“Well,” Tessara said, leaning forward to speak in low, urgent tones, “you may all laugh about wild rumors, but I was told by a friend I trust well that Lady Laspeera of the war wizards-second in rank of them all, after Vangerdahast himself-has disappeared. Some in the palace are saying she may have been entombed alive in the palace vaults when the Purple Dragons sealed them, at the command of the princess.”
“That may just be true,” Turlstars said thoughtfully, but Darvae made a rude sound of disagreement.
“I doubt soldiers as busy as they are right now could find the time to seal off all the ways a wizard might find to get out of a cellar,” Darvae pronounced.
“Busy?” Rhauligan pounced.
The cloth merchant grinned wryly. “They’re saying down the Promenade that there’s a private war going on between Purple Dragons loyal to Tanalasta and those cleaving to the old wizard, Vangerdahast. Most of the court officials, like the sages Dimswart and Alaphondar, are supporting the wizard, but one wing of the palace is supposed to be awash in blood… entire hallways choked with armor-clad corpses.”
“Some folk have vivid imaginations,” Tessara murmured. “I heard that Alaphondar the sage was slain defending the queen from assassins, and the queen lies on her deathbed mere feet from her husband.”
“But that’s Just it!” protested Onszibar. “What do we know to help us sort out the fancy from what’s actually going on in the palace? What do we really know?”
Gormon Turlstars nodded, saying heavily, “On the way here I heard two nobles discussing where to hide. They think someone is stabbing all the nobles who dare to go to see Tanalasta and leaving them to die in the palace or to crawl out!”
Darvae nodded. “I heard that, too. It seems one made it as far as the royal gardens yesterday before collapsing.”
“I can crown all,” Rhauligan said grandly, holding up a hand for attention. “A guard in the palace who’s been stationed close to the dying king says that the priests have been defeated by whatever ails him, and that they plan to keep our Azoun on the throne by using dark magic to make him undead!”
Turlstars snorted. “Even if you believed the priests could agree with each other to do that, do you think the people would stand for it?”
“Would they accept a regency where Vangerdahast rules, after marrying Queen Filfaeril?” Tessara asked. “I’ve heard that rumor several times.”
“Yes, yes,” Turlstars said disgustedly. “And the Purple Dragons, the war wizards, and the nobles are all planning to seize the throne. Red Wizards and Zhentarim have been seen openly walking the Promenade-“
“Well, they have!” Rhauligan said sharply. “I myself saw a man I know to be a Zhent mageling! I’ve heard that a man walking north of the court, near the royal gardens, was seen to change shape! If that isn’t the work of a wizard…”
Tessara sighed. “So the realm is falling apart as we watch, and loyal Vangerdahast is to blame, either because he’s causing it-“
“Or he’s not stopping it,” Turlstars agreed heavily.
Dauneth had been sitting silent behind his tankard, listening with growing horror… and then, slowly, a rising anger. How cynical these folk were-all of them! Did the king’s life mean nothing? Did they believe no word spoken by anyone of the court? He saw again Azoun laughing in his saddle, arms spread wide, and heard a voice saying angrily, “From where I come from, the word ‘loyal’ is not an empty joke. The crown is worth upholding, worth fighting for. It is what makes us better than the money-grubbing Sembians or the savages of Tunland. Have a care for your words, for I will fight to see that King Azoun’s name remains unsullied!”
The young noble blinked. They were all staring at him. He had half risen from his seat. It seemed that the angry voice had been his own.
“Ah,” he said in some confusion, noting that even Glarasteer Rhauligan was gaping at him, and sat down again. “What I mean to say is that Lord Vangerdahast is older than the mountains. Why would he be a traitor? It sounds to me like he’s just trying to keep the court running until the king is well again.”
Tessara’s dark eyes narrowed. “That’s a peculiar way for a Marliir to talk-supporting the crown.”
“What do you mean?” Dauneth asked softly, feeling a trembling rage surging up in him. Without thinking, his hand reached for his blade.
His fingers met the cold edge of a drawn sword, blocking his way to his own scabbard. Tessara’s eyes were as wintry as the steel under his fingertips as she said, “Does your family not speak of such things as their war with King Dhalmass? Or the Prince Regent Salember? Or do they prefer not to deal with past defeats?”
“I-” Dauneth began hotly, and then fell silent because he realized he had nothing to say. His family didn’t speak of such matters, and this woman looked as if she knew exactly what she was talking about… as well as how to handle a sword. He’d not even seen her draw the blade that she was now slowly pulling back, tip lifted a little to catch his gaze as a warning. He looked past it and into her eyes, and suddenly he thought how beautiful she looked, hard and confident, and…
He knew be was blushing again and managed to say, “Lady, I meant no offense to anyone here. I was simply shocked by the way all of you-“
“Spoke lightly of the realm?” Rhauligan said roughly. “Lad, that doesn’t mean we don’t love it!”
The short silence that followed his words was broken by a drawl from Darvae. “Well, it seems the young high-boots is a panther, after all.”
Someone started to laugh, but fell silent. The entire Snout Room joined in the sudden, tense stillness.
A man had come into the room, walking alone, a stout man in a plain brown robe, bound about at the waist with a tasseled rope of the palest mauve. He looked about, his brown eyes almost stern, and Dauneth felt as if the man’s brief glance had named, measured, and taken inventory of all the clothing and gear of a certain young Marliir.
Though many would not have called the paunchy, bareheaded man in robes impressive, everyone in the Roving Dragon had fallen silent-and stayed that way as Vangerdahast, the Royal Magician of Cormyr, went to the table where the mercenary captain was sitting. They exchanged wordless nods, and the wizard sat down, favoring the room with a wry little smile as he did so. Abruptly the sounds of chatter, creaking cartwheels, and shouting street vendors filled the room. The sounds of the Promenade outside, somehow brought in to swirl about…
Magic. Of course. To keep others from overhearing. Dauneth gaped at the stout wizard, who was leaning forward, elbows on the mercenary’s table. They talked briefly and quietly, then nodded and rose together, striding out without looking around or acknowledging a tentative hail from Rhauligan. The sounds of the street went out with them, leaving the end room of the Roving Dragon silent again.
It was Tessara who broke the stillness, asking in a low voice, “Now, why does the Lord High Wizard of Cormyr need to hire mercenaries? To fight off rebellious nobles? Or Purple Dragons?”
“Yes… and Dragons loyal to whom?” Turlstars said grimly.
“We’ll know soon enough, I fear,” Rhauligan said almost wearily. He looked up at Dauneth. “You picked a bad time to come to Suzail, lad.”
The young noble shrugged, affecting a confidence he did not feel. “If the realm needs me..”
Tessara smiled suddenly. “It saves riding here, you mean?” She shook her head and added, “You may be called on all too soon. The realm needs strong, orderly rule, or your fellow nobles, locked in feuds and rivalries that go back past all our memories, will tear it apart like hungry wolves.”
“I’ve never seen darker days in Suzail,” Turlstars said heavily. “What I want to know most of all is how can the realm survive?”
Chapter 16: The King’s Touch
Year of the Sea Princes (432 DR)
It’s never been this bad, thought Elvarin Crownsilver in the darkness. How can the realm possibly survive?
She looked around the night-shadowed forest. Here were the last of the great House of Obarskyr, huddling in the dark, waiting for a traitor to bring them their first victory
Their first victory in three long years of being hunted through the king’s own forest. Or their final defeat.
