Glathra felt her temper start to slip, and ground her teeth. “And how is it, Harbrow,” she asked sharply, “that one lone noble is able to fight his way through a guardpost of eight Dragons and no fewer than five wizards of war, you among them? Answer me that!”
“Delcastle wasn’t alone, lady! The ghost of Alusair defended him and froze us all, one after another. She-we could not stand against her. She… stopped us from capturing him.”
“My Arclath!” Rune burst out. “Where is he? How badly did you hurt him?”
“Lady?” the distant war wizard asked, obviously puzzled at who was crying these questions at him.
“Thank you for your report, Harbrow,” Glathra told him firmly. “Defend your post until I order you to do otherwise, or else send relief.”
“Lady, I hear and obey,” came the reply before the light winked out.
Amarune strode toward Glathra. “Where is he?”
Glathra ignored her. “Tracegar!” the wizard of war snapped, turning away. “Deal with these two! The rest of you-”
Something slammed into her ankles, and Glathra toppled helplessly, letting out a startled shriek-a cry that ended abruptly as she lost her breath against unyielding flagstones. Hard fingers clawed their way along her-the mask dancer, who was A flash and a ringing sound rose into a second shriek, this one singingly magical, as Tracegar’s wand blast struck the invisible protection conferred by Glathra’s ward-ring and rebounded at him. Only for the spell to be turned back by his lesser ward, and die in a harmless cacophony as it reached Glathra again.
Almost snarling in fresh fury, Glathra Barcantle found her feet and spun to face the mask dancer.
Only to hurtle to the floor again, with even more bruising force.
Storm had tripped her! The bitch had got herself right behind Glathra, somehow, and was now grabbing at the dancer’s shoulder and hissing, “Come! Harbrow was guarding the Hall of Victories- this way!”
The dancer dashed down the indicated passage without hesitation, Storm right behind her.
“Intruders! Villains! Traitors!” Glathra shouted furiously, struggling to her feet with her hair all over her face and her temper in an utter shambles. “Halt! Halt and surrender! I forbid you to flee!”
Storm slowed and looked back. “Glathra,” she replied crisply, “I think you’d better get used to having your commands ignored by those you have no authority over-or should have no authority over. I see neither the royal magician here nor any Obarskyr, and as a noble of this kingdom for centuries, I recall that, except when obeying the direct orders of either royals or the royal magician, wizards of war have very little legal authority. You pretend to have the right to order everyone about, but that’s a very different matter. I, the Marchioness Immerdusk, defy you, disloyal servant!”
Glathra opened her mouth-and choked on more anger than she’d ever in her life felt before. All words failed her. Utterly.
When they returned, an incoherently snarling string of moments later, she spat a single “Bitch!” in the direction of the swirling silver hair dwindling down the passage, and hurled slumber at the two fleeing women.
Less than a breath later, her own magic got flung back at her, staggering Glathra for an instant as it lit up her ward.
The Silverhand woman could reflect spells back whence they’d come.
Even as Glathra glared after Storm, seething, the two fleeing women turned a distant corner and were gone.
Clenching her fists, Glathra tossed back her head to clear the tangled hair from her face and drew in a deep breath, fighting for calm.
Acutely aware of all the silent men watching her.
Be regal. Your authority is absolute, whatever that lying bitch says. Cloak yourself in it, and serve Cormyr. Be Cormyr.
She worked a swift and simple spell, and said into the glow that kindled in the air in front of her, “Harbrow? Two women are coming your way. One of them tall, with long silver hair that moves around her shoulders as if alive; the other one younger, a mask dancer. Storm Silverhand and Amarune Whitewave. Storm-she of the silver hair-can reflect spells back at their casters. The dancer should have no magic at all. You are to capture both, by any means necessary short of slaying them.”
She listened to Harbrow’s “hear and obey” and ended her spell, smiling grimly.
She shouldn’t have to wait long for his report, and it should recount success, now that she’d warned them about Storm.
After all, it wasn’t just Harbrow, embarrassed by his failure to stop Delcastle and eager to make up for it. He did have four other wizards of war with him.
Mirt strolled out the side door of the house behind the stables as if he hadn’t a care in the world, the sack of coins purloined from the palace treasury reassuringly heavy on his shoulder.
And why not? He was leaving the merry chaos of the ruling fortress of Cormyr behind, and its rushing guards and wand-waving mages were his chief cares in this new world of nigh on a hundred summers since he’d last lorded it in Waterdeep.
Those guardians were busy at various doors and gates trying to keep nobles out, so this noble was going to do just that-get out.
He would take rooms at one of the upscale inns along the Promenade, under a false name. “Aghairon Mizzrym” had a certain ring to it. There he’d sip wine and sit awhile and decide what sort of new life to forge for himself.
His first instinct was to flee from the land where at least two young nobles wanted him dead. Flight should be easy, considering Suzail was a port and had always had hidden magical ways that those with coin enough could readily buy the use of, linking it with Marsember, a seedier port where inquisitive Crown authorities seldom received straight answers…
Yet he liked the feel of Cormyr, turmoil and all.
Haularake, he wanted to stay!
Storm was a damned fine woman, and he liked young Delcastle and his lass, too, but their battles were not his. Save in this wise: if the thick-skulled nobles of this land did rise up, they could well shatter the Cormyr he prized-but then again, troubled times offered shrewd merchants wonderful opportunities to establish a profitable business or seize a position of power at court… or perhaps even marry into a powerful noble family…
Mirt looked down at his food-stained paunch, chuckled, and shook his head.
Well, mayhap there were a few powerful matriarchs, sitting all alone because they were uglier than goats or the hind ends of draft horses, or had tempers to match those of a pain-maddened bull, who might have grown desperate enough to entertain the blandishments of such an old wolf.
Had he patience enough left to endure the less pleasant sides, though, to gain the luxuries that might come from tethering himself to a matriach? Boredom had never been his friend. Hmmm.
Thinking on this would undoubtedly unfold better if he were in a good chair, with his feet up and a decanter of something splendid to hand.
First, find the right inn…
All that was left of the Princess Alusair glided to a reluctant stop in midair, little more than a thin wisp of shadowy air, a dozen strides outside the palace. Arclath Delcastle was gone, vanished along one of the streets on the far side of the Promenade, and she could follow him no farther.
It was time to return to Storm and Amarune and Mirt. She might as well, for she had few enough friends left in the world, and knowing Glathra and how upset all the palace-guarding mages and Dragons were, the three might well need her help, and “Hold!” a man’s voice rose excitedly, from four rooms deep inside the palace. “You, there! Halt! Lass-woman-you! I’m speaking to you! Halt!
Halt or I’ll-”
A brief scuffle followed, other men shouted various things at once, and Alusair flew into their midst in time to see a hard-running Amarune Whitewave wobble, lurch, stumble, and fall, head lolling and arms limp. Asleep on her racing feet.
The five Crown mages flanked by two bristling-with-weapons Dragons made no move to catch her. They just watched, a few smirking, as she crashed to the stone floor in a loose, heavy heap.
