“Lord Delcastle, you have a duty to your family and to the realm,” she hissed in his ear. “Get to your seat. You can tell me how it all unfolded afterward!”
And before he could reply she turned away, leaving him staring into the wizard’s face and watching the man do a masterful demonstration of smirking at a noble lord without quite smirking.
Chin high, Arclath strode past and into the Hall of Justice.
Storm was gone, and of course Elminster with her. They were up to something, and Amarune’s own part in it-for now-was done.
So, in small and modest ways, mask dancers can help save kingdoms after all.
Marching back down the crimson-carpeted hall, Amarune Whitewave did not see the oldest wizard of war direct three others to follow her.
At the third fanfare of warhorns, servants were dismissed from the chamber, and most of the war wizards and Dragons moved to stand guard outside its doors. As Arclath hastened up to the nearest vacant seat in the great oval tiers of nobles, the only non-nobility he could still see in the room were a pair of armored bodyguards and two scribes around the king. Probably everyone present knew or guessed they were really Highknights and war wizards.
The older scribe rose, his abrupt movement lessening the din of chatter, and struck a little bell. Silence fell. The Council of Dragons had begun.
King Foril rose to address the nobles, looking more calm than impassioned. Was there a hint of sadness about him?
Arclath devoted himself to listening hard and gazing all over the chamber, watching the expressions riding the faces of his fellow nobles. Most, like Harkuldragon yonder, held open contempt.
Foril wanted all the peers to swear binding “blood oaths” before the attending wizards. Meaning those mages would formally take vials of their blood, upon which to work magics if the sworn nobles were disloyal in the future. These would further be oaths of loyalty to Crown Prince Irvel-who sat impassively to the left of the king: vows to serve him and keep his person safe to ascend the Dragon Throne, and then rule as rightful king of Cormyr.
In return, King Foril expressed his willingness to restore “some” rights and privileges trammeled by the Writ-if the assembled nobles could convince him that doing so wouldn’t harm the lives of Cormyreans not born with titles.
“I have heard your anger, directly and by report of what you have said aloud but not to my face. Remember that I must rule justly over all Cormyreans, high and low. I am prepared to dispense with evasions, long speeches, and insults, and deal plainly, here and now. So, what rights and privileges are you, good lords of the realm all, most concerned with?”
The king spread his hands in query and resumed his seat. Which, Arclath noticed, was no throne but identical to all other chairs in the chamber.
After a short, uncertain silence, it began. Old Kreskur Mountwyrm was bold enough to rise first. Noble after noble followed suit, each rising to speak of what he wanted restored.
Which, when those who liked to flap their tongues-Arclath not among them-were done, was everything.
Few of them were unreasonable or wanted all that much, but put together, all their demands would not just gut the Writ, it would grant them more power than ever before, leaving the king of Cormyr little more than a figurehead.
In other words, just about what Arclath had expected.
Now the real fun would begin.
And if everyone in this room was more fortunate than they probably deserved to be, they might-just might — still have a kingdom come next morning.
CHAPTER TEN
A slight sound behind her-the scuff of a swift striding boot on carpet-made Amarune glance back.
Far down the passage were three men in robes. War wizards. They were heading after her, their forbidding eyes locked on her.
They were coming for her.
Rune quickened her pace and looked back again. The mages, wearing tight smiles, were gaining on her.
Sighing in mingled fear and anger, she came to a right-angled bend, strode around that corner-and discovered she was trapped.
The passage ahead was long, straight, and ended in closed double doors that were visibly locked and barred. There were other, lesser doors along the passage but all were closed and probably locked, too. She tried the nearest one.
Yes. Locked.
Rune set off down the passage, moving very briskly as the three wizards turned the corner behind her.
A sudden, unseen force shoved and clawed at her knees and ankles, and she stumbled and fell. Magic.
Scrambling up again, she found the Crown mages almost upon her.
“Surrender, woman,” one commanded, “in the name of the king! You’re suspected of treason against the Crown, and-”
“What do you want with me?” she snapped.
In her fine garb, she was weaponless and stood still, panting from her fall and from rising fear as they surrounded her.
“Your obedience,” another mage replied grimly, “which every loyal citizen owes the Crown, I remind you! If you’re innocent, you’ve nothing to fear. A few swift spells will tell us what’s in your mind, and-”
“And I’ll go mad!” Amarune snarled. “A barking, drooling madwoman I’ll be, and-”
“Ah,” the third war wizard said soothingly, “but you’ll be a loyal one, and-”
A door behind them opened, and a storm of ashes swirled out of it, spinning up to the height of their heads.
Amarune ducked down hastily as the wizards shouted in alarm and started casting spells. Through watering eyes she saw them staggering around as someone else came through that door.
Could she flee?
No, this new arrival seemed to know just where she was, and was striding toward her, reaching out…
It was Storm!
A spell worked by a war wizard took effect, lashing Storm with lightning. She staggered but caught Amarune by the arm and started towing her toward the still-open door.
Another spell struck, and as Storm moaned in pain, Rune felt a flare of searing heat in her shoulder and down her back. She ducked low and flung herself into the room beyond the door, leaving Storm reeling behind her.
Ashes were still whirling around the cursing mages’ heads. Looking back through swimming eyes, Rune saw Storm, her gown aflame, collapse into the arms of the nearest wizard.
He grappled with her as she snatched a wand from his belt and used it on his two fellows.
They toppled, and she twisted, served him the same fate. The roiling ash seemed to thrust her away and hurry her to Amarune, who reached out and hauled a gasping Storm into the room.
“Help me with the door bar,” she hissed at Rune, smoke rising from her smoldering gown. “Hurry!”
As they barred the door together, they could hear distant shouting from the Hall of Justice. The shouts rose into full-throated roaring.
Arclath had been wrong; his fellow nobles were not done. Emboldened now, they were falling over each other to stand and shout for more. Lord Landrar Dathcloake had gone so far as to demand that a “Council of
