of how High Magess Amedahast died all those years ago battling the first war wizards, who can blame them?” Moodily he moved his king again.
Huldyl was nodding in somber agreement. “There’s another thing, too,” he added. “With a clear, unbroken Obarskyr line, everyone knows who has the right to sit on the throne. The moment a regency muddies the waters and someone marries one of the princesses, a rival noble will think he’s better suited to rule than the one who snared the princess-and once that starts, we won’t have a Cormyr unless the land can somehow endure every last noble family in it killing off all their rivals, until there’s no great house left. Then one of us will have to choose a commoner to wear the crown.”
“Ah, yes,” Kurthryn agreed grimly, “choosing the right commoner. The fun never ends, does it?”
“We probably won’t have to worry about having to make any such choice,” Huldyl said. “Remember, this whole thing has been forced upon us by a treasonous murderer, or perhaps a band of murderers. You really think they don’t have something of their own in mind for Cormyr? We’ll be lucky if we even find out who they are before they have our heads bouncing and rolling down the banks of Lake Azoun!”
“I think it’s Sembians-perhaps with help from Westgate, or even Amn. Merchants, anyway, who look upon Cormyr as a rich little breadbasket that they can empty faster if they don’t have a king in the way of their grasping hands,” Kurthryn said. “They may have bought or duped a few Cormyreans, and they’ll probably put a puppet noble house on and around the throne, but it’s outlanders doing this to Cormyr. I’m sure of it.”
“I’m not,” Huldyl replied in a voice of doom. “This has all the feel of a home-brewed plot.”
“How so?” Kurthryn asked dubiously. “You think some old noble with a grudge or ambitious young one can get his hands on a dead-magic toxin? Someone who’s very powerful in magic must be involved, someone better than even our Lord High Wizard, or he’d have cured the king by now.”
“Unless he’s behind it all,” Huldyl returned. “Who better placed to lead priests astray? And those of us who tried to help, too? All your point about the means of slaying really tells us is that the traitor or traitors have money enough to buy powerful magic. The deadly means might have come from anywhere in Faerun… perhaps the far Tuigan Wastes, or the lands of the far south, or across the seas to the west. What better place to find something that’ll baffle our best healers?”
Kurthryn nodded. “That feels right, that argument-but nothing in your words really proves it’s traitors here at home. Cormyr has no shortage of foes who’d like to see it gone… rich Sembians who’d like to expand their holdings, in particular.”
“Ah,” Huldyl said, leaning forward, “but which of those outsiders wants their prize of Cormyr damaged or ruined by strife? None of them. Who can’t see any way to what they want but strife? Someone who dwells here and has a place in society he knows he can’t be budged from. And who would benefit most from Azoun’s death and chaos in Cormyr?”
“Well,” Kurthryn responded, “who? You tell me! Alusair doesn’t really want the crown. She’s happiest playing lady adventurer across half Faerun, at her own whim. Apparently Tanalasta doesn’t want it either. This Bleth would probably be happy as prince consort, but he dare not move quickly to take real power or half the nobles in the realm’ll set him straight-and have him murdered if he ignores their rebukes. All of the nobles would probably like to strengthen their influence, wealth, and holdings, but no one noble house will be allowed to rise above the rest once the Obarskyrs are gone. They all regularly backstab each other, and they have no central leader. Their distrust of each other is so strong that they could never have one!”
“Go on, master plotter,” Huldyl said eagerly, waving at his friend to continue.
Kurthryn took a deep breath and added, “The military is loyal, by and large, to whoever sits on the Dragon Throne. The people always suspect us war wizards of treachery against the crown, but surely if there was some plot within our ranks, we’d have heard of it or smelled something. Besides, Vangerdahast keeps us on a short leash.”
“It all comes back to Vangerdahast, doesn’t it?” Huldyl said grimly.
They nodded to each other, both facing the same unpleasant possibility. The Lord High Wizard was powerful enough, perhaps, to create the deadly poison. One war wizard who’d confronted the old mage about his planned regency had disappeared. Vangerdahast was spending a lot of time trotting around, whispering with nobles, but he had said nothing, beyond a few curt orders, to his own war wizards. Moreover, he was usually a master at spreading rumors and swaying the people-yet this time he’d done nothing in that line, even with the folk of Suzail blaming the royal plight on any wizard who was handy. What was the old vulture’s game?
“Well,” Kurthryn said heavily, “at least we know at last what has laid the royals low. If I know old Thunderspells-and he is as loyal as I believe him to be-we’ll probably have a cure for it in days.”
“Too late for Bhereu.”
“Too late for him, but we could even lose Baron Thomdor and survive. So long as the king does not die, Cormyr will see itself through this crisis as it has through so many others. Even a king lying abed for years will save us from civil war… I hope.”
“You have more hope in you than I do,” Huldyl said gloomily. “And-“
Whatever else he may have said was lost forever as a lone figure in blue and silver, stumbling a little, came forlornly up the hall toward them. It was the priestess of Tymora, Gwennath, coming from the direction of the royal quarters. She was as white as Kurthryn’s chess pieces.
The war wizards exchanged a look, and Kurthryn put out a gentle hand. “Lady? Is there aught we can do for you?”
“Pray,” the priestess said in a trembling voice. “Pray for me… and for him… and for the realm. I have failed. Baron Thomdor is dead.”
She shook off his comforting hand, burst into tears, and strode away, sobbing out a prayer to Tymora.
The two wizards looked at each other again. “Check,” Huldyl said bitterly, moving his bat-mounted mage to threaten Kurthryn’s king.
Slowly Kurthryn reached out and tipped Galaghard over to signify his surrender. “We’d better go see,” he said wearily, and they got up in a swirl of robes and strode down the hall. Although they hurried, there was really no need to hurry now.
When they were gone, the moonstone queen that had felt odd to Kurthryn’s fingers earlier pulsed, shifted its position slightly, and then slowly flowed, like syrup, down over the edge of the board to the floor, where it rose, growing with terrifying speed, to become… a woman in a plain, dark, revealingly cut gown. She wore a locket on a black ribbon at her throat, with hair the color of honey and eyes like warm flames.
Emthrara the Harper, who with Laspeera had unlocked the secrets of the abraxus, unclenched her right fist. In her hand was a white chess piece: the queen she’d been. She set it on the proper square of the board, murmured, “Check indeed, good sirs,” and glided to one wall of the antechamber, where her deft fingers probed, pushed, and finally opened a hitherto hidden door in the paneling. Without a backward look, she slipped into the darkness beyond and was gone. The door shut behind her with the faintest of clicks, leaving the room dark and empty. Once more this part of the palace felt like a tomb.
Chapter 20: Battle of the Witch Lords
Year of the Thirsty Sword (900 DR)
It was not a meeting they had time for, thought Aosinin Truesilver, but then it was not a meeting they could afford to miss, either. By rights, King Galaghard, his noble court, and High Wizard Thanderahast should be seeing to the last details of the planned assault in the morning. But these were elves, and these elves demanded immediate attention.
Their appearance was both ominous and telling. For the past three months, the Glory of Cormyr, the army of the king, had met and routed the Witch Lords’ armies time and time again. At the fords of Wheloon, at the forgotten temple, at Juniril and again at the Manticore’s Crossing, each time overrunning the Witch Lords’ position and trampling their undead troops beneath the hooves of good Cormyrean steeds. Yet their foe had risen from the dead again and again-literally.
From each battle, the most powerful Witch Lord necromancers slipped away, to regroup with forces of moldering fighting men freshly disinterred. Now the Glory of Cormyr had ridden to the limits of their supplies and
