actually desired came about in reaction. He would have to wish himself out of existence but choose his words carefully enough to be certain that he came back into existence in Cormyr. That would, of course, trigger another reaction, since what he really desired could not possibly be as important as what he truly desired but did not wish… Vangerdahast felt as though he were standing between two mirrors trying to find the last reflection when there simply was not one. No matter how carefully he worded the wish, he would be playing knucklebones with his own life. Even if he did find a way to cheat the spell, he would be gambling with the multiverse itself. That he could not do, even to save Cormyr.
Otka made her final assignments and turned to address her generals, reminding them of how much they owed Nalavara for bringing them the gift of iron and civilization, and that all the Giver had ever asked of them was that one day they would go stop the depredations of the human things.
As she spoke, Vangerdahast found himself staring across the room to where the iron crown sat in the empty throne. Twice Nalavara had offered him the crown, and twice he had refused it. Even if he did want to rule a nation of goblins-which he did not-he had seen no reason to trust the dragon. The offer had seemed a mere trick to bind him to her service or more likely an empty taunt meant to mock the dark ambitions everyone save the wizard himself seemed to sense lurking in his soul. He had dismissed the crown as a thing of no value to him or anyone else-and yet there it was, sitting empty in a seat of honor.
It had value to the goblins.
Still invisible, Vangerdahast dropped out of his corner and spread his wings, swooping so low over the Otka’s head that she ducked and cried out as he sifted past. The other goblins looked at her as though she were mad, and she gazed around the room with wide, suspicious eyes.
Vangerdahast landed in the center of the chair and slipped his wingtips under the rim of the crown, then changed back into a man. If the goblins noticed his transition from an invisible bat to an invisible wizard, they showed no sign. The wizard found himself sitting in the throne, holding the iron crown over his head with both hands. The Scepter of Lords, which had been absorbed into his body when he changed into a bat, re-emerged in the crook of his elbow-then slipped free and clattered to the floor.
The goblins looked instantly in his direction. Vangerdahast lowered the crown onto his head, then canceled his invisibility spell and pointed at Otka. “No!”
Even Otka shrank from the thunder in his voice. Vangerdahast took the opportunity to pull a piece of twisted horsehair-goblin thread-and two tiny goblin thimbles from his pocket. He pictured Rowen’s dark face in his mind and uttered a quick incantation. As soon as the ranger’s pearly eyes shifted, the wizard thought-spoke to him.
Come quick. In war room, down in-
That was as much as Vangerdahast could think before he felt the spell’s magic dissipating out into the iron crown. Trying not to let his alarm-or his confusion-show, he stood and pulled from his sleeve a pellet of red glass he had taken from one of the iron trees in the goblin graveyard.
In his most commanding royal magician voice, he spoke again in Grodd. “This shall not be!”
Vangerdahast pointed at the center of the situation table, simultaneously tossing the glass pellet at the model of Arabel and hissing the words of a lightning spell. Again, he felt a strange, disk-shaped surge of energy from the center of his head into the crown. A meager flash of red lightning fizzled from his fingertip and razed the tiny city. Though hardly the awe-inspiring demonstration he had planned, the spell was sufficient to cause the goblin generals to back away and press themselves to the walls.
Otka was not so easily impressed. She narrowed her eyes at Vangerdahast and said, “Where you came from?”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Vangerdahast leaned on the edge of the table and said, “Otka does not know the Iron One?”
This drew an incredulous murmur from the generals. Some pressed their palms together before their faces and inclined their heads. Others let their claws drop toward their swords and looked to Otka. She narrowed her eyes and started forward, motioning her generals to follow.
As the Royal Magician of Cormyr, Vangerdahast was as accomplished in the art of politics as any man alive, which was to say that he had no doubt forgotten more about it than even the high consul of the Grodd had ever known. He was also well versed in the worth of a symbol, so when he decided that the time had come to eliminate his rival, he did not have to think twice about how to do it. He merely pulled a pinch of iron dust from his pocket and tossed it toward the ceiling above Otka’s head, at the same time speaking the words of his iron wall spell.
Instead of the strange draining he had experienced earlier, Vangerdahast’s head nearly burst as the crown released its store of magic. The energy shot through him in a searing flash and left his hand. A huge sheet of iron appeared beneath the ceiling, blasting the walls apart and filling the room with billowing clouds of dust.
Otka had barely enough time to look up before the slab dropped. It flattened not only her but the generals who had been moving forward alongside her.
Vangerdahast barely noticed, for it felt as though his skull had been chopped off from the iron crown up. Dizzy, blind, and sick, he collapsed screaming into the throne and tried to tear the burning circlet off his head.
It was too tight. He could not slip his fingers under the band, nor push it up, nor even twist it around beneath his pressed palms. The thing had melded itself to his skull, and nothing he did would loosen it.
Eventually, a gentle drizzle cooled his brow to a temperature less than feverish, and the pain subsided to the point that Vangerdahast could think of something beside his aching head.
“Vangerdahast?”
He looked up to see Rowen’s dark face peering down at him from atop a four-foot slab of iron. Flanking the ghazneth were a dozen goblin generals, their greenish faces paled to sickish saffron. Their iron swords remained sheathed, and they took care to keep a reasonable distance between themselves and the Naked One.
“Not Vangerdahast, you fool!” Vangerdahast hissed, glaring up from beneath his new crown. “The Iron One.” He reached down and picked the Scepter of Lords up from the foot of his throne, then used it to push himself to his feet. “King of the Goblins.”
26
“It really doesn’t matter what any of us want, Dauneth,” Alusair snarled, bringing her fist down on the map- strewn table with a resounding crash.
“This city is going to fall!”
The High Warden cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at the closed doors, knowing two local born men- at-arms were standing guard on the other side of them. He cleared his throat, imploring her silence with his eyes.
The Steel Princess jerked her head at a tapestry on the other side of the room. “Myrmeen’s spy’s over there,” she said in a dry voice. “Her ears are the ones you have to worry about.”
Dauneth Marliir grimaced in frustration. “Your Highness,” he hissed, “I’m trying to stop any more panic!”
“Our healing kept Myrmeen alive,” Alusair snarled, “averting the worst cause for panic I can think of-except for the one we lack men enough to deal with: the orcs raging through the streets! Gods, Dauneth, how can you be so dense? And to think that my moth-“
“Daughter,” Azoun said warningly, “enough.”
The King of Cormyr laid a hand on Alusair’s arm and added, “Dauneth is being as loyal and as helpful as he can. Whatever schemes the queen may have had regarding weddings and your sister are neither here nor there. For the record, I think he’s worked wonders, with Myrmeen lying near death and half the old families of Arabel trying to flee with the best of our horses and wagons and mounted guardsmen, while the others snarl at him for not defending them well enough and at the same time try to wring concessions and funding from him as if this crisis was intended purely for their benefit and no officer of the crown could possibly have anything better to do than offer them his ear and fawning attention. He’s not beheaded a single Arabellan yet, nor thrown anyone in chains-not even bellowing princesses. Stand back and let the man do his work.”
Alusair turned a gaze on her father that had raging fire in it. Dauneth Marliir quickly turned away and became intensely interested in the nearest tapestry, trying to stop the trembling that seemed to have suddenly afflicted his hands. The last three days had been a waking nightmare. The sight of orcs raging through the streets was almost
