few exceptions-ye will. Ye see, I’ll be using thy lass as little as possible and seeking a suitable replacement to ride. Ye have my word on that.”
“Your word?” Arclath said bitterly. “And what is that worth? My own has been… somewhat devalued.”
“Lad, I like this as little as ye do, and thy lady’s not exactly blissful about it, either. She’s my descendant, mind, and I want her unhurt in body and mind, so I’ll try to take very good care of her. I say ‘unhurt’ because she is, after all, in here with me and aware of everything. That I have violated her as few have been violated, I grant. I’ve tried to apologize for what there can be no proper apology for, and failed, but she’s seen my need and reasons in my thoughts and accepts them. She’ll tell ye so, though ye’re just going to have to accept her word when she tells ye it’s her speaking and not me. If ye do not, I see her soon bidding ye begone, noble name and wealth or not. Now, can there be peace between us?”
Arclath stared thoughtfully into the eyes of the mask dancer so close to his. The woman he’d come to love, so swiftly and deeply that he was still a little disbelieving. Had the wizard used a little love magic? But no, he’d been nowhere around when… or had he?
Shards and stars, did any of that matter? He did love his Rune, more than he’d ever loved anyone before, and-and what could he do to thwart this Old Mage, anyhail?
Nothing. Nothing at all, but be there for his Amarune and hope she won clear of Elminster soon, unharmed. Or as unscathed as possible.
Which meant making common cause with the Sage of Shadowdale was the only prudent thing to do.
“Aye,” he said aloud, awkwardly. “There can be. Peace between us, I mean.”
Amarune’s slender-fingered hand clasped his as firmly as any warrior’s, and a bright smile spread across her face.
“Good, glad that’s done,” El growled then, causing her to roll away and fling back the furs. “Rune’s bladder is bursting!”
Understeward Corleth Fentable was in none-too-pleasant a mood, but even if the fearful shadow of Lord Manshoon hadn’t loomed everpresent in his thoughts, Fentable’s displeasure so early in the morning was hardly surprising.
Unless ordered on duty by Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant, he seldom saw the dawn or much of the bright and chill early morning that followed it.
He was here on Hallowdant’s orders, curt and stiff, snapping commands at half a dozen war wizards and twice that many Purple Dragons. More soldiers were standing guard in all the crimson-carpeted passages that led to the newly refitted Hall of Justice, where the Council of the Dragon was to be held. They were making certain all maids, doorjacks, and everyone else stayed well away.
Fentable’s superior would probably have delegated this duty to him regardless, but the understeward had the minor satisfaction-if it could in truth be deemed that-of knowing it was no accident that Hallowdant had suddenly fallen ill. He was doubtless groaning away in his garderobe, enduring the effects of whatever Sraunter had provided for a servant-another of Lord Manshoon’s pawns-to slip into the decanter Hallowdant was wont to sip from whenever he awakened at night.
Manshoon left no detail unattended. As he’d reminded them all to frighten them into utter loyalty.
Fentable’s tight mouth became a thin line of fury.
“The search, saer, is done,” a young war wizard reported. “The chamber is now clear.”
“It wasn’t?” he snapped.
The mage (what was his name, now? Darmuth? Tarmuth?) sighed audibly before replying, “Two mice, a dozen ants and beetles, and a manycrawl. All dead now, and removed. Four miceholes, blocked. We are wizards of war, saer.”
And sensitive indeed about taking orders from mere courtiers, for once, though they weren’t quite certain if they dared defy the understeward, in the absence of Royal Magician Ganrahast and Lord Warder Vainrence to tell them all what to do.
Fentable kept the grim smile he felt like wearing off his face and nodded, lifting his eyes to direct the briefest of glances past the mage’s shoulder at Mreldrake, whose answering nod was almost imperceptible.
“Now ward it,” Fentable ordered, “and close and lock the doors-or lock them first-or-well, do those things in whatever order you need to, to make the Council chamber secure!”
He turned away. The moment the war wizards withdrew, guards would be posted outside all doors into the chamber, so the entire palace-and inevitably, given Suzailan gossip, most of the city, ere highsun-would know the room was secured.
Not that it truly would be. Not with Mreldrake as one of the warders, who would then know the precise details of the ward spell and so be able to modify the many-person teleportation he would later cast in secret at Lord Manshoon’s command, to bypass the wards.
Oh, this was going to be a memorable Council, to be sure.
Amarune made it to her feet and managed two unsteady steps through the tangled furs and blankets before reeling and starting to topple.
Arclath scrambled up to catch her, knowing even as he tried that he was strides away from where he needed to be.
“Rune!” he cried, vainly reaching for her. Amarune flung out a hand, kicked her feet free of the bedding underfoot, and staggered in an off-balance run sideways until she fetched up against the cabin wall and slid down it.
The door had banged open by then, and Storm-clad in her worn leathers, with fresh kindling in her arms- had burst through it, flung the wood at one wall, and launched herself across the room.
Arclath got there first.
“Rune,” he pleaded, putting his arms around her, “are you all right? Be well!”
“No, I’m not all right,” his lady muttered-and it was her voice, thank the gods, not Elminster’s!
“That wizard is draining the life out of you, somehow,” Arclath snarled, helping her to her feet. “We’ve got to get you to a mage we can trust, to do something about this!”
“No,” Amarune said, turning to look into his eyes, their noses bumping. “No, ’twasn’t El. The goddess took it. Mystra.”
Arclath gaped at her, and then frowned in anger and worry. He turned to look at Storm-and was frightened to see her even more concerned than he was.
CHAPTER FOUR
Th-that’s the last!” the carter panted through the curtain of sweat streaming down his large, reddened face. He backed hastily away from the silent men who’d been catching every hay bale he’d tossed, stowing them somewhere in the darkness beyond the alchemist’s alley door.
Panting even harder, he almost fell twice in his feverish haste to get around to the front of his wagon and whip his dozing drays into motion, to race away from Sraunter’s.
It was as if the carter expected death to reach after him. But Manshoon merely favored the dwindling, rattling wagon with a lopsided smile, straightened from his indolent lean against the wall, and sent the slack-faced men he’d been dominating into tossing hay bales back to the alleys. The spells he’d cast on them would slay them-and the carter, too-when he uttered a certain word. He’d do that well before highsun, long before any inquisitive Purple Dragon might think to get around to questioning them about anything.
If matters unfolded as planned, the good soldiers of Cormyr would be rather too busy for inquisitions when the sun rose over Suzail in the morning.
Manshoon closed and barred the alley door. Then he strolled into the littered chamber Sraunter was pleased to call his “concoction room,” where the alchemist was still feverishly busy at his task.
Under the lash of Manshoon’s spell, Sraunter was muttering and scuttling over his stained and scarred worktables, dancing and dashing across the room time and again to check and recheck various bubbling, glowing
