Cormyr

Chapter 12: The Insufficient King

Year of the Dun Dragon (245 DR)

Sagrast Dracohorn, nobleman of Cormyr and steward of the Royal House of Obarskyr, fidgeted in his duskwood chair, wondering if he were strong enough to do what needed to be done. An upstairs room in the Ram and Duck would not have been his first choice for a meeting of traitors. Indeed, Sagrast would prefer not to be a traitor at all, but the reigns of mad Boldovar and now poor, inept Iltharl had given him little choice.

The room itself was rough-hewn and ill-kept, a memory of Suzail’s early days. There were fewer and fewer of these rough inns in the city itself these days, though they were common enough beyond the city’s walls, in the countryside and in distant Mabel. The timbers were exposed, with muddy patches of dried wattle crumbling between them. Most of the furniture had been broken and inexpertly repaired several times. None of the line of peg-hung mugs on the wall matched. Every tread on the floor reverberated through the loose floorboards of the building.

There was one advantage to this place, Sagrast thought. There was little chance of meeting any of the aristocracy here. That’s probably why the wizard had suggested it.

The window shutters, mostly wooden slats set with broken bottle bottoms, had been swung fully open, allowing the sounds and smells of the street below to waft into the room. It was the first hot spell of the summer, and the rot of meat and smell of bodies and offal and horses rose to Sagrast’s nostrils. The stench almost took away the bitter taste of the dark, grainy ale that clung tenaciously to the sides of the nobleman’s mug.

Sagrast hung back from the open window, knowing on one hand the chance of being seen was minimal, but fearing such a discovery nonetheless. Even if this meeting should prove innocuous, being seen in this place would raise questions in King Iltharl’s delicate court.

From his viewpoint, he could see a small part of the city. Most of the buildings were wood-and-wattle, with rough thatched roofs. A few builders on the hillside had taken to using stone for the foundation and lower floors. Only after several goblin raids on the city and complaints from the soldiers about trying to fight in the thick smoke of a wall set alight by brush-carrying foes had Iltharl approved replacement of the wooden palisade with a real stone wall.

Faerlthann’s Keep was stone, of course, from shallow dungeon to highest battlement. The great tower, seat of the Obarskyr power, rose from the hillside like a stake from a vampire’s chest and seemed to accuse Sagrast of his intended crimes. The keep’s windows were barred slits, a memory of Boldovar’s time, and Sagrast wondered if anyone stood behind those slits, scanning the city… watching for traitors. Watching for him.

The wizard was there when Sagrast turned back to the room. The nobleman hadn’t heard him enter, but then again, he never did. Despite himself, Sagrast started at the sight of the mage sprawling like an ancient spider in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

Baerauble the Venerable, High Wizard of Cormyr, sprawled across the chair like a discarded child’s doll, all elbows and knees. The mage had always been thin-nay, emaciated, a scarecrow of a wizard. His beard showed only the slightest streaks of its original red, and his hairline had retreated to the crown of his head. His eyes were as cold and ancient as a dragon’s. He was dressed, as ever, in the forest green that had become known as “his” color, but the cut of his robes was archaic, harking back-like this tavern-to older and better times in Cormyr.

“Good of you to come,” he said simply.

“When a wizard calls, you cannot pretend to not be at home,” said Sagrast, bowing slightly. The High Wizard was the most powerful man from Suzail to Mabel, and with the death of Boldovar three winters back, the most dangerous.

“How are matters with Iltharl, the young king?” asked the mage.

Sagrast blew the air out of his cheeks, taking the seat opposite the mage. “As bad as before. He makes no decisions and allows no one else to make any, either. He prefers to be among his sculptures and paintings or listening to lutes and poems, or hosting his parties and feasts. Elvish is becoming the court language, for any who speak it gain his attention first.”

“There have been studious kings before,” noted Baerauble. “Rhiiman the Glorious, who first pushed back the borders of the forest, and Elder Tharyann, Boldovar’s father, who saw the leave-taking of the last great elven families.”

“Aye, and Rhiiman slew the last great red dragon of the Wyvernwater, and Tharyann put down the first rebellion of Mabel. This Iltharl is a wan, pale king, moved by his courtiers and consorts. The people are growing very restive, and those of us charged with maintaining the realm have become… extremely concerned.”

“Convince me,” the wizard said softly. “Why are things so bad?”

Sagrast licked his lips. There was still a chance the wizard would turn on him and his allies. “There are goblins and orcs on the road. Bandits and thieves join them, and they grow bolder by the day, while the King’s guards hug the tower like children afraid of shadows. Mabel is in rebellion once more, and Iltharl has let it go its own way. There are shortages now in the markets. Some matrons are now wearing daggers openly at their belts to walk the streets and shop in safety. And the Purple Dragon has been seen in the ruins of abandoned Marsember.”

The mage made a harrumphing noise. “Every time someone needs an ill omen, the Purple Dragon seems to appear. Usually it is a red dragon espied in moonlight or a small black seen at a distance. And people see all sort of things in plague-ridden Marsember. All else you say is true, do not muddle it with fantasy.”

“Many of the lesser nobles are taking greater liberties, and some are now refusing to pay their taxes and raising militias of their own. The trio of Silver families-Huntsilver, Crownsilver, and Truesilver, all the traditional eyes and long arms of the king-are too close to the throne to see the danger. Mewling toadies, they play to Iltharl’s ego for his favor and spend their time thanking the gods that Iltharl is not Boldovar the Mad. But even the Mad King held the reins of state firmly when he was in his right mind. The Silvers cannot see that the realm is crumbling around them!”

“And you do.”

“I represent a small group of nobles of… middling power,” said Sagrast, “mostly families who have arisen since the days of Faerlthann himself. We have come to see things the same way, because what we see, however bleak, is the truth of things. The kingdom has been wounded by a mad king, and now it may be destroyed by a weak king. The elder nobles serve out of tradition, but some seek to break up the kingdom and seize their own territories. Our small houses would be swallowed in such strife, yet we cannot convince the crown of the dangers.”

“And your solution is regicide,” said the mage, his voice as cold as a steel blade.

Sagrast spread his hands in front of him, as if to ward off a blow. “No, lord wizard-not if it can be helped! I have served Iltharl well, and he is not a bad man. He is only a bad king. We mean him no harm. We just need a decisive leader.”

“And you have one in mind,” said the mage, looking at the young noble stonily. Sagrast wished that the wizard would blink, and not for the first time he found himself wondering if the mage was merely sounding him out, only to wave a hand and magically transport him to a dungeon cell.

Sagrast took a deep breath. “Iltharl has a sister Gantharla.”

“A fine, strong young woman,” Baerauble agreed, nodding. “The blood of the Obarskyrs runs strong in that one. And some fear she is truly Boldovar’s daughter, brash and impulsive. She has done well in patrolling the Western Marches with her foresters, and I noticed that the marches were noticeably absent in your list of woes. But the Dragon Throne is held through primogeniture. The Crown of Cormyr has always passed to the eldest surviving son.”

Sagrast held out one hand to emphasize his point. “Yes, but she is Obarskyr blood, and were she to marry and produce an heir, there would at least be a chance for the monarchy! Iltharl has been barren-with his wife, and among his consorts. If Gantharla could whelp a male child, then Iltharl could step down in favor of a legitimate successor.”

“I don’t remember Gantharla mentioning being interested in ‘whelping’ anything at the moment,” said Baerauble dryly.

“Well, we were thinking… um, that Kallimar Bleth would be a suitable husband.”

“You were thinking, or Kallimar?” asked the wizard. “Or does Bleth even know of your plots?”

“Well, I…” Sagrast thought of the dungeons. He would not choose to share them with another angry coplotter. “I’m not comfortable talking about who else knows of this.”

The wizard favored Sagrast with a smile. “Kallimar is Mondar reborn-large, dark-haired, and proud. And like Mondar, he is crude, violent, bad-tempered, and vicious. Remember, I knew the first Bleth to walk Cormyr two and half centuries ago. Do you really think that Gantharla, who’s at home in the saddle and a leader of border foresters, would be interested in such a man?”

Sagrast cleared his throat. “Well, we were thinking… or I was thinking…”

“That I would wave my hands and work some enchantment over her, eh?” said the wizard. “No, you weren’t-but you were hoping I thought you were.” His eyes were like two blades, boring deep into Sagrast’s own. “You’ve survived Boldovar and even served Iltharl well, Dracohorn. What were you really hoping for?”

“I was hoping… we were hoping… that we could convince you to stay out of this matter.” Sagrast winced, knowing he could have phrased it better and hoping the powerful mage would not take offense.

Baerauble simply nodded. “And by doing nothing, I take it you mean just let you pitch Kallimar’s case to Gantharla, perhaps even convince her that it would be good for the kingdom itself, arrange a marriage, and work subtly on His Majesty to convince him he would be better off in private life?”

Sagrast agreed fervently. “It’s not as if we would not appreciate any support you could-” His excited rush of words were stopped by the surprising thing the wizard did then. Baerauble laughed.

It was a dry, macabre laugh, the sort puppeteers used when portraying a ghost or lich. It was a rattling of bones that shook the wizard’s empty form. Sagrast had never heard it before and hoped he would not hear it again.

“Well, yours is the first proposal I’ve heard that did not involve poisoning the king immediately or smuggling a dagger-wielding Thayvian maiden in among his personal favorites. Perhaps the nobility is on the verge of attaining civilization after all.”

Baerauble leaned forward over the table, and Sagrast felt himself being drawn forward in response. “Do you think,” the mage asked, his voice suddenly fierce, “that if I could honestly replace the King of Cormyr I would have not done so when the realm had to contend with mad old Boldovar?”

Sagrast stammered a hasty reply, but Baerauble ignored him. “I have been charged with protecting the head that wears the Cormyrian crown, even if the mind within that head is evil, mad, or ineffectual. The elves charged me so and laid their geas upon me to enforce that charge. Typical elven narrow vision, really. A great people, but unable to see beyond their own long life spans.”

“So when Tharyann outlived most of his own spawn and left only poor, mad Boldovar as his heir, I protected the new king and sought to treat his madness as best I could with spells and poultices. And he lasted longer than he had any right to, until he fell victim to his own rages and passions.”

Sagrast nodded. Boldovar had perished three summers ago, after gutting one of his consorts. Clutching vainly at her slayer, the dying woman had dragged him over the battlements of Faerlthann’s Keep. Baerauble had been abroad at the time.

The ancient wizard continued. “Boldovar left behind Iltharl, a spindly child, and Gantharla, who has redeemed the Obarskyr bloodline in many eyes and caused others to worry that she is truly her father’s daughter. I know she’s more popular in the western settlements than the king himself. I believe all the, ah, great thinkers among our nobles were hoping that Iltharl would see fit to spawn an heir and then conveniently perish of Marsember Pox before he had to rule. The fates did not allow it, and my own binding does not allow me to act against him.”

The old man’s face clouded. “As you say, Iltharl is not a bad man. Not bad in the same way as Boldovar was. If anything, Boldovar was too much a descendant of Ondeth and Faerlthann, and Iltharl was too little. Perhaps some of us, myself included, saw too much of Boldovar’s madness and sought overly hard to protect his son from it. And protected him so well he’s proved to be ineffective as a leader. We ourselves have crafted an insufficient king.”

The mage sighed deeply. “I find it amusing that so many people, particularly those of noble blood, respect Boldovar more than his son. Boldovar was murderous, ravenous, rapacious, and insane, yet he was strong and forceful, and his faults are forgiven for this. Iltharl is thoughtful and mild and caring, probably the most learned of any of the Kings of Cormyr, but he is reviled for his weakness and timidity. I had to foil five plots against Boldovar’s life in his entire reign. I’ve had to thwart that many attempts against Iltharl’s life this year alone.”

The wizard transfixed the young nobleman with his dragon-sharp eyes. “But yours is the first that has not involved killing the king outright. Were you to hang yourself with your own tongue, I would have that tongue, and I would have the priests speak to your eternal essence and tear from it who your conspirators were. You may have figured on this… and if so, my opinion of Cormyrian nobles rises.”

Sagrast went the color of old cheese. “We only want what’s best for the kingdom…”

“You want what’s best for yourself,” barked Baerauble, eyes glinting across the table with sudden fire. “I see none of the tripartite Silvers here, who nestle so closely to the king’s robes. And none of the Rayburtons or Muscalians sit in this meeting. Oh, yes, I know which nobles are hiring mercenaries and drilling militia and buying swords of Impilturian steel. What good end do they serve? And who, if they grow dissatisfied with whomever they install as Iltharl’s successor and seek to plunge the realm into war, will rule them? A young noble of a middling house, whose reputation was built on serving the crown if not the head that wears it?”

Sagrast was silent. After what seemed like a very long time, he swallowed noisily. Baerauble smiled at him. “You get your wish, youngling. I will stand aside and not interfere in your attempts to find a ‘suitable’ king for Cormyr. And how long do you think such a labor will take?”

“I think it will take a year to get Gantharla and Lord Bleth together, with all of us pushing,” Sagrast ventured, almost shuddering with relief that his life wasn’t going to end horribly right then and there.

“You are young and an optimist,” the wizard replied, and Sagrast was afraid he would be treated to another bout of bone-dry laughter. “And if those two individuals notice each other, what then? What does Sagrast Dracohorn oversee then?”

“A suitable courtship,” answered Sagrast, his voice gaining strength, “a decent period after the wedding, assuming the first child is male, and then ensuring the heir survives the battery of childhood illnesses and has a basic training in government.”

“From such caring nobles as the friends of Lord Bleth,” the wizard interjected.

“And the trustworthy family wizard,” added Sagrast. “I figure twelve years.”

Baerauble smiled very thinly. “Do you think Cormyr can stand twelve more years of kind, hapless Iltharl?”

“I think,” Sagrast said slowly, licking his lips in nervousness, “that it would if we had the promise of an heir on the way.”

The mage was silent for a long moment, and in the city beyond the shutters, Sagrast heard a distant disturbance: shouts and the clashing of steel. Adventurers on a brawl? Or had rebellion finally come to Suzail?

The wizard was apparently deaf to the sounds of battle. “Then we’d best start as soon as possible, shouldn’t we?” He reached out a skeletal hand to the young noble.

Sagrast reached out, but before grasping the extended hand, he asked, “Why did you have me meet you here? With all your resources and power-“

“I could have met with you anywhere,” finished the mage. “But if I had to kill a traitor, I thought I might as well burn down an ugly eyesore of a building in the process.”

Sagrast’s eyes widened a split instant before their hands touched-and blinding light exploded around them.

When the light faded, they were standing on the front steps of the keep. Sagrast felt as if his internal organs were still back in the upper room of the Ram and Duck. His insides felt weak and swimming, only after he felt the blood return to his stomach and heart did he notice that there was an uproar around them.

Courtiers and bureaucrats were streaming in and out of the building, some shouting orders, some clutching scrolls and account books. The king’s guards were at the base of the stairs, arrayed for combat in their red-leather jerkins and carrying long metal-shod pikes. They were facing outward toward the city below.

The wizard snaked out a hand and reeled in a passing page, one of the young Truesilvers. “What is going on?”

The Truesilver began to curse but swallowed the profanity when he saw who had him by the collar. “Gantharla is back,” he gasped.

Sagrast Dracohorn shook his head, frowning. “She was supposed to still be in the Western Marches.”

The Truesilver boy nodded. “She was, but the king sent her a message relieving her of command and summoning her here. She came, but she brought her loyal foresters with her! They’re in the city now, and she went inside with His Highness.” The boy jerked his head at the Keep, and then gulped and added, “I hear that His Highness was wearing armor and everything when she went in.”

Baerauble dropped the boy and took the steps two at a time, Sagrast following in his wake.

“Of all the times to finally make a royal decision,” muttered the mage, and Sagrast saw that this was as much a surprise to Baerauble as anyone else. He also realized what the shouts were that he’d heard in the city-Gantharla’s foresters. But had they been cheers or shouts of fury and anger?

Most of the courtiers were emptying their offices and adding to the panic. They were obviously convinced that Gantharla’s loyal foresters would lay siege to the keep at any moment. Fortunately, their quarters were in the outer ring of the keep, and once the mage and noble had waded through the frantically scurrying throng, they encountered little resistance. Deeper within the keep was the Great Hall, and beyond that a small antechamber leading into the official throne room. That would be where Iltharl would meet Gantharla.

The entrance to the antechamber of the throne room was guarded by four of Iltharl’s best soldiers. Solid men in red leather jerkins as tall and as broad as some doorways, they stood grim and watchful, with heavy swords in their hands, determined to prevent anyone from passing.

The wizard strode toward them without slowing. The soldiers made a halfhearted attempt to block Baerauble’s path, but the wizard ignored them as if they were smoke until a blade actually menaced him. Then he looked straight into the eyes of its owner, and a careful look was exchanged. The man lowered his head, muttered something apologetic, and stepped back. The mage looked at the next guard, and then strode through the gap they’d left him, Sagrast drifting along at his heels. Behind the two, the guards closed ranks again, determined to prevent anyone else from passing.

The smooth flagstones of the antechamber thundered under Sagrast’s heavy boots. Baerauble glided soundlessly to the great double doors leading to the throne room itself. He pulled at a door handle, but it did not budge. The wizard said something that at first Sagrast thought was a spell but then realized was an elven curse.

Then Baerauble waved at him to stand back, took a deep breath, and began weaving a real spell. From his throat issued strange, twisted vowels and strings of consonants, and from his palm, laid flat against the door, issued a pale blue glow. Strands of the blue radiance streamed between the mage’s fingers and lanced out, like the strands of a spider’s web, to the edges of the doorframe. There was a series of snaps from the other side of the door, and one large thunk that could only be a bolt being released.

The doors swung open inward.

The throne room had been part of the original house built on this site, over the long years, the rest of the stonework had grown up around it and consumed it. Along the walls hung tapestries and a few battle banners. Along one side of the hall, a small series of broad steps led up to a single throne. Iltharl was standing on the top step, Gantharla at the bottom. Both were in armor, with their swords drawn.

Iltharl was decked in gold and white, his normally immaculate robes covered with a bronze breastplate and leg guards. The plate and guards were chased and sculpted into images of fantastic beasts and stood out in bold relief. Ceremonial, thought Sagrast, and the thought struck him that Iltharl had probably never owned a real suit of armor or had any cause to use it. On his head he wore the Crown of Faerlthann, the elven circlet that commemorated the origin of the realm.

Gantharla was in her foresters’ leathers, a mottled green from neck to foot, with a hood of the same material thrown back from her head. A shirt of elven chain, fine-linked and tinted green, tightly hugged her torso. Her hair, a brilliant red, was short and mannish. Her eyes gleamed, and Sagrast thought of Boldovar’s madness.

Baerauble apparently thought the same, for he raised his hands to work a spell.

Iltharl raised a hand that held the heavy, broadbladed sword of his father and shouted, “Hold!”

The wizard broke off in midword, but he strode on toward the pair at the dais. Uncertainly, Sagrast followed.

“I am glad you could make it, old teacher,” said the king. “My sister and I were discussing affairs of state.”

“My lord, I heard that you-” began Baerauble, but the king cut him off.

“Relieved my sister of command and summoned her here,” said Iltharl. “You heard correctly. Had I thought it would cause this much consternation, I would have consulted you in advance. I did not think Gantharla would respond by marching her entire unit here with her.”

“What was I to think upon receiving your letter?” Gantharla said, ice water in her words. “We had one of the better-marshaled areas among the western settlements, so naturally you would want to stop that. It makes the rest of the nation look bad.”

“And is our kingdom in desperate straits?” asked Iltharl softly, looking down on his sibling.

“I have told you,” spat Gantharla. “It is ill, but all it needs is a good king.”

“And am I a good king?” asked Iltharl in that same gentle voice, smiling.

Gantharla frowned and chose her words carefully. “You are my brother. You are thoughtful and sweet. But, no, you are not a good king.” The words echoed around a room that was suddenly very still. The woman in green drew in a deep breath, threw back her head, and continued. “But you are my king, and I will remain loyal, regardless of the foolishness of your decisions.”

“I thank you for your loyalty,” said Iltharl, “and I agree with your judgment. I am good at many things, but not at being a king. Therefore I now serve my country as best as I know how.”

And with that, the young king reached his free hand to his brow and doffed his circlet. “Kneel, my sister.”

Gantharla dropped to one knee and Sagrast saw what was about to happen. The young noble stepped forward, but Baerauble reached out and took him by the shoulder. Sagrast winced as he came to a dead stop. Now he knew why the Truesilver page had gasped, the old man had a grip like iron.

Iltharl laid his weapon aside and held the crown in both hands. “I have given this much thought,” he said. “I love Cormyr as much as any who have worn this crown, but I know that it needs one worthier than I.” His voice wavered on the last words but steadied again as he added, “Let me prove that love by abdicating for one worthier.”

He placed the crown firmly on Gantharla’s head, the gold shining against her red locks. “Arise, Queen Gantharla, first Queen of Cormyr.”

The new queen rose unsteadily. “Brother, when you summoned me here and I saw you in armor, I thought

” she began.

“There has been a good deal of foolishness in the past two reigns,” Iltharl replied. “Now comes a time for wisdom and strength. I hope you can do better than I.”

Gantharla looked into her brother’s eyes and slowly nodded.

Iltharl stepped down from the dais to the wizard and Sagrast. “Thank you for not stopping me, old teacher,” he told the wizard, “I’m not sure if I could go through that twice. I hope Gantharla will be easier to protect than I was.”

Baerauble looked into the Obarskyr eyes and nodded, but said nothing.

Iltharl turned to Sagrast. “And thank you, young Dracohorn. I caught wind of your plot, and I realized if I could not command the loyalty of my own steward, how could I hope to rule? As surely as any assassin’s strike, you convinced me to think again, and in doing so I found the best path out. Now I will need your help in convincing the other nobles to follow a woman as their ruler.”

Sagrast’s mouth was as dry as flax. He managed to choke out, “What will you do, my lord?”

Iltharl smiled. “I think I wish to go north to Cormanthor to join the elves. They will take in a hapless king and leave me to my studies and my art. That way no one will be tempted to put me back on the throne. Can you arrange that, wizard?”

Baerauble bowed low. “As you wish, my lord.”

Sagrast looked at the new queen. The young woman was adjusting the crown, setting it firmly on her brow. Looking up, she smiled at Sagrast, and the steward hastily bowed low. How had he missed the obvious? All the planning, all the scheming… and all it took was ignoring two and a half centuries of tradition to choose the best king!

Sagrast smiled to himself. Let Kallimar Bleth pledge his own troth to the new queen. Sagrast wished him luck. He flashed the queen a heartfelt smile and unbuckled his court sword, laying it at her feet so that there would be no misunderstanding as he drew it and offered it to her.

The steel grated out. As he drew it, on his knees and using only one hand, Sagrast was aware of Baerauble moving to one side and raising a hand. Ready to blast him with a spell, no doubt, if he tried any treachery now.

Sagrast smiled openly and laid his sword at the feet of his queen. “I offer you my life,” he said faintly, “though I want so much more to build a bright Cormyr in service to you.”

Gantharla touched his brow with her fingertips, and he looked up.

“Will you, Sagrast Dracohorn, be my loyal man and remain as diligent a steward of the realm as you have been?” she asked, eyes stern, yet dancing with excitement.

“Your Majesty, I will,” Sagrast said. She extended her hand, and he kissed it and knelt.

Gantharla sighed. “Ah, yes… the kneeling part. Get up and take up your sword. Rise as Royal Steward and loyal subject, and may you bear both duties as long as the gods give you just strength to do so.”

She turned her head to look at Baerauble. “Lord wizard-if that is indeed what I should call you-the Royal Steward has knelt to me. What will I say to those who refuse to kneel to a queen and insist that only a man can rightfully sit on the Dragon Throne?”

The old, gaunt wizard smiled at her. “Two things, lady. First tell them that I, Baerauble, have stood by the realm since its founding. I was there when Faerlthann was crowned, and I swore then to serve the Crown of Cormyr, not the King of Cormyr. So long as the crown rests on a head Obarskyr-born, Cormyr endures.”

Gantharla closed her eyes and shuddered as if in relief. “I may live to see this year end, then,” she said quietly, and then opened her eyes and asked, “And the second thing?”

Slowly, and in evident discomfort, the old wizard sagged toward the flagstones. “You may tell them that the Royal Steward of the Realm and the Lord Wizard of Cormyr knelt to you and kissed your hand in fealty.”

There were tears in the queen’s eyes as the old wizard went to his knees. “Rise, rise,” she said swiftly, extending her hand to him.

As he kissed it, Iltharl said quietly, “There is one thing more.”

They all turned to look at him, and he said, “Tell them I named you my heir and bade those who dispute my just right to do this to set forth their arguments in writing. They may bring them to the elven court of Cormanthor. I shall refute such entreaties in writing, for I have some small talent that can still serve the realm.”

Gantharla laughed until she wept, and Iltharl laughed with her. Shaking her head, the queen asked, “Brother, how did you ever find it in you to do this?”

Iltharl looked at his sister and sighed deeply. “It took little time to see I was not serving Cormyr well. It took a little longer to see what I must do. It took a very long time to find the… stomach to do it, especially with all the schemers plotting treason. It was fascinating to watch them work.” He turned his head and added, “And I mean that, Sagrast, with no ill will or sarcasm.” Looking back at his sister, he said, “I wish you luck. I really wanted to be a hero… but it was just… beyond me.”

Baerauble put a hand on Iltharl’s shoulder. “The gods do not grant to all of us the shining mantle of the hero,” he said softly. “Do what you can, and that will be enough.”

The former King of Cormyr managed a weak smile. “Words that should go on my headstone. Come, we should present the new queen to her people before they hurt themselves worrying.”

The four walked out of the throne room and stunned the red-jerkined guards, who were the first common citizens to look upon their new queen. Their swords clattered down in unison, making a crash that brought the whole assemblage gathered in the Great Hall to a halt. People gaped at them in silence for a long moment-and then, from across the chamber, a forester in mottled green cried out, “Long live the queen! Long prosper Cormyr and us all-and long live Queen Gantharla!”

Others took up the cry, and the keep shook with the shouts as Iltharl shook his head ruefully and Gantharla beamed.

In a voice that was thick with emotion, the new queen said, “I-I think I’m going to enjoy this!”

Baerauble smiled. “Ah, well, you’re young yet. There’ll be time enough to discover what it’s truly like.”

But in the swelling cheering, as folk streamed into the keep from Suzail and someone started wildly ringing the signal bells, no one but Sagrast heard the wizard’s words. He opened his mouth to say something, but Baerauble winked at him, and he shut his mouth again and kept silence for many long years.