Goodman Ilduiph are both of the mind that the royal writ is a shield for all loyal men. If the goblins aren’t there by the king’s will…”
“Then before all the gods, the goblins just aren’t there,” Azoun completed the sentence calmly. “Or at least they dare not attack or despoil save by royal leave.”
Feldon nodded, and Azoun smiled slowly and said, “Fetch them both.” Before Feldon could more than open his mouth to reply, something occurred to the king. “Bid the warden bring his family. Let the ladies be ready to march-without two warrior-loads of jewels and finery each.”
As Warden, Maestoon Huntsilver saw to the state of all the game in the King’s Forest, and all of the royal foresters, too. He was one of the few Huntsilvers capable of doing the crown so useful a service as guiding the royal army through the heart of the forest. Moreover, he was one of the few who probably would want to.
There had been many marriages between the Huntsilvers and the Obarskyrs down the years, but there were Huntsilvers who’d probably laugh to see Azoun IV laid in his grave. Maestoon’s last surviving son, Cordryn, was one of those nobles exiled and disinherited for conspiring with Gaspar Cormaeril in his plot to seize the throne.
Maestoon himself, however-or so Vangerdahast had sworn, after a little covert magical spying-was genuinely ashamed of that, and anxious to return to the royal good graces. Soft-spoken and even effeminate, he was that rare thing: a forester who knew wildlife and how to encourage their breeding. He was also a courtier so skilled with his tongue and so watchful as to always say the right thing in any awkward situation at court.
Maestoon had at least two more troubles than the tendency of his sons to get themselves killed or mired in treason. He had a wife and a daughter.
His lady Elanna, much younger than her husband and a Dauntinghorn by birth, was an ash blonde of thin, sleek, devastating beauty whose dancing had been known to make watching men growl with lust-and who knew her powers only too well. She amused herself by toying with almost every noble she met, setting some against others and all to doing ridiculous tasks and pranks, purely in hopes of tasting her favors.
Maestoon’s daughter Shalanna was a very different bad apple. She played her own pranks, knowing just enough magic to be malicious and dangerous to those she dared to turn it against. That one was fat and sullen, resenting her mother for being beautiful and the war wizards for not making fat Shalanna the beauty she deserved to be, and all young noblemen for courting her for her riches and standing when she knew she disgusted them… and every one else, Azoun supposed, for seeing her as she truly was, both inside and out. Azoun didn’t know which she-viper was worse.
Half his kingdom was under the sway of folk worse than these-the kingdom he was fighting to preserve and would someday die fighting for. Yet it was the only realm he had, and his home, and Azoun knew he’d not trade it for another if his own queen and all the other women in it were Elannas and Shalannas.
Right now, he wished Maestoon joy of them, and hoped he’d not have their blood on his hands a few days from now. He’d hate to give that sort of cold reward to so good and loyal a man.
There came the warden now, smiling eagerly at his king and bustling in his haste to serve.
Azoun watched him come and drew in a deep breath. Yes, there were a lot of good and loyal men in Cormyr he’d not want to hand the cold reward of death to, in the days ahead.
And a few others who must be stone cold insane to want the Dragon Throne for themselves.
16
Though the summit of Jhondyl’s Ridge stood well hidden beneath an ancient forest of giant hawthorn and oak, the west side fell away in a steep scarp that overlooked all Cormyr south of Gray Oaks. From her camp table beneath the spreading boughs of an old ironbark, Tanalasta could mark the location of each ghazneth by the particular devastation following in its wake. Luthax’s wildfires gushed smoke along the Starwater, Suzara’s blight browned the fields between Calantar’s Bridge and Marsember, and Xanthon’s locusts boiled northward along the Way of the Dragon. The ghazneths were easy enough to locate-but what could she do to stop them?
So far, Tanalasta’s campaign to save the south had been little more than a meaningless string of hard rides and costly battles. After spying a ghazneth’s depredations, she and a company of handpicked soldiers would teleport to the scene to keep the phantom pinned in place until the rest of the army arrived to destroy it. Inevitably, they caused the area a lot of inadvertent damage, then finally suffered too many casualties to prevent their foe from escaping. That the creatures always seemed to appear a good half day’s ride from her army struck the princess as more than coincidence, especially since she was taking precautions to keep the force hidden, but she also knew that her suspicions might be little more than the frustration of trying to catch up to a winged enemy.
A loud rustle sounded from the woods behind Tanalasta, and she turned to find Korvarr Rallyhorn leading Filfaeril, Alaphondar, and a small company of bodyguards toward her table. Hoping her black weathercloak would be enough to conceal her growing bulk from the queen’s discerning eye-Tanalasta still had not found the right occasion to mention her pregnancy-she spread her arms and went to embrace her mother.
“You had a safe journey, Majesty?”
“No journey is safe these days, Tanalasta, but it was without incident.” Filfaeril returned her daughter’s embrace, then stepped back and eyed her up and down. “I see the hardships of the trail have not affected your appetite.”
Tanalasta launched instantly into the response she had planned. “We do a lot of waiting. Sometimes it seems there is nothing to do but eat.” She stepped away from her mother and embraced Alaphondar. “And how are you, old friend?”
“As well as I hope you are.” The sage pressed his mouth to her ear. “Tell her soon, my dear. You are running out of time!”
Tanalasta laughed lightly, as though at some jest. “Alaphondar, that is not a very nice thing to say to a princess!” She released him and glanced over to the war wizards in her mother’s party. “Sarmon the Spectacular could not attend?”
“Still too old,” Alaphondar said. “The royal priests have not yet learned how to reverse the ghazneth’s aging effect.”
“Pity,” said Tanalasta. “Perhaps Harvestmaster Foley will have some thoughts on the matter when we return.”
She guided the pair to her camp table, where Owden Foley sat poring over maps and dispatches. As they approached, the priest stood and bowed to Filfaeril, who returned the gesture with a polite if unenthusiastic smile, then stepped away from his chair to embrace Alaphondar like the old friends they had become.
Tanalasta waited while one of her bodyguards pulled a chair for the queen, then sat next to her. “What news from Alusair and the king, Majesty?” She did not ask about Vangerdahast. Nobody asked about Vangerdahast any more.
“Still nothing about your friend, I’m afraid,” said Filfaeril. They both knew what the princess was really asking, for the question was always Tanalasta’s first on the infrequent occasions they spoke. “Alusair seems to be holding her own against the orcs. Your father is on his way south to help with the ghazneths.”
“Of course.” Though Tanalasta’s heart sank, she tried not to show her disappointment. The mere presence of her father would draw the rest of the nobles into the fray and spare Cormyr much suffering. That it would also undo what little progress she had made in winning their respect really did not matter. The destruction of the ghazneths was too important to let concerns about prestige interfere. “I am sure the king will bring the situation quickly under control.”
Filfaeril took her daughter’s hand. “That’s what he’s best at, Tanalasta, and what he loves. You are to be commended for taking the field in his place, of course, but everyone knows that your strength lies… closer to the palace.”
Tanalasta withdrew her hand. “Is that why you arranged this rendezvous? To fetch me home?”
“Actually, I was the one who suggested a meeting.” Alaphondar took a seat across from Tanalasta, drawing her gaze away from the queen, and drew a roll of parchment from inside his robe. “I have made some progress in our research, and I thought it might be of use here in the field.”
Tanalasta accepted the parchment but glanced back to her mother. “Then I’m not being recalled to the palace?”
