Regents-heads of noble Houses, all-should have clear governance over the war wizards, the armies of Cormyr, and all matters of royal succession, including Irvel’s. So the Council will choose, whenever a ruling Obarskyr dies or becomes unfit to rule, who-Obarskyr or non-Obarskyr-will next ascend the Dragon Throne!”
There were roars of approval, and many shouts of disbelief and disapproval, too, as Dathcloake sat down with an air of triumph.
The king was on his feet. “Now that,” he said sternly, “I cannot agree to. The only reason to have a royal line at all is to give the realm some measure of stability. If a Council can choose anyone to rule, that is all lost, and Cormyr will become an endless battleground of factions vying to put their people on Council and to destroy those councillors whose views they decry.”
Many nobles rose to shout responses to that, but one angrily overrode them all: Obraerl Foulweather.
“An easy doom to proclaim,” Foulweather declaimed. “We can all call down darkness and disaster in our imaginations, Your Majesty! Yet we do not see the Council as the strife-ridden, shallow thing you paint it. Elder nobles have at least as much sense-and regard for the realm-as most of your courtiers.”
There arose a general roar of agreement.
“Ah,” the king responded mildly. “Well, then, if so, it should be simplicity itself for everyone here to calmly and swiftly agree on just which nobles should sit on this Council, and which should not. So name your roster, lords, that all may judge your wisdom and prudence.” He looked up at the tiers of seats in clear challenge and repeated, “Name it.”
Uproar ensued, of course, with Arclath grinning in wry silence as it raged, until one leather-lunged noble- Lord Mulcaster Emmarask-prevailed with repeated shouts of “Hear me! Hear me!”
When the chamber quieted, Emmarask advanced a plan for an eleven-person Council, formed of members of specific oldcoin families such as Emmarask and Illance, but not including the Obarskyrs, Crownsilvers, or Truesilvers. Further, he claimed that this was the will of the last regent of the realm, the widely revered, heroic Princess Alusair, and was approved by her, her mother, the Dowager Queen Filfaeril, and the royal magician of the day, Caladnei!
This falsehood proved to be one blatant fabrication too much for one lurking witness in the room to stomach.
The glowing figure of Alusair Obarskyr appeared in midair above them all, pointing at Emmarask angrily and shouting, “You lie, Emmarask! Twist my words at your peril! As regent of the realm I advocated an advisory-only council of eleven citizens, to be named by the monarch or a surviving Obarskyr, and not to have members drawn from specific, set families, noble or otherwise. That was what my mother and Caladnei supported. But all the senior courtiers and nobles of the day hated it and said so, your father being one of those who openly threatened that the founding of such a Council would be immediate cause for rebellion; so, it came to nothing! Cleave to the truth, noble lords, or Cormyr is surely doomed!”
Lord Mulcaster Emmarask sneered at the ghostly princess. “What war wizard trickery are you?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he looked around the tiers of seats and said loudly, “The falcons are certainly flying this season.”
About a dozen older nobles seated all over the room rose as one. Arclath, as most others there, peered around, trying to mark all of them; the two nearest were Lathlance Goldfeather and Corladror Silversword.
Emmarask pointed at Alusair. “Begone, false and lying apparition! You’re not the Steel Princess of legend; you’re some young chit of a war wizard, saying and doing what Ganrahast tells you to! Begone!”
That enraged Alusair, who plunged down through the air as nobles gasped and ducked away and rushed right through Mulcaster Emmarask. He clutched at his heart and fell to shivering, bent in pain and frozen into silence. Swirling, she swooped and did likewise to all the nobles standing in support of him, one after another.
Leaving them terrified and chilled, shaking-and furious.
Other nobles were struck to anger, too. The scribes laid aside their quills and rose to defend King Foril with their wands. Whereupon many nobles promptly and loudly accused them, as war wizards, of “meddling in the lawful debate” of the Council.
In a trice, ceremonial swords and daggers flashed out of scabbards and sheaths all over the room; the Highknights made ready to hustle the king out to safety. And nobles rushed from their seats to surround the king and prevent him escaping anywhere.
Arclath Delcastle sighed as he drew his sword. This was all so predictable.
War wizards and Purple Dragons traded worried frowns as the shouting they heard coming through the closed and guarded doors rose to a full-throated roar, like unto battle. Should they go in? Were they needed to prevent bloodshed? Regicide?
At that moment Storm Silverhand, in a scorched ruin of a gown, with Amarune right behind her, came marching up to them.
“You cannot pass, by order of the king,” a Dragon said automatically, barring their way.
“The king,” the silver-haired woman snarled, “has been poisoned. We’ve only just uncovered the plot! He’ll very soon fall on his face, dead. Let me through this door! Do I look like I have any weapons?”
She spread her hands, showing what was left of her once-magnificent gown clinging to her shapely figure, to reveal that she wore nothing much beneath. Involuntarily, the wizards and guards blinked at her.
Then they stared at each other, worry and doubt on every face.
“What if they’re Marsembian agents? Or Sembians? Or from Westgate?” one mage snapped, waving at the two women.
“Can’t be,” one of the youngest Dragons replied, pointing at Amarune. “Seen that one before, dancing at the Dragonriders’-an’ if she’s some sort of secret agent, I’ll eat my cods!”
From inside the Council chamber came the ring of steel and shouts.
“Oh, farruk!” snarled the senior war wizard. He turned and flung open the doors.
“Sit down!” Lord Summerstar, Lord Delcastle, and other nobles bellowed, but many nobles clearly intended to menace the throats of the crown prince and the king, and were already crossing swords with the Highknights.
In moments, a pitched battle was raging around the two royals. A war wizard reeled, clutching his slit throat; a Highknight went down under a dozen stabbing nobles; and someone managed to stab Irvel-only to discover that his dagger plunged through a royal midriff as if the prince weren’t really there; although, the hard punches Irvel was landing told him the struggling Obarskyr was present and very solid, to boot.
“Ironguard!” that murderous lord cried and clawed at the prince’s gorget-which was popularly rumored to confer such protection-to tear it off.
A Highknight’s desperate leap took the lord away from Irvel and down to the floor with a heavy crash. The landing proved fatal for the lord, as both the dagger and sword of a writhing, groaning noble he landed on burst through him.
Startled shouts and gasps rose all over the Hall of Justice as a woman in archaic fluted armor appeared out of thin air in the empty uppermost tier of seats. A pair of hooked and curved swords-blades like something out of Calimshan or far Raurin-gleamed in her hands.
As nobles stared, she vaulted two tiers down and ran both blades through Lord Barelder, who was wrestling with another noble from behind.
He arched, shrieked, and fell limp. Kicking him off her swords, she sprang down to the next tier of seats, ducked past a shouting dagger-wielding noble, and pounced on Lord Ambrival, hacking ruthlessly.
He managed to half-turn to face her amid that storm of sharp steel before she slashed out his throat. As he toppled, head flopping loosely amid a fountain of pumping blood, she spun away and leaped down another tier of seats.
The unknown swordswoman was seeking specific targets, moving like lightning as she hunted-lunging and slashing with eerie speed through nobles, wizards, and guards alike. But what awakened fear in the brawling Cormyreans wasn’t her deadly swordplay. It was the aura of cold blue flames that wreathed her, igniting nothing but leaving those they touched wincing and moaning with chill.
“Blueflame ghost! A blueflame ghost-a new one! Right here!” Lord Mountwyrm shouted hoarsely.
“Get her!” a young lord bawled. “If we all strike at her, we can have her down before she slaughters every last one of us!”
