seen her at court-cool and quiet. Too quiet. Hesitant to speak out, and the words halting when she does… a royal wallflower.”
The stout war-horse beneath him snorted, as if in dispute, and the duke steered it deftly between two phandar trees before adding, “Can you see her at the head of an army, staring fiercely at the foe as she draws her abacus and account book for the fray? Not your typical Obarskyr, that one.”
“Aye, all the family traits bred into young Alusair,” Thomdor agreed, scanning the nearby trees with the alert vigilance of a veteran warrior. “Hell on horseback, all ego and fury, with talent to match. Every time she comes home, bets are heavy among the kitchen staff as to how long it’ll be before she and her father get into a row about politics that breaks half the goblets and platters!” He leaned low over his mount’s neck to pass under another phandar bough and added, “She’s all swords and armor right now, and would rather be on the battlefield than on the throne.”
“Aye, it boils down to that,” Bhereu agreed. “Neither wants to rule, or truly has the aptitude for it. So perhaps a child of Alusair, or more likely of Tanalasta, will be the next king… and that’s what makes these hunting parties so bleeding important. You think Azoun would pull you from Arabel and me from the High Horn just for a social gathering? You’ll notice he asks us and not Vangerdahast, every time.”
The baron stuck his forehead in mock woe. “I am crushed under the weight of the responsibility. It smites our shoulders like a falling castle turret!” The heavier of the cousins chuckled, then added in more normal tones, “No doubt the good mage delivered a five-volume report on Aunadar and the entire Bleth clan-every last high-nosed noble and illegitimate woodchopper among them, back to the dawn days of the kingdom.”
The leather saddle creaked as he reined in his prancing mount and added more quietly, “I say let Tanny choose her own prince consort and be done with it. She was smart enough to see right through that proud flower of the Illance line… er, Martin?”
The duke smiled at the name. “Martin Frayault Illance, the most untrustworthy young noble in the kingdom. You know after Tanalasta rejected his entreaties, he got on his horse and rode hard and straight for Alusair? Of course, our elder princess had already told her sister all of Martin’s favorite lines.”
It was the baron’s turn to smile. “I bet she broke both his arms.”
“Dislocated a shoulder, actually,” said the duke. “With a table that had the misfortune to be standing, all innocent like, outside the window he was hurled through.” He snorted. “A month gone, and he was still telling folk he got it in a barroom brawl.” His voice took on the brightness of an earnest young courtier who’s just grasped one of the king’s dry jokes a day or so after hearing it as he added, “Which was true, strictly speaking!”
The baron snorted loudly. “I never liked that Illance boy. He’s got teeth like a werewolf-big incisors, the size of my thumb!-and he’s always smiling, like he wants to show them off.” He leered at the duke, cocked his head to one side, pointed at his teeth, and growled in mock lascivious tones, “Care to see what I ate last?”
As the duke snorted in amusement, Thomdor straightened in his saddle and growled, “Good thing neither lass showed him any favor. I’d hate to be hunting with that one.”
“Probably there’d be a ‘hunting accident’ before long,” Bhereu replied. “The sort that plagued the realm in the bad old days when Salember was regent. And if asked, I’d support the king’s story about it, whatever the story was.”
“I as well,” the baron grunted.
The trail to the river narrowed before them, and Baron Thomdor had to fall back behind his brother’s mount. Neither man had ceased his habitual, wary glances at the deep, damp, and watchful wood during the banter. They knew the king and Tanalasta’s young suitor had already reached the riverbank near the ruins of an old beacon tower.
The king still could pass for a man of forty, if you discounted the gray streaks in his hair and beard. Still, he was as lean and well muscled as ever, and could still best both his cousins at arm-wrestling, fencing, riding, or any other sport either could name.
His riding leathers were his informal set: white leathers trimmed with purple, even the heavy boots and gloves. His court garb had been left at the lodge, a symbol that the general ceremony attendant on the crown should be set aside. Azoun’s sword hung in a tattered scabbard on a weathered belt that one of the palace stewards would have consigned to the fire heap at a glance. The king wore a plain circlet on his brow, and an old, tattered brown scarf-a luck token from his queen-hid the hunting horn at his belt. Yet he rode like the great monarch he was, shoulders straight, quietly confident, clearly master of all around him without any need for arrogance or pomposity. As they came down the hill, both Thomdor and Bhereu were struck with the noble bearing of the man who was both their king and cousin.
The youth who rode beside Azoun seemed dim by comparison, as did any mortal next to the King of Cormyr. On a crowded dance floor, young Aunadar probably cut a dashing figure, his boyish charm and gallant looks leavened with a serious, almost bookish demeanor. The youth wore dark ebon leathers trimmed with gold, accented by a short golden riding cape. It was rather somber wear. Even so, in another hunting party, he would have been the center of attention, but here he was subdued by His Most Radiant Majesty.
The youth could have dressed more grandly, Thomdor thought, but at the risk, of course, of competing with his possible future father-in-law. Was such a diminished appearance cold calculation on the young man’s part, or merely common sense? The baron wanted to believe that it was the latter, not the former.
As they watched, Azoun raised a hand to point at the wreckage of the beacon tower. Such turrets bristled all over Cormyr, their summits used to relay messages quickly from one side of the realm to the other. Thomdor remembered when Azoun returned from Thesk and his triumph against the Tuigan horde. Every beacon tower was alight with bonfires that night, their red, leaping glow outshining the stars themselves.
This tower hadn’t been part of that celebration, it had been abandoned long before there were human kings of Cormyr. The faded but fluid script over its door proclaimed elven builders now gone and forgotten. Their slender handiwork had once been three floors in height, but passing centuries had taken their toll, until it had collapsed into a small shell reached by broad, vine-covered steps.
Thomdor knew by heart the history lesson it told. He had heard it from Rhigaerd, Azoun’s father, just as Azoun had gotten it several years later. The king would be telling it to young Bleth now, speaking of the dragons that once ruled this land and the elves who followed them. And the men who followed thereafter. The moral was clear to any man of noble station and clear thoughts:
“We do not own this land. It was here before us and will be here after we are gone. We are but guardians. Make the best of the time given to us here.”
If Aunadar was getting the history lesson, Thomdor thought, Azoun must have decided about young Bleth. Vangey, Bhereu, and, yes, the overweight Baron Thomdor as well would be consulted, but it was clear Azoun had already made up his mind. Had he not seen it so many times before, the baron’s ego would have been bruised. But how can one bruise a stone, one of the two pillars who held up the realm under the king? They had been called that, Bhereu and he, and as his brother duke had said, they were always to remain in the shadows.
Thomdor smiled and shrugged. What knight of the realm wouldn’t die to win the places they held? He looked at Bhereu, and they traded half-smiles of easy contentment, slowing their mounts in silent accord as they approached the king, so as to avoid having to hear the history lesson yet again.
The thought of shadows brought Thomdor’s eyes to the wreckage of the elven tower and the darkness beyond its carved lintel. Someone had been to the ruin since the last time they’d visited, for its broad steps were bare of heavy vines, and the stones that could be seen inside the door were no longer heaped with old rubble.
In that darkness something glinted, like a gold coin. Or a suit of armor.
Thomdor pointed and opened his mouth to say something about poachers to the duke-and the glittering thing moved.
And raging doom broke loose and came down on Cormyr.
“Aye?” Bhereu’s puzzled query burst from his lips as something sprang out of the tower like a stallion bursting from its stall. A golden flash and glimmer, the creature from the tower charged at them without hesitation.
The four hunters goggled, frozen for a moment by the sight. The creature was golden and bull-shaped, but its mirror-polished hide was covered with sinuous overlaid scales, much like a lizard’s. As it surged forward, sunlight danced on its scales, reflecting the light scattershot. Its forward-swept horns were impossibly long and curved so that their tips were mere inches from its faceted amber eyes. Steam billowed from its flaring nostrils and fang- ridged maw as it roared, deep and triumphant. The beast clattered down the broad steps and closed swiftly with
