The Best of the Realms, Book II

THE LONG ROAD HOME

That second day of Flamerule was well past highsun by the time six Purple Dragons reined in amid a cloud of road dust under the signpost where the ways met. Without a word to the curiously-staring folk of Hultail, one of them stood in his stirrups to hammer the broad signboard another handed him to the old post.

By the time he was done and sat back in his creaking saddle to survey his work and wearily wipe dust from his lips, half Hultail had gathered around the Crown warriors and were peering up to read what the sign said:

All Cormyr mourns its beloved King, Azoun Obarskyr, fourth of that name, lately fallen in glorious battle personally slaying “the Devil Dragon.” In delivering the realm from this titanic red dragon and her ore and goblin armies, the Purple Dragon laid down his life without hesitation, displaying to the last the courage and battle prowess that have made him especially beloved of the warriors who’ve served under him.

A just and greatly loved king, Azoun reigned long and well; most Cormyreans alive today have known no other occupant of the Dragon Throne. The only son ofRhigaerd II and his queen Tanalusta Truesilver, Azoun is survived by his Queen, Filfaeril.

The Dowager Queen has named her only surviving child Regent. Princess AlusairNacacia shall guide Cormyr as “Steel Regent” until Azoun’s grandson shall come of age. Azoun V, rightful ruler of the Forest Kingdom, is the only son of the Crown Princess Tanalasta, who also perished in heroic battle. The whereabouts of the infant king’s father, Rowen Cormaeril, are unknown; he, too, may have died fighting to deliver the realm from the fell evils of the sinister ghazneths.

The fallen Azoun was beloved of many Cormyreans; he was a personal friend to many noble ladies, yeomen, and farmfolk of the realm. As the minstrel Rauth Rindrel said of him, the Purple Dragon was “a man who looked any Cormyrean in the eye as an equal—and when he looked at you, the looking made you feel warm, befriended, and of consequence. Ill miss that—and so will many, many folk of the realm. He shall be sorely missed. I fear none of us shall see so great a king again.”

I know that same fear. Grieve, Cormyr, and let him never be forgotten, that his name and the tales told of him will still comfort, cloak, and embolden all good folk of this realm down the long years after he has gone.

Elminster of Shadowdale

“Who’s he, then?”

“Know you not the King? Why, dolt, he—” “No, no: Elminster, dunghead! Who’s Elminster of Shadowdale?”

Whatever incredulous answer the older man started to utter then was lost forever in the sound of fresh hammering as the proclamation-poster stood up from his saddle again, a new and smaller plaque in his hand, and set to work affixing it under the first.

This one read:

Sound the deep drum.

The lion I am proud to love

Has fallen, that Cormyr might stand.

Some kings are but old names

On crumbling tombs

Sounds in a roll chanted at Candlekeep

No more.

MyAzoun shall not be so easily forgotten,

Ask any Tuigan.

Raise a cup in his memory

And be happy, as I am.

He was mine, down long golden years

The gods granted us that.

He was Cormyr’s, all his years.

The gods gave that gift to us all.

Aye, be happy.

No tears can bring him back.

Why cry now

From the gates and the battlements

Until all the mountainsides roar back griefs thunder?

My love is gone

The sun set over the realm

All glory fallen

I shall never see Cormyr so bright again.

Her Royal Majesty Queen Filfaeril Obarskyr

There was a respectful sigh from many throats, and more than one cap was doffed and pressed to its owner’s chest. “The gods keep her,” one man muttered.

“Aye, poor queen,” said someone else, but a third someone snorted.

“Seems almost happy to see the back of him, she does. ‘Be happy’ she says there—twice. Seems all his bedhopping rankles still.”

“Bite back those words, you! She but bids us be lighthearted—look you the last line? She weeps, fool, she weeps!”

“I ask again: who’s this Elminster, to get high banner over our queen?”

“Man, have ye grown up deaf and blind, both? No one’s not heard of the Old Mage of Shadowdale!”

“Ah, but he’s just tall tales, fireside fancies grown in the telling, not real.”

“Oh, he’s real enough,” one of the helmed warriors said from his saddle, his words as grim as they were unexpected. “As you’ll learn right quick if you ever have the misfortune to meet him.”

There was a little silence as Hultailen stared at the Purple Dragon who’d spoken, then back up at the writings to read and re-read them.

The older man turned away first, to spit thoughtfully and growl, “Aye, ‘twill be a hard winter ahead and more after it, to be sure. We’ve seen the glory days, lads—and they died with our Azoun, on that hilltop with the Devil Dragon.”

Then he stopped in his tavern-toward trudging to wheel around so suddenly that men starting to shuffle in his wake almost crashed noses with him, and hissed fiercely, “But he slew it ere he died, lads, he did! Remember that. He did his duty by us, like a true blade o’ Cormyr!”

“Aye,” someone agreed, unhappily.

“Aye,” someone else echoed, even less enthusiastically. And the slow trudge toward the tavern resumed, leaving the six riders almost alone again.

They exchanged glances, then in unspoken accord turned their horses’ heads toward the dark and sagging Sixcandles Inn, giving it the same narrow-eyed glares they might have given a known foe across a battlefield.

A Hultailen who was slower of foot than most stared after them curiously, then drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders and peered up at the signs they’d affixed. As she struggled along the lines of script, tackling each word in turn, her lips moved, murmuring syllables.

“I shall never see Cormyr so bright again…”

* * * * *

As Glarasteer Rhauligan led the three Purple Dragons and the two War Wizards who were only pretending to be warriors into the dimly-lit forechamber of the Sixcandles, a traveling merchant from Suzail was grandly describing Azoun’s funeral to a dozen wealthy Hultailen over steaming platters of boar.

“Nay, nay, the funeral befell on the eleventh of Kythorn— hah! Dispute it, dare ye? I was there, mark ye!”

“Yes, yes,” a little pudding-faced man whom Rhauligan knew to be the best baker in Hultail said hastily, waving his hands as if he could soothe all disagreements away, ” ‘twas just as you say, of course—how could it not be? But say on, I pray thee! Tell us more!”

“Well, now,” said the Suzailan, drawing himself upright in his chair and patting his ample belly with every air of preening satisfaction, “I’ll do that—I will. Hearken ye, then.”

And he bent forward like a dog thrusting a questing head under a bed, and whispered in a raw voice that carried to every corner of the forechamber like a war horn, “They paraded ‘em through the streets, the king and the fallen princess both—and strike me down before the altars of all the gods if they weren’t smiling. Dead, white as bone, and grinning like they’d learned some great secret at the last. I’m told the War Wizards had spells ready to ward off anything hurled at the royal remains.”

“Hey?” a Hultailen tailor asked, frowning. “Like what? Flowers?”

Baerlothur of Suzail smiled a little smugly and replied, “Incendiaries. Thrown by those who serve some of our exiled nobles. I might add that such were expected, but not seen.”

“Huh,” a tall, long-nosed smith said dismissively. “A lot of weeping and wailing and Purple Dragons shoving folk back out of the way—glad I missed it.”

“Oh, no,” the Suzailan said softly, glaring around at his audience with sudden fire in his eyes, “that’s where ye’re very wrong, goodmen. ‘Twas eerie.”

“Eerie?”

“Aye. All silent but for the sobbing and footfalls, with Princess Alusair and Queen Filfaeril walking at the front of the coffins. The folk of the city all along the route did the same thing, as precise as if they’d been drilled for a tenday by the Dragons: without an order from anyone, a-following their station in life, they all knelt or saluted. Then they got up and tried to touch the coffin-bearers, gentle-like, barehanded. Then, like silent soldiers, they fell in behind the dead, joining the procession. Most of Suzail, walking. I don’t mind telling ye I was scared, right down to my boots.”

“Scared?”

“Some idiot out of Westgate made the mistake of laughing at a friend’s smart remark—and the goodwives swarmed him! Tore him apart with their bare hands, they did, shrieking out the names of their battle-dead! Why, I’d’ve backed the women of Cormyr that afternoon, barehanded as they were, ‘gainst all the mercenary blades all Sembia can afford to whelm—aye, even reinforced by the Flaming Fist and the massed Tuigan Horde both. So full of tears and rage were they that they feared nothing, and would’ve challenged Tempus, Lord of Battles, himself! I saw a warrior of Westgate draw sword in desperate frenzy, and an old matron smashed aside that blade as if it were a child’s twig, heedless of the cuts it gave her, to get at the man behind it. Hear me: I’ll never sneer at any goodwife of this land, ever again.”

The smith waved his hand and growled, “Ah, but for all that they’re dead. Dead and gone, Azoun and his daughter both, an’ we have a babe as king.”

“Azoun Rhigaerd Palaghard Duar Obarskyr, Dragon Prince of Cormyr, Right Royal Duke of Suzail, and King Ascendant of the Dragon Throne, Stagmaster of the Realm and Lord Admiral of the Western Fallen Star Waves,” the baker chanted happily, barely pausing for breath. Then he looked eagerly at the Suzailan and asked, “Have you seen him?”

Baerlothur snorted. “Since the Anointing, no one outside the Royal Court has seen him. Vangerdahast sees charm spells and kidnappings and child-swappings everywhere, so not only does the brat have Purple Dragons all around him in a ring while he gurgles, coos, and wets himself, but he has a handcount of War Wizards spell-scrying him, them, and the rooms around, every last breath of every day. ‘Tis going to be a long twenty years for that lad.”

“Is he—healthy? Like to grow up to wear armor as heavy as his father?”

“Well, I’ve heard this much: our fifth Azoun is much given to gurgling, chortling, and imitating the lowest-pitched speech he hears—mens’ snorts, growls, and muttered curses.”

There were chuckles all around the table.

Then the smith said, “Well, if summat takes him to the grave—marsh fever, not just poison or a blade—I’m sure as I know my own name that our Royal Magician has the lad’s blood and all else he needs to enspell him back to life, even—”

“Hist!” the Suzailan snapped hastily, waving an urgent hand. “Not one word more on this! To talk of this is manacles in a cell and War Wizard probings—an’ if they find any treason in thy thoughts—thy thoughts, mind—then ‘tis death, after. Otherwise, exile for outlanders, and a fine for the likes of us.”

“Holy Throne!” the smith swore, slamming down his tankard. “What madness is that? Harm a man of Cormyr for speaking of the safety of the succession? This smacks of the highhandedness of the Steel Bitch to me!”

The baker reeled as if the smith had slapped him and asked faintly, “Speak you of the Princess Alusair?”

“Aye, Madam High Steel Regent or whatever she’s calling herself these days! Why, I—”

Cold steel flashed in the gloom as it appeared across the smith’s throat from behind, causing him to fall silent in mid-snarl. His fearful eyes widened above that warsword as its owner smoothly finished the smith’s aborted sentence for him: “—have come suddenly to my senses and realize the utter folly of cursing the ruler of our fair realm merely because of my unfounded judgment of her character.”

Then the steel was gone and the smith was reeling in his seat from a solid cuff to one ear, as one might give a disobedient boy.

The men at the table stared up at the Purple Dragon standing behind the smith’s chair, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that other Dragons were standing behind their own seats.

“Apologize,” the man with the warsword in his hand added quietly. “Not to me, but to the Princess Alusair. Now.”

“I… who are y—”

“Apologize!”

The smith eyed the sword tip that had been thrust over his shoulder to glitter in his gaze once more, and muttered hastily, “I’m sorry. I—I apologize for what I said about the princess.”

“Accepted,” was the curt reply.

Baerlothur of Suzail glared up at the Purple Dragon. “So you’ve had your apology, and I ask this: who are you, Dragon, to draw sword on a honest goodman of Cormyr?”

The grim man in armor met his glare with cold, level eyes, and raised his voice so it could be heard right across the forechamber. “Rhauligan is my name. Sir Glarasteer Rhauligan, if you want to get it right when you complain. I’m here to scour out this inn.”

” ‘Scour out?’ What by the Dragon Throne d’you mean by that?”

That angry query came from a hard-faced woman who’d hastened out of an inner room to stand uncertainly beyond the ring of Purple Dragons.

Rhauligan turned to face her. “Rythra Matcham? Keeper of this inn?”

There were murmurs of surprise from the far corners of the forechamber and the woman replied, “Yes—and yes, since my Rorth died fighting beside the king these two months gone. How is it that you know my name?”

“The Court is not without its eyes and ears, Goodlady Matcham. I am sent here not to do anyone harm, if I find no need—but my orders are to be obeyed as if they came from the Royal Magician himself. My task is to see that this inn is safe for the Steel Regent to lodge in this night—safe from fire, from spell, and from drawn blade.”

Rythra Matcham gaped at him as if he’d grown a second head from his shoulders; the head of Azoun IV, smiling at her with his crown on, and all. “I-uh-I—”

Rhauligan smiled at her. “The Crown will pay in good gold, of course. Plenty of it. There’ll be Rorth’s last pay and burial-price on top of that, too.”

Rythra reeled, her face suddenly pale, and he threw out a hand to steady her.

She clutched it like tightening iron for just a moment, then threw back her head, drew in a deep breath, and said loudly, “I am honored. Command me in all ways, that this house be made fitting!”

Murmurs arose and grew as half the Hultailen who’d been idling over broth or ale at various tables in the forechamber hastened to finish and go out to tell all the village.

“End your spell, War Wizard,” a female voice ordered firmly from behind Rhauligan. He whirled around.

A lone woman in leathers was standing behind him, a slender long sword in one hand and a dagger raised for throwing ready in the other. The point of her blade was right against the throat of one of the Purple Dragons who was really a War Wizard—and her dagger and gaze were bent on the other disguised mage.

“And who are yoŤ, lady?” Rhauligan asked, a little wearily.

“Sharantyr is my name. I am a Knight of Myth Drannor.”

Rhauligan sighed. “And I suppose you have your charter with you, adventurer?”

“No. Azoun told us we need no longer carry it.”

“Lady,” Rhauligan said carefully, “Azoun is dead.”

“Alusair knows me and will confirm my right of arms,” was the calm reply. The sword twitched. “Enrfyour spell, mage!”

Rhauligan sighed and made a little signal to the War Wizard, directing the man to do just that. This was obviously going to be a long day.

“Lady Sharantyr, are you staying here at the Sixcandles?”

“I am. And yes, before you ask, I’ll walk with you and keep myself under your eye.”

Eyeing her wry half-smile, Rhauligan sighed again. Yes, it was getting longer already.

* * * * *

The stables smelled like stables always did and looked the part, too. However, the Sixcandles horsehouse lacked the proverbial amorous couple in the end stall—featuring instead a wild-haired, dirty-faced youth who was glaring at Rhauligan over his dungfork. “You really a Highknight?”

“Now where,” Rhauligan asked patiently, “did you hear that?”

“Old Andur told me Highknights’re the only Purple Dragons as can order about War Wizards.”

“Old Andur, whoever he is,” Rhauligan said shortly, “talks too much.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” the stableboy spat at him, “being as he’s my father—and stands right behind you, now, with his fork ready at yer neck!”

Rhauligan hurled himself to one side before turning, straw crackling around him—then saw he need not have moved at all.

The scarred old veteran who’d been introduced to him as the stablemaster at Sixcandles was indeed right behind him, pitchfork raised to stab, and was straining vainly to move it, sweating and furious, in the grip of the lady ranger in leathers, who stood just behind him.

“Drop it, Andur,” she said softly. “Or have you forgotten the price of slaying an officer of the Court?”

With a bark of wordless fury, the stablemaster let go of his fork. It bounced against his shins painfully as Sharantyr released him, leaving Andur to stumble forward and clutch at his numbed arms.

“Damn you, woman!” he panted in pain. “May all the Watching Gods damn you!”

“They already have. I’m an adventurer, remember?”

“So much anger,” Rhauligan said, looking from father to son. “Prudence tells me to chain the pair of you to some very distant tree and put courtiers to running the stables this night. So tell me why I should not.”

Both men glared at him, breathing heavily, ere Andur growled, “I’m a good horse-master, and whatever hate I hold for anyone, I’ll not take it out on their horses, nor let flame take my living from me, neither! This stables is mine, and I’ll keep it right well! Knight, you can trust me that far!”

Rhauligan met his gaze. “I believe that.” He turned to the son. “So, lad, your father hates enough to think about putting his fork through me, a man he’s never met before. DoyoŤ hate anything that much?”

The stableboy gave him a puzzled look. “Uh… no.”

“So why give me angry eyes, the moment I step in here?”

The lad reddened, looked down in vain hope his questioner might go away if left unregarded, then muttered, “You come here all high-an’-mighty orders, strutting about growling this and snapping that, and the hope of the realm is gone and swept away. What life lies ahead for me?”

Rhauligan nodded, then turned back to Andur. “You were a Purple Dragon, yet stood ready to fell me. Why? What fury lives in you?”

If his son had been red, Andur was almost black with anger and shame. Black and shaking.

“When my lord Azoun needed me this spring, I got down my old sword and went,” he snapped, biting off each word as if grudging its use. “Off to the wars, with my master Rorth, like the old days. He, and lots more like him, died for our king—and we’d do it again! But he’s gone now, gone down fighting, and who’s Cormyr left with? His slut of a second daughter, with all her loose ways! I despair, Highknight. I despair for our fair land under her rule.”

He’d picked up his fork, but now turned and handed it to Sharantyr, adding, “So cut me down for my treasonous words and let me not live to see fair Cormyr dragged down into darkness.”

Rhauligan sighed. “I kill no one for their opinions.” He shook his head and added, “So long as you can manage to be at least civil to the princess, if you speak to her.”

“I’ll use my tongue and not my fork, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Rhauligan sighed again and turned away. “I hope Goodlady Matcham can find it in herself to be more welcoming than you are.”

“I doubt it,” Andur growled. “She blames Rorth’s death on Alusair’s dashing about the backlands waving a blade instead of standing beside the king that day. She might just spit and claw at her Majesty on first sight, instead of showing her to her room.”

Rhauligan rolled his eyes. A very long day.

* * * * *

The revealed War Wizards no longer bothered to hide their magic and had crafted a careful spell to wet the roads just enough to quell the dust but not bring mud. Wherefore all assembled Hultail could clearly see the score of riders urging their mounts from trot to canter, to arrive at the Sixcandles porch in high style.

They peered in vain for a crown or dragonhelm, for gleaming armor or glistening jewels. More than a few of them had already sighed in disappointment and stepped back to look down the road for a second and grander band of riders as the newcomers reined in.

The woman at their head had unbound hair and wore a plain fighting-harness of worn and patched leathers such as a mercenary might prefer—but when she sprang down from her saddle and strode up the steps of the Sixcandles, the grim Highknight who’d spent the day turning the inn upside down emerged and knelt to her.

There was a sudden hush of awe and surprise—this, the Steel Regent?—then the infamous Princess Alusair turned and gave the gathered Hultailen a wave and a grin.

They stared at dirty and tousled ash-blonde hair, merry brown eyes, and eyebrows as black as coal. She was—beautiful. Slender, wild, and beautiful.

Her every movement smooth and yet those of a fighting man and not a demure maid, she caught hold of her scabbarded sword to keep it from tangling in her boots like any armsman might, raised Rhauligan to his feet and kissed him roundly on the mouth—awakening a loud murmur of astonishment and disapproval—and strode into the Sixcandles with him hastening after.

“Gods above,” one goodwife said disappointedly. “Not even a crown!”

“More to the point: no armor,” an old man beside her growled. “Any bow could have taken her life right in front of us! Little fool!”

“Nay,” the Suzailan merchant put in, “saw you her ring? The glowing one? Award against weapons, to be sure! We’ve seen something of Alusair in Suzail, I tell you, and—”

But by then he was standing alone and talking to the rear ends of departing horses, and the backsides of hastening villagers. Hultail was hastening up the steps of the inn, to see something of Alusair for themselves.

* * * * *

The innkeeper was white and trembling. Alusair went straight to her, spreading her hands as if welcoming a long lost sister. “Goodlady Matcham?”

Mutely the woman nodded, then Alusair’s arms were around her.

“Your Rorth died well,” the Steel Regent said almost fiercely as they stood nose to nose, “fighting the Devil Dragon herself! He died defending his king, and so helped keep my father alive until the fell wyrm could be defeated—and for that all Cormyr owes Rorth Matcham honor.”

The innkeeper stared into the face of the princess, mouth working—then burst into tears, sobbing helplessly in Alusair’s arms.

The folk crowded into the forechamber kept utterly silent as the Steel Regent rocked Rythra Matcham, murmuring gentle words, for a long, long time ere the innkeeper pulled gently away and sobbed something almost incoherent to Alusair.

The princess took her hand and replied, “You’ve nothing to be ashamed about, Rythra. I’ve cried many nights since my father went into that crypt—and I’ll cry again. Gods, I miss him!”

Her free hand clenched into a fist, then she sighed, threw her head back as if gasping for air, and announced, “If the cellars here are wet enough, the Regent of Cormyr would be pleased if all Hultail, and wayfarers guesting here, too, drank the health of Rorth Matcham, hero of the Dragonfall Battle—and his lady Rythra Matcham, good host of the Sixcandles Inn! The Crown will pay for all, provender and drink, as long as both last!”

The answering roar of approval was almost deafening. Rhauligan winced. That cellar was full of great tuns of wine, most of them full of potent vintages only months away from becoming vinegar.

It was going to be a long night, too.

* * * * *

The lightening grayness to the east told of dawn soon to — come, but there were still folk on their feet in the forechamber of the Sixcandles. Only a handful, amid all the snoring flesh draped over chairs, tables, and the floor—but that handful was lively enough.

Four candles ago, tables had been shoved to the walls at one end of the room to clear space for dancing, and many ragged tunes had been inflicted on drunken ears as the bolder Hultailen lads and lasses had panted and twirled about under the coldly vigilant eyes of a dozen Purple Dragons and almost that many War Wizards.

Most of the dancers were now gone—into slumber or out into the night, to either their beds or to pursuits best undertaken in some privacy—leaving a lone couple on the dancing floor.

The Steel Regent herself was whirling about the floor to the eerie duet of an unseen, conjured harp and shawm. Matching her in the dance, measure for measure, was the Sixcandles stableboy, his eyes wide with shining wonder.

Anon, Alusair threw up her hand in a signal, and the music turned slow and stately. The lad stopped, unsure of what to do—but the Princess Alusair Nacacia, her expression going serene and serious, stepped into his arms, guided his hands to her hips, and led him smoothly into a court dance.

“Stop, woman!”

The shout roused Rythra Matcham from her doze, sitting with the hardiest women of the village all along one side of the dancing floor, but by then the stablemaster it had burst from had come to a glowering halt against a fence of steel: a barrier of four crossed Purple Dragon blades.

More than a few Hultailen blinked awake and slid into being aghast in the time it took them to clear their eyes.

The lad pressed against Alusair groaned and tried to shrink away, but the princess caught his wrist and commanded, “Aside steel, men, and let that man through.”

Andur found his way to the dancing floor clear. He strode forward, ignoring the risings of Rhauligan and Sharantyr from their seats and the beseeching look of despair the innkeeper gave him.

“Stand away from my son! Regent of the realm and royal blooded you may be—but we’ve all heard of your wanton ways, and your temper, too! Just keep you well away from my Darnen!”

Alusair let go of Darnen’s wrist and he fled across the room like an arrow sped from a bow. Folding her arms across her chest, face expressionless, she awaited the stablemaster… whose angry advance slowed, faltered, then came to a halt a few paces away from her.

“You’ll kill me, of course,” he spat, “but it needed to be said. You’re a wanton slut unfit to be anywhere near the Dragon Throne that I and so many like me have fought to uphold.”

Alusair sighed. “What’s your name, man?”

“Andur. Andur Imraith, once a Purple Dragon, now stablemaster here. They call me Old Andur.”

The Steel Regent nodded. “Andur, I’ve just three things to say to you.”

She waited until there was utter silence and all the room was listening. That took less than a breath.

“The first is: you’re right. I am a wanton slut, as you put it, and I am unfit to rule. I didn’t want to be Regent, and having done it for some days now, I like it even less. Consider me to be one of the poorer Purple Dragons you marched and fought beside, serving the realm poorly, because it’s the best he can manage.”

She spread her hands. “The second thing is this: I had no intention of doing anything more with your son than teaching him a court dance—because I want him, at his age and restlessness, to want to come to Suzail and see the Court and so get swept up into helping Cormyr after my generation falters. The King—the new King—will need men he can trust in, and I need to find them for him… or make them for him.”

She took a slow step toward him. “And the third is this, Andur: I need you.”

“What?” The stablemaster took a step back, hands rising as if to ward her off.

Alusair smiled crookedly. “Oh, not to bed you, though if you asked nicely…”

Rhauligan rolled his eyes and she made a rude gesture—a gesture familiar to Purple Dragons everywhere in the Realm—in his direction without ever taking her eyes from Andur’s shocked gaze.

“I need your service,” she continued, taking another step forward, her voice rising. “Your trust. Your loyalty. I need men like you—men who’ve fought for the realm, and know the blood-price to be paid for Cormyr’s laws, pride, good roads, and full bellies—to believe. If not in me, than in the future I’m fighting to bring to the realm. My sister’s babe is a long way from being even the shadow of my father, but my mother still rules from behind the throne, as she always did. I still ride with and rally the young nobles of the realm, as I always did. The sun still rises over the Thunder Peaks and sets over the western Storm Horns, as it always has. I need you, Andur Imraith, to keep your sword sharp and suffer no lies from courtier or noble or Regent.”

The stablemaster stared at her in silence.

“But do you need me, Andur?” the princess asked softly. “Do you still need someone to love, someone to look up to, someone to fight for? Or is it all over for you but the drinking and the grumbling that things were better in your day, and that the realm’s all ruled by a pack of corrupt, wanton fools these days?”

Andur Imraith growled, “I—I’ll not serve you. Just keep away from my son. Give me your word on that, then you can kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Alusair said wearily, “but I do want to rule you. So I’m going to do just that. Shall we dance, stablemaster?”

“No,” Andur spat. “I’ll not—”

“Shall we fight, then?” Alusair asked softly, eyes glittering. “No blades, no spells, just fists and the rest that the gods gave us. For lam a princess and my word is law, Andur of Cormyr, and I give you a choice, one or the other: dance or fight? Dance… or fight?”

“I don’t fight women,” Andur growled, turning his back on her.

“I’m not a woman, I’m a wanton slut, remember? And Purple Dragons certainly drink deep of those, as I recall.”

Andur whirled around, his face twisted. “Don’t do this,” he hissed. “Don’t demean me in front of my son!”

“Just how,” Alusair asked, “are you demeaned?” And she strode toward him, reaching for his wrist and his hip as if to take up the dance he’d interrupted earlier.

And with a wild roar, the stablemaster drew back his fist and sent her flying.

Rythra Matcham screamed. Two Purple Dragons grabbed at their sword hilts, and both Rhauligan and Sharantyr winced as they saw Alusair’s head whipped around and blood fly.

She landed hard, sending chairs flying, and rolled to her feet slowly—but when she rose, she threw out one hand in an imperious “keep back” signal. There was a stiffness in her

gait as she walked back to Andur, who stood unmoving, fists clenched.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t make me do this.”

Alusair reached for his wrist and his hip again, her eyes on his. “Dance or fight, stablemaster. Dance or fight.”

He slapped her hands away and stepped to one side, shaking his head warningly—and the Steel Princess darted at him.

With a roar he punched at her, once and again, then reached out for a chair to snatch up and fell her—and the reeling princess, on her knees before him, brought both of her hands together up into his crotch as hard as she could, throwing her entire body behind the blow.

Andur Imraith managed a sort of whistle as he flew over her, up, then down, face-first, to greet the floor. Where he landed senseless, limbs bouncing loosely.

Alusair turned, blood dripping from her ruined lip, one eye already starting to swell shut, and called across the room, “Darnen? That dance we were just starting?”

The stableboy threaded his way through the tables very hesitantly, looking down at his father more than once.

“You didn’t—?”

“No,” Alusair told him, “he lives—and his face will probably be prettier than mine when he awakens.”

Darnen looked at her, then at his father, then back at the princess—and smirked. “Gods, that was—that was wonderful, seeing that! Aye, he’s my pa and all, but he’s clouted me for years! I—uh—what you said about the Court…”

“I meant it. Want to see Suzail, knights with glittering blades, sages who can tell you stories you can’t even dream of—oh, yes, and ladies in dresses cut up to here and down to here?”

Darnen gulped, went as red as the blood dripping off Alusair’s chin, swallowed, and nodded.

“L-lady, you’re hurt,” he stammered.

She smiled at him. “Which might make your choice easier: dance or fight?”

Darnen looked down at his father, gulped again, and said hastily, “Dance.”

Andur Imraith whimpered once after his groans had warned the world that he was rejoining it. Then his eyes fluttered open, he groaned again, and found himself looking up into the stony face of Glarasteer Rhauligan.

“Still hungry to beat up princesses?” the Highknight asked. “Or should I ask you if you’re still capable of fathering anyone?”

Andur gave him a dark look, but his growl of pain became a wince as Rhauligan hauled him to his feet and helped him to limp to a chair.

“Pa?”

Andur’s head jerked up at Darnen’s voice and his eyes blazed at the sight of his son standing on the dancing floor with his arms around Alusair.

He rose with a growl that slid into a groan, and hastily sank back down again, face going gray. No one laughed.

He shook his head, and turned almost imploringly to his employer. “I—I can’t be taking orders from… from…”

From her seat beside him, Rythra Matcham gazed at him angrily, her lips set in a thin, disapproving line. Oh, she was angry, all right. Angry at him.

Andur blinked at her in surprise.

“From a wanton slut, Andur?” she asked icily. And in a whirl of skirts she rose, strode across the dance floor, drew Darnen away from the princess, and firmly put her own arms around Alusair, her glare back at Andur as sharp and as steady as a sword blade.

“Oh, gods,” Andur groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Hands that were taken in a firm grip that brought a slight, spicy perfume with them…

He opened his eyes. Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr was kneeling in front of him, one eye almost closed from his blow and her lip a twisted, swollen ruin. Her cheekbone was gray where it wasn’t yellow. Thanks to his fists.

And she was a Princess of the Realm…

“Oh, gods,” Andur groaned again.

“Your choice has changed a bit,” she murmured. “Dance, fight, or obey.”

Andur shook his head, beaten. “Obey,” he whispered.

“Good. Very good.” With surprising strength she stood up and stepped back, dragging him to his feet. He towered over her, more than a head taller, as she towed him firmly across the room.

To the center of the dancing floor.

Andur winced. “We have to dance, too?”

“Yes,” Alusair told him sweetly. “Then see the healers, both of us—then I’m taking you to bed. Your loyal service begins this night.”

Rhauligan and Sharantyr exchanged glances and rolled their eyes in unison. Behind them, the row of Purple Dragons and War Wizards carefully kept their faces expressionless. With some effort.

Andur started to groan again, then met the sudden fire of Alusair’s remaining eye and quelled his utterance.

With some effort.