Together they went into the warm, dimly lit stables. Horses occupied every stall, but Arclath and Rune found no guards and surprisingly few hostlers-and the handfuls they did see were whispering excitedly in various corners.
None paid them any heed as Arclath shifted Storm’s limp body onto his shoulder and let Amarune guide him deeper amid the stalls.
When she started to stride too swiftly, he flung out a hand and caught hold of her wrist. “I’m not leaving your side. Come what may to House Delcastle or the Dragon Throne, whether that was Vangerdahast or Elminster or the ghost of the fourth Azoun himself speaking through you in that chamber, when you stood and shouted, I–I- all gods damn it, Amarune, I love you!”
Eyes shining, Rune spun, flung her arms around him, kissed him as if she wanted to take his entire body into her mouth, and gasped, “And I love you, so hurry!”
They hurried.
“So,” Arclath puffed as they hastened past stall after stall, “are-are you really you right now, Rune? How can I tell?”
His lady gave him a wink. “Trust, Lord Delcastle. Trust. Believe me when I assure you it was truly Amarune Whitewave, whose dances you’ve enjoyed so often, who kissed you just now-and professed my love in return. I do still have some scruples.”
She pointed at Storm’s slack face and gaping mouth, within which she knew ashes were roiling in merry madness. “Him, I’m not so sure about.”
“It was you? That’s, ah, good,” Arclath replied uneasily. “Tell me, Rune, what sort of horse are we seeking?”
“Anything good and sturdy that will carry her and not go wild on us,” she said a little helplessly. “I don’t know horses.”
“Ah,” said Arclath, turning her about. “Back here. We’ll take the most suitable of the ready mounts-those that by standing order are kept saddled and bridled, in shifts.”
He chose an older, sleepy-looking beast and used a long leading rein to lash Storm’s body onto its saddle. The horset stood still as he worked, so he deemed it acceptable and led it out of the stables.
At the gates they encountered a fresh and rather breathless handful of guards and war wizards, who gave them-and Storm’s bound body, scorched gown and all-rather startled looks, but Amarune told them brightly, “Another of her fits-too much excitement. She once took an evil spell meant for the king and has suffered from these ever since, poor thing. They know what to do, down at the temple, to stop her from sliding into even worse shape.”
They waved a farewell and led the horse out into the busy Promenade before anyone thought to stop them or ask more. Such as which temple.
“That did not go well,” King Foril Obarskyr said grimly, accepting the goblet of flamewine Glathra-after sniffing it suspiciously and taking a tiny sip-passed him.
“Your Majesty has a peerless gift for diplomatic understatement,” Glathra replied curtly and turned to give the priests working on Crown Prince Irvel another glare. “How is he?”
“Only a few bruises now,” one replied soothingly. “There were three cuts, none of them deep. Our healing has made them disappear completely.”
“How many lords were lost?” the prince muttered sleepily, from somewhere beneath the attentive clergy.
Glathra was about to ignore the question but caught the look Foril gave her, an unspoken command to provide a full and honest reply.
“We know not. For one thing, there’s still fighting going on, as some seek to settle old scores. For another, some lords were sorely wounded-at least, so all the spilled blood tells us-but fled the palace. Whether they’ll reach healing in time…” She shrugged.
“There were deaths,” the king said heavily.
Glathra nodded. “The bodies of the Lords Dragonwood, Ambrival, Foulweather, Barelder, Tantorn, Hardivyper, Ravenhill, and Briarbroke have been identified and taken to the Chapel of the Valiant, where they lie under guard.” She started to pace. “I can’t find Sir Winter, yet, nor my fellow wizards of war Blamreld and Lareikaun, but I want all three to examine the bodies before priests or kin get to them.”
Running a hand over her weary eyes, she added, “Most of all, I want the wielder of our new blueflame ghost identified and found! Right after young Lord Stormserpent, who commands the two who have caused so much butchery in the city already, is taken into custody-alive, if we can manage it-and the items he uses to control his ghosts seized by us and put somewhere secure.”
“Busy days,” Irvel murmured, from the drawling edge of slumber.
Glathra stiffened, then quelled the angry reply that rose to her lips. One does not rebuke princes. Over trifles, at least.
She sighed instead, looked at the king, and told him bluntly, “If the nobles set to fighting each other and the commoners and our Dragons, in the streets, we’ll be hard pressed to hold the palace. We’ll have to call on every ally, from Alusair’s ghost to the Sage of Shadowdale-when he inevitably reappears. Even that self-proclaimed Lord of Waterdeep who’s skulking around our halls stealing food and wine as if he were eating for a dozen. I hate to trust any of them, but right now we must. We need them-or at least need them not to be our foes.”
“And later?” one of the king’s Highknight bodyguards asked with a bleak smile.
“Later,” Glathra said viciously, “we’ll take their measures and settle scores accordingly. When the Dragon Throne is safe again.”
“Do what you must,” King Foril said wearily, looking at the soundly sleeping prince, “but don’t presume I’ll hide forever. My place is leading my kingdom, not vanishing because the palace-or the city or the realm-is deemed unsafe.”
“Majesty,” Glathra said hastily, “I would never presume-”
“Glathra, you do nothing else,” Foril told her with a wry smile. “I know. I’ve been watching you. Don’t turn into another Vangerdahast on me, now.”
Before she could stop herself, Glathra spat out an oath that made the priests wince and the Highknights all grin.
Then, mortified, she bent low to add, “Of course not, Your Majesty,” then spun around and fled without meeting the king’s gaze.
After she was gone, he sighed, reached for more flamewine, and murmured, “Busy days, indeed.”
Outside the guarded chamber, as if on cue, there was a muffled crash.
“The king is dead! They killed King Foril and chopped him up into so many butchers’ roasts!”
“Who killed him?”
“All the highnoses-the high Lords of Waterdeep, what met with him in this Council and all! Went for him, every last one of them!”
“Well, I heard he’s alive and well, and brought in hireswords to carve up the lords before they could lay a finger on him!”
“Get out of it, the both of you! ’Twas no regicide, nor nothing to do with the royals! It was noble knifing noble-and they’re still at it, right across the city!”
So went the excited shouting as patrons rushed into The Goose of Doom, a dockside tavern not known for its loyal support of House Obarskyr or the lowliest Purple Dragon.
No sooner were they hunched around the tables with tankards in their hands, arguing excitedly about who’d been seen dead and who’d done the slaying, when the loudest and proudest of the Goose’s regulars, the fat, retired Dragon swordcaptain Brorn Roril, stumbled through the front doors, wild-eyed and streaming blood.
“The Obarskyrs are dead!” he panted, “and it’s civil war, saers! Lock up your daughters, or get out of Cormyr, as fast as you can! The Forest Kingdom is at war!”
The Delcastle stablemaster took one look at the horse Arclath was leading into the stables and sneered. “Where, lord, did you get that? I hope you won the wager rather than losing it!”
“This was the most docile ready mount in the royal stables, Burtland,” Arclath replied crisply, “and it’s soon returning there. However, I find myself in need of a short stretch of privacy, here and now, so if you’d like to take yourself off to the kitchens for an early feasting, and tell them I sent you…”
