Cormyr

Chapter 5: The Abraxus

Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

“You sent for me, lord wizard?” The fur-cloaked high priest’s tones were barely respectful. Augrathar Buruin, High Huntmaster of Vaunted Malar for all Cormyr, wasn’t used to answering any summons that did not come from the crown itself.

“I did,” Vangerdahast told him gravely, “and I count your presence in Suzail at this time as a stroke of good fortune for the realm.”

The huntmaster merely grunted, a sound of mingled disdain and disbelief, and swaggered past Vangerdahast, the many dangling claws on the pelts he wore dancing with the weight of his stride. He headed straight to a platter on a sideboard, where he tore a leg deftly from a roast mountain bustard and asked, “So where’s the blood you want spilled? And in the meantime, what’s happened to the wine cellars?”

The Royal Magician’s eyes silently answered the query of the nearest belarjack, and the man scurried over to the cleric with a jack of wine and a goblet. The priest snatched the jack, leaving the startled servant holding the empty goblet, and Vangerdahast turned away before anyone could see him smile.

His movement brought him face to face with the next arrival: the battered old warrior Aldeth Ironsar, Faithful Hammer of Tyr, whose face was stiff with disapproval at the priest of Malar’s manners and presence. The Royal Magician greeted Ironsar warmly, even as they clasped each other’s upper arms, the Chamber of Crossed Dogs began to fill up rapidly. High Priest Manarech of Tymora, resplendent in vestments so new they seared the eye, nodded to Vangerdahast. Manarech smiled, seemingly bearing the High Wizard and the palace in general no ill will for being bathed in Bhereu’s last breaths, and drifted to the sideboard. Junstal Halarn, ranking Visiting Songmaster at Suzail’s shrine to Milil, was not far behind.

All of these good clerics were accompanied by their personal scribes, consecrated pages, and watchpriests. With glances and finger gestures rather than words, Vangerdahast saw to it that all of them were given wine and the small savory pastries that the kitchens of the court were justly famous for. Then he smiled and nodded, listening to their self-important chatter with every evidence of deep interest, hoping that the three men he was waiting for would not be too much longer.

As it happened, they arrived together. The sage Alaphondar and Erdreth Halansalim, a gaunt, no-nonsense senior war wizard, crept in unobtrusively through a side door, while Runelord Thaun Khelbor, Loremaster of Deneir, swept in through the main door. The loremaster bore a tall rune-graven staff of darkest ebony, and small lightning bolts crackled around the staff’s tip.

Vangerdahast fought the urge to smile again at the sight of the loremaster and his portable lightning storm, and he was careful not to raise his eyes in a patronizing glance. The loremaster was the oldest and most gentle of the assembled holy men. Why not allow him a moment of pride? Alaphondar, always calm and graceful, led the tardy cleric over to the sideboard as the Royal Magician stepped forward. Now was the time to take control of these proud men, before their mutual patience was stretched further and disputes could break out.

In a back corner, Vangerdabast saw the grim, white-bearded face of Erdreth start to turn, beginning to ceaselessly scrutinize the gathering from a back corner. The Royal Magician smiled in approval. Erdreth was checking for all manner of magical devices and potential dangers. The priests, of course, took Vangerdahast’s approving grin as a smile of welcome to them and made various gracious nods of superiority.

“Respectful greetings, your hallowed graces,” Vangerdahast said loudly and pleasantly. “The Crown of Cormyr requires your services in an important matter involving the very safety of the state, of your persons, and of the health of every man, woman, and child in Suzail.” That got their attention.

“There is a man in the chambers of Crown Princess Tanalasta,” he went on, not giving them any time to interject any speeches about their willingness, loyalty, and the like, “who may bear a disease, or a poison, or even fell magic. A nobleman. He must be examined without delay, lest he spread a plague-or worse-throughout the palace. And what afflicts the palace touches the court, fair Suzail, and eventually all the realm. I need you to make that examination.”

“Us?” The huntmaster demanded, waving the jack of wine without shame. “Why can’t you-or your precious war wizards-do it?”

Vangerdahast spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “My skills are insufficient, and my presence has been for the moment judged undesirable by the princess.” He fell silent, giving them the opportunity to ask the questions he knew they would.

“Forgive me if this verges on the indelicate,” Manarech of Tymora said tentatively, “but am I to understand that we are being asked to force our way into the bedchambers of the princess? And interrupt her, perhaps, in the company of a man who may be her…?” He fell silent, making a meaningful circling gesture with his hand. No one present lacked the imagination to supply the word that had been omitted: lover.

“And just who is this man?” the high priest of Tyr asked, brows drawn together in a frown of consideration.

“The man is Aunadar Bleth,” Vangerdahast told them, “and he may be the paramour of the princess, for all I know… or have bothered to ask.” He made the last few words almost a rebuke, looking around the room as he uttered them so that no man could feel personally singled out and slighted. Gods, he thought inwardly, priests are as bad as wizards-a keg full of pride crammed into a tankard of wits, the lot of them! Including, no doubt, he reflected ruefully, this wizard as well.

“Is the matter as urgent as all that?” the songmaster of Milil asked pettishly. “Could it not be brought to the holy place of-ah, one of us-and dealt with in the usual manner?”

“The fate of the realm does hang in the balance,” Vangerdahast told them gently. “And for once, that is no empty tale teller’s phrase, but the bare truth.”

He turned with slow, tragic grandeur to regard High Priest Manarech Eskwuin. “Do you not agree, holy lord? Was what you witnessed earlier not grave enough to threaten the peace of all Cormyr?”

The high priest of Tymora nodded, drawing himself up to his full height and flinging his arms wide dramatically to make the most of his moment. “It was indeed, and you did right to summon me then, as you do well to call on the holy skills of all of us now. Any time the king of any realm is laid low, and his senior blood nobles with him, is a time when the peace of that realm may well be said to be threatened.”

“What?” A general confusion of shouted questions broke out, and Vangerdahast held up his hands for silence. Thankfully he did not have to use the silver whistle, for they quieted at once. Interest made them reach eagerly for his next words.

“Yesterday afternoon,” he said gravely, “the king, Duke Bhereu, Baron Thomdor, and young Bleth were in the King’s Forest on a hunt. They encountered some sort of metal beast, which used some sort of breath weapon on them. Through magic, we were able to swiftly transport them back here, but all of the royals had collapsed. Duke Bhereu died almost immediately, and Thomdor and the king at this moment are fighting for their lives. Aunadar Bleth slipped away and went straight to the princess. I need to know why he did not collapse, if he carries any taint of anything that may afflict him, the princess, or anyone else he comes into contact with in the future, and how he feels right now.”

The priest of Malar spat. “Bah! I deal in hunting and slaying, not nursemaiding the sick! See to your own duty, court wizard!”

Vangerdahast did his best not to smile grimly. This is what he’d expected and been waiting for. Indeed, such anticipated response by the huntmaster was the sole reason Vangerdahast had invited him in the first place.

The Royal Magician made a far more grand gesture than he needed to and looked straight at the huntmaster as-with a flash and sparkle of light motes and drifting smoke-the staff of the High Wizard of Cormyr appeared in his hand. He raised it as high as his arm would stretch and willed it to hum and crackle with power. As it burst into life, glowing impressively above their heads, he said regretfully, “I regret having to inconvenience you in any way, holy lords, but it is imperative that you aid Cormyr in this problem without delay.”

“And if we do not?” Surprisingly, the cool question came from the loremaster of Deneir.

Vangerdahast silently revised his kindly opinion of the runelord and said sternly, “As Regent Royal of Cormyr, I expect your cooperation in this-or your heads.” He caused his upraised staff to wink slightly but meaningfully.

“‘Regent Royal’?” Huntmaster Buruin’s voice was loud with derision. “You think this nonsense title gives you any authority over me?”

“Good and holy lord, it does-and yet, respected servant of Malar, it is authority I should not need.”

“Oh? How so?”

The Royal Magician smiled a crooked wolflike smile. “Hearken to the decree of Garmos Saernclaws, one of the most respected servants of the lord of beasts-a holy decree that still applies to all priests of Malar, as it has for nigh a thousand years: ‘The Hunt must be clean. If disease or affliction is visited on hunters by a beast, clergy of Malar must do all they can to root out and exterminate the taint, that bloodlines and beasts in the wild remain always strong.’”

The huntmaster gaped at him in pale-faced astonishment. He hadn’t expected a layman, even a wizard, to know the gospel of Saernclaws. They both knew Garmos had said just that, and Agrathar Buruin was bound by it.

The Royal Magician dropped his eyes from the stunned gaze of the Malarite and looked around at the faces of the other priests. There was no more fight in any of them, it remained only to gesture toward the door and add gently, “Lord Alaphondar and Palace Mage Halansalim will accompany you to the chambers of the princess and be your escort therein and when you examine and bring out Bleth.”

The priests tumbled out of the room like adventurers fleeing a dragon, the sage and the war wizard in the lead. Vangerdahast imagined the turmoil that would result when the gaggle of holy men arrived at Tanalasta’s quarters and dragged off her suitor for laborious tests, examinations, and divinations. The Royal Magician labored to keep a broadening inner smile from spreading across his face.

Instead, he merely made the gesture that caused his staff of state to disappear, then turned away, to leave the Chamber of Crossed Dogs by another, smaller door, passing the gigantic wall carving of leaping hounds that had given the room its curious name.

The door opened onto a small, dark passage that gave onto a step halfway up Halantaver’s Stair. Ascending, he passed through the echoing stateliness of Endevanor’s Hall into the Salon of Six Scepters, nodding to the belarjacks who sprang to open doors before him. Across a hail from the eastern door of the salon was the Upper Eastern, or Satharwood, Banqueting Hall, the way to its closed doors barred by a solid line of grim Purple Dragons in full armor.

Vangerdahast stepped inside to find himself facing a watchful ring of tired war wizards, who raised wands to menace him out of habit. “For the realm,” he said to them wearily, the watch phrase should have been unnecessary. They lowered their wands, but four or more continued to watch him expressionlessly. The others turned back to what was going on inside their ring.

Above the tables where the royals lay, both still motionless and silent, hung a globe of radiant air, its soft glow illuminating the weary faces of the priests who were working on the baron-experimenting with vigorous massaging of his arms and legs, it appeared-under the direction of a weary-eyed Dimswart. Vangerdahast gave him a silent wave when he looked up to see which fresh face had joined the circle, and he replied with a silent negative shake of his head. No change.

The Royal Magician turned grimly away, trying for an instant to recall what pressing business he’d been attending to when the breaking of the summoning wand had dragged the realm into chaos. Thus occupied, he almost ran into the Bishop of the Black Blades. Gwennath was slumped against the wall, silent tears of grim failure and exhaustion running down her face. Vangerdahast took her gently by the shoulders, and as she looked up in weary wonder, he said merely, “Come.”

The belarjack by the door had fallen asleep, there was fear in his fluttering eyes when he saw that he’d been sleepily cursing the High Wizard for pinching him awake, but Vangerdahast simply said, “Go and get someone to relieve you and your fellow priests-after you bring Matron Maglanna to me.”

“Have I-done wrong?” Gwennath asked sleepily.

Vangerdahast kept his hands under her elbows to keep her from sliding to the floor and said, “No. By my decree, however, you are now to go with the matron of this floor of the palace and get some sleep in whatever chamber she puts you.”

Maglanna, doughty and dependable, though looking as worn as Gwennath, was at his side before he’d finished speaking. Vangerdahast merely added a gentle “By my command” to her, watched her nod and gather the exhausted priestess into her guiding arms, and turned away again.

Sleep might soon be a good idea as well for certain High Wizards, he reminded himself as he passed grimly on through another set of wary guards-backed up by war wizards this time-into Belnshor’s Chamber, where the clockwork beast had been stored.

Usually used to store whatever furniture wasn’t in use at the moment, the high-vaulted room was largely bare at the present time. It was lit by moving radiances, the fey lights of working magic.

They gleamed on the golden curves of what had been the bull in the forest, lying in glittering pieces on trestles at the center of the room. Light spells hovered over it, and other magic spells were lifting plates and rings of metal with invisible hands as two women leaned forward to examine them. They wore identical frowns of intense concentration.

One woman was familiar to the Royal Magician. Laspeera Inthre was warden of the war wizards, his deputy in the command of that vital fellowship. Still beautiful, she was beginning to show her years of strain in service to Cormyr. Lines flanked her pursed mouth, and a tiny pair of exquisitely crafted clear crystal spectacles, held aloft by magic, floated in front of her sharp nose as she stared at the intricate assembly of metal objects that lurked behind one of the bull’s nostrils. Without looking away from what she was studying, she raised her fingers in a salute. In all his years of working magic, Vangerdahast had met very few mages who could concentrate on as many things at once as this one. She was murmuring another spell now, the deft manipulation of metal plates and coils must be her work.

He’d seen the other buxom, beautiful woman before, too, but never expected to find her here in the depths of the palace, in chambers normally closed to the public. She tossed her head to shake long, honey-hued hair out of her face and favor him with a smile as he approached. The High Wizard knew he’d last laid eyes on that pert, mysterious, rather catlike smile in The Laughing Lass, a Suzailan establishment that often transformed itself from tavern into festhall when the nights grew warm. The woman been dancing on a table at the time, wearing very little more than a smile and a few strings of coins. She smiled now as if she knew him, but Vangerdahast was sure such was not the case. The web of disguise spells he habitually wore to the Lass was impenetrable. Wherefore his challenge, when it came, was a trifle sharper than he’d intended. “And you are-?”

She raised eyes like warm flames to meet his and replied, “I am called Emthrara Undril, and I can show you something that means more. Pray stay your spells and mistake not my intent, lord wizard, which is peaceful. I but open my locket.” Slim fingers went slowly up to the ribbon she wore at her throat and the oval of chased silver there, to push a tiny catch and swing the locket open. She lifted her chin to let Vangerdahast get a good look inside.

Within was more black silk, and on it a tiny silver harp. She was a Harper.

The Royal Magician’s eyes narrowed. A tavern dancer, aye, that fit with the way Those Who Harp liked to operate… but how came she here to this room at such a time?

“Is this more of Elminster’s meddling?” he asked suspiciously.

Emthrara frowned slightly. “The Great Oversorcerer, Favored of Mystra? Nay-I doubt he even knows I am here.”

She tossed her head almost challengingly, eyes on his, and said excitedly, “I met him once! He was very kind. He said I danced as well as they once did in Myth Drannor, if you can credit that!”

“Harrumph,” Vangerdahast growled and turned away.

From behind him came Laspeera’s low, level voice, the wizard could tell she was amused. “I brought Emthrara here, lord, because I knew she’d once fought, disabled, and then taken apart a giant spider of metal, called by some a ‘clockwork horror.’ Is she not, therefore, the best person in all Cormyr to learn the secrets of this beast?”

“Harrumph,” Vangerdahast said again, striding toward the door. A pace away from it, he spun around and said heavily, “Accept my apologies, please, for my churlish manner. I am overtired and no great friend to surprises at the best of times.”

Emthrara smiled easily. “I’ll look for you again in the Lass, High Wizard,” she said cheerfully, and Laspeera laughed at the way Vangerdahast winced and put his hand to his forehead.

Still shading his eyes, he asked in pained tones, “The abraxus, ladies. Have you found any traps yet, or reservoirs where more of its breath gas might be waiting?”

“No, lord,” they said in chorus, and Emthrara added, “We did find a small metal tray inserted beneath the beast’s chin. It might have held the venom, but it was empty, its poison spent. And a switch along the spine, which appears connected to a set of bellows within.”

“Is the creature newly fashioned?”

The two women exchanged glances, and then Emthrara said, “We think not. In places where no royal blades penetrated, we believe, the metal is bright from wear and use. Some plates and pieces seem newer than others, as if replacements have been made.”

“And can you put it back to how you found it?”

There was some hesitation in Laspeera’s voice as she said, “We think so… if you hold that such a reassembly would be wise, lord.”

Vangerdahast waved one hand. “I was inquiring as to your abilities and the condition of the components, not ordering that such a process be undertaken.” He hummed absently for a moment or two, lost in thought, and then asked, “What powers the magic that gives this beast life? Can you tell?”

Laspeera shrugged. “I cannot be sure, but I am almost certain that life-force must be drained from a beast or a man to make this construct move.”

“And would this be an unwilling sacrifice or an unaware victim? A summoning, perhaps? And does it function according to its own will, or is it directed from afar?”

Laspeera spread her hands in mute demonstration of her ignorance. Emthrara followed suit, but added, “There are devices in the South that use a victim’s life-force for power. These sometimes require a victim of particular ability or appearance to make them function. In such cases, the life-force is sucked from the body as a great green flame. This may or may not be related.”

The Royal Magician sighed and turned back to the door. “Answers, as usual, are all too few and speculations all too many. Nonetheless, both of you have done well. My thanks.” He laid a hand on the door, then turned once more and asked, “So who, in your opinion, might be able to direct such a thing against Cormyr?”

Laspeera spread her hands again, but the Harper dancer smiled thinly and said, “Ah, now, lord wizard, you ask us to venture forth upon the seas of pure speculation.”

Vangerdahast gestured for her to do so.

She shrugged. “Leaving aside the always present but slim possibility that arcane magic has been sent to beset us by liches, lone mad mages, or cabals of ambitious powers from the world below who want our land as their surface playground-illithids, the Phaerimm, and others we know too little of to even list-leaving all these aside, we can easily name the Zhentarim, the Red Wizards of Thay, perhaps even the Arcane Brotherhood of Luskan, or individual archwizards of Calimshan or Halruaa. Such folk have the necessary mastery of the arcane. As to why, we must open a far greater sphere of speculation. The folk who might hire such fell magic could be descendants of the Tuigan Khahan seeking revenge, elements of Sembia, the Zhentarim, or even Archendale seeking to weaken the realm-or even a rival noble house here at home, desiring to exterminate the Obarskyr line.”

The Royal Magician lifted an eyebrow, but the Harper added softly, “That is where I would look first, lord. Outlanders rarely manage to strike with swords or beasts at a specific person, in the heart of the realm, without knowing the ground… and their target… fairly well.”

Vangerdahast nodded slowly. “I have had similar thoughts. If this crisis passes, we must talk again, Lady Emthrara.”

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I am no lady.”

“Then you’ll not find a flagon of fine wine too much of an effrontery,” the wizard returned, “will you?”

She laughed. “Later, then-and be sure that it’s good wine.”

“The best,” Vangerdahast promised.

Laspeera rolled her eyes as the Lord High Wizard opened the door, then asked Emthrara loudly, “Do you know how many times he promises that?”

The Royal Magician of the Realm, Court Wizard of Cormyr, Chairman Emeritus of the College of War Wizards, Lord High Wizard of Suzail, Scepter of the Stonelands, and Master of the Council of Mages paused at the doorway and turned, his eyebrows arched in mock surprise. Both ladies laughed merrily and waved farewell.

Vangerdahast pointed at the abraxus on the table and growled, “Leave that not unguarded!” as the door swung closed. Turning from it, he found himself grinning and shook his head. He must be overtired.

“So tell me,” Emthrara said calmly as the door closed on the mage, “now that the free entertainment is gone, just how does one guard such a thing?”

Laspeera winked at her. “First, be aware that he loves to listen at doors. Our Royal Magician is seldom truly gone when you’re in the palace. Secondly, I don’t know. I’m going to raise a shell of antimagic around it, and then surround that with several spherical force barriers of various sorts.”

The Harper eyed her steadily. “And will all that work?”

Laspeera spread her hands. “With magicas always-who knows?”

Vangerdahast managed six steps along the quiet hall toward the back stair that led down to, among other things, the kitchens, where there might be some still-warm sage-and-pheasant soup in a pot somewhere, before a breathless palace page whirled around a corner and gasped, “Lord wizard! Lord wizard! The Sage Lord Alaphondar sends me to tell you that the priests have done their work-and adequate work, he terms it-and have pronounced Aunadar Bleth free from hurt or contagion!”

Vangerdahast nodded and smiled. “And-?”

“He and Sir Wizard Halansalim have Lord Bleth in their care now, in the Redpetal Room, and await your earliest pleasure there.”

“Well,” the Royal Magician demanded, “what are you waiting for?” And he plucked up his robes at the knees like a servingmaid and ran. The winded page could barely keep up.

“Untouched, all the high holy men agree. Untouched when the three you were riding with lie stricken, one dead… and yet you,” Vangerdahast said, spacing his words with menacing gentleness, “are… entirely.. untouched by the beast’s breath. I find that most curious. Would you not find that curious, Aunadar Bleth, if a man under your command came back unscathed from a fray with a poison-breathing beast that laid all of his companions low?”

“What are you saying?” the young noble snapped coldly, his face red with anger. He had been poked, prodded, and enspelled for the past several hours, and the strain and irritation shone on his face.

Alaphondar and the gaunt old war wizard across the room regarded him impassively. There were wands in both of their hands, and when Aunadar’s hand moved unconsciously toward the hilt of his sword, the tips of both wands lifted, to catch his eye, and twitched warningly.

The young man’s lips thinned as he set his mouth in a hard line, but his hand fell back to his side.

“What am I saying?” Vangerdahast’s voice was bitingly mild as he strolled back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. Aunadar’s eyes followed his progress. “I have, so far, said nothing. I merely ask. I ask you for your opinion, knowing my own already. But then, fat old men in robes never seem to have a high regard for the bravery and sword skills of swaggering youths, do they?”

Aunadar turned to face the wizard and snarled, “Enough of your insults, old man! I am a Bleth, not a lowborn dotard who happens to have a few wands and a title at court! I may not have taught the king everything he knows, but my father and his forebears have walked this land as long as the Obarskyrs! Few throughout all those long years ever dared to impugn their bravery!”

Aunadar’s blustering was met with only silence cold silence. When he, too, fell silent, his last shouted words fell like stones into an abyss, past eyes that were very gray with age this night, but as calm as if they belonged to a painting.

They belonged, in fact, to the Royal Magician of the realm, who said mildly, “As I recall, the Bleths have always been strong on old history and bearing grudges until full-fledged feuds are born. Since you mention longevity, let me inform you that I, lowborn commoner that I am, am descended from someone your tutors just may have acquainted you with: Baerauble Etharr. That means my ancestors have been treading the dirt of Cormyr longer than the noble sod has known the weight of either Obarskyr feet… or Bleth boots. Longevity, it seems, grants no special status.”

His tone changed from sadness to something with a little more thunder as he added, “Nor, as seems increasingly clear, does it have anything to do with loyalty.”

“Just what are you saying?” the young noble demanded, his rising voice making the challenge almost a plea.

The old wizard spread his hands. “I need to know-the crown needs to know-your loyalties in this affair.”

Their eyes locked in silence, and Vangerdahast added, “I need to know if I can trust the man who may be our next king or prince consort, depending on the decisions of Queen Filfaeril and the crown princess. I need to know if I should be aiding the man who can give true love and support to the heir apparent-or blasting him to ashes, that he have no more chance to bring the fair realm down into ruin.”

Aunadar Bleth licked suddenly dry lips and asked, “So what would you have me do?” His eyes were drawn to the moving hands and lips of the war wizard across the room. Halansalim was murmuring a spell… a magic that would, no doubt, tell him if a certain young noble was trifling with the truth.

There were suddenly beads of sweat on Aunadar’s handsome forehead. Vangerdahast eyed them but said nothing. Is there a noble in any realm lacking a few dire secrets best kept hidden?

“Swear fealty to the crown,” the court wizard said. “Oh, I know you knelt before Azoun and laid your sword at his feet. That holds, if our great king sits on the throne once more, and I shall then see that you are honored for this minor humiliation. But I need to know what is in your heart now.”

“I suppose the alternative,” Lord Bleth the Younger said with a trace of bitterness, his eyes darting to the watchful war wizard, “is to have my wits probed until they are torn apart by the loyal wizards of Cormyr?”

The Royal Magician nodded slowly in silence. Bleth went to one knee and said hoarsely, “I swear, then. By whatever words you want, and on anything you desire. I will be loyal to the crown of fair Cormyr, upon my life.”

The wizard raised one hand, and suddenly, without fanfare, there was a blade in it. The blade was a relic of days gone by, its broad and heavy blade incised with deep, angular runes. Bleth had never been so close to it before. He drew in his breath involuntarily at its power and beauty as Vangerdahast lowered the sword to his lips, hilt first.

“The blade I hold is Symylazarr, the Fount of Honor, upon which every leader of every noble house swears his or her fealty to the king. Kiss the dragon’s-head pommel and repeat the last sentence you uttered,” the old wizard said, and the other two men in the room took a single step forward in unison.

The young noble did as he was bade and added firmly, “Moreover, I pledge upon my honor to do whatever I can to help the Princess Tanalasta.”

Vangerdahast nodded gravely. “Well said.” With a wave, the ancient blade was gone again, as suddenly and as silently as it had appeared.

As he rose, the young noble seemed calm, composed, and almost regal, as if he’d been touched by some magic of the blade or the ritual itself. For the first time, he spoke to the wizard as an equal and an ally. “For my part,” he said anxiously, catching at Vangerdahast’s sleeve, “I am worried about Tanalasta and the future of the realm. Will she see what she should do? Will she rule well, or is it truly a challenge for someone else? And if-the good gods forbid-Azoun should die now, who will rule if the princess hesitates?”

“Who indeed?” the court wizard agreed gravely, studying the ornately tiled floor. He had already overheard whisperings in the halls, among both courtiers and palace servants: Who will rule?

The Royal Magician shrugged, not even raising his head. “We shall see,” he said absently and added, “You have our thanks, Aunadar Bleth. You may go.”

The young noble stiffened, fresh color washing across his features. “A royal dismissal? Who crowned you king?” he asked angrily. “My oath is to the crown! By what right do you dismiss or summon or order about any highborn man or maid of Cormyr?”

“I have the legal right, if you want to look up the dusty rulings of Rhigaerd and see for yourself Azoun’s signature upon them, giving me the authority to act in defense of the realm should he ever be unfit or unable to rule,” Vangerdahast replied softly, blinking at the young noble in mild surprise.

Bleth’s features twisted in a sneer. “That was a power given to the adult tutor of Azoun as a young boy, not to an old dotard once the boy has become a man and been crowned king and has a queen and daughters of his own.”

Vangerdahast shrugged. “None of this truly matters now, does it, young Bleth? You waste my time while the realm crumbles. If you seek to test my authority, go out that door and bring a guard back. Order him to do one thing, and I shall countermand the order. See which of us he obeys, and you have your answer.”

“Pah-a guard! They know where their next coin comes from! What if I-or any noble-refuse to obey?”

“Ah, well,” Vangerdahast said mildly, “a stellar career as a toadstool always awaits.”

At that moment, the doors of the Redpetal Room swung wide, and as they all looked up in surprise, a white-faced, wild-haired woman rushed in, flanked by men-at-arms. Gwennath of Tymora looked as if she’d foregone a much-needed sleep to bring important news, as indeed she had.

“Noble lords, the sage Dimswart has discerned-I know not how-that the beast’s breath carried a venom,” she gasped without salutation, her eyes meeting those of the court wizard. “The venom spreads a blood disease resistant to conventional magic. That is why my spell had no effect on the late duke. This magic-resistant blood disease in the venom eats at internal organs and destroys the body from within! And once the body is slain, the resistant nature of the disease prevents any restoration of the victim!”

She swayed as if about to faint, and Vangerdahast absently caught her shoulders to keep her upright. “Death will come to them both, then, and none can stop it,” he murmured, letting Alaphondar take charge of the exhausted priestess.

He straightened, stepped forward briskly, and said, “Come, Aunadar Bleth! ‘Tis time you learned some of the secrets of the realm, to give you something to be loyal to. Besides, even arrogant young nobles should be able to learn a thing or two.”

As the Royal Magician moved toward the door, the Bishop of the Black Blades shook herself free of the sage’s grasp and said fiercely, “I will accompany you!”

Vangerdahast gave her a surprised look, but nodded and waved a welcoming hand. “Come, then.”

The court sage asked quietly, “Where go you, lord wizard? Should you not return-or should there be a change with the stricken royals-I must know.”

Vangerdahast did not pause on his way to the door. “Use your stone to summon me. We’re bound for the depths, to see that there are still spells in the world that can create new kings from bits of the old.” He nodded farewell to the sage, the war wizard, and the guards and set off at a quick pace down a narrow servants’ passage. Bleth and the lady bishop followed.

He led them through a ready room and on along another passage, stopping suddenly partway along it. They almost bumped into him as he did something to a section of wall that looked no different than any other. It swung inward to reveal darkness, the smell of damp stone, and cobwebs. One of the glowstones at the court wizard’s belt roused into life, its green radiance stabbing out in a beam that illuminated a narrow passage running down into darkness.

“Where are we going?” Gwennath asked, wide-eyed with wonder.

“To where secrets sleep,” the Royal Magician said shortly.

“Prisoners hanging in chains?” Aunadar asked, lifting a sardonic eyebrow.

“To where things of magic are kept safely away from prying eyes and adventurous hands,” Vangerdahast replied sourly, not looking at Bleth. “Noble hands, for instance.”

The passage took them down a steep, almost breakneck flight of steps to a cross passage. The Royal Magician turned left, took two long strides, and then turned to the right-hand wall and did something swift and deft again. The wall swung open to reveal more darkness-and a curious, high-pitched singing sound. Vangerdahast held up one sleeve of his robes, and something winked there.

The singing died away, and the mage stepped forward. The young noble gestured with acidic courtesy for the priestess to precede him, then followed her through the opening. “Keep your sword in its sheath,” the wizard said softly to Bleth without looking back, “or the guardians ahead will surely separate your head from its accustomed place on your shoulders.”

Aunadar made no reply, even when niches began to occur on either side of the narrow passage, each one filled by a dark, silent armored figure. Something scraped ahead, and Vangerdahast muttered something low-voiced but hasty.

There was a soundless flash, and then a spreading purple radiance as an oval opening occurred in a hitherto-invisible barrier. It fell away before them, followed by a white radiance flickering with green around the edges, to reveal a closed stone door whose smooth surface was broken only by a pull ring and a keyhole.

“Was that a teleport ward?” Bleth asked curiously.

“Partly,” the wizard replied calmly. He drew something-a tiny pierced, hollow metal sphere-from his belt. Holding it out at arm’s length, he muttered something else they could not quite hear, and it twisted and grew, to become… a key.