decisions and allows no one else to make any, either. He prefers to be among his sculptures and paintings or listening to lutes and poems, or hosting his parties and feasts. Elvish is becoming the court language, for any who speak it gain his attention first.”
“There have been studious kings before,” noted Baerauble. “Rhiiman the Glorious, who first pushed back the borders of the forest, and Elder Tharyann, Boldovar’s father, who saw the leave-taking of the last great elven families.”
“Aye, and Rhiiman slew the last great red dragon of the Wyvernwater, and Tharyann put down the first rebellion of Mabel. This Iltharl is a wan, pale king, moved by his courtiers and consorts. The people are growing very restive, and those of us charged with maintaining the realm have become… extremely concerned.”
“Convince me,” the wizard said softly. “Why are things so bad?”
Sagrast licked his lips. There was still a chance the wizard would turn on him and his allies. “There are goblins and orcs on the road. Bandits and thieves join them, and they grow bolder by the day, while the King’s guards hug the tower like children afraid of shadows. Mabel is in rebellion once more, and Iltharl has let it go its own way. There are shortages now in the markets. Some matrons are now wearing daggers openly at their belts to walk the streets and shop in safety. And the Purple Dragon has been seen in the ruins of abandoned Marsember.”
The mage made a harrumphing noise. “Every time someone needs an ill omen, the Purple Dragon seems to appear. Usually it is a red dragon espied in moonlight or a small black seen at a distance. And people see all sort of things in plague-ridden Marsember. All else you say is true, do not muddle it with fantasy.”
“Many of the lesser nobles are taking greater liberties, and some are now refusing to pay their taxes and raising militias of their own. The trio of Silver families-Huntsilver, Crownsilver, and Truesilver, all the traditional eyes and long arms of the king-are too close to the throne to see the danger. Mewling toadies, they play to Iltharl’s ego for his favor and spend their time thanking the gods that Iltharl is not Boldovar the Mad. But even the Mad King held the reins of state firmly when he was in his right mind. The Silvers cannot see that the realm is crumbling around them!”
“And you do.”
“I represent a small group of nobles of… middling power,” said Sagrast, “mostly families who have arisen since the days of Faerlthann himself. We have come to see things the same way, because what we see, however bleak, is the truth of things. The kingdom has been wounded by a mad king, and now it may be destroyed by a weak king. The elder nobles serve out of tradition, but some seek to break up the kingdom and seize their own territories. Our small houses would be swallowed in such strife, yet we cannot convince the crown of the dangers.”
“And your solution is regicide,” said the mage, his voice as cold as a steel blade.
Sagrast spread his hands in front of him, as if to ward off a blow. “No, lord wizard-not if it can be helped! I have served Iltharl well, and he is not a bad man. He is only a bad king. We mean him no harm. We just need a decisive leader.”
“And you have one in mind,” said the mage, looking at the young noble stonily. Sagrast wished that the wizard would blink, and not for the first time he found himself wondering if the mage was merely sounding him out, only to wave a hand and magically transport him to a dungeon cell.
Sagrast took a deep breath. “Iltharl has a sister Gantharla.”
“A fine, strong young woman,” Baerauble agreed, nodding. “The blood of the Obarskyrs runs strong in that one. And some fear she is truly Boldovar’s daughter, brash and impulsive. She has done well in patrolling the Western Marches with her foresters, and I noticed that the marches were noticeably absent in your list of woes. But the Dragon Throne is held through primogeniture. The Crown of Cormyr has always passed to the eldest surviving son.”
Sagrast held out one hand to emphasize his point. “Yes, but she is Obarskyr blood, and were she to marry and produce an heir, there would at least be a chance for the monarchy! Iltharl has been barren-with his wife, and among his consorts. If Gantharla could whelp a male child, then Iltharl could step down in favor of a legitimate successor.”
“I don’t remember Gantharla mentioning being interested in ‘whelping’ anything at the moment,” said Baerauble dryly.
“Well, we were thinking… um, that Kallimar Bleth would be a suitable husband.”
“You were thinking, or Kallimar?” asked the wizard. “Or does Bleth even know of your plots?”
“Well, I…” Sagrast thought of the dungeons. He would not choose to share them with another angry coplotter. “I’m not comfortable talking about who else knows of this.”
The wizard favored Sagrast with a smile. “Kallimar is Mondar reborn-large, dark-haired, and proud. And like Mondar, he is crude, violent, bad-tempered, and vicious. Remember, I knew the first Bleth to walk Cormyr two and half centuries ago. Do you really think that Gantharla, who’s at home in the saddle and a leader of border foresters, would be interested in such a man?”
Sagrast cleared his throat. “Well, we were thinking… or I was thinking…”
“That I would wave my hands and work some enchantment over her, eh?” said the wizard. “No, you weren’t-but you were hoping I thought you were.” His eyes were like two blades, boring deep into Sagrast’s own. “You’ve survived Boldovar and even served Iltharl well, Dracohorn. What were you really hoping for?”
“I was hoping… we were hoping… that we could convince you to stay out of this matter.” Sagrast winced, knowing he could have phrased it better and hoping the powerful mage would not take offense.
Baerauble simply nodded. “And by doing nothing, I take it you mean just let you pitch Kallimar’s case to Gantharla, perhaps even convince her that it would be good for the kingdom itself, arrange a marriage, and work subtly on His Majesty to convince him he would be better off in private life?”
Sagrast agreed fervently. “It’s not as if we would not appreciate any support you could-” His excited rush of words were stopped by the surprising thing the wizard did then. Baerauble laughed.
It was a dry, macabre laugh, the sort puppeteers used when portraying a ghost or lich. It was a rattling of bones that shook the wizard’s empty form. Sagrast had never heard it before and hoped he would not hear it again.
“Well, yours is the first proposal I’ve heard that did not involve poisoning the king immediately or smuggling a dagger-wielding Thayvian maiden in among his personal favorites. Perhaps the nobility is on the verge of attaining civilization after all.”
Baerauble leaned forward over the table, and Sagrast felt himself being drawn forward in response. “Do you think,” the mage asked, his voice suddenly fierce, “that if I could honestly replace the King of Cormyr I would have not done so when the realm had to contend with mad old Boldovar?”
Sagrast stammered a hasty reply, but Baerauble ignored him. “I have been charged with protecting the head that wears the Cormyrian crown, even if the mind within that head is evil, mad, or ineffectual. The elves charged me so and laid their geas upon me to enforce that charge. Typical elven narrow vision, really. A great people, but unable to see beyond their own long life spans.”
“So when Tharyann outlived most of his own spawn and left only poor, mad Boldovar as his heir, I protected the new king and sought to treat his madness as best I could with spells and poultices. And he lasted longer than he had any right to, until he fell victim to his own rages and passions.”
Sagrast nodded. Boldovar had perished three summers ago, after gutting one of his consorts. Clutching vainly at her slayer, the dying woman had dragged him over the battlements of Faerlthann’s Keep. Baerauble had been abroad at the time.
The ancient wizard continued. “Boldovar left behind Iltharl, a spindly child, and Gantharla, who has redeemed the Obarskyr bloodline in many eyes and caused others to worry that she is truly her father’s daughter. I know she’s more popular in the western settlements than the king himself. I believe all the, ah, great thinkers among our nobles were hoping that Iltharl would see fit to spawn an heir and then conveniently perish of Marsember Pox before he had to rule. The fates did not allow it, and my own binding does not allow me to act against him.”
The old man’s face clouded. “As you say, Iltharl is not a bad man. Not bad in the same way as Boldovar was. If anything, Boldovar was too much a descendant of Ondeth and Faerlthann, and Iltharl was too little. Perhaps some of us, myself included, saw too much of Boldovar’s madness and sought overly hard to protect his son from it. And protected him so well he’s proved to be ineffective as a leader. We ourselves have crafted an insufficient king.”
The mage sighed deeply. “I find it amusing that so many people, particularly those of noble blood, respect Boldovar more than his son. Boldovar was murderous, ravenous, rapacious, and insane, yet he was strong and
