'My reaction shouldn't be a surprise, Allie. You have your own life. I just want you to make your family part of that life again.' The king glanced at the canvas sack beside the door. 'You're leaving this afternoon, aren't you?'
With a nod, the princess stood. She gathered up the pieces of her armor and started to bundle it for travel. 'I want to get to the Forest of Lethyr as soon as possible,' she said as she spread the armor but. 'The centaur chieftain asked me to return the falcon and the bracelet when the fighting was over.'
'A falcon's quite a burden on campaign,' Azoun noted idly, trying to appear at ease. 'They take a lot of care and attention. You don't give it to them, they go wild again. Not much good for hunting or scouting after that.'
The princess made a few comments about the falcon and how wonderful it was seeing through the bird's eyes. Then, as she was stacking the cuisses and brassards of her armor in the breastplate, the king reached over and rearranged them.
'If you stack the armor this way,' Azoun said as he cupped the pieces together, 'it'll make a tighter bundle.' He smiled at his daughter. 'I have had some experience with this sort of thing … though that was a long time ago.'
'Not so long that you've forgotten it,' Alusair replied. After an awkward pause, she leaned close to her father and embraced him.
For an hour or so, the king and his daughter talked. Azoun told her about his times with the King's Men, and the princess responded with fragments about her adventures. They laughed, and for a short time it seemed as if they were back in Suzail, before the war, before the princess had run away. Too soon, it was time for Alusair to go.
They said good-bye without tears, and Alusair promised to keep the king's signet ring so the family could find her if the need arose. It was almost a happy parting, for both Azoun and Alusair knew that when next they met, they would be father and daughter again, and more. They would also be friends.
As he watched his daughter ride away on one of the few horses the army could spare, Azoun decided that his greatest victories of the crusade would never be recorded in Thom's chronicles. His ancestors might know that Azoun IV once brought peace to Thesk with his victory over the Tuigan, but they would probably never realize he also made peace with his daughter and with himself. After all, such sentimental matters were not the stuff of histories.
Long after Alusair disappeared into the tall grass of the plain, the king could see the falcon spiraling in the sky as it followed her. The bird, which in time appeared as no more than a dark speck, held Azoun's attention until it, too, faded into the horizon. With a contented sigh, the king returned to camp, where the Army of the Alliance awaited his command.
'Sure flights! Razor points!'
John the Fletcher paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Though autumn was swiftly fading into winter, pushing a heavy cart along the Promenade was hot and tiring work. Not as bad as fighting Tuigan, he decided with a smile. He hefted his cart and called out his wares again.
'Sure flights! Razor points! Buy your arrows from John the Fletcher! Only the best from Razor John!'
Like most of the Army of the Alliance, Razor John had returned to Suzail a few months ago. He had been a bit surprised to find his business doing well, but his apprentice had taken readily to the heavy workload. More importantly, new customers were frequenting the shop. Razor John was, after all, a war hero.
Not that he had done anything superlative during the crusade. None of his customers ever actually asked John about the battles themselves, and they really didn't care to hear the truth. John was a war hero because the people of Suzail, in fact the citizens of most of the crusading countries, had decided that Azoun's venture against the barbarians had resulted in a heroic conflict. Bards readily took up their lutes and wove stories about the crusaders, always vastly outnumbered and fighting for their lives. John, like the rest of the Alliance, was part of a popular legend-based partially in truth, of course, but growing more fantastic every day.
A horse-drawn wagon forced its way up the Promenade, and John heaved his cart to the side of the road. 'Damned teamsters think they can drive their rigs anywhere,' he grumbled as the wagon passed. He shoved his cart forward again, right into a woman carrying a basket of apples.
The elderly lady, a heavy shawl pulled over her stooped shoulders, turned, ready to scold the owner of the cart. She stopped short when she saw the medal Razor John wore over his heart. 'Pardon me,' she murmured and went on her way.
John shook his head and looked down at the silver disk. The medal had a longbow engraved in it, with the words 'Order of the Golden Way' etched around the image. It had been given to each of the archers who'd fought on the crusade, and ones like it-engraved with either pikes or horses-had been cast for each infantryman or cavalryman. The latter was a posthumous honor.
The medals garnered the wearer a great many courtesies in the city. The deference shown John by the elderly woman was only a small sample. The fletcher had found that the silver disk increased his business on the street, got him better service in taverns, even attracted the attention of single ladies. Not that John was all that concerned with such matters; Kiri had survived the crusade, too, and they were planning a wedding for the spring.
Razor John wore the medal because he was proud of the service he'd done Faerun. He'd gone on the crusade believing in Azoun's cause, and the attention the expedition now received only made John feel that much more pride in the Alliance and all it stood for. There was even talk in the inns that King Azoun wanted the bonds between Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dales to become more permanent. Such a union would make any invasion of the Heartlands almost impossible.
John looked to his right. The sprawl of government buildings known as 'the Royal Court' lined the Promenade for a long way. Tax collectors and other city officials scurried about in the court's twisted hallways, and the policies enacted there had a great effect on John's life. However, those structures seemed insignificant when compared to the impressive castle that rose behind them. The fletcher stared up at the palace and wondered if the king would be able to unite Faerun.
At that moment, Azoun himself was wondering the same thing. He paced back in forth in the castle's highest tower, his hands clenched behind his back. Every few steps his left leg twinged slightly, but that wasn't a surprise. The arrow wound tended to give him trouble right before it rained.
Moving to the chessboard that lay on a table at the side of the room, the king shifted a knight, then resumed his pacing. His chess game had improved since his return from Thesk, much to Queen Filfaeril's dismay. She now beat the king only three games out of four.
'I hope you're done reading Thom's text, Your Highness,' a voice called from the stairs. 'The clerics are here to pick up the last pages.'
Azoun turned to see Vangerdahast emerge from the open trapdoor. The wizard looked much more healthy these days; he'd spent most of the last two months in his laboratory, restoring the vitality the magic-dead area had stolen from him. His face was still wrinkled and his gait a little slower than in years past, but the wizard was once again the 'Vangy' that Azoun knew and loved.
'Of course I'm finished,' the king said. He reached down and handed a sheaf of parchment to his friend. 'If you see Thom before I do, you can tell him the chronicles are just fine.'
Without comment, the wizard took the pages and placed them neatly in his leather satchel. From there they would be delivered to the priests who awaited them in the palace's main hall. The clerics, worshipers of Denier, the God of Art, had been commissioned to copy Thom Reaverson's history of the crusade. The chronicles were then to be bound with Koja's notes on the Tuigan and his life of Yamun Khahan. Demand for the resulting book, which was to be stunningly illuminated by the priests, was already high, and the growing interest in the crusade promised to make the work even more sought after in the months to come.
'Yes, our bard does need encouragement these days,' Vangerdahast noted sarcastically. 'I understand that he's been offered quite a lot of money by one of our nobles to write a family history.'
The wizard's comment brought no response from Azoun. He was confident that the bard would stay at the palace, at least for a little while. After all, when Alusair returned home in a few days, Thom was planning to finish his notes on her adventures. Those stories could then be added to the history of House Obarskyr.
