The Siege

by Denning, Troy

  “Harpers?” The sergeant barely glanced at the pin. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  He turned and vanished into the palace, then returned a moment later with a gangly, horse-faced man in a scarlet cape and purple sash of office. The newcomer returned Ruha’s pin and waved them into the palace’s grandiose reception hall—so large that, after crawling through the entrance, even Aris could stand upright.

  “Welcome. I am Dauneth Marliir, Her Majesty’s High Warden,” the man said. “I’m sorry for the delay, but we have learned to be cautious with information about Her Majesty.”

  “We understand,” Ruha said, returning the pin to its place. “I am Ruha—”

  “Yes, I know.” Dauneth flashed a big smile.

  Galaeron ignored him and looked down the long arcade of pillars, where he was disappointed to see more Shadovar than humans polishing and buffing.

  Dauneth continued to speak with Ruha. “There are not many Bedine witches in the Harpers.”

  “Only one, I am certain,” Ruha laughed. She waved a hand at Galaeron. “This is Galaeron Nihmedu.”

  Dauneth’s brow rose in shock, but he managed to recover himself. “Well met, Galaeron. I have heard of your bravery.” He extended a hand and clasped Galaeron’s wrist in the human fashion. “Prince Rivalen tells me that his father has been most concerned since your disappearance.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he has,” Galaeron replied, surprised by the coldness in his own voice. “He has good reason to be.”

  Dauneth’s brow rose, prompting Ruha to say, “It is related to our visit.” She half turned to wave at Aris. “And this is—”

  “Aris of a Thousand Faces,” Dauneth finished. He paused and bowed deeply. “When the palace is finished, Myrmeen intends to display one of your pieces, ‘The Descent of the Shadow Army,’ here in the lobby.”

  “She does?” The giant’s jaw dropped. “How did she come by it?”

  Dauneth smiled enthusiastically. “A gift from Prince Rivalen, of course.”

  The High Warden led the way down a stately side corridor toward a pair of well-guarded double doors, and Galaeron’s heart fell. He could see already that Rivalen and his gifts had won the hearts of the Cormyreans, that he had no chance whatsoever of winning Alusair’s confidence. Soon, he would either be dead or on his way back to the enclave, and after seeing how close his shadow self had come to getting Aris killed, he knew which he was going to choose. He wanted nothing more than to use his shadow magic to do a sending to Vala and apologize for how he had parted, to let her know that, in the end at least, he had come to his senses and died thinking of her.

  And he would have liked to apologize to Takari Moon-snow, as well, for refusing what she had offered. He had always known on some deep level that they were spirit mates and, because of that, assumed she would always be with him, but when he had chosen to help Vala instead of her in the final battle against Wulgreth, he had wounded her more deeply than any lich could have. He knew there could be nothing between them but pain. For the rest of her life, whenever she thought of him, it would fill her with feelings of betrayal and loss.

  How could he have been such a coward? Perhaps there had always been a shadow on his heart because of his fear of following it—because in trying to avoid his own pain, he had inflicted it on others. Certainly his father had never turned his back on his feelings. He had loved Morgwais completely from the moment he had met her, all the years they had lived together in Evereska and all the years she had lived apart in the High Forest, and if her absence had caused him anguish, their love had given him the strength to endure it without bitterness or regret.

  They reached the double doors and were admitted at once. Aris had to hunch his shoulders to squeeze through this entrance, but inside lay the palace’s formal audience hall, with an arched ceiling high enough that the giant could still stand upright by walking down the center of the aisle.

  In a raised throne at the far end sat a striking woman with oak-brown eyes and amber hair, one arm resting on her knee as she conversed with a huge Shadovar beside her. Even had Galaeron not glimpsed the man’s golden eyes and ceremonial fangs, he would have recognized Prince Rivalen by his immense shoulders and narrow waist. Next to the throne and a little behind it stood an elderly, tired-looking man in a voluminous robe and long white beard who could only be Cormyr’s royal wizard, Vangerdahast. Adjacent to him stood the final member of the little group, a statuesque woman with dark hair and eyes as blue as a mountain lake.

  Dauneth stopped opposite the throne and presented Galaeron and his companions, introducing the woman on the throne as the Steel Regent of Cormyr, Princess Alusair Obarskyr, and the one on the floor as Myrmeen Lhal, the King’s Lord of Arabel.

  When she was introduced to Aris, Myrmeen’s eyes sparkled, showing flecks of gold almost like an elf’s.

  “I’m a great enthusiast of your work, Master Aris.” She gestured to Rivalen, who was studying the group with a forced smile and said, “The prince has gifted me with ‘The Descent of the Shadow Army’. I intend to display it prominently in the lobby.”

  “It will be an honor,” Aris said with a certain practiced ease. “I only hope it will do your palace justice.”

  “It will make my palace,” she said. “The way you impart a sense of the army’s whirling descent while using the veserab wings to support the enclave is pure magic. But I find a hint of menace in how the riders fan out at the bottom, as though you found the coming of the Shadovar just a little frightening.”

  “You are very perceptive, Milady.” Aris glanced in Rivalen’s direction, then added, “Were I to do the same sculpture today, there would be more than a hint of menace.”

  “Really?” Myrmeen furrowed her brow. “I was under the impression you were quite content in the city of Shade.”

  “So were we,” Rivalen said smoothly, “but we understand how temperamental artists can be. If Aris was unhappy, we would have been glad to transport him to any place he wished. There was no need for him to brave the desert with these thieves.”

  “We are not the thieves in this room,” Galaeron began. “The Shadovar—”

  “Myrmeen did not ask you to speak,” Princess Alusair said, raising a hand to cut him off. She moved to the edge of her seat and addressed Rivalen. “So what’d they steal?”

  Vangerdahast laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Princess, this matter really has nothing to do with Cormyr.”

  Alusair scowled. “They’re in Cormyr now, Vangey.” Her glance strayed in Myrmeen Lhal’s direction ever so briefly, then looked back to Prince Rivalen. “At least I think it’s still Cormyr.”

  “Shade would not recognize any other claims to Arabel,” Rivalen said, not rising to the bait, “and we would certainly be very grateful if you would return these thieves to Shade Enclave for judgment by the Most High.”

  Alusair continued to watch the prince, and Galaeron began to see that there was more going on in Arabel than the rebuilding of the city—or at least the Steel Regent feared there was.

  “Must I ask again, Prince?” Alusair said. “What did they steal?”

  Rivalen hesitated just a moment, then gestured at the shadow blanket draped over Aris’s shoulder. “The umbral mantle, to begin with. Also a flying disk and a veserab … that I know of.”

  Alusair looked to Ruha. “Is that true?”

  “In its essence,” she said. “I was not—”

  “In its fact,” Rivalen insisted. “You were all part of the plan from the start. Malik confessed all.”

  “Malik?” Alusair asked. “Would this be Malik el Sami yn Nasser, the Seraph of Lies?”

  Rivalen nodded. “A despicable little man, but it is well known that Mystra’s curse prevents him from lying.” He looked in Galaeron’s direction and sneered. “He was with Galaeron when we rescued his party from the Dire Wood. We should have taken that as a suggestion of what to expect when we realized who he was.”

  “Indeed,” Vangerdahast said. “I am surprise
d you didn’t. Malik was captured in the escape?”

  “It was not an escape,” Rivalen clarified. “Until they began stealing, they were free to leave at any time.”

  “Princess Alusair,” Ruha said, “if you will permit me—”

  “I will not,” Alusair said, raising a hand to silence the witch. “The prince is speaking.”

  Ruha’s face fell, and Galaeron could tell that she was feeling as hopeless as he had earlier. He caught her eye and smiled in encouragement. It was impossible to see how she responded beneath her veil.

  When Rivalen did not continue, Alusair asked, “Do you have anything to add, Prince? Perhaps they murdered someone in the escape?”

  Rivalen considered this a moment, then shook his head, “There were some injuries—but only to Malik, and he survived. Their only crime in Shade Enclave was theft. The Most High will be grateful when they are returned to answer for it.”

  “Of course,” Alusair said. She turned to Ruha. “Have you anything to say before I return you to the prince?”

  “Only that it is a mistake to do so in such haste.” Ruha looked to Myrmeen Lhal for support—then let her shoulders slump as the lady lord looked away. Turning her gaze back to Alusair, she began, “On my word as a Harper—”

  “If I may,” Galaeron interrupted. Even in Evereska, he had seen enough of politics to realize that truth was seldom the most valued currency in such discussions. Addressing himself directly to Alusair, he said, “The gifts of the Shadovar come with a price—”

  “Every gift comes with a price,” Alusair shot back. “If you mean to waste the crown’s time on such tripe, I’ll have your tongue before I return you to Rivalen.”

  Galaeron’s confidence of a moment earlier vanished. He had read the situation correctly—he was more sure of that than ever—but he had failed to anticipate just how astute the Steel Regent really was and how quick to anger when she thought she was being manipulated. He swallowed and tried again.

  “The price of this gift is higher than you think.” Galaeron sneaked a glance at Rivalen, who caught him looking and made a derisive motion for him to continue. He did. “The droughts and floods Cormyr has been suffering, they are the Shadovar’s doing.”

  Myrmeen and Dauneth sighed audibly, and Vangerdahast looked as though he were struggling not to laugh.

  Alusair turned her gaze to Prince Rivalen. “Well, Prince, what say you to that?”

  Rivalen rolled his golden eyes. “I wouldn’t think it necessary to say anything.”

  “It is true,” Galaeron insisted. “Surely, you’ve heard about the troubles on the Sword Coast? The Shadovar are melting the High Ice. It’s affecting the weather all across Faerûn.”

  “Melting the High Ice?” Vangerdahast scoffed. “The fire spell that powerful hasn’t been written, even in Azuth’s spellbook.”

  “They’re not using a spell—they’re using that.” Galaeron pointed to the shadow blanket hanging over Aris’s shoulder. “They’re spreading them over—”

  “Princess Alusair,” Rivalen interrupted. “It pains me to see this thief wasting the crown’s time with this nonsense. If you will allow me to summon a few of my lords—”

  “Only a minute longer,” Alusair said, raising her brow at the note of concern that had crept into the prince’s voice. “Cormyr’s law requires that the accused be allowed to speak before I can turn them over to you.”

  The princess nodded Vangerdahast toward the blanket, and Galaeron breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the old man shuffled out from behind her. Aris spread the blanket obligingly and draped it down where Vangerdahast could reach it, turning the darkest side toward the window so that it would absorb the sun’s heat. The wizard rubbed his hand first over one side of the surface, then the other, and the way his eyes widened made clear that he had noted how efficiently it trapped heat.

  Galaeron glanced over at Rivalen and found the prince’s golden eyes locked on his face. In that moment, he knew that he had succeeded—and the prince knew it, too. Were it not for the knowledge Melegaunt had secreted inside his head, Galaeron had no doubt that Rivalen would have killed him on the spot and fled into the shadows. As it was, however, the prince had no choice but to play the game a little longer.

  After a time, Vangerdahast removed a wand from inside his robe and waved it over the shadow blanket, then put it back and repeated the process three more times. Finally, he stepped away, folded his hands behind his back, and said nothing.

  A full minute passed before Alusair growled, “Well?”

  Vangerdahast jumped as though she had startled him out of a dream, looking around with an alarming expression of confusion on his face.

  “Well, what?” the royal magician asked.

  Alusair nodded at the shadow blanket. “The umbral mantle,” she prompted. “Can it do what the elf claims?”

  Vangerdahast turned and studied the blanket as though seeing it for the first time, then shrugged and turned away. “How should I know? I don’t understand shadow magic.”

  The only thing that fell farther than Alusair’s expression was Galaeron’s heart.

  “What’s there to understand?” Galaeron cried, stepping toward the throne. “Just put your hand—”

  “That’s far enough, elf,” Dauneth Marliir said, catching Galaeron by the arm and pressing a dagger tip to his ribs. “You’ve had your say.”

  Rivalen flashed his fangs in Galaeron’s direction, then turned to Alusair. “If they have had their say, Princess, I will summon my lords.”

  Alusair lifted her hand in consent—until Vangerdahast gave a short, “Ahem.”

  Finally unable to contain himself, Rivalen spun toward the wizard. “What now?”

  Vangerdahast gave him a synthetic smile. “Nothing to upset yourself over—a mere formality, really,” he said, turning to Alusair, “but the law requires due regard for anyone seeking judgment before the crown.”

  Alusair frowned in confusion. “And?”

  “This is not due regard,” the wizard explained. “For that, you must consider the matter overnight.”

  “She must?” Myrmeen asked, puzzled. “Where does it say that?”

  “In the Rule of Law, of course,” Alusair said, somehow at once smiling at Vangerdahast and frowning at Myrmeen. “Do you mean to tell me one of the King’s Lords doesn’t know her Iltharl?”

  Myrmeen’s face fell. “No, er, of course not,” she stammered, frowning. “I, uh, just hadn’t considered that the, uh, passage applied to this situation.”

  “Well, it does,” Alusair said. She turned to Rivalen. “I’m sorry, Prince Rivalen, but you’ll have to wait until morning. You understand—laws can be such pesky things.”

  “Yes, can’t they?” Rivalen smiled thinly and inclined his head. “I trust you have secure facilities.”

  “Oh, very secure.” Alusair looked to her High Warden and said, “Dauneth, see to it that these prisoners are lodged in the citadel—and put them in the deep dungeon. When Prince Rivalen comes for them in the morning, I want them to be there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  21 Mirtul, the Year of Wild Magic

  Slapping the warding symbol off the wall as she left, Vala ducked out of the tiny lair and scuttled down the ancient sewer in a low crouch. A knot the size of a fist was throbbing atop her thigh, and the wound itself oozed a steady stream of hot fluid. Fortunately, the cause of Vala’s injuries had died without depositing its egg. She found the thing in the phaerimm’s tail when she cut off the barb to add to her collection. After the levitation magic had finally lapsed, she’d fallen onto the dead creature and had to wait for the paralyzation poison to wear off. If the egg had been implanted, she would still have been lying atop the dead phaerimm with her face buried in its entrails.

  As it was, Vala was so feverish that catching up to her quarry was out of the question. It required all of her strength just to limp down the tunnel in such an awkward stoop and avoid splashing her bandage with the cloudy fluid standing stag
nant in the bottom. Though the sewer had not been used for its intended purpose in six centuries, the filth that filled it had been spawned of constant death and decay and reeked even more horribly than the offal it had been intended to carry. She came to a T in the passage and, ten paces up the right branch, glimpsed a short length of thorny tail disappearing around another corner.

  Vala stepped into the mouth of the opposite fork and brushed her shoulder and arm against the filthy wall, leaving a broad drag mark in the mildew, then retreated back to the intersection and pressed her back to the wall. Having predicted the little phaerimm would flee to the right, Corineus was waiting a hundred paces up the tunnel, ready to drive the thing back toward its lair. Vala would have preferred to force the thornback into the baelnorn’s ambush, but his aura of cold made it impossible for him to surprise anything in the dungeon.

  The crack and rumble of an approaching spell battle heralded the return of the phaerimm. Vala kissed the blade of her darksword and said a prayer for her son in case Tempus should decide to take her in this rank place, then held her weapon ready next to the intersection. A few moments later, a brilliant orange light erupted from the tunnel mouth, blinding Vala and scalding her skin. She turned away, raising her free hand to shield her face as a crackling ball of flame hissed past and vanished down the opposite passage.

  Vala opened her eyes and saw only circles of popping orange. The phaerimm could have been three inches from her face preparing to sink its tail barb into her throat, or it could have been lurking ten feet up the passage, waiting to see what its spell flushed out. Guessing the phaerimm would be a little behind its spell, she counted three seconds, brought her sword down, and hit something solid.

  A fierce wind gusted through the sewer and died almost instantly. When Vala’s sword fell free and touched the floor and she found herself still alive she deduced that she had at least hit the thing and began to slash about the intersection at random, weaving her blade through a blind figure-eight defense and trying to blink the orange spots from her eyes.