Crusade

4

Vangerdahast paced around the barren, chilly cell for a moment, then spun about sharply and slammed his fist on the dark wooden table. "Are you mad?"

Laying a restraining hand on the wizard's shoulder, Dimswart the Sage tried to repeat the question more neutrally. "Please, Bors, try to explain to me again why you thought you needed to kill King Azoun."

The thin man pulled his tattered cloak tight around his shoulders and glared up at the sage. A spiteful look pulled his features into a squint on his narrow face. "I'll tell ye no more than this: I did it for the good of the city. The crusade'll ruin us all."

"This is getting us nowhere," Vangerdahast grumbled. He turned to Bors and shook a pudgy finger at him. "If you know what's good for you, you'll tell us where you got the scroll and who put you up to this."

The trapper closed his eyes and ran his hand over the leather guild patch tied around his arm. It was an action he'd repeated many times during the long night's interrogation. For a moment, the close, stone-walled cell grew quiet.

Dimswart rubbed his red, puffy eyes and looked down at the notes he'd compiled. Bors-that was the only name the man had as far as they could learn-claimed to have acted out of public spirit in his attempt on Azoun's life. A down-and-out trapper, barely making enough to pay his guild dues, the would-be assassin was sure that the expedition against the Tuigan would ruin the meager life he still had. Killing Azoun was the only way he knew to stop that disaster.

"What about guild members buying weapons, arrows and the like?" Dimswart asked, turning his gaze to the only other item in his notes. The fletcher who had captured Bors in the Royal Gardens had also told the king's guard about another trapper, one who had tried to purchase a large number of arrows the morning of the attack.

"I don't know nothing about that," Bors grumbled. "This ain't guild business. I meant only to harm Azoun."

Vangerdahast cursed bitterly. "Well, you certainly did more damage than that, didn't you? Fifteen dead. Twenty more horribly burned." The wizard leaned close to the man and added, "The gods will not look kindly on this, and I'm sure you'll be visiting the Realm of the Dead very soon."

For the first time during the long hours of questioning Bors's face betrayed something other than rigid anger. The flickering light from the single tallow candle that burned in the cell revealed the fear on the thin man's hateful face. That expression lasted only an instant.

"I've told ye that I'm sorry for harming those poor folk unfortunate enough to be standing near the stage," Bors said, his voice low and even. "But I can't show ye my soul, so don't second guess the gods as to my punishment… if they see fit to punish me at all for trying to save innocent Cormyrian lives from a needless fight."

Dimswart rolled up his parchment, put away his ink and stylus, and abruptly rose to his feet. "Come on, Vangy. Let him rest. We've learned all he's going to tell."

The royal wizard glanced once at Bors, then called for the guard. A helmeted man appeared, wearing the purple dragon, symbol of King Azoun, emblazoned on his tunic. The long sword he wore at his side hung down past his woolen breeches and almost to the heels of his high, soft leather boots. The guard quickly opened the iron-braced door and let Dimswart and Vangerdahast out. "Make sure the prisoner doesn't kill himself," the wizard noted as he left.

Vangerdahast walked stiffly down the tower's broad stone steps. Through the arrow loops cut into the thick walls every ten feet or so on the stairs, he could see the first feeble rays of the morning sun. The light cast flowing ghostly images before Vangerdahast's eyes. The wizard staggered for a moment, but leaned against the cold gray wall before he could fall.

Dimswart patted the paunchy old man lightly on the back. "Not used to staying up all night anymore, eh, Vangy?"

The wizard shook his head and frowned. "These are strange days, Dimswart," he said, continuing down the steps, this time at a slower pace. "At the moment, I wonder if I shall ever sleep again."

The sage moved to Vangerdahast's side. "I believe him, you know-about not serving the guild."

"Eh?"

"Bors," Dimswart began again. "I think he's telling the truth. You can see it in his eyes." He paused for a moment, then added with a slight smile, "Besides, my sources tell me that the guilds would plan something far more elaborate than one man reading a spell from a scroll."

Again Vangerdahast steadied himself with a hand against the wall. After four or five stairs, he stopped and turned to the gray-haired sage. "I find it hard to believe that he actually had enough money to purchase a scroll of that power."

Shaking his head, Dimswart folded his arms across his chest. "I don't think the fool who sold the scroll to him realized what he had. Or perhaps it was stolen and some wandering thief wanted to be rid of it. There's a thriving black market for magic in any city the size of Suzail."

"And the money?" the wizard asked impatiently.

The sage smiled, this time a broad, self-assured grin. "He had to have a little money from winter trapping. He probably spent all of it on the scroll. Did Bors look like he'd eaten recently to you?"

"So this was his last hope," Vangerdahast concluded, stroking his beard. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he conceded, "It makes some sense, I suppose."

The wizard and the sage walked the rest of the way down the tower without saying another word, lost in their own theories about the assassination attempt. They crossed the frost-covered courtyard to the main keep the same way, and only spoke when they'd entered the palace and reached the antechamber to the king's quarters.

Azoun was sitting in a corner of the small room, tugging at the corners of his mustache, when Vangerdahast opened the door. The king still wore the clothes he'd changed into immediately after the attack: a plain tunic and breeches, with high, black boots. A thick purple cloak hung carelessly from his shoulders, probably put there by Queen Filfaeril sometime during the night.

Vangerdahast couldn't help but feel the monarch looked as if he were stranded on some desolate stretch of beach, shipwrecked and alone. The room's few candles and the thin sunlight from the window cast deep, aging shadows on Azoun's face. After the sage and wizard had entered the room, Vangerdahast cleared his throat noisily. When Azoun looked up, his dark-circled eyes and pale complexion only heightened his appearance as a lonesome castaway.

"We're done interviewing the trapper," Dimswart noted softly.

"Is Zhentil Keep involved? Or the guilds?" The king asked the questions casually, offhandedly. This wasn't the first time someone had attempted to take his life; conspiracies and failed assassinations had become a part of Azoun's everyday existence.

Rubbing the knotted muscles in his neck, Vangerdahast eased himself into a padded chair. "Your friend, the 'Sage of Suzail,' believes Bors was working alone. He has a few interesting points, but I'm not convinced. We've heard the trappers are gathering weapons, too. This could mean trouble."

Dimswart shrugged. "That was an awfully sloppy assassination attempt for one sponsored by a powerful guild."

"I thought the people, the merchants would understand. I thought they'd be the first to see how necessary this is." The king turned toward the window, which overlooked the gardens, and noticed for the first time that the sun was coming up. "We've been up all night," he noted absently.

"You should rest, Azoun," the royal wizard said, concern coloring his voice. "The special envoy from Zhentil Keep will be here late this morning to discuss the crusade."

Inhaling deeply, then sighing, Azoun stood. The cloak slid from his shoulders and dropped into liquid folds of fine cloth at his feet. "It's all getting out of control," he said, half to himself. "I can't let that happen."

As Azoun paused, standing lost in his own wandering thoughts, Dimswart noticed that the king's age dragged heavily upon him. Azoun's shoulders stooped slightly, and his arms and legs seemed slack. "Vangy's right. You need to rest."

The king snapped out of his reverie and looked at the sage. "Did I hear you correctly, Dimswart?" he asked, a trace of a sad smile on his lips. "Did you actually agree with Vangerdahast?" The gray-haired man nodded, though he found he couldn't return even his friend's half-smile.

"I suppose you're both right," the king concluded at last. He walked to the nearest candle and snuffed it out. "I tried to sleep earlier. It didn't do me much good."

"Perhaps a spell, Your Highness?" Vangerdahast offered helpfully.

"Or a mixture of herbs?" added Dimswart.

The king shook his head. "No, no. I'll go and lie down beside Filfaeril. Try to sleep on my own. Spells or potions might leave me unfit to meet our guest later this morning." He shuffled to another candle and extinguished its flame, then turned to the gilt door that led to his inner chambers.

Silently the king left the room. The gilt door slid noiselessly shut, and the wizard and sage were left in the antechamber. Vangerdahast squeezed the flame out on the room's sole remaining lit candle.

"Good night-or should I say good morning? Thank you for your help, Dimswart."

The sage frowned and gestured toward the gilt door. "Will he be all right?"

Nodding, Vangerdahast mumbled something about the trials of kingship and all men needing rest. The wizard then hustled Dimswart from the room and told the guards standing watch outside to knock in three hours and keep alert. Before Vangerdahast closed the door to the antechamber, Dimswart asked, "He's paying for the crusade already, isn't he?"

The royal wizard didn't answer as he shut the heavy door. As quietly as he could, Vangerdahast picked up the king's cloak, hung it over his own shoulder, and dragged the padded chair closer to the window. He lowered himself slowly into the chair, his old joints creaking, his brown robe folding around him. Finally, pulling the cloak up to his chin, he glanced out at the blue morning sky. It was chilly, but he guessed that the sun would burn the frost from the air by highsun.

Azoun will have to pay far more than one sleepless night to stop the Tuigan, was the wizard's last thought before he lapsed into a shallow, fitful sleep.

The guards knocked on the antechamber door three hours later, as instructed. Vangerdahast started awake. His none-too-rested mind immediately called a defensive spell to the fore, but the groggy old wizard recognized the soldiers before he had a chance to make a mistake.

The sun was high over the gardens when Vangerdahast glanced out the window. He reckoned that he and Azoun had at least an hour before the special emissary from Zhentil Keep made his appearance. The wizard shivered slightly and rubbed his arms through his woolen robe. Winter still hadn't been completely banished from Cormyr, and it was certainly making its presence known that morning.

Wondering if the king had managed to sleep at all, Vangerdahast crossed to the king's bedchamber and knocked. When he got no reply, he slowly, quietly open the gilt door. It slid noiselessly open on oiled golden hinges.

To the royal wizard's chagrin, King Azoun was awake. He stood across the large room, near a multipaned stained glass window that depicted a twisting purple dragon. The king traced the dragon in the glass, running his fingers over the purple, burgundy, and gold fragments. The light from the sun shot through the window and cast the king in a bath of deep, beautiful color.

"Your Highness," Vangerdahast began, "I-"

Azoun turned sharply and held a finger to his lips. He motioned toward the large, white-draped canopy bed that dominated the room. Seeing that the monarch pointed to his still-sleeping wife, Vangerdahast nodded. Azoun cast one longing look back at Filfaeril, then followed the wizard into the antechamber.

"My apologies for intruding, Azoun," Vangerdahast said softly as he closed the gilt door. "How was your rest?"

"I feel fine, Vangy." He moved restlessly to the window and added wryly, "Until I saw your expression just now, I almost suspected you of casting a spell to restore me."

"Not against your wishes," the wizard said, coming to the king's side.

"No, I really didn't think so."

Noting an irritability in the king's voice, Vangerdahast decided to tread carefully with his questions. It was obvious Azoun had slept little. "Are you ready to meet with the Zhentish envoy?"

The king chuckled a humorless laugh and pushed himself away from the window. "I must be," he said firmly. "I can't let madmen or intractable dalesmen or anything else get in the way of this crusade. I must be ready."

Without waiting for a reply, the king spun on his heels and headed out into the hall. The wizard trailed behind him, making mental notes of the orders the king snapped off. Finally, Azoun reached his study. Before he opened the door, he noted that a sizable reward should be sent to the man who'd captured Bors in the crowd and that the would-be assassin's trial should be convened immediately.

"He'll almost certainly be put to death," Vangerdahast replied, watching the king's eyes for a reaction.

Azoun's expression, a mixture of cold resolve and vague distraction, didn't change. "If he hadn't killed those people it might have been different. I have to uphold the law. I want the masters of the Trappers' Guild called to court, too. They have much to answer for."

Vangerdahast hesitated before he replied. Anger, not just irritability, had a hold upon the Cormyrian king, the wizard realized. It was very much unlike Azoun to act that way, but, then, the last few days had been unusual themselves.

"Perhaps I should reschedule the meeting with the Zhentish envoy," Vangerdahast ventured, hoping that his friend might recognize the cause for the suggestion.

Azoun's forehead furrowed deeply as he narrowed his eyes and glared at the wizard. That expression was only temporary. The dark look on the king's face passed as quickly as a lone storm cloud on a bright summer's afternoon. Vangerdahast silently breathed a sigh of relief.

"That won't be necessary," Azoun noted, clasping his hands together in front of him. "Besides, if I don't convince the dalesmen that we can leave in the next tenday or so, the Tuigan will conquer most of Thesk. At that point, we might as well do as Lord Mourngrym suggests and wait for the barbarians to show up on our doorstep."

Vangerdahast sighed and hoped that the king could shake off his concerns long enough to parley with the envoy that afternoon. "Should I bring our Zhentish visitor here when he arrives?" the wizard asked as he turned to leave.

"No," Azoun replied. He opened the study's door. "I want to skim a book or two and clear my mind. Bring the envoy to the throne room."

Vangerdahast raised an eyebrow. "You don't usually meet mere envoys there, Your Highness."

The king smiled-a little wickedly, Vangerdahast noted with mild surprise-and said, "No doubt the ambassador will know that and expect a more casual greeting. I think it wise to keep him off balance, don't you?"

The royal wizard returned the king's smile, though his was undoubtedly tinged with a mischievous malice. "Of course, Your Highness," he said. Vangerdahast bowed, then hurried down the hall, his concern for Azoun lessening as he pondered the king's strategy.

Azoun quietly entered the study and sat at his desk. First, he scribbled a note to Torg, the dwarven king of Earthfast, informing him of the crusade's status. That done, the king opened the large, leather-bound book that lay on the desk. For a short time, he read and reread the passages describing the "black days" under Salember, the Rebel Prince. The citizens of Cormyr, and especially Suzail, were reportedly very supportive of the crusade. Despite this, Azoun wondered-as he had for much of the night-whether or not his people really did believe his plans to be in their best interest.

The king knew that history might report him to be the next traitor to Cormyr if Bors was an accurate manifestation of his subjects' true feelings about the crusade-his crusade. What his descendants thought of him mattered to Azoun more than it probably should have, so before he headed to the throne room to meet the Zhentish envoy, he devised a plan by which he might discover the people's real opinion of the crusade and uncover any plots the trappers might have hatched for open revolt.

Putting that plan into action would have to wait for the following night, when he'd have a chance to make a suitable disguise.

The royal chamberlain, decked out in his finest costume, entered the throne room. He strode pompously to the center of the large hall and bowed to the figure on a throne at the room's opposite end. After a few moments of silence, which seemed to the Zhentish envoy like an hour, he sharply rapped the tip of his gold-shod staff on the polished marble beneath his feet.

"Your Highness, may I present Lythrana Dargor, special envoy from Lord Chess at Zhentil Keep."

The introduction rang through the room, echoing off the stone floor and beautiful stained glass windows, eventually getting lost in the rich tapestries that covered most of the walls. Special Envoy Dargor stood patiently still, despite the fact that she had been told in Zhentil Keep not to expect any formality when dealing with Azoun IV.

On the throne, the king tapped his foot, silently counting off the time before he would allow the Zhentish politician to advance. He fidgeted slightly and toyed with his long purple cloak. At Azoun's side, Vangerdahast stood, resplendent in his most colorful robe. A closer look at the wizard would reveal red, bloodshot eyes and a slight pallor about his cheeks, but he hid his exhaustion almost as well as Azoun masked his.

After a short time, when Azoun felt certain the wait must be seeming like an eternity to the visiting dignitary, the king sat up straight and said, "Let her advance, Lord Chamberlain."

The chamberlain bowed again and turned to Lythrana. She straightened her gray blouse, petulantly brushed a stray strand of raven-black hair, then started toward the king. Her high-heeled boots sent sharp, cracking footsteps throughout the hall, and her black, high-collared dress hissed where it dragged along on the floor behind her.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet Your Highness," Lythrana said in a low sibilant voice after she bowed.

"We are pleased that Zhentil Keep sent such an accomplished politician to discuss Faerun's needs," the king responded. Though Vangerdahast chuckled inwardly at Azoun's use of the royal "we," an affection he rarely adopted, he knew the king was serious in his praise of the Zhentish envoy. Lythrana Dargor's reputation as a shrewd negotiator was well known throughout the lands around the Inner Sea.

Noting the king's praise with a slight smile, Lythrana said, "On my way from the Keep, I learned of the recent attempt on your life. Lord Chess would certainly wish me to send his hopes that you escaped unscathed."

"This was the first you'd heard of the attempt?" Vangerdahast asked, a bitter taint of sarcasm edging his voice.

Spreading her long-fingered, white hands open before her in a sign of peace, the sultry envoy said, "It is natural for the king's worthy advisors-" she bowed slightly to Vangerdahast "-to suspect Zhentil Keep in this matter. We make no secret of the methods by which we solve our problems, or the gods we worship." The envoy brushed her long bangs out of her eyes. On her forehead lay a circle of black, surrounding a white, grinning skull-the symbol of Lord Cyric, the God of Death, Lies, and Assassination.

"We appreciate your honesty," the king said coolly.

Again Lythrana nodded and let her hair fall back over the symbol of her god. "While we are being honest, Your Highness, might I be so bold to ask why the Keep was not invited to the general meeting you held with your nobles, the Sembians, and the dalesmen?"

Vangerdahast shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable at the bluntness of the discussion. The wizard glanced at the king and was a bit surprised to see that Azoun was taking it all in stride. "The others were not in the right spirit to discuss plans for a foreign war in front of a Zhentish representative," he stated without hesitation. "Had you been at the meeting, I might not have found the other politicians very cooperative. Still, the lack of an invitation did not prevent you from spying on the conference."

Lythrana studied the king for a moment, puzzled by his honesty. She close to ignore the accusation, tacitly confessing the Keep's guilt. Instead she noted, "I infer from your comments that your crusade is gathering the support it needs."

"I told Lord Chess as much when I requested a special envoy."

After a moment of tense silence, Lythrana turned her green eyes back to Azoun. She forced her face to show a calm she did not feel. "It is a crisp, clear day, Your Highness, and I understand you have marvelous hunting a short ride to the north of Suzail. Could we not discuss your crusade under less formal circumstances?"

Azoun paused, perhaps a little too long, and tried to think of a way to politely decline Lythrana's request. He felt far too tired to ride and really didn't care much for hunting. Lythrana had probably guessed that, Azoun decided. But as soon as he had realized that the envoy was expecting him to decline, he smiled as brightly as he could and said, "Of course. Vangerdahast," Azoun added to his slightly shocked friend, "please have the groom prepare my horse and ask the royal huntsman to gather a suitable hunting party."

To Lythrana, who was staring in undisguised surprise at him, the king said, "Hawk or hound, Lady Dargor?"

"Hound," she replied, then motioned to her dress. "Perhaps I suggested this too hastily. I'm not quite attired-"

The king smiled graciously. "That shouldn't be a problem. We'll find you something to wear." That said, he sent the royal wizard away to prepare for a hunt.

"While we wait for Vangerdahast to get things ready," the king commented smoothly after his friend had departed, "let us discuss the Tuigan threat to Zhentil Keep."

Realizing that she was being overwhelmed by a far better politician than she, Lythrana Dargor smiled and let the king of Cormyr expound upon the menace of the horsewarriors. They had a leisurely stroll around the castle, Azoun alternately relating the history of each ancient family artifact they passed in their walk then describing the preparations for the crusade.

Within an hour, they moved the discussion outside, onto Suzail's main road. As the royal procession moved through the city, Azoun realized that it was a very good thing for the citizens to see him alive and healthy after the assassination attempt. Crowds quickly gathered at the side of the Promenade, cheering the monarch as he made his way to the northern gates of the city.

As soon as the hunting party was clear of the tent city that clustered around Suzail's walls, they let their horses speed over the open road. The chilly air whipped cloaks and made eyes water, but Azoun found it revived him. Though he didn't enjoy hunting, he did love the feeling of freedom riding a powerful horse gave him. So, grimacing against the chill breeze, Azoun pulled his purple cloak tight over his fur-lined surcoat and let his horse race on.

Eventually, the party slowed down again. As they brought their horses to a canter, the master of the hounds gathered his barking charges closer to his lead. The busy, thriving farms that surrounded Suzail had given way to wilder country, and the king and his party found themselves surrounded by thicket-covered fields and sparse forest. Azoun trotted his horse to Lythrana's side.

"Will this do?" he asked politely. "I suspect these fields and stands of trees might hide a suitable wild boar or two."

Lythrana nodded. Her green eyes were red from the wind, but that didn't dull their intensity. "This is as good as anywhere."

Signaling to the master of the hunt, the king took a barbed spear from a young squire. He handed the weapon to Lythrana, then took another for himself. The king's huntsmen hurried off into the woods with the hounds in search of game. Only when they'd flushed a large boar or stag from the trees would the hunt begin for the nobles. In the meantime, a handful of guards spread out around the tall grass in the clearing to protect the king.

While he waited, Azoun resumed the discussion of the crusade he'd begun earlier with Lythrana. As the king had expected, Lythrana knew a great deal about the Tuigan presence in Rashemen and Thesk. However, he was surprised to learn that the leaders of Zhentil Keep thought a peremptory strike against the barbarians a very wise idea-as long as it was accomplished by the other nations of Faerun.

"If you understand the importance of the crusade," Azoun said to the envoy, "you must also see the importance of a temporary truce with the Dales. I need Mourngrym and the others to commit troops. They won't if they think you'll attack the minute they're gone."

Lythrana squirmed in her saddle slightly. The tight riding breeches and warm woolen jacket she had obtained at the palace itched uncomfortably; she was far more accustomed to silk than coarser, more functional fabrics. "Do you think the dalesmen will believe any pact we sign?" she asked.

Azoun sat up straight in his saddle. "Of course," he exclaimed, "but only if you also agree to send crusaders to Thesk as a sign of good faith."

Poking the ground idly with her spear, Lythrana considered Azoun's suggestion for a moment. "It's unlikely," she finally concluded. "Unless we get something in return-other than the satisfaction of doing good." She almost spat the final word.

From her tone, Azoun knew Lythrana already had a price in mind. "What do you want?"

"Darkhold," she said matter-of-factly. "The Keep wants you to stop harassing the patrols from Darkhold."

"Out of the question," Azoun snapped. "The citadel of Darkhold houses criminals and brigands. They prey upon our western border. I could never-"

Azoun saw Lythrana's cool smile and stopped speaking. "You didn't expect me to request something silly, like food or trade agreements, did you?" she asked. "Zhentil Keep has an… interest in Darkhold, and your patrols are jeopardizing that. If you want the Keep to sign a pact with the Dales, you'll have to sign a pact with us."

A high, shrill note echoed over the field. Azoun turned toward a copse of trees a hundred yards to the east and pulled his spear into battle-ready position. The latter action was really a reflex, borne of both battles fought when younger and training in the law of arms. The trumpet was always a call to attention and action.

Lythrana's horse pranced nervously, and she pulled her spear up from the ground, too. "I leave again for home late tonight, Your Highness. I'll need your answer right away."

Anger swelled inside Azoun, a black, choking gall that almost made him tremble. All he wanted was to fight the Tuigan, to help Faerun-all of Faerun, including Zhentil Keep. Yet, it seemed that no one truly saw the importance, the urgency, of his task.

Azoun frowned. He simply couldn't accept that kind of deal with the murderers and highwaymen who inhabited the citadel of Darkhold.

Before the king could give Lythrana his answer, though, the master of the hunt broke from the trees and rode toward him. The huntsman's large black horse swept through the tall grass like a ship on choppy seas. As soon as he was near, the hunter dismounted and bowed his head. "The dogs have found nothing," he reported. "Would Your Highness like to move to another spot?"

Azoun was relieved by the news, but he was not going to let Lythrana know that. He knit his eyebrows in feigned consternation and frowned. "This land should be better stocked. Our foresters are not keeping the poachers away, it seems." Turning to the Zhentish envoy, the king added, "We have royal lands only a few miles from here that are sure to provide you some sport."

Lythrana shook her head, tossing her black hair as she did so. "If Your Highness doesn't mind, might we go back to the city?" she asked. "I believe I underestimated how tired my long journey has made me."

It took only a signal from Azoun to throw the assembled nobles, huntsmen, and guards into motion. Within minutes, the dogs were gathered and the king's party was riding at a leisurely pace toward Suzail.

"I've never hunted boar before," Lythrana noted idly as she rode beside the king. "Though I've heard the beasts are much like the Tuigan."

"What do you mean?" the king asked.

Lythrana rested her cold green eyes on Azoun. "We've had scouts-spies, if you will-come back from Rashemen and Thay with reports about the Tuigan." She kicked her horse into motion when it stopped to graze. "They're beasts: ruthless, cunning, and amoral. Like boars, the horselords won't tire and won't stop trying to kill you until either you or they are dead."

"Then why won't you help me against them?" Azoun snapped.

Lythrana saw that his brown eyes were flashing with anger. The nobles and huntsmen moved away in respectful silence. "We will," she said quietly. "After we have your word about Darkhold."

Azoun pulled his reins and stopped his horse. The party halted around him. "We will discuss this further over dinner," he growled. With a quick strike of his heels, the king pushed his brightly caparisoned horse into a trot, then a gallop. As he rode, Azoun let the cool air wash the fury from his heart. He allowed the birdsong he heard and the bright sunshine dappling the road ahead of him to soothe and relax him.

All the way back to the city, he turned the problem over and over again in his mind. At first, he saw no other alternative but to refuse the Keep's proposal-and lose the support of the dalesmen and any troops he might gain from Zhentil Keep itself. Many of Azoun's own subjects had been victimized by the roving bands of thieves and slavers who used Darkhold as a base. Time and again, Cormyrian merchants had complained to the king about the powerful citadel. Azoun had done his best to curb the raiding parties coming from the stronghold, but Darkhold itself was located outside of Cormyr's borders and protected by powerful magic. Destroying the citadel utterly was out of the question. Still, Azoun knew that it his duty to combat the evil based there.

As the miles wore on and his initial anger and revulsion at the idea wore off, the king began to wonder if a flat refusal was all that wise.

I am serving my gods by fighting the men of Darkhold, he decided without much thought. But do I further my cause more when I combat lesser evil like that or when I battle a massive evil like the Tuigan?

An answer did not come to Azoun easily, and when he had tentatively decided on a course of action, he wasn't sure that it was the right one. In fact, he changed his mind on the way to Suzail, then once more as he prepared for dinner.

That evening, Lythrana and Azoun were joined by Filfaeril and Vangerdahast in the castle's vast formal dining room. A long, highly polished table of pale wood stood in the room's center. Curtains of deep red velvet covered the windows and reflected dully in the polished oak floor. Together, the floor and the wall hangings first echoed, then damped the high, sweet notes from Thom Reaverson's harp as he played a light tune.

The meal passed swiftly. Vangerdahast spent some time in idle, pleasant chatting with Queen Filfaeril. Azoun and Lythrana kept to themselves, but for very different reasons: the Cormyrian king pondered the growing price of the crusade; the Zhentish envoy silently wondered at the meeting's outcome.

"That will be all, Thom," Azoun said as soon as the meal was over. He pushed his untouched plate of imported strawberries away and signaled for a servant to clear the table.

Turning to the king, Vangerdahast rose to his feet. "I think I will retire, Your Highness. The matters left for you to discuss do not require my presence." With a stiff bow, the wizard shuffled from the dining room.

Within minutes the table was clear and only Azoun, Filfaeril, and Lythrana were left in the cavernous hall.

"I find it hard to believe Vangerdahast has lived over eighty winters," Lythrana began casually. She stretched luxuriously, once again comfortable in her tight black dress. "He seems no older than fifty. In fact, someone at the Keep mentioned he looked about that age ten years ago, too."

Azoun cast a disinterested glance at the envoy. "He's a wizard, Lady Lythrana. It should be no surprise to you that he ages little; such practices are common among the mages at the Keep, too." He looked to his wife, who was oddly subdued in the presence of the exotic envoy. "But my advisor's age isn't what we're here to discuss."

"The demands haven't changed, Your Highness. Let Darkhold go about its business unmolested for one year."

"And?" the king prompted.

Lythrana paused. "We sign a pact with the Dales. You get the dalesmen to provide you with archers for the crusade."

"That's not enough," Azoun said sharply. His voice echoed from the floor. "There are at least one hundred thousand Tuigan in Thesk right now. I want Zhentish troops to stand with the rest of Faerun."

Lythrana leaned back from the table. She started to speak, then swallowed her words and sighed.

"You're afraid of them too, Lythrana," Azoun rumbled. "I can see it in your eyes when I talk about them." He stood up and turned his back to the table.

The emissary bowed her head. "Of course I am. I was one of the people the Keep sent to spy on the Tuigan." She pulled down the high collar of her black dress. A long red scar marred her otherwise perfectly white shoulder. "I was the only one of my party to escape alive."

The king whirled around. "Then help me. Give me troops."

Lythrana met Azoun's gaze again. "I want to," she hissed after a moment, "but the Keep won't. Not without something in return."

The king paused. He knew that this was all the envoy had to offer, that Lythrana would not, could not concede him anything else. The king's course was set; Azoun had decided after the hunt that reasons of state demanded only one decision from him. "We'll leave Darkhold alone for two seasons," he said at last.

"No. A year."

Azoun sighed, then nodded. "A year."

The words burned like acid in Azoun's soul. He knew that he was allowing the network of evil that connected Zhentil Keep and Darkhold-the Zhentarim-free reign to attack travelers and raid caravans, but he saw no other solution. If the Tuigan came to Cormyr, they'd cause a thousand times more suffering than the troops in Darkhold could ever create. He needed the archers from the Dales to stop that from happening.

Azoun pointed a slightly quivering finger at Lythrana. "Darkhold will be left unhindered for a year," he said, "but I want troops. And if I don't get them, or if Zhentil Keep stands in the way of this crusade again, I promise you that Darkhold will be crushed to rubble."

Lythrana was shocked into silence for an instant. "Of course," she agreed after a time. "Zhentil Keep wants the Tuigan stopped as much as you."

The Zhentish envoy looked over at the queen, who sat quietly at the end of the table. "Are you taking notes?" she asked, her words mixed with puzzlement and sarcasm.

Locking her ice-blue eyes on Lythrana's cold stare, Filfaeril smiled pleasantly. "No," she said. "The crusade is Azoun's matter."

Lythrana arched a thin black eyebrow under her raven-dark bangs. Noting the look on the envoy's face, the queen added, "However, if Zhentil Keep breaks its word and attacks the Dales or Cormyr while the king is in Thesk, I will be here to mount an army against you."

Narrowing her eyes to green slits, Lythrana studied the queen more closely. Filfaeril looked delicate, with her pale skin and long golden hair. Even the filmy rose-pink dress the queen wore made her seem fragile. But as the envoy looked into Filfaeril's eyes, she caught a glimpse of something-a hardness, perhaps-that worried her. "Zhentil Keep does not take threats lightly," Lythrana said at last.

The king leaned on the table with both hands. "Be assured, Lady Dargor, neither Queen Filfaeril nor I ever make idle threats. We do not like to deal with the worshippers of evil gods, but you are the lesser of two bad options."

Lythrana stood slowly. "Zhentil Keep never assumed you would regard us as anything but a 'necessary evil.'" A false, cold smile crossed her face, then she bowed. "We should end this meeting before either of us says something … regrettable. The papers detailing the treaty will be ready in an hour?"

When King Azoun nodded, Lythrana bowed again and moved toward the door. "I will send word as to how many troops you can expect and where they will meet you."

As the echoes of the envoy's retreating footsteps died in the large room, the king put his hands on Filfaeril's shoulders. The queen pursed her lips. "I don't trust her for a moment," she noted. "Still, I suspect the Keep isn't foolish enough to break a truce."

Azoun smiled weakly. "They certainly must see that if I can raise an army of thirty thousand to fight a foreign war, the force that would rise against them if they foolishly attacked the Dales would be ten times that size."

The door slid open, and Vangerdahast briskly crossed the room. He looked expectantly at Azoun, who only nodded.

"The Keep will send troops?" the wizard asked expectantly as he got nearer.

"They haven't said how many yet," replied Azoun, "but I'm sure I can get at least fifteen hundred men-at-arms from them." He squeezed Filfaeril's shoulder and added, "We should be ready to send the first troops to the east within twenty days."