Cormyr

Chapter 11: In the Shadow of the King

Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

“If you should… ever cross into Sembia there’s a little place called Yuthgalaunt, on the road from Ordulin to Yhaunn,” Baron Thomdor whispered, gasping with effort. Eyes bright with sudden resolve, the stout noble was lying on his curtained, guarded bed trying to grip Vangerdahast’s arm firmly, but lacking the strength. “There’s a lady in a cottage by the well there-over forty winters old, she’d be now, and a beauty…

Vangerdahast looked across the sickbed at Gwennath. The Tymoran priestess had remained by the baron’s bedside since the first day. She had gotten some badly needed sleep, but she still looked haggard and red-eyed. The old wizard did not quite manage to suppress a sigh.

The baron ignored the wizard’s glance and added fiercely, “Hear me! I wronged her years ago, said I’d come back to wed her when I had made something of myself and I… never have. Will you take her coin enough to see her through her shadowed years? And send my apology? It’s… one of my few regrets…”

“Of course I will, Thom,” the Royal Magician said, “if ever I have to. But you need not worry yourself about things undone before death yet-you’ve years left. You can ride over and marry the wench yourself!”

The tired gray-blue eyes of the Warden of the Eastern Marches blazed up into his. “Don’t toss courtiers’ lies at me, wizard! I know what happened to Bhereu. This gaudy tent here is my deathbed. Azoun’s lying near death somewhere that way-“

He waved one large and hairy hand eastward, toward the next chamber. The hand trembled and quickly fell back to the bed furs. He growled, “And so here I am, with none of my men clanking in to tell me jokes. No pretty lasses coming to bring me flowers and wish me better-“

“Huh!” Gwennath, the Bishop of the Black Blades, said indignantly from across the bed. “What am I if not a pretty lass?”

Thomdor turned his head to face her with visible effort and said, “Oh, gods, don’t start! Ye’re an honest sword maid, not a perfumed court wench!”

Gwennath winked at Vangerdahast, and the wizard hid a smile, watching the baron rouse himself in embarrassment. “I meant no slight!” the old warrior protested, and then the color went out of his face and he fell back onto the pillows and gasped. “So here I am… waiting in the king’s shadow to die… just as I’ve been waiting, come to think of it, all my life.”

He managed a wry smile as he turned to look at the Royal Magician, and he was still smiling when the light in his eyes went out, a grayness came over his cheeks, and his head lolled sideways. His eyelids slammed down like shudders, and the chamber was filled with his ragged breathing.

Vangerdahast bent forward with a swiftness born of fear and almost bumped noses with the priestess, who was making the same lunge from her side of the bed. Thomdor still lived, his breathing slow but even. He’d fallen into the deepest of slumbers. “This could go on for years,” the old wizard murmured.

“Both he and the king roused this morning for the first time. Yet after knowing the world and their wits this morn, both he and His Majesty have failed fast,” Gwennath said softly, looking down at the deepening lines on the baron’s face. “I wanted him to pass, if he pass he must, in peace… but to rouse him to fight on if he could be roused.”

The High Wizard of Cormyr looked into her eyes from only inches away and said gently, “You did well to summon me, Bishop of the Black Blades. You have my thanks. You continue to do Cormyr great service. Know that I, at least, take notice and am grateful.”

Gwennath of Tymora gave him a wan smile, then reached out to squeeze his arm. Vangerdahast was careful to still his automatic reactions of stiffening warily and reaching for a belt wand, allowing himself-for once-the trust to merely reach out and return the gesture.

“I’ll stay with him, whatever befalls,” the priestess said, indicating a cot on the far side of the canopied bed.

Vangerdahast smiled, glanced at the four motionless, full-armored Purple Dragons standing with grounded swords at the four corners of the bed, and replied, “And I’ll be sure that some of the men he commands come up to slip him wine and sweets and a little rough cheer.”

“Do so,” the priestess agreed, sitting down on the edge of her cot, where she could watch the baron’s face. She lifted a hand in farewell.

Vangerdahast waved to her, feeling the weariness of too little sleep as a bone-deep ache in his shoulders and at the back of his head, and strode to the guarded door. He waited for the guards to open it and reveal the wary faces of still more guards, parted them with a gesture, and passed on into Gryphonsblade Hall, where the king lay.

Watchful Purple Dragons with naked swords in their hands were everywhere, peering grimly at the priests and war wizards flanking the high bed and warily escorting the excitedly murmuring nobles one by one up to the pale figure that lay on it. Like Thomdor, His Majesty had awakened that morning as well but remained stricken by the affliction that was slowly killing them both.

An eagerness gnawed at the air in the sapphire-domed room… a tension of waiting. The nobles of half the realm, and as many rich merchants of Suzail as cared to bribe a minor noble to serve as escort through the court bureaucracy, had gathered to see Azoun’s passing. They were there to see the king close up-closer than most had ever gotten in their lives-and to whisper prayers and wishes of encouragement to His Majesty, in hopes of being remembered in the royal will and so they could say to neighbors and descendants, “Azoun conferred with me on his deathbed, you know, and I told him

” But mostly they were here to see the king die.

If you gave not a thought to civil war or invaders rushing down to ravage the realm, it was thrilling to be right on the spot when something that would shake all Faerun was happening right before your eyes!

Those who knew what it would really take to shake all Faerun, Vangerdahast thought, were busily arming and patrolling their holds or hiding what they valued, not standing gossiping in the long lines that wound up from the palace gates, waiting to get in here. The catch-phrase “The king is dying!” had spread from one end of Suzail to the other in a matter of hours after the return of the hunting party, of course, and the court had been jammed-was still jammed-with folk demanding, pleading, insisting, and bribing their way in to see their king… while he still was their king. There was always a chance that someone with a knife or a suicide spell would try to make sure of what the abraxus hadn’t-yet-and so layer after layer of spells had been laid and the king put under heavy guard.

Huh, thought the court wizard sourly, we should all be under heavy guard, with this many nobles flitting in and out. Or should that more properly be crawling in and out?

That thought carried him almost into the long, pointed nose of the noble who was badgering the king right now, some popinjay who wasn’t going to let a comatose ruler get in the way of seeking personal favors. Blundebel Eldroon, from the minor socalled nobility of Marsember, if memory served right…

“Your Majesty,” Eldroon was saying earnestly, “if you could just see your way clear to signing-“

“The king won’t be signing anything today,” Vangerdahast said firmly. “Today is cloudy.”

The noble straightened up with a frown. “Go away, old man! This is the king I’m talking with, and I’m a very important-“

“And widely praised buffoon known to one and all as Blundebel Eldroon, among ruder things,” the Royal Magician interrupted. “Go away. Come back when the weather is clear.”

“‘Weather is clear’? Guards-take away this madman!”

A Purple Dragon as tall and muscular as the front end of a horse grinned, sheathed his sword, and obediently took Blundebel Eldroon by the elbow and forearm, lifted him off the ground, and trotted to a side door.

“What-Hey! Ho! What’re you doing?” the Marsembian noble shouted.

“Taking the madman away, as you requested,” was the gruff reply. An instant before a door banged open, Blundebel had a dizzying glimpse of several more grinning guards swinging wide another door onto a vista of descending marble steps, and the painful grip on his arm was released. He barely had time to grasp the fact that he was sailing through the air, down a flight of stairs that looked very solid and hard indeed, when he wasn’t anymore. His roar of pain was lost in the laughter from above.

Back in Gryphonsblade Hall, the next noble in line, smiling uneasily at the greatest mage in the realm, wisely decided to keep silent and await a later moment to speak with the king.

“Old friend! Your match hat is a werebeast, I see!” Azoun smiled weakly, then frowned as he himself heard what he had said. “Your match-hat…” he began again, “is a werebeast,” then shook his head. Whatever fever raged in his brain prevented him from communicating his ideas fully. The King tried to wave an arm, but the limb wouldn’t do more than twitch on the silken sheets and then fall still again.

“Yes,” the Royal Magician agreed gravely, “My match hat is indeed a werebeast. I’ve thought that for some time. But how are you, my liege?”

“Several bottles of strong drink rage in my gut,” Azoun said slowly, forcing each word and dropping one eyelid in a slow, deliberate wink. “All I can feel. Fingers feet… nothing. A little dagger point of pain here, there. That’s all.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the wizard thought sleep had captured the king as it had the baron. Then Azoun’s brows furrowed, and he opened his eyes again, spearing Vangerdahast with their intensity. “I am dying, am I not?” asked the king.

The wizard bent down to mutter in his ear, “We don’t think so, but these vultures we call nobles do. Try to disappoint them for me, will you?”

Azoun tried to laugh, coughed with an alarming catch and a weak, sobbing breath, and shook his head. “They… just might be right… this once,” he managed to wheeze.

Vangerdahast frowned. “Mounds of bull droppings to that! Majesty, there doesn’t seem to be anything that can halt the poison yet, but we’ve barely begun to try-“

“The whole range of tortures on me. I know,” the king replied, his voice growing stronger as he concentrated on his words. “Worse than the nobles, in their way.”

“Your condition may be due to something found in warmer climes or even on another plane of existence,” the court wizard said, still muttering. “All of our sages-and the Harpers, too, I’m told-are consulting with their brethren in other cities.”

The king caught his eye. ” ‘Consulting with their brethren’? Is that not the phrase we used for a quick trip to Arabel-drinks to toast our arrival there, ladies to share them with? Back when we were young and healthy?”

The joke was as weak as its teller, but Vangerdahast laughed in relief. A flash, at least, of Azoun’s true spirit meant the king hadn’t given up on life just yet.

But the king was looking oddly green about the eyes, and his head had fallen back on the pillow again. “So, gods-blasted… tired,” he gasped, his voice trailing away. A breath later he was asleep, eyes closed, head turned to one side.

“He needs to sleep, doesn’t he?” the wizard asked the priests who were hastily gathering around the king’s head, feeling at his hands and brow and neck.

One of them, a short man whose face was almost hidden by a bristling mustache, looked up. “Of course,” he snapped. “Who can heal in peace with this going on?” He indicated the long line of waiting, chattering nobles with an angry wave of his hand.

Another turned from Azoun to say, “In general terms, I agree. Yet from time to time, ‘tis probably best if the king speaks with folk, as he did with you. The converse forces him to use his wits, especially if matters new to him, or which he’s not considered in some time, are raised.”

“Nonsense!” The first priest snarled. “He’s not fallen on his head or been smitten with a mace! It’s rest he needs, not a lot of chatter!

"I-“

“Your understanding of the king’s condition is hardly-“

“I dispute what both of ye say! We of-“

Vangerdahast’s hand went to his pocket belt, but instead of pulling out the whistle, he instead pulled out a milky flashstone. He held the magical stone up, and it issued a sharp, brilliant strobe of light, startling more than one holy man into a fall and shocking them all into silence.

The source of the blinding burst of radiance stood with his hands on his hips and looked grimly at them all. “If the king wakes and wants to talk to you or any of these nobles, let him. If he wants them to leave his side, see that they do. If any noble tries to rouse the king or complains about having to wait for his awakening, throw him out.”

One of the priests blinked. “Throw a noble of the realm out of this chamber? Lord wizard, that’s hardly-“

Vangerdahast held up an imperious hand. “I know. That’s why these good Knights of the Purple Dragon around us here will enforce my command and bring chamberpots and pillows to any nobles who want to spend the night defending their precious place in line.” He turned slowly, to catch the eyes of the men-at-arms, and collected many nods of grim satisfaction and a few open grins.

“If any noble has a formal complaint to make or tries to countermand my orders, refer him-personally-to me.” He turned back to the priests and added darkly, “They should settle any matters pertaining to titular or property succession with their kindred first.”

He looked slowly at each of the priests in turn, meeting their gazes, and asked, “Is there anything unclear in what I’ve just said? Does anyone find the slightest room for misunderstanding or speculation as to my will? Speak if so!”

Silence was his only reply. The Royal Magician smiled coldly and said to one of the guards, “Thanorbert, send pages down the line of nobles to repeat the orders I’ve given and send men enough after them to see that they aren’t manhandled. A noble who lays an unfriendly finger on any page is to be thrown to the ground, lashed on the behind just once with a swordbelt-but make it a good blow-and thrown out, losing his place in line. All right?”

“More than all right, lord,” the Purple Dragon veteran said from behind him. “It shall-enthusiastically-be done just as you have said.”

“Good,” the Royal Magician said and strode out of the hall without looking back. He passed through the Hornbow Bower, one of a number of small sitting rooms that littered the palace, marked by potted plants and ornate screens. He did not speak to the cooks and servants assembling there to prepare food for the war wizards, men-at-arms, and priests attending the king. Face set, the old wizard ignored greetings and queries alike and hurried out through the Mirror Bower, down the statue-lined Hall of Heroes. The normally silent, deserted hall was crammed with waiting nobles and a stolid trio of Purple Dragons, who moved up and down the line quelling fights and restoring queue jumpers to their former places. Many nobles called out to the wizard, and the armsmen quickly moved to hold back the few nobles headstrong enough to try to bar the court wizard’s way.

Vangerdahast shook his head sadly at the chaos of sneering and declaiming and posturing-was this the best the realm could muster from its noble bloodlines?-but did not slow his stride. Soon he reached the end of the royal purple carpet, where the last pair of white marble statues guarded three doors that led from the hall.

The wizard took the door on the left, into the Argent Robing Room, and reached for a fine chain on his belt that held a certain key. His hand fell away again when he saw that a man he did not know was waiting for him, bareheaded but in battered and stained battle armor, flanked by two Purple Dragons. “Yes?” he asked shortly, his tone almost a challenge.

The man in armor bowed stiffly, metal plates shifting, and laid a hand on his breast, saying, “Eregar Abanther, servant of Tempus.”

Vangerdahast nodded his head, and the priest continued. “We have prepared the duke’s body for resting in state, Lord Wizard.” He raised a hand and waved at the walls around him, asking delicately, “Where…?”

“Our thanks, sword brother,” the Royal Magician said gravely. “Let it be done fittingly. Algus of the Keys will give you the duke’s sword. Take it and four of your brethren of good strength and shared size to carry the duke. Let there be four more holy men of Tempus with lit torches to serve as escort. Bid the carriers take down Bhereu’s shield of honor from the Gallant Gallery-Algus will show you where-and bear it in solemn procession to where the duke now lies, his sheathed sword upon it. Let such holy prayers as please Tempus be said then, and the duke taken up.”

“Forthwith?”

Vagerdahast nodded. “Lead them yourself from that place. Bear him slowly, with dirge and tolling bell, through the palace, so the Purple Dragons you pass can give him sword salute, and take the fallen to the court, and to the Marble Forehall there. A bier awaits in that chamber. Lay him down there with the Warrior’s Farewell.”

The priest of Tempus bowed his head. “Lord, it shall be so.”

Vangerdahast took a ring from his belt pouch and pressed it into Abather’s hand. It bore a device shaped like a golden lion and inscribed with the numeral 3.

“Redeem this at the treasury after the solemnities are done,” he murmured. “They will have instructions to render unto you nine thousand golden lions, one thousand for each priest of Tempus who walks with the duke.”

The priest bowed his head. “Tempus thanks you, lord.”

“And I thank Tempus,” the wizard said, startling Abanther with the ritual response known only to faithful followers of the god of battles. Then he inclined his head in dismissal and gestured to the guards to depart. They and the priest went out together, leaving Vangerdahast alone. He looked around, noted the two belarjacks, the unarmed servants guarding the door he’d come in by. The wizard nodded at them, then murmured a word he’d not used in a long time.

Utter darkness came down, darkness only he could see through. One of the servants cried out in alarm, but the Royal Magician spoke no word of explanation or reassurance as he drew forth the key he’d been reaching for earlier, went to a wall panel that very few living folk knew was a door, and unlocked it with the key while murmuring a spell to keep the enchanted guardian of the portal at bay.

There was a moment of swirling, fairylike chiming, a stirring of the air, and he was through the ward. In the room he’d left, the darkness should be clearing already. Ahead down a long passage stood a row of motionless guards in full armor. Vangerdahast strode right up to them and on past, and they stood like statues. “Helmed horrors” some called them, in truth, they were nothing more than empty suits of armor animated by his own spells. They guarded a door that the touch of his palm opened-a door that led into the Hidden Chambers.

Bright sun spilled down from a vaulting skylight into the comfortably furnished room before him. Bookshelves lined the walls, and on a huge table gleamed, colorful maps of the Dragonreach lands, from Tunland as far east as the Vast. At the heart of the room, comfortable high-backed chairs and lounges surrounded a dragonhide rug. It yielded under his feet, soft and warm, as the Royal Magician strode from where his door opened, in the wall beside the fireplace, to face the two folk who sat waiting for him: Alaphondar, Sage Royal of Cormyr, and Filfaeril, The Dragon Queen. There were few people in the realm that the stout old court wizard knelt to, but he did so now, in true reverence.

Queen Filfaeril Selzair Obarskyr was blessed by the gods and her breeding with ice-blue eyes, golden blond hair, exquisite carriage-so that she drew the eyes of all men and most women whenever she moved-a slender figure and alabaster skin. What had attracted the interest of the young Azoun-for whom there was not shortage of available, even eager, stunningly beautiful women-however, was less her looks than her mind. Filfaeril was brilliant. She noticed everything that befell around her and understood people and implications better than many widely respected sages.

Her once exceptional beauty had begun its slow fade, but to men who respected intellect and stubborn bravery-and Vangerdahast was one of those-she was more beautiful than ever. Her poise and dignity still bewitched eyes that saw only external beauty, all that betrayed her deep grief at the probable death of her husband now was the deep blue rings around her eyes. They gave Filfaeril an air of vulnerability, and Lord Alaphondar was obviously smitten with her, but Vangerdahast reminded himself of how often the queen bested the Dragon of Cormyr over the chessboard.

“Rise, old and faithful friend,” she said quietly. “You of all men are the realm Azoun and I serve. I need your counsel and strength now, not your courtesy.”

Vangerdahast rose and said gently, “Great lady, my courtesy is my strength.”

She nodded, eyes flashing briefly in acknowledgment of, and agreement with, his words, then asked, “What news?”

“All Suzail-and probably most of the realm by now, for I know word has reached both Arabel and Marsember-has heard of Your Majesty’s madness of grief and retreat to seclusion in Eveningstar. In the early hours of this morning, someone unleashed a flight of flying daggers and over a dozen helmed horrors into the temple of Lathander where you were supposedly staying. They made straight for the private apartments given over to the war wizardess posing as you, my queen, and took the lives of several underpriests and all of the openly posted Purple Dragon garrison. A full sword of additional knights-veterans ennobled by the king, not drawn from the established noble families of the realm-were stationed in the private apartments and did their utmost to protect the lady they thought was their queen. Four gave their lives, the others are all of the opinion that the attacking constructs they fought, and were forced to destroy in order to prevail, were directed by someone able to observe the fray at all times.”

“In these days of magic for hire,” Filfaeril said with a shrug, “almost anyone in the realm beyond a simple woodcutter or yeoman farmer could be involved in such an attack.”

Both men nodded. “What is clear, great queen,” Alaphondar said bluntly, “is that someone is willing to pay much to see the Obarskyr line broken, or at least a young, easily wed or easily swayed daughter on the throne.”

“Safety demands that you disappear for a time,” Vangerdahast added. Filfaeril looked at him for a long moment, her eyes locked with his.

“I see the wisdom in that,” she said at last, “and yet, my lords, I must warn you that if Alaphondar’s words are true-a most likely conclusion, I agree-you yourselves both stand in as great peril as I. If one is to sway my Tanalasta or Alusair, one will want all her trusted sources of support and advice permanently removed from the scene.”

The Royal Magician shrugged. “For me to flee now would be to leave the realm unattended, surrendering the throne to anyone who wants it. We would thereby thrust the realm into chaos as every greedy hand grabs for the crown and inevitably battles other claimants. Moreover, if we all disappear, an observer can reach no other conclusion than that we have all gone into hiding-and a long and devastating hunt will begin.” He shook his head and strode forward. “It would be Tethyr all over again.

“Nay, Highness,” he continued, “our only hope lies in spreading the tale that more than one attack was made upon you in Eveningstar, and that the second succeeded, taking the lives of yourself and Lord Alaphondar here in a fireball or something else that left no bodies behind.”

“While you remain behind to face the storm almost alone, in the greatest danger of all of us,” Filfaeril said quietly, eyes troubled.

Vangerdahast smiled grimly and corrected her. “While I remain behind to enjoy the lion’s share of the fun, watching the disloyal in our realm fall all over themselves and each other trying to take the Dragon Throne.”

Something that was almost a smile rose to touch the queen’s lips for just a moment, and she murmured, “I do almost envy you, my lord. I would dearly love to see some of the things that will unfold in fair Cormyr in the days ahead.”

“So you accept, Your Majesty, that you must ‘disappear’ for a time?”

Filfaeril nodded slowly. “Know you both that my greatest desire is to remain with Azoun-in life and in death. Were the realm strong and a clear and rightful heir ready to take the crown, I would command you and all in the court, by your oaths, to make my husband’s passing as painless as possible.”

“It is a pity that you cannot take the throne yourself,” said the wizard.

“It is a pity indeed,” said the queen, “but only one born into the Obarskyr line may rule. I may wear a crown, but I cannot rule without my husband.”

She rose and took two restless steps toward the fire. “The realm is not ready for smooth passage to the rule of an unchallenged heir… so I accede to your wise scheme, for crown and country, for king and Cormyr.” She stared into the distance for a moment more, then turned to face Vangerdahast and Alaphondar. Next she took the slim everyday circlet of her rank from her head and held it out before her. The sapphires on its two brow spires flashed. “Do what you must do.”

Vangerdahast bowed. “Lady Queen, my intent is to send you and the Sage Royal to Waterdeep, your shapes disguised by magic, to a household where certain loyal war wizards of the realm have already been installed to watch over you.” The eyes of the Royal Magician and Lord Alaphondar met briefly, behind the queen’s back, the sage nodded almost imperceptibly.

“If you lay your hand upon the bowl on yonder plinth and then put your crown in it, the circlet will sink into the metal and lie hidden, cloaked from all by the bowl’s magic. Only your hand upon the bowl again can make it rise up and reappear.”

Without hesitation, the queen did as he directed. When she turned around again, Alaphondar was gone. In his place stood the stooped, pox-marked figure of a stout, aged merchant in food-stained robes. The merchant bowed to her and grinned, displaying a smile that was missing rather more teeth than the Sage Royal had ever lost.

She smiled thinly. “And what am I to call you now, Alaphondar?”

“Ah, ‘sluggard,’ ‘good-for-nothing husband,’ and ‘old fool’ are all handy phrases,” the old merchant told her, “but my name is Flammos Galdekund, and yours is Aglarra, my queen.”

Filfaeril’s eyebrows rose. “Won’t the neighbors be a trifle surprised to see new inhabitants of whatever house or apartments you’ve chosen for us?”

“Nay, lady,” Vangerdahast said. “Both Flammos and Aglarra really exist, and since their luggage has preceded them from the docks, they’re expected back this very day from a long vacation in southern Amn, where they went to take healing waters at Iritue’s Firesprings, because you fell so ill that your memories left you and your manner and even your voice changed.”

The queen’s smiled broadened, and she asked, “Yet I suppose I look as dumpy and shrewish as ever?”

The Royal Magician bowed. “Your Majesty is as quick and as wise as ever.”

Filfaeril laughed, looking briefly like a much younger woman, and held out her arms. “Change me, then. I’ve a feeling I’m going to enjoy this!” Then she frowned. “Are there servants, or is Flammos going to grow very sick of partridge, hocks, onions, and mushroom stew? They’re the only things I could ever make really well.”

Both men snorted in amusement and said more or less in unison, “There are servants, great lady.”

Flammos scratched himself and added, “But, O queen of my heart, you could tell them how to make your stew as often as you like. They might never get it just right, you know.”

Unexpectedly she giggled. “Change me, Vangey,” she said almost pleadingly.

“You’ll lose something of your height and grace,” the wizard warned, “and almost all of your great beauty.”

“Understood,” she said firmly. “Must I wait longer? Change me and let us go, before I start to want this and that from my chambers and my resolve starts to go…”

Vangerdahast touched her hand, her foot, her breast, and her forehead, stepped back, and carefully cast a long and rather involved spell. There was a brief flicker of light, and the Dragon Queen was gone.

A shorter, almost mannish woman with a pot belly, bodice to match, and large, pimpled chin glared at him from where the queen stood. “Well?” she rasped. “Is it a good idea to ask you for a mirror?”

Vangerdahast shook his head. The queen nodded ruefully, took a few experimental steps, wiggled her hips as she looked down to watch her heavy midsection sway, and stamped her feet. “Right,” she announced gruffly. “I’m ready.”

She ran an exploratory hand over her chin as Flammos stumped up to take her arm, and said, “Hmm tell me, husband mine, do I need a shave as badly as I think I do?”

Both men hooted with laughter, and Vangerdahast reached to take her hand and kiss it. “You’re itching to be the terror of the young men of Waterdeep, I see,” he said, “so I’ll bid you farewell for now, and-“

Aglarra Galdekund snatched her hand away from him, growled fiercely, “Well!” and then seized his ears firmly with both hands, dragged the wizard’s face down to where she could kiss it firmly on the lips. After she had done so, she said, eyes inches from his, “Guard the realm for us, lord wizard, as our thoughts guard you. Guard it and keep it safe for us all.”

“Lady,” Vangerdahast replied, feeling suddenly humble again, “I shall.” He stepped back, murmured, “Keep still now,” waved to them both, and cast the spell.

A glow grew about the Galdekunds as they stood there on the warm dragonhide before the fire. The glow blazed with sudden brilliance, then faded-and when it was gone, they were gone, too.

The Royal Magician shook his head wearily and went to the nearest chair, sinking down into it thankfully to discover that Filfaeril had left behind a dainty little glass and her silver-mounted bodice flask on the table beside it. He picked it up, finding it still warm from her body, and brought it to his nose to smell… yes, the last faint wisps of her perfume. He smiled and opened it. Gods, but he was tired.

Spiced wine-Tethyrian tanagluth, his favorite!

“Thank you, great lady,” he murmured, pouring the ruby-hued liquid into the tiny glass with slow, deliberate care.

Raising it to his lips, Vangerdahast sipped gently at the welcome fire and thought about the days ahead. Azoun had been-nay, at this moment still was-a great king… perhaps too great. Even in the crusade there had been little thought he would ever die. Very few plans had been made… plans that should have been made.

The glass had somehow become empty. Vangerdahast reached for the flask again. Had there ever been a change of power so precipitous and dangerous as this one?

And would a certain Royal Magician be strong enough to do what he would have to do?