Cormyr

Chapter 17: Meetings

Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

The man in the gem-studded tunic and cloth-of-gold breeches knelt, drew his sword, and laid it at the feet of the silent man in robes.

Still on his knees, the gaudily dressed nobleman looked up and said firmly, “I, Embryn Crownsilver, being mindful of what I do, solemnly pledge my honor, my blade, and the arm that wields it to support you as Regent of Cormyr. I will fight to bring about the downfall of the decadent Obarskyrs, who have ruled far too long.” His last words rang around the small, high-ceilinged antechamber.

“Take up your sword,” the man he was kneeling before said quietly. “Your words will be remembered.”

Rather uncertainly the Crownsilver noble rose from his knees, jeweled blade in hand. Sheathing it with a flourish, he turned, half-cloak swirling, and strode hastily away.

The man in robes watched him go. The nobles of this realm certainly talked to one another swiftly. That was the fifth pledge this morning, and nothing had been said in public yet about a regency. Not that such a silence was all that surprising, to many, in Suzail especially, the word ‘regent’ was synonymous with ‘tyrant.’ Or one could just say, ‘Salember.’

Vangerdahast the Royal Regent. The robed man smiled thinly and struck a dramatic pose, shading his eyes as he stared at the far wall of the chamber, an imaginary crown on his brow. Then he snorted in self-mockery and turned back to his spellbooks. Strange things happen to kingdoms when folk start getting ideas…

Not all that far away from the palace, in the nearest wing of the court, one nobleman turned to another and said, “If my son ever gets back from traipsing around the wilderness with Princess Alusair, I’m going to send him away from the realm for a month or so. I don’t want someone thinking he might make a good king, then sliding a sword through him to preclude that chance.”

“A Skatterhawk on the throne?” Sardyn Wintersun mused. “You know, I can see that. Does your son still think the moon, sun, and stars ride in the heart of the wayward princess?”

Narbreth Skatterhawk looked a little smug. “He does, my lord, and I can say more. A Purple Dragon she sent back from Eveningstar with their last report says he saw her kiss him, right on the lips, and hungrily, like a tavern wench, in front of everyone!”

Sardyn chuckled and ran a hand through his white-streaked hair. “I mean no slight to our friendship, my lord, but it’s not for nothing that the common folk say Alusair would kiss her horse if it trotted up to her!”

The head of House Skatterhawk laughed, a little stiffly, but whatever he might have said was swept aside by a cheerful greeting from behind them both. “Well met this fair day, pillars of the realm!”

Sardyn rolled his eyes once in silent eloquence before he turned, and Narbreth almost sputtered with laughter. Almost.

Ondrin Dracohorn was resplendent in flaming scarlet, his swept-sleeve tunic open clear down to the waist to reveal a heavy row of golden spanglestars and medallions that resembled, but did not exactly duplicate, some of the medals awarded by the crown to valorous soldiers.

The hue of his wardrobe was matched by the daringly slit gowns worn by the ladies on each of Ondrin’s arms, ladies whose beauty both of the other nobles had admired at feasts and revels before. They were the finest that discreet money could buy in Suzail. Their graceful elegance made the little man strutting between them look like a puffed-up peacock.

Neither Sardyn nor Narbreth bothered to tell him that, of course. Their houses, the Skatterhawks and Wintersuns, were minor nobility and country nobles to boot, and it would be ungracious to offend one of the more established city families. Instead, they put on broad smiles and said, “Ondrin, old friend!” and “How goes the Dracohorn all men of sense listen to?”

“Things couldn’t be better, my lords, couldn’t be better,” Ondrin said with an airy wave of his hand. “I’ve just heard that Embryn Crownsilver’s been to see our court wizard about a certain matter.”

The heads of House Skatterhawk and House Wintersun exchanged glances.

“We’ve heard about that affair, Ondrin. You can speak freely,” Sardyn replied, and then winked at one of the hired ladies. Said lady, a safe pace behind Ondrin and a head taller, was mouthing a wide-eyed and silently dramatic ‘No! Please, no!’ plea against his invitation to Ondrin to talk.

Ondrin chuckled like the man of the world he was. “I have secrets that I dare not yet reveal, even to such old and trusted friends as you! I’ll say only this,” He leaned close, like a small boy furtively passing secrets, and whispered loudly, “You’d better go see the Royal Magician. I’m setting him up as regent, you know.”

Ondrin’s supposed regent was at that moment slipping behind a curtain in the garderobe attached to his chambers. The little corner of the room facing him held a marble bust of a bored-looking Baerauble on a pedestal to Vangerdahast’s left, and a shelf full of neatly folded towels and dishes of scented soaps on his right. A row of carved gargoyle faces, which bore an uncanny resemblance to the four previous High Mages of the realm, ran along the wall, and the floor here was tiled in a chessboard pattern of alternating dark and light squares.

Ignoring Baerauble’s unmoving gaze, the Royal Magician put one hand on his head, stretched forward uncomfortably to touch the fingers of his other hand to a certain gargoyle nose, and then touched the toe of his right boot to a particular tile square. Silent radiance rose and sparkled around him.

When it faded, he was somewhere else, somewhere piled with towels and soaps. It was the servants’ closet off the retiring room in one of the royal apartments. The voices he’d hoped to hear came clearly to his ears as he made a certain gesture, then sat down comfortably on nothing to listen, his generous behind perched on empty air.

“… I know things seem dark, Tana,” Aunadar Bleth was saying soothingly, “but Cormyr has faced tougher times than this and survived. If the gods gather in your father, you’ll just have to take the throne and rule as well as he would have wanted you to.”

The young princess’s only reply was a royal sob.

“Whatever you decide, I’ll be here,” Aunadar went on in a low voice. He was probably holding the crown princess with one hand and stroking her hair with the other, the wizard thought. He almost smiled, but instead, the young Bleth’s next words made him stiffen.

“I, and a few others like me, will stand with you, whatever the old wizard tries to do. He’s gathering the nobles to proclaim him royal regent, you know. I’ve even heard he’s going to use spells to fabricate some document or other, signed by your father, authorizing him to rule… a document whose signature magically comes from some other writ, of course. He’ll say he just plans to run the realm until you feel better able to do so-or until you produce an heir-but once he gets his hands on the Dragon Throne, no one of Obarskyr blood will ever sit on it again.”

There was another sob, and then an agonized, whispering voice. “But what shall I do? He has all those spells! And he knows where all father’s magic and wealth lies hidden, and-and just what old feuds and embarrassments and promises will make all the nobles dance to any tune he plays!”

“Not all, Lady Highness.” Bleth’s voice was firm. “Some few men stand ready to defend the cause of right. Some valiant few. I count myself fortunate to stand among them, when the realm needs me so-when you need me so, dove of my heart!”

“Oh, Aunadar,” the crown princess said with a thankful, tearful sigh. “I don’t know what I’d do without you! All of these grim men stride around demanding that I make decisions, and all the while, they’re waiting for me to say one thing wrong… one thing! Then they can smile and nod and say, ‘Aha! I knew she wasn’t fit to rule! See what a mess she’s made of our land? Best she be slain forthwith, or sent to one of our beds, to produce an heir we shall rear to be a proper king!’”

“I think you are fit to rule, my princess. I stand ready to fight with this sword to give you your chance, and I’ll face all the wizards in Faerun if that’s what it takes!”

“Oh, Aunadar!” Tanalasta gasped again. In the gloom of the servants’ closet, Vangerdahast made a mock vomiting mime of disgust. If he had to listen to much more of this…

The wet, murmuring sounds that were coming to his ears now meant that they were kissing. Long, hungry, tightly embraced kisses of the sort that made ladies-in-waiting swoon and old crones go all bright-eyed with nostalgia. Vangerdahast almost tore the closet door open and growled at them to get on with it.

Then Aunadar spoke again. “I must leave you now, my sweet. The wizard’s plots and schemes are relentless and spread even as we speak. My friends and I must work against them tirelessly, or not a noble house in the land may be truly loyal to the new crowned Queen Tanalasta!”

“Aunadar, don’t say that!” the princess protested. “Father’s going to get well, and-“

“Of course,” the young nobleman said quietly. “And when he does, you’ll be able to show him a decisive, evenhanded, masterful stewardship of the realm-your work of devotion during his infirmity. I know you will. Fare thee well, Tana, until next our lips meet!”

“Oh, Aunadar, do take care! The wizard’s folk are everywhere! Keep safe, will you?”

“Princess, I will,” the young Bleth’s voice came distantly, and a door closed. Tanalasta erupted into sobs.

Vangerdahast listened to her for a time, pity on his frowning face, and then shrugged. So she wanted to be a true Obarskyr? Then ‘twas time, and past time, that she showed her mettle. Rule over a realm was not something to be played at.

He opened the door soundlessly and walked to the low divan where she sat bent over, her face in her hands. It seemed to be her favorite place, and no doubt had seen much use over the last few months, what with the young Bleth sitting sideways on it holding her hands between every court meal!

Vangerdahast sighed loudly and sat down with a thump beside the princess. Tanalasta’s head jerked up. Her face was as white as a statue except where two silvery trails of tears ran down her cheeks from red-rimmed eyes.

“You!” She said in horror. “How did you get in here?”

Vangerdahast gave her a merry smile. “Magic, Lady Highness. You know-waggle the fingers and… It’s what keeps Cormyr strong!”

Tanalasta drew herself up, then rose to stand facing him, eyes glittering with hatred. “Are you threatening me, wizard?”

The Royal Magician met her daggerlike gaze calmly and said, “Child, I never threaten. I promise.”

Tanalasta’s lips drew together in a tight line. “I ought to have you thrown in irons, whipped, and then beheaded for bursting into a woman’s chambers unbidden! You might be here to get a heir for yourself!”

Vangerdahast rolled his eyes. “Nothing so energetic, Lady Princess. No, I’m here for another reason.” He reached into the breast of his robes and drew forth a folded parchment. Tanalasta’s eyes widened when she saw the royal seals. Then they narrowed.

“No, this is not the forged writ that young Aunadar has been going around telling people I was making with magic,” the wizard said testily. “If you care to examine it yourself, you’ll see that the seals are unbroken and that none of them are Azoun’s.”

He held out the parchment, and after a swaying moment of indecision wherein she obviously feared some sort of magical trap, the princess snatched it from him and stared at the seals. The state seal, the old court seal-which was in the keeping of her mother, the queen-and Filfaeril’s own seal, with the two small Obarskyr pendants she always added.

Impatiently Tanalasta broke them, froze for a moment for fear that she might have ignited some waiting magical trap, and then-when nothing happened-unfolded the parchment.

“As you can see,” Vangerdahast said almost wearily, “it is a fresh writ of regency, signed by your mother, Queen Filfaeril. Since both you and your young Bleth seemed so contemptuous of King Azoun’s own authority on an earlier document, and that of his father Rhigaerd, I took the precaution of procuring yet another authorization for my authority. As you can also see, it awaits your signature. My first concern, as always, is the safety of the realm, but I have no interest in ruling over the strident objections of the Obarskyr heir if I can possibly avoid doing so.”

“You expect me to sign this?” the princess snapped, nostrils flaring.

“I expect you to consider the implications of everything you do, with the greater good of the realm, and not what you may personally want, always foremost in your mind. It’s what your ancestors-and the wizards who have served them, from Baerauble the Wise to, well, myself-have always done. It’s what sitting on the Dragon Throne has always been about.”

“You just want to force me into giving you the crown,” Tanalasta whispered, her voice trembling with rage.

“No, lass, I don’t,” the wizard said flatly. “If wearing the crown were all that mattered to me, I could take it in an instant. You know that. As Aunadar never tires of reminding you, I do have all those spells.”

“Then why haven’t you taken it? Or named yourself regent?” Tanalasta almost screamed. “What is your game, wizard?”

“Life is my only game, Tanalasta-the life of the realm, and of every last scheming noble, tame dog, and silly princess in it. I work to make Cormyr ever stronger-not larger, not more decadent, but always a better place to live. It’s a long, long game, but then, I’ve never been a short-bet man, myself.”

Tanalasta frowned, and with her eyes steady on the wizard’s, slowly started to crumple the parchment. There was a flash, a soft numbing movement through her fingertips, and she was holding empty air.

Vangerdahast was holding the parchment himself. In fact, he was waving it at her. He raised his eyebrows and asked, “I take it you’ll not sign this?”

“Never!” Tanalasta spat. “I don’t know what vile magic you used on my mother to get her to sign it, but you’ll never get me to give in to you and your schemes! What have you done with her?”

Vangerdahast blinked. “Done with her? Nothing, child. You read too many hot romances.”

“Get out!” Tanalasta shrieked, pointing an imperious arm at the door. “Just get out!”

The wizard rose. “You can’t run away from problems forever, you know. If you don’t bother to rule the kingdom, someone else will step in and do it for you.”

“Such as you, perhaps?” the crown princess said with a sneer.

The Royal Magician shrugged. “Or anyone… if you don’t care who does it, literally anyone could take the throne. A grasping Sembian merchant, perhaps. Or a Zhentarim. A priestess of Loviatar, who might find it fitting that royalty feel pain every night. Who knows? Deciding to rule, or not to rule, and what to do if you do wear the crown is a decision you must make-and, Princess, it is best for the realm if you make it alone. Not with Aunadar. Not with your ladies-in-waiting. Not with Alaphondar or Dimswart or even me. Otherwise, it won’t truly be your decision.”

“The door still awaits you,” Tanalasta said coldly.

Vangerdahast bowed his head, then sketched a bent-knee court bow. “Until next we meet, Princess.”

“I hope that’s never!” she cried, the fury building in her voice.

“Shall I say until you make a decision, then?” he asked mildly, his hand on the door. A moment later he was through it and striding away, listening to the shattering of expensive glass and china as the weeping princess hurled perfume bottle after cordial decanter at the closed door.

“It’s always so tiring,” the Lord High Wizard told no one in particular as he wearily walked the halls back to his own apartments, “when one has to deal with children. There is such a thing as sheltering little girls too much from the world.” Then he thought of Alusair as he’d once farscryed her, hacking through a band of brigands, her hair flying around her, and her half-naked body drenched with blood, and said wryly, “And then, of course, there’s the other way.”

When the radiance faded this time, Vangerdahast was a safe few paces outside whatever wards the magess Cat might have set to protect Redstone Castle. The front gate stood ajar, of course. He stepped inside, glancing critically at the gardens, and noted approvingly that Lady Wyvernspur seemed to have taken things strongly in hand. Wearily-was a wizard’s work ever done?-he strode up to the hall.

As he approached the steps that led up to the front doors, they opened, and Giogi Wyvernspur stepped out, resplendent in fawn-colored leather breeches, a purple shirt with cloth-of-gold sash and half-cloak, and a pair of old, battered, comfortable-looking brown boots. Vangerdahast sighed with relief, just whom he’d wanted to see. Now there wouldn’t be a hour wasted on challenges and servants’ questions and little lads goggling in awe at the mightiest wizard in the land…

Giogi sniffed the air, smiled happily, and glanced about, nearly falling off the doorstep in surprise when he saw the old bearded man in plain robes looking up at him from a few steps away.

“Gods! What-I mean, heigh-ho, Vangy-ah, Lord High Wizard,” he said with a grin. “How’s the ruling-Cormyr-from-behind-the-throne business these days?

“That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about,” Vangerdahast said gravely, taking the noble by the arm. “Do you still have some of those silly stone benches about?”

Giogi sighed. “This sounds serious. You’re going to talk a bit, aren’t you?” He pointed and sighed again. “Over here.”

They sat, and the Royal Magician said quickly, “You may or may not have heard that Duke Bhereu is dead, Baron Thomdor hangs on the edge of his grave, and the king is gravely ill and expected to die, too. Rest assured that this much, at least, is the truth.”

Giogi grew somber at once. “We had, heard rumors, even out in the countryside, but no details. How?”

“A hunting accident, involving possible treason,” Vangerdahast said grimly, “which we haven’t yet gotten to the bottom of. I’ll tell you more later, but first I must tell you why I’m here.”

Giogi was still gasping like a fish on the Immersea docks. “Ah-uh-“

“For the good of the realm,” Vangerdahast said gravely, “I think I must assume the title of regent at this time. Filfaeril’s out of her head with grief, Alusair’s nowhere to be found, and Crown Princess Tanalasta is head over heels in love with a grasping young noble who’d love to tell her what decisions to make for the realm. Unfortunately, she wants to do more crying than ruling, so I feel I must rule from the foot of the throne for a time.”

Giogi’s eyes narrowed. “And so-?”

“And so I need to know who will support me as regent-in particular, if Princess Tanalasta or a large group of nobles says I should not be or presents rival temporary rulers for our land. If Vangerdahast declares himself regent, will I have the support of the Wyvernspurs?”

Silence fell. Giogi cleared his throat finally and said, “Uh, well, this is all so sudden-“

“That’s more or less what Tanalasta’s been saying, as the days pass,” Vangerdahast said dryly. “I need to know, Giogioni, and I need to know soon. Where do the Wyvernspurs stand?”

“Uh-hah! Well,” Giogi said, floundering, and stood up to pace. His hand drifted to his sword, and he suddenly looked down at the old wizard, his hand on his hilt, and asked sharply, “So Thomdor’s still alive? The king lives too?”

“Yes and yes,” the Royal Magician replied, nodding.

“And Princess Alusair-she’s on a foray up in the Stonelands, isn’t she? Have you sent her a message?”

“I have,” Vangerdahast confirmed. “Why do you ask?”

“I can’t speak for my kin until I have enough answers to give so I don’t appear a complete fool,” Giogi replied. “So what did Alusair say?”

“There has been no reply,” Vangerdahast said gravely. The Wyvernspur frowned. “There’s something you’re not telling me about this… What is it?”

Vangerdahast’s brows drew together in a frown. “Many nobles of Cormyr-folk of good families, with reputations for honor that go back generations-have gladly given their support for my regency without demanding answers to a lot of pressing questions.”

He stood up slowly, a glint in his eye. “If you don’t feel you can support me, say so-but if you want Cormyr to be a friendly home for you and yours in the future, perhaps you’d best get on the boat, or it just might sail away without you.”

Giogi’s slim, jewel-pommeled rapier slid out of its scabbard. “The Wyvernspurs-so far as I can recall, right now-have always been loyal to the crown,” he said coldly, “and that’s not going to change while I stand ready to defend the realm. I challenge you, wizard, in the name of Azoun, rightful King of Cormyr! I shall fight you here and now unless you promise you’ll do everything in your power to keep the king alive-and if you fail, you’ll then support an Obarskyr to assume the throne and obey her as loyally and as diligently as you did her father!”

The old man in robes looked up at him with disgust on his face. “Do all you young idiots keep your brains in those slim scabbards? What good will challenging me do? I’m not in the habit of making promises under threat, and if you believe anyone will keep such promises, you are the fool you’ve so often been labeled.” He matched the angry nobleman’s swordsman’s stance, empty-handed, and added, “Besides-I fight with spells, not swords.”

Sudden radiance flickered around one of the Royal Magician’s arms, flowing up and down it like racing flames.

Giogi gulped, threw his sword behind him, and suddenly became a rising, shifting thing of red scales. His sleepy eyes became large and golden, and his arms began to meld into wings. The gift of the Wyvernspurs, sometimes called their curse as well, was the ability to transform into the winged dragonlike beast they took their name from. For all his apparent foolishness, young Lord Wyvernspur knew what he could do in wyvern form.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Vangerdahast said levelly. “Let’s not play at battling old mages this afternoon, thank you!”

The flowing radiance on his arm raced down into his sleeve and touched a wand that hung half-concealed there. The wand flashed, shuddered, and spat forth a stream of eerie golden-green light that swirled around the rapidly growing form of the wyvern, and suddenly there was another blurring and a strange singing sound, and Giogioni Wyvernspur stood in his own form once more, blinking at the Royal Magician.

“Before this continues and one of us does something extremely foolish or gets hurt,” Vangerdahast said, “I’d best-“

The Lord High Wizard of Cormyr was not young and had seen his share of spell battles. Moreover, he was very quick and expecting trouble. It never seemed to take him too long to find it. Wherefore when he heard the first whispered syllable from up the steps and off to his right, he willed his ready spell shield to coalesce.

The spell that should have hurled him clear out through the front gates of Redstone Castle instead struck the mystic shield and simply washed over the wizard in flickering, impotent streamers of radiance, then faded into the air.

“Well met, Cat,” he said calmly, turning from the dazed Giogi to face the furious copper-haired woman at the castle door. “I’ve just been talking to your Giogioni, here.”

“Talk?” Cat snapped, her green eyes blazing. Gods, but she was beautiful, the old wizard thought. Was he himself the only homely male who wove spells in this kingdom? “Is that how the Royal Magician talks to people?”

Vangerdahast made a gesture, and Giogi’s rapier flew smoothly up to its owner’s hand. Still looking dazed and shocked, Giogi slid it back into its scabbard. The old wizard nodded. “Good. I hate trying to talk to folk who are trying to kill me.”

“What is this all about, lord wizard?” Cat demanded, hands on hips now. “You come here and attack my Giogi right on his own front steps…”

Vangerdahast held up a hand to halt her angry torrent. “Please desist. Accept my apologies. You have every right to be furious. The Lord High Wizard of the realm humbles himself before you.”

“But not too much,” Giogi added, managing a smile. The old wizard’s face split in an answering grin-his first real one that day, as it happened-as he clapped the noble on his shoulder and urged him up the steps to the waiting, still-angry Cat.

“If you’ll protect me against your good wife,” Vangerdahast said gravely, “I’ll have the chance I need to talk to you both-for the good of the realm.”

“Trying to convince us you’ll make a good regent?” Giogi asked grimly, but he did not slow their climb up the steps together.

Vangerdahast shook his head. “You have made your choice, while most of your fellow nobles of Cormyr are still sizing up the contenders. You have queried, while others have gladly grasped. We must talk, young Wyvernspur.”

“You’re not going to try to keep me out of this?” Cat asked in a dangerously soft voice.

“Lady,” the Royal Magician replied in solemn tones as the three retired to the halls of Redstone Castle, “I’d not dare to.”

Elsewhere, a man fidgeted nervously in a hidden room, waiting for his assignation, rubbing his hands nervously as he paced. He couldn’t spend all afternoon in some broom closet! Where was she?

The broom closet in question was a small secret chamber, unused for years. The dust lay heavy on the low stone bench and polished duskwood table that were its only ornament. A pair of narrow passages, so narrow that only a child could move easily through them, led off to either side.

The man’s candle flickered, and he was aware she was coming. The air over the table thickened and curdled, turning into a ball of serpentine smoke. At the center of the ball lay a pair of eyes, the color of flaming jets-black with red pips dancing at their centers.

“Hail, Cormyrean,” said the eyes in a soft, purring voice.

“Brantarra,” snapped the man in response. He was sure that name was no more her true appellation than the writhing mass was her true form.

“I trust that everything has gone smoothly.”

“Not smoothly enough,” said the man, “The king still lives, and one of his damnable cousins as well. Your clockwork toy did not work as well as hoped.”

“Not my toy,” said the swirling mist calmly. “Only my venom, carrying its deadly disease. The golden creature is known to Cormyr, if not to its current rulers. I think that an extremely amusing jest. How fares the king?”

“Badly,” said the man. “There is little hope for him, though for now there is no way to get near him. He is surrounded by guards and priests and other nobles at all times.”

“If you are to kill a king, you must strike surely with the first blow,” said the soft feminine voice.

“Your venom was supposed do the job at once,” hissed the man.

“A poor workman blames his tools,” said the voice, and the man was sure there was a smile on the lips that spoke those words.

“Regardless,” said the man, “Azoun lingering on his deathbed does not help our cause. The king’s wizard is already meddling and dabbling. Can you not do something?”

Now the voice laughed. “Do something? Like magically teleport myself into that sickroom, flinging fireballs and loosing lightning bolts? If I had the power to destroy Vangerdahast and his war wizards, do you not think I would use it? Nay. Patience is the better course here.”

“Brantarra-” began the man, but the voice made an urgent, shushing noise.

“Patience,” it said. “We will both get what we wish. In the meantime, I have another toy for you.” A tendril of mist extruded from the smokey mass and touched the table. When it withdrew, there was a large ruby glittering on the duskwood surface.

“When you first activated the abraxus, you sacrificed one of your own servants to bring it life,” said the voice. “This ruby will allow you sacrifice another at a distance.”

“But the abraxus has been dismantled,” said the man. “The remaining pieces have been locked away.”

“Hush,” said the voice. “Give the stone to another. Not a royal, and not a wizard. Someone who will be near you when the final confrontation comes with that overweight slug of a Royal Magician. When the time is at hand, you will know how to use it.”

The man picked up the stone, turning it over in his black-gloved fingers gingerly, as if it would explode at any moment.

“I do not trust you fully,” he said at last.

“Nor I you. Fully,” said the mist. “Yet we trust each other enough to join together for a common goal. Maintain your act, your lordship, and all will come to you!”

With that, the fiery lights within the smoke dimmed, indicating the audience was over. The man looked again at the blood-colored gem, then placed it in his pocket. Then carefully, using his candle to guide his path, he slid back along the narrow passage, heading for more populated parts of the castle. After he left, the smokey lights flared briefly, and the flame-jet eyes opened once more.

“That one has spine,” said the glowing eyes softly to the darkness, “and magical protection of his own now.. Perhaps it is time to pull the strings of other puppets, if the throne of Cormyr is truly to be mine.”