Others took up the cry, and the keep shook with the shouts as Iltharl shook his head ruefully and Gantharla beamed.
In a voice that was thick with emotion, the new queen said, “I-I think I’m going to enjoy this!”
Baerauble smiled. “Ah, well, you’re young yet. There’ll be time enough to discover what it’s truly like.”
But in the swelling cheering, as folk streamed into the keep from Suzail and someone started wildly ringing the signal bells, no one but Sagrast heard the wizard’s words. He opened his mouth to say something, but Baerauble winked at him, and he shut his mouth again and kept silence for many long years.
Chapter 13: Affairs of State
Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
The morning sun reached through the window to tinge his beard with gold as Vangerdahast went slowly down on knees that protested every inch of the descent and said formally, “The gods watch over thee, Lady Highness.”
The crown princess frowned down at him. “Get up, Lord Vangerdahast. There’s hardly need for that-or for this oh-so-private meeting!” She cast an annoyed look at the closed door on the west wall of Brightsun Bower, where she knew a war wizard stood keeping her Aunadar at bay. “You know I’ve little liking for secrets, lord wizard, so…”
She made a gesture-as imperious as her father’s-indicating that he should speak. Now.
Vangerdahast rose. “This must be said in private, High Lady, for both our sakes and the sake of the realm. I am sworn, upon my oath and signature, to serve Cormyr. I will do so in whatever way the realm needs me, but wherever possible I shall continue to obey the Obarskyr king… or the Obarskyr heir.”
Tanalasta frowned but said nothing, waving at him to continue.
“If, High Lady, you feel you’re not yet ready to take the throne,” the Royal Magician said gently, “and the unfortunate event of your father’s going to the gods does come to pass, I want you to know-more than that, I’m obligated to inform you-that you can call on me. I am both willing and capable of serving Cormyr as regent.”
Tanalasta’s face went as white as new-fallen snow, and her eyes blazed. Vangerdahast saw bright tears well up in her eyes, but she bit her quivering lip and visibly summoned her self-control, drawing in a deep breath and putting her hand out to clasp the back of a nearby chair. In an instant, her slim fingers went white on its gilded curves.
“Loyal sir,” she said shortly, “our deep thanks for this news. I’ll… consider the matter.” Her eyes burned into him as if she heartily wished he’d fall to the floor, blazing, and be gone forever.
Vangerdahast stood unflinching in the face of her royal rage. So the lass did have her father’s fire, after all. That was good! He said softly,” ‘Twould be best for the realm, lady, if you consider not overlong.”
“You may go, lord wizard,” she replied coldly and flung out her arm to point at the door in the west wall. “And take your war wizard with you.”
Vangerdahast bowed. “Bright morning shine upon you, Lady Highness.”
Her only reply was a curt nod, her eyes two hard points. The Royal Magician turned and strode toward the door.
“My father still lives, wizard,” she growled under her breath behind him, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“I never presume overmuch, High Lady,” he told the door pleasantly as be laid his hand upon it. “The realm can ill afford such presumption.” And he went out.
He gave the same pleasant smile to the curious frown that Aunadar Bleth sent his way, then signaled the war wizard Halansalim to accompany him.
Three chambers away, he halted abruptly and told the war wizard, “The crown princess is furious with me just now. Take yourself into yonder robing room and hold this!” And he put an ivory dove figurine into Halansalim’s hand.
“I hear voices,” the bearded old mage told him.
“Listen to them, and this evening tell me what orders concerning me, the war wizards, or any court officials or changes in rulership the princess utters. The magic will last until highsun, so long as she doesn’t remove the ring she’s now wearing.”
Halansalim bowed silently and made for the door of the robing room. Vangerdahast strode on, heading for the Roaring Dragon Stair at a fast, rolling pace. He had an important appointment to keep.
The broad, sunlit stair led down to the Trumpet Gate of the palace, which faced the sprawling court at the base of the hill, and gave onto the road between them hard by the Crown Bridge. Ahead lay the court stables, and beyond the stables, all along the southern shore of Lake Azoun, sprawled the vast, many-towered bulk of the court. Bhereu had been taken this way already, to lie in state in the busy Marble Forehall, passed by folk crossing and crisscrossing the mirror-polished pavement between the Inner Ward, the Duskene Chamber, the Retiring Rooms, the Rooms of State, no fewer than four grand staircases that all descended into the forehall, and the Sword Portal.
It was the Sword Portal he was heading for now. Most folk in Suzail had stood before those massive double doors at least once in their lives, gaping at the armor plate that sheathed the thick timbers. Everyone in the city knew that the door was as thick as a brawny man’s forearm, and everyone in the realm knew what the thick tangle of welded-on swords that covered both doors were: the captured blades of “foes of the Crown.” The doors of the Sword Portal opened into the Processional, a long, red-carpeted hallway that led straight to the Approach Chamber, a guardpost of ornate gates and wall-mounted crossbows that in turn opened into the throne room.
What very few folk indeed knew about the Sword Portal was that when it was swung open, the narrow, man-high openings revealed in the thickness of its frame were not only guard niches, though a guard in full armor usually stood in each of them, but also passages that led into a warren of secret ways and closets in the heart of the court.
The Purple Dragon standing guard in the more westerly niche, a usually loyal man named Perglyn, was engaged in a pleasant mental calculation. Namely, how much he’d win if his wager-that Baron Thomdor would join his brother the duke in death before another two sunrises, but the king would hold on a day longer-came good. Of course, for his coin belt to be sixty-two gold lions heavier, the realm would lose its king, but-he shrugged-someone was always dying, and some must lose for others to gain. Of course, the nobles would never stand for that chit of a crown princess on the throne.. at least, not unmarried. He’d just agreed on another wager about that: the fat old court wizard would call a council, and the nobles would draw lots-or compete in paying him bribes, more likely-to see which of them would get to wed the princess and take the throne. Aye, then old Vangerdahast had best snatch his loot and vanish from the realm before the new king decided to make sure no true tale of how much the crown had cost him. The guard blinked, choked, then blinked again. The Royal Magician himself stood not a pace away, raising an eyebrow. “Pray stand aside, Perglyn,” the old wizard said pleasantly, raising his other eyebrow to match the first, for all the world as if he could hear every thought that had just rushed through Perglyn Trusttower’s head. Perglyn gulped, tried to salute and move aside at the same time, dropped his halberd with a loud clang, bent with fervent apologies to pluck it up, straightened, and
The wizard was gone, as if he’d never been there. Perglyn blinked, but young Angalaz, across the portal, was grinning from ear to ear. “Ho, most valiant Perg!” he whispered all too loudly. “Aging so fast you’ve forgotten how to hold a halberd? The Royal Magician gave you a proper pitying look as he went into the passage!”
Perglyn stopped glaring at his fellow guard-young thrust-nose!-long enough to wheel around and peer into the darkness behind him. He saw nothing, of course. When a court wizard wants to stay hidden, there is nothing to see.
The Blue Maiden Room took its name from the life-sized sculpture that stood on a plinth in its center. A modest maiden sculpted of smooth-polished blue glass sat gazing up at the sky-looking for a dragon coming to devour her, legend had it-and in the meantime holding a cloak fortuitously fetched from somewhere over strategic areas of her beauty. The maiden’s hands, feet, and breasts were much too large for the rest of her, and the overall effect was one of bold, gaudy, and surpassing ugliness.
Azoun’s father, Rhigaerd, had hated it, and his feelings of distaste were mild compared to the opinions held
