Cormyr

Chapter 28: Dragons, Red and Purple

Year of the Rock (1286 DR)

King Salember stalked the halls of Castle Obarskyr, bellowing for the courtiers, for his guards, for the servants. None answered his summons, and no one knelt, awaiting orders, at any corner he turned. His footfalls rang heavily through the stone halls and echoed in the distance.

The guards were gone from his doors, the servants from their hiding holes, the fawning courtiers from their appointed places. Where were the scribes, the healers, the pages? Where was his court?

They could not all have left him, he thought. Defections had been rife, true, but he’d kept the rest of the rabble in line. And they could still win. He had led the country for nine years and led it well. “Cormyr stands strong!” he bellowed, just as he had done in so many speeches before. The echo came back to him mockingly. Couldn’t the people see that things were better now under his regency? Had been better, at least, until the upstart prince started making trouble.

Everything had been knocked askew by this upstart prince. Work was undone, crops unharvested, deals unmade. Even the castle itself was filled with projects half accomplished before the servants fled. Tapestries were half hung, shields of treacherous houses pulled from the wall but left lying when they fell. Salember passed the Blue Maiden, a favorite statue, resting beside its plinth, waiting for the workers to lift her up to the pedestal. Salember cursed at the sloppiness of the staff, along with their weak loyalties.

Salember paused by one of the great gallery windows overlooking the city. The sun was westering, and most of Suzail lay at his feet, already cloaked in the deep shadows of early evening. There were fires in the city tonight, fires unnecessary for so close to Midsummer Eve. They marked the sites of battles between his faction and that of Rhigaerd, between the Reds and the Purples, between those who served the rightful ruler and those who followed a pretender to the throne. The flames of burning buildings made him think of red dragons against the shadowed city, but the spiraling smoke reminded him of purple dragons in the dying sun.

Out there in the city and in the countryside beyond the walls, the factions were sparring and battling. In the streets of Arabel and swampy Marsember, in forested Dhedluk and mountainous High Horn, the country was riven. The Purple Dragons were torn apart, with units and mages taking opposite sides. The Battle Brotherhood had been shattered into a hundred individual mages, all of whom had headed for their towers and lairs. Even the churches-the Helmites, the Lathanderites, the Mystrans-were riven by the choice.

And all because some folk would fling aside a capable sitting regent for the unproven whelp of the previous king.

Nine years ago Salember’s brother, Azoun III of the Forest Country, had died, leaving behind a son too young to rule a nursery chamber, let alone a kingdom. Jorunhast came to Salember then with the offer of a regency-a temporary rule until Crown Prince Rhigaerd was of age. Salember stepped up to the Dragon Throne, a position he’d never sought.

And he’d served for nine years, and served well. People were living better, imports were up, and the depredations of orcs, goblins, brigands, and dragons sharply on the downswing. So after nine years, it made perfect sense to keep the same steady hand at the helm.

But, no, the traditionalists, the monarchists, the mired-in-rules old thinkers resisted. Rhigaerd demanded the crown, then fled into the wilderness to marshal his own forces. He took the banner of the Purple Dragons with him. Salember flew the Red Dragon, a color of battle and blood, over the castle.

Salember removed his heavy crown and set it on the sill of the gallery window. He’d taken Palaghard’s crown from a century ago as his own, and the ornate, gem-encrusted helm weighed heavily.

He sighed. When the Purples were crushed, then perhaps the old crown would be fetched from the vaults. Yes, when the rebel Purples were crushed and Rhigaerd routed from whatever burrow he’d squirreled himself away in. When Rhigaerd’s Purples were finally destroyed, everything would fall back into place. And at last affairs in Cormyr would get back to normal, and he could forge ahead to make the land ever mightier. “Cormyr stands strong,” he muttered, bringing his fist down on the sill slowly and gently. Like a storm giant, he must be careful, he thought, lest his great strength break things around him that he held dear.

A distant sound came down the hall, a single, short slam or thump, booming along the bare walls.

The Red Dragon King turned and shouted, “Jorunhast? Is that you?”

The Blue Maiden looked up at him, calm and unchanging, from the floor beside the plinth he’d ordered her placed upon-how long ago had it been? A tenday, now? A life-sized, sculpted maiden of smooth blue glass, sitting gazing up at the dragon coming to devour her, the sages said. Her hands were too large, and her feet, too, some folk said, but Salember liked her strength, her courage to sit naked but for a cloak held against her, awaiting doom. That was the sort of spirit more folk in Cormyr should show. Besides, the sages said the maiden was linked to the good fortune of House Obarskyr and should never be smashed, disgraced, or lost. He’d have to give that order again and get her up on the plinth where she belonged without further delay. If he could only get the damned servants to answer his call…

“Jorunhast?”

The wizard would still be there. He was tethered to the crown like a mongrel dog, as all the Royal Magicians, Crown Wizards, and Lords of Magic of the past had been.

Yes! He, Salember, had found that in Baerauble’s original books: The wizards were magically bound to protect the crown. Others had forgotten that, but not wise old Salember. Whatever else happened, the Royal Magician would be loyal.

But Salember’s voice echoed down the halls to no response.

Cowards, thought Salember. No fire in the belly, no passion in the heart for a good fight. All the Dauntinghorns and Marliirs and Wyvernspurs, retiring to their country holdings to wait out the storm. Truesilvers, Crownsilvers, and Huntsilvers! They were cousins to both him and Rhigaerd, yet they mumbled their loyal oaths and equivocated and minced when pressed for troops and aid!

Salember held the high ground, the crown and the throne and the castle, and so the nobles remained loyal at first. Then slowly they started to drift away. Not to Rhigaerd, of course… never to Rhigaerd. They valued their own hides too much. A few traitors had died horribly, as examples. Salember had used his gold well, and the Fire Knives were very effective at creating examples.

And yet the cowardly nobles went on drifting away. They swore their fealty and tugged their forelocks, and then hied for the countryside, taking their students, scribes, and servants with them. What kind of kingdom could shine with such weasels, such men of straw, as its backbone?

Salember shouted again, an incoherent bellow. There came the clear sound of a door closing and latching somewhere in the distance.

A servant seeking to hide from his sire’s wrath? Or had Jorunhast finally returned? You’d think with all the magic at his fingertips, the old mage could find the errant prince with the simplest of divinations. But instead, the old wizard was continually abroad, overseeing this outpost or tracking down that lead or reporting on such-and-such a battle.

Salember padded down the hall and slowly made his way down the stone spiral staircase to the main floor, his tired footsteps echoed ahead of him. To the right was the throne room, the Hall of the Dragon Throne. Probably some loyal courtiers and captains were already gathered there, waiting to be reassured by their liege that all was proceeding smoothly, that the rebels were on the run. To the left were the four chambers of the Great Swords.

Salember turned left. The captains and courtiers could wait.

The king was sure that Jorunhast or one of his predecessors had ensorcelled this part of the castle, making the air heavy and muffling all sound. Even when the castle was bustling and vibrant, it had a tranquil, hushed nature to it, like the nave of a great temple to Helm or Tempus. Visitors once streamed here to see the Great Swords, but there were no visitors today… nor had there been on any day for weeks past. There were no visible guards, either.

Here, on velvet plinths, rested the four great blades of Cormyr. Ansrivarr, the Blade of Memory, was the first, a large, crude sword that hearkened back to the days of wilderness and elves. Symylazarr, the Font of Honor, upon which the treacherous nobles had sworn fealty, was as broad as the Blade of Memory and etched along its blade with archaic runes. Orblyn, King Duar’s mageforged sword, with which he rallied the kingdom during the Pirate Exile, was a thinner, more modern blade. And Rissar, the Wedding Blade, small and delicate and finely shaped, was used for marriage vows and blood promises. So much like Cormyr today-ornate, gaudy, and ineffective in a real fight.

Salember lifted the crystal dome and removed Orblyn from its cradle. Somewhere in the far distance a single gong rang, but there came no scurrying of booted and mailed feet, no hue and cry of guards, no panic among the Battle Brotherhood’s wizards, and no manifestation of guardian creatures.

Orblyn was covered with fine runes lightly etched into the blade. Salember had to hold the blade up to the light to see them clearly. The magical inscriptions seemed to twist and writhe as he watched. After all these years, Orblyn had held its edge and its sharpness.

Salember slid the unsheathed blade into his belt. Yes, now was the time for true battle. King Salember had the crown, the throne, the castle, and the blades. He had the loyalty of the remaining troops and the support of the people bought by nine years of peace and prosperity. He cared little for the false friendship of the nobles. Once the Purples were crushed utterly, those nobles who survived would come crawling back for his approval and forgiveness. Some he would spare. Others he would make examples of.

Now to the Hall of the Dragon Throne. Now to rally the troops and impress the remaining nobles. Now to ride to destiny and strike at his foes in their lairs. Even before the rebellion, Salember had remained too long in the castle, overseeing accounts and treaties and forecasts. And for too long after Rhigaerd declared his revolt had he stayed within, protected by stout walls and powerful magic. Now was the time for the Red Dragon to be unleashed on the countryside itself, he thought, and he smiled at the prospect.

No guards flanked the doors of the throne room, just as no guards had protected the chambers of the Great Swords. Had they all finally fled, or were they in the city, battling fires and treacherous Purples? The doors stood open.

The throne room was one of the oldest parts of the castle, the heart of the Obarskyr family’s lair for over a millennium. To one side stood the great sealed stone tomb of Baerauble himself, its surface worn smooth by the touch of a million hands over the ageless years. To the other side was the low rise of steps that led to the throne itself. Sometimes there were two chairs on its highest step, for king and queen. At the moment there was but one.

There were three figures standing just shy of the top level, a woman and two men. As he stepped into the room, Salember wondered if they were real or merely some magical vision.

Jorunhast was there, of course. Where else would the Royal Magician be save here, protecting the crown? Yet Rhigaerd, the treacherous pup, was also here, dressed in the white and purple of his rebellious band. And Damia Truesilver, most cowardly of the cowardly nobles, Rhigaerd’s confidante. The woman’s belly was swollen with child, and Salember remembered Lord Truesilver himself begetting her with another whelp ere he died in battle.

Had Jorunhast brought the conspirators here for sentencing and punishment? He should have teleported them directly to the deepest dungeon instead.

The wizard looked haggard and worn, as if he had spent the last three nights sleeping in roadside hedges. His shoulders were slumped with age and care. The battles had taken their toll on him as well. “You are here at last,” he said. “We must end this, and end it now.”

The old wizard stepped down from the dais and positioned himself to one side, between the king and the rebellious prince. The wizard wanted a parley, then. For all the good that would do.

“Greetings, Uncle,” said Rhigaerd, his young face struggling to look somber and serious.

“And to you, Nephew,” said the king. “You have come to your father’s house to surrender yourselves and end this bloody folly?”

“I have come to my father’s house, yes,” said the Prince, “and I seek to end this folly. But I am not here to surrender, but to talk.”

Jorunhast put in, “I convinced Rhigaerd to seek peace with you. We have come from a bloody battle near Wheloon, where the Red and Purple factions beat each other to corpses thick upon the ground… to no resolution.”

“If we continue this bloodshed, there will soon he no Cormyr to rule,” Rhigaerd added. “Already the Sembians are making restless noises about protecting trade. And agents of the Black Network and the Thayvian wizards cross our borders freely. This must end.”

“Agreed,” Salember replied coolly. “I am willing to accept your surrender. Your men will be spared. You, of course, will have to accept exile in Waterdeep or the Dalelands.”

The young prince’s face reddened, and he sputtered a curse. Behind him, Damia placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he collected himself. “Surrender my throne?” he said at last.

“Your throne?” mocked Salember. “Nay, may I remind you who has guided this country through nine years of peace? Who has sacrificed his own life for the good of the nation? Who has spent all his waking hours of time and energy living up to the Obarskyr name? The same hours of your youth that were spent hunting, adventuring, and gallivanting about, while I have done the real work. Do you think I’d entrust this great realm to an untried child?”

Salember’s face had turned beet-red by now, and the king felt the fire of renewed energy rising up within him. No pup of an upstart was going to waltz in and steal the crown from him without a fight!

Rhigaerd said, “The Obarskyr line has always passed to the oldest suitable direct male candidate. There have been exceptions, and Obarskyr queens have ruled when no male has been available. For nine years, there has been no child of Azoun the Third suitable. Now there is.”

“And now you expect to gain a full kingdom as if it were a present for your seventeenth birthday?” snarled Salember.

Rhigaerd’s face reddened again, but he held his voice calm. “While you were secure here in the castle with your account books and courtiers and your petty intrigues, I was out in the land itself. You call it gallivanting, but I see it as learning about my country. I have hunted in the King’s Forest and drunk deep with the soldiers of High Horn. I have dug the good ground with farmers, spoken with smugglers, fought brigands and goblins, learned language from wandering elves, and my accounts from visiting Sembians.”

“A well-spent youth,” snapped the king.

“I know my people and my land. I am ready to take on my father’s burden,” finished the young prince. “I do not want to fight you for it, but fight I have, and will. Do not, I entreat you, divide our people more than they already have been.”

“A pretty speech,” Salember spat. “Did Lady Damia help you? No, young nephew, you have insufficient knowledge of court politics. The courtiers would eat you alive.”

“From the looks of things, it is the courtiers who were eaten alive in this castle,” Rhigaerd drawled. “Or fled to our camps, or hid themselves until we two could come to agreement.”

Lady Damia put in, “We thought, Lord Salember, of recognizing your wisdom with a continued advisory role for you, perhaps a barony or dukedom of the kingdom.”

“I should surrender the crown to a child for a handful of crumbs and a smattering of titles?” Salember snarled, the fire coiling like a serpent in his belly.

“I admit your experience would be invaluable in-” Rhigaerd began.

Salember cut him off. “In cleaning up after your mistakes, Nephew? In supporting you as king? In doing all the work and gaining none of the credit?”

“It does not have to be immediate, Uncle,” said Rhigaerd calmly. “Three more years of regency, then a smooth changeover.”

“No!” Salember shouted. “You will get the crown only when I have no earthly need for it! Surrender to me here and now, young prince. If you truly love this country as you profess, prove it!”

Rhigaerd’s eyes blazed with anger. “I do love the Forest Kingdom,” he said, voice rising, “and honor my ancestors. Yet, Uncle, you must step down. Can’t you hear the sounds of men dying? The sounds of the realm ripping itself apart? We cannot survive with two kings, one rightful and one temporary.”

“Agreed!” shouted Salember and turned to Jorunhast. “Kill them, wizard!”

Silence wrapped the four of them like a cloak, the echoes of Salember’s orders rebounding from the walls like ripples of water.

Jorunhast looked at the king stonily. “Excuse me?”

“Kill them!” bellowed the king. “Kill them now! This is our best chance to end all of this destructive nonsense-now!”

“Prince Rhigaerd came here on my assurance of personal safety, Sire,” the mage said calmly. Rhigaerd moved to stand in front of Lady Damia, and his hand drifted to the hilt of his peace-bonded blade.

Salember’s eyes burned with fury, and his own hand now rested on Orblyn. “I am your king, and I demand your obedience! Kill the pair of them! A snake without its head cannot long survive!”

Jorunhast looked at the young noble and pregnant noblewoman on the dais, then back at the king. Salember’s face was a mask of rage now, spittle flying as he shouted.

Jorunhast looked at his king and said simply, “No.”

Salember’s face was as crimson as a red dragon’s now, the fire surging through him. “I found Baerauble’s records, mage! The elves have forced your kind to serve the crown. You must follow my orders! You must deal with the threat to the crown! Kill them!”

Jorunhast blinked at the raging king and said quietly, “Sainted Baerauble was forced to serve the crown, yes. Amedahast, Thanderahast, and I-we served through choice and through loyalty. Loyalty to the crown, but also to the king and the people and the country itself. Let it end here, Sire. Even Iltharl the Insufficient knew when to step aside…”

Salember was no longer listening, for the fire pounded in his temples and his ears, and in his heart something snapped loose from its moorings and catapulted him to action.

With an incoherent scream the Red Dragon King pulled the blade of King Duar from his belt and charged the pair on the dais.

Jorunhast stepped forward as the king charged and whipped out a massive hand, grabbing Salember’s face with widely splayed fingers. The mage barked a few ancient words, and a tomblike carrion smell swirled through the chamber. He let go of his king.

Salember stumbled forward a half-step and fell to the floor, Orblyn skittering away on the flagstones in one direction, Palaghard’s gaudy crown in the other. The carrion stench returned again, and this time Salember’s tattered scream was borne on the whispering wind.

Rhigaerd bolted down the dais stairs and knelt by the king’s body. “He’s dead.”

“Aye,” said Jorunhast softly. “I had to deal with the threat to the crown.” The mage held his arms before him, hands interlocked in the opposing sleeves, as if hesitant to show the deadly weapons again.

“The king is dead,” said Damia Truesilver.

Jorunhast nodded and pulled from his robes the crown, the original elven crown of Cormyr, slender with its three amethyst-studded spires. He handed it to Lady Damia. The young prince knelt, and the noblewoman placed the circlet on his brow.

“Long live the king,” said Damia, “Arise, King Rhigaerd the Second of Cormyr. Would that your coronation had been a celebration, but your kingdom has need of you.”

Rhigaerd stood again, and Jorunhast saw that his eyes were wet.

The young king’s voice was firm, however. “You have my thanks, wizard.”

“I had to deal with the threat to the crown,” repeated Jorunhast sadly. “I am sorry there was no other way. He was my friend as well as yours.”

“Let him be remembered in his strength, not in his madness,” said Damia, as if finishing a litany.

“Yet you have killed a king,” said Rhigaerd solemnly, “and for that, the sentence is death. I hereby commute that sentence to eternal exile. You will leave Suzail, wizard, and never return to it again.”

Jorunhast opened his mouth, then shut it again and nodded.

“None will trust a kingslayer, regardless of his motives,” said Rhigaerd, “and none will believe me to be truly a ruler if I keep Salember’s chief plotter as my own.”

Jorunhast nodded again and said, in tones almost of relief, “As you wish, Sire. I follow your orders out of my loyalty to the crown. I will gather some things and then be gone.” The mage retreated to the door of the great throne room.

“Hold one moment, wizard,” said Rhigaerd, and the mage paused by the doorway.

“Sire?”

“Cormyr has always had a wizard, but now will not,” said Rhigaerd carefully. “In your exile, find and train the best young mage you can find. When I marry and produce an heir, I will send word far and wide, to where you cannot help but hear-and I bid you then send your pupil to become my son’s tutor. Cormyr can survive without its wizard, but not for long. In this, I command you.”

Jorunhast bowed deeply. “As you wish, my liege.”

“And thank you,” Rhigaerd added softly. “Thank you for the crimes you committed in the name of the crown.”

Jorunhast’s eyes were as wet as those of the new king.

“I do my duty out of loyalty and love,” he said roughly, “and I will teach my pupil to do the same.”

And though no one saw him leave, Jorunhast was never seen in Suzail again.