As he shouted those words, the flaming figure reached a tall, aging lord-Foulweather-and hewed him bloodily to the floor.
Then blue flames flashed brightly-and were gone.
The ghost had disappeared as suddenly as she’d arrived.
Oaths filled the air. The nobles of Cormyr might be many things, but few of them were slow or stupid men. What they’d just seen… aye, it had been real enough; there was Foulweather lying butchered, and up there Ambrival was draped over the seats with his throat still spewing gore. It meant that someone in the room, a noble attending Council, had a blueflame item and knew how to use it.
Curses faltered in that grim realization-until a lord thrust his belt dagger into the face of a longtime rival, and the chamber erupted in wild battle again.
So much Arclath saw as he fought his way along the seats toward the Obarskyrs, to defend them-before someone he knew sprang out of nowhere, so close their noses bumped. A face grinned at him as he stared in dumbfounded astonishment.
Amarune Whitewave stopped smiling long enough to kiss him on the nose and vaulted past him onto the nearest seat.
Standing tall on it, she shouted in a rough old male voice that rang across the chamber thanks to magic, “I, Vangerdahast, order you all to stand away from the king and crown prince! All of you!”
In the wake of that thunderous shout, as everyone turned to stare, she smiled with sad, old eyes.
Her hands wove a spell, and as nobles began to shout derision, seeing only a young woman instead of a wizard, she unleashed her magic.
It was a spell Elminster had perfected centuries before. A horrible spell.
As it flooded the chamber, it tore bones out of noble bodies, killing this lord and that, but leaving others untouched, taking down only those who were charging at the royals. As the shrieking deaths mounted, dumbfounded Highknights, war wizards, and Obarskyrs stood back, untouched.
The clash of steel died as those who remained stared at the boneless, blood-drenched things, whose screams fell into dying burblings.
Amarune reeled and slumped, starting to gibber.
Shocked and frightened, Arclath reached out to catch her before she fell. Storm Silverhand already had hold of Rune’s other arm and was whispering, “Oh, El!”
Doors burst open all around the chamber, and more war wizards and Dragons came storming in. Servants entered after them, and the uproar arose again as hasty misunderstandings reigned, spells were hurled, and servants dashed the wine they were ready to serve into noble faces. Meanwhile, the Obarskyrs were hustled out.
As Storm slumped into a seat as Rune abruptly stopped gibbering and instructed Arclath in her own voice, “Come!”
Looking at her, then down at Storm in bewilderment, Arclath found the wrist of his free hand captured in Amarune’s firm grip. She guided it to Storm’s waist.
“Carry her!” Rune snapped. “Hurry!”
Arclath blinked, nodded, hauled Storm up against his hip, and took one awkward step, waving his sword for balance.
A war wizard promptly loomed up in front of them. “Halt, in the name of the king! Surrend-”
Amarune’s leaping kick hurled the man’s wand high into the air, shattered the fingers that had held it, and burst through them to the mage’s chin. He went over backward without a sound, out cold.
As Amarune landed like a cat, two gleaming-armored Dragons raced up to confront them, but gave way before Arclath’s wildly swung sword and her desperate snarl, “Harm us and you are both traitors! We serve the king!”
When the Dragons’ blades came up in reply, Arclath hacked them aside. Rune flung herself at the guards’ boots in a roll that swept them off their feet with a wild clangor of blades and armor, leaving Arclath’s path to the door clear.
He ran, dragging Storm, with Rune gasping, “I’m right behind you! Hurry!”
A few frantic moments later they raced out of the palace together, into a bright and sunny morning.
Palace Understeward Corleth Fentable had spent much time being angry these last few days, but he was really angry now. War wizards and countless Dragons rushed this way and that, and not one of them would stay still long enough to hear his orders. He wanted some to seek the Lord Arclath Delcastle, others to find a young lass who’d been admitted into the palace that day but shouldn’t have been, and He was just about to let loose a great bellow of rage and hit someone with something when a familiar, faintly glowing shadow that looked very much like the portrait of Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr, the Steel Princess, that hung in the High Hall of Heroes-strode up to him and snapped, “I have orders for you, Fentable. Do none of those things you’re gabbling about, and instead apply yourself to something important, for once. Namely, getting down to the Hall of Justice with mages enough to put the worst belligerents to sleep. Then disarm everyone, summon healers from the temples, and set yourself to calming all surviving nobles who attended Council, before some of them-possibly several cabals of them-decide making war on the fair family of Obarskyr will bring a brighter future to Cormyr!”
“Nobles always think that,” Fentable snapped before he could stop to ask himself why he was bothering to talk to a ghost. “Why should I do anything about your silly fears?”
“Because some of those nobles can’t wait to execute every last war wizard-or courtier-they can find,” Alusair told him calmly, “and because your silly fears are about to include this.”
She stepped right into the same space his body was occupying-plunging the understeward into an unbearable cold that drove him into uncontrollable, gray-faced shivering, his teeth chattering wildly.
Just as everything started to go dark and he fell, she stepped back, looked down at his gasping body, and said briskly, “Now get up so I can do that again, Saer Fentable. You aren’t sick enough of it yet. You aren’t pleading.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T o Arclath’s astonishment, Amarune steered him along the outside of the palace to the stable gates, where they found the row of guards gone and only one worried-looking hostler and a lone young Purple Dragon left on duty.
“What’s happening?” the Dragon asked them sharply.
“Fighting at Council,” Arclath replied grimly, holding up his sword to show the bright blood on it.
The young soldier stared at it and looked a little ill. His spear trembled as it came up to menace Arclath. “I’ll be needing you to surrender that, lord, and-”
“I’ll be needing you to stop trying such foolishness, and get yourself to the Hall of Justice as fast as you can run,” Arclath snarled. “They tried to kill the king! And the crown prince, too. Some of the old lords, that is, and they’re all still loose in the palace right now, most of them waving swords. Go!”
The young Dragon gave him a frightened stare-and went.
Leaving the gates unguarded, their way into the royal stables clear. The hostler had taken to his heels at his first sight of Arclath’s blade.
Rune strode into the stableyard. “We’ll be needing a horse. Storm won’t be able to walk for some time.”
“You’re Elminster, aren’t you?” Arclath asked, struggling along in her wake with Storm draped over his back. “What have you done with Amarune?”
Rune turned, found the point of his blade at her throat, and smiled a little sadly at him.
“No, Arclath, it’s me.” She shook her head wearily. “Even if it was the old wizard, if you kill your Amarune- well, you kill your Amarune, don’t you?”
With a growl, Arclath took his blade away.
