great lady, my courtesy is my strength.”
She nodded, eyes flashing briefly in acknowledgment of, and agreement with, his words, then asked, “What news?”
“All Suzail-and probably most of the realm by now, for I know word has reached both Arabel and Marsember-has heard of Your Majesty’s madness of grief and retreat to seclusion in Eveningstar. In the early hours of this morning, someone unleashed a flight of flying daggers and over a dozen helmed horrors into the temple of Lathander where you were supposedly staying. They made straight for the private apartments given over to the war wizardess posing as you, my queen, and took the lives of several underpriests and all of the openly posted Purple Dragon garrison. A full sword of additional knights-veterans ennobled by the king, not drawn from the established noble families of the realm-were stationed in the private apartments and did their utmost to protect the lady they thought was their queen. Four gave their lives, the others are all of the opinion that the attacking constructs they fought, and were forced to destroy in order to prevail, were directed by someone able to observe the fray at all times.”
“In these days of magic for hire,” Filfaeril said with a shrug, “almost anyone in the realm beyond a simple woodcutter or yeoman farmer could be involved in such an attack.”
Both men nodded. “What is clear, great queen,” Alaphondar said bluntly, “is that someone is willing to pay much to see the Obarskyr line broken, or at least a young, easily wed or easily swayed daughter on the throne.”
“Safety demands that you disappear for a time,” Vangerdahast added. Filfaeril looked at him for a long moment, her eyes locked with his.
“I see the wisdom in that,” she said at last, “and yet, my lords, I must warn you that if Alaphondar’s words are true-a most likely conclusion, I agree-you yourselves both stand in as great peril as I. If one is to sway my Tanalasta or Alusair, one will want all her trusted sources of support and advice permanently removed from the scene.”
The Royal Magician shrugged. “For me to flee now would be to leave the realm unattended, surrendering the throne to anyone who wants it. We would thereby thrust the realm into chaos as every greedy hand grabs for the crown and inevitably battles other claimants. Moreover, if we all disappear, an observer can reach no other conclusion than that we have all gone into hiding-and a long and devastating hunt will begin.” He shook his head and strode forward. “It would be Tethyr all over again.
“Nay, Highness,” he continued, “our only hope lies in spreading the tale that more than one attack was made upon you in Eveningstar, and that the second succeeded, taking the lives of yourself and Lord Alaphondar here in a fireball or something else that left no bodies behind.”
“While you remain behind to face the storm almost alone, in the greatest danger of all of us,” Filfaeril said quietly, eyes troubled.
Vangerdahast smiled grimly and corrected her. “While I remain behind to enjoy the lion’s share of the fun, watching the disloyal in our realm fall all over themselves and each other trying to take the Dragon Throne.”
Something that was almost a smile rose to touch the queen’s lips for just a moment, and she murmured, “I do almost envy you, my lord. I would dearly love to see some of the things that will unfold in fair Cormyr in the days ahead.”
“So you accept, Your Majesty, that you must ‘disappear’ for a time?”
Filfaeril nodded slowly. “Know you both that my greatest desire is to remain with Azoun-in life and in death. Were the realm strong and a clear and rightful heir ready to take the crown, I would command you and all in the court, by your oaths, to make my husband’s passing as painless as possible.”
“It is a pity that you cannot take the throne yourself,” said the wizard.
“It is a pity indeed,” said the queen, “but only one born into the Obarskyr line may rule. I may wear a crown, but I cannot rule without my husband.”
She rose and took two restless steps toward the fire. “The realm is not ready for smooth passage to the rule of an unchallenged heir… so I accede to your wise scheme, for crown and country, for king and Cormyr.” She stared into the distance for a moment more, then turned to face Vangerdahast and Alaphondar. Next she took the slim everyday circlet of her rank from her head and held it out before her. The sapphires on its two brow spires flashed. “Do what you must do.”
Vangerdahast bowed. “Lady Queen, my intent is to send you and the Sage Royal to Waterdeep, your shapes disguised by magic, to a household where certain loyal war wizards of the realm have already been installed to watch over you.” The eyes of the Royal Magician and Lord Alaphondar met briefly, behind the queen’s back, the sage nodded almost imperceptibly.
“If you lay your hand upon the bowl on yonder plinth and then put your crown in it, the circlet will sink into the metal and lie hidden, cloaked from all by the bowl’s magic. Only your hand upon the bowl again can make it rise up and reappear.”
Without hesitation, the queen did as he directed. When she turned around again, Alaphondar was gone. In his place stood the stooped, pox-marked figure of a stout, aged merchant in food-stained robes. The merchant bowed to her and grinned, displaying a smile that was missing rather more teeth than the Sage Royal had ever lost.
She smiled thinly. “And what am I to call you now, Alaphondar?”
“Ah, ‘sluggard,’ ‘good-for-nothing husband,’ and ‘old fool’ are all handy phrases,” the old merchant told her, “but my name is Flammos Galdekund, and yours is Aglarra, my queen.”
