Vangerdahast raised his brows but said nothing.
The young noble smiled triumphantly and added, “One more thing. I know that one of the Obarskyr family treasures is an item that protects the mind of its wearer from sorcerous influences. I want Tanalasta to wear that item, and I want it examined by a neutral wizard-one not from this realm-to be sure that it hasn’t been tampered with. I want him to ascertain and tell all of the council the precise limitations of its powers, and I want enchantments that duplicate those powers placed upon items worn by all members of the council, including myself. I’m afraid that, as one of those arrogant young nobles you speak of, I can’t find myself ever linking the word ‘trust’ and the word ‘wizard.’” He gave Vangerdahast a saccharine smile and picked up the empty glass. “Something to drink?”
The wizard shook his head. “Everyone seems to be buying his poisons from Westgate these days, and they always make things too salty so they can water down the stuff, because folk are driven to drink more of it.”
Aunadar’s lips tightened. “I don’t like your inference, mage.”
“Whether you like or dislike what I do or say is immaterial, noble,” Vangerdahast replied easily. “I am trying to govern a realm, not win fawning popularity contests among young noble boys.”
“Yes,” Aunadar said softly, “that’s precisely what you’re trying to do-govern a realm. And for the good of our realm, I am going to stop you. Wizards have twisted the lives of all in Cormyr long enough.”
“Ah, that grandest of phrases: ‘For the good of the realm.’ It can cover everything from outright murder to poisonings, smashing down buildings, setting the country to war, or starting plagues-and has.” The wizard’s tone was biting. “When someone says he’s acting for the good of the realm, it labels him either a self-righteous fool or a self-righteous villain. Which are you?”
Aunadar’s nostrils tightened, and he strode forward. “I trust the lore you were taught was specific on the subject of the last regency, wherein the faithful regent refused to give up power after his time had passed.”
“Oh, yes,” the mage replied softly. “My tutelage on that was thorough. I remember the tales of the last regency very well.”
Aunadar stepped back a pace, face paling-and in his hiding place behind the hearth-surround peepholes, Dauneth Marliir shuddered for the same reason: the ice in the old mage’s voice.
Chapter 28: Dragons, Red and Purple
Year of the Rock (1286 DR)
King Salember stalked the halls of Castle Obarskyr, bellowing for the courtiers, for his guards, for the servants. None answered his summons, and no one knelt, awaiting orders, at any corner he turned. His footfalls rang heavily through the stone halls and echoed in the distance.
The guards were gone from his doors, the servants from their hiding holes, the fawning courtiers from their appointed places. Where were the scribes, the healers, the pages? Where was his court?
They could not all have left him, he thought. Defections had been rife, true, but he’d kept the rest of the rabble in line. And they could still win. He had led the country for nine years and led it well. “Cormyr stands strong!” he bellowed, just as he had done in so many speeches before. The echo came back to him mockingly. Couldn’t the people see that things were better now under his regency? Had been better, at least, until the upstart prince started making trouble.
Everything had been knocked askew by this upstart prince. Work was undone, crops unharvested, deals unmade. Even the castle itself was filled with projects half accomplished before the servants fled. Tapestries were half hung, shields of treacherous houses pulled from the wall but left lying when they fell. Salember passed the Blue Maiden, a favorite statue, resting beside its plinth, waiting for the workers to lift her up to the pedestal. Salember cursed at the sloppiness of the staff, along with their weak loyalties.
Salember paused by one of the great gallery windows overlooking the city. The sun was westering, and most of Suzail lay at his feet, already cloaked in the deep shadows of early evening. There were fires in the city tonight, fires unnecessary for so close to Midsummer Eve. They marked the sites of battles between his faction and that of Rhigaerd, between the Reds and the Purples, between those who served the rightful ruler and those who followed a pretender to the throne. The flames of burning buildings made him think of red dragons against the shadowed city, but the spiraling smoke reminded him of purple dragons in the dying sun.
Out there in the city and in the countryside beyond the walls, the factions were sparring and battling. In the streets of Arabel and swampy Marsember, in forested Dhedluk and mountainous High Horn, the country was riven. The Purple Dragons were torn apart, with units and mages taking opposite sides. The Battle Brotherhood had been shattered into a hundred individual mages, all of whom had headed for their towers and lairs. Even the churches-the Helmites, the Lathanderites, the Mystrans-were riven by the choice.
And all because some folk would fling aside a capable sitting regent for the unproven whelp of the previous king.
Nine years ago Salember’s brother, Azoun III of the Forest Country, had died, leaving behind a son too young to rule a nursery chamber, let alone a kingdom. Jorunhast came to Salember then with the offer of a regency-a temporary rule until Crown Prince Rhigaerd was of age. Salember stepped up to the Dragon Throne, a position he’d never sought.
And he’d served for nine years, and served well. People were living better, imports were up, and the depredations of orcs, goblins, brigands, and dragons sharply on the downswing. So after nine years, it made perfect sense to keep the same steady hand at the helm.
But, no, the traditionalists, the monarchists, the mired-in-rules old thinkers resisted. Rhigaerd demanded the crown, then fled into the wilderness to marshal his own forces. He took the banner of the Purple Dragons with him. Salember flew the Red Dragon, a color of battle and blood, over the castle.
Salember removed his heavy crown and set it on the sill of the gallery window. He’d taken Palaghard’s crown from a century ago as his own, and the ornate, gem-encrusted helm weighed heavily.
He sighed. When the Purples were crushed, then perhaps the old crown would be fetched from the vaults. Yes, when the rebel Purples were crushed and Rhigaerd routed from whatever burrow he’d squirreled himself away in. When Rhigaerd’s Purples were finally destroyed, everything would fall back into place. And at last affairs in Cormyr would get back to normal, and he could forge ahead to make the land ever mightier. “Cormyr stands strong,” he muttered, bringing his fist down on the sill slowly and gently. Like a storm giant, he must be careful, he thought, lest his great strength break things around him that he held dear.
A distant sound came down the hall, a single, short slam or thump, booming along the bare walls.
The Red Dragon King turned and shouted, “Jorunhast? Is that you?”
The Blue Maiden looked up at him, calm and unchanging, from the floor beside the plinth he’d ordered her placed upon-how long ago had it been? A tenday, now? A life-sized, sculpted maiden of smooth blue glass, sitting gazing up at the dragon coming to devour her, the sages said. Her hands were too large, and her feet, too, some folk said, but Salember liked her strength, her courage to sit naked but for a cloak held against her, awaiting doom. That was the sort of spirit more folk in Cormyr should show. Besides, the sages said the maiden was linked to the good fortune of House Obarskyr and should never be smashed, disgraced, or lost. He’d have to give that order again and get her up on the plinth where she belonged without further delay. If he could only get the damned servants to answer his call…
“Jorunhast?”
The wizard would still be there. He was tethered to the crown like a mongrel dog, as all the Royal Magicians, Crown Wizards, and Lords of Magic of the past had been.
Yes! He, Salember, had found that in Baerauble’s original books: The wizards were magically bound to protect the crown. Others had forgotten that, but not wise old Salember. Whatever else happened, the Royal Magician would be loyal.
But Salember’s voice echoed down the halls to no response.
Cowards, thought Salember. No fire in the belly, no passion in the heart for a good fight. All the Dauntinghorns and Marliirs and Wyvernspurs, retiring to their country holdings to wait out the storm. Truesilvers, Crownsilvers, and Huntsilvers! They were cousins to both him and Rhigaerd, yet they mumbled their loyal oaths and equivocated and minced when pressed for troops and aid!
