More Purple Dragons, out of uniform and trying not to look uncomfortable about it, stood among the sea of faces, striving to look like merchants or drovers. They shared space in the throng with war wizards trying their best not to look like war wizards, some with the aid of shapechanging spells. Undercloak or just what they seemed to be, the onlookers were many: curious wagon-merchants halting on their travels, peddlers, outlying crofters, the scores of bright-cloaked courtiers who followed the king whenever possible—and every last person in Espar who could walk, totter, or be propped up on sticks or in a chair to see the wonder of the season.
“You have all heard,” the herald began, “how your own Florin Falconhand, a young forester of this place, came upon a lost noblewoman of the realm in the forest not far from here, and gallantly guided her in safety, days and nights through, to be restored to us. And how, when at last they reached the royal road not far north of here, in the place called Hunter’s Hollow, they came upon a large force of murderous men who’d shot down Horsemaster Delbossan’s honor guard—sent forth from here by your own gallant Lord, Hezom—”
The herald knew his job, and indicated Lord Hezom with a flourish, allowing time for cheers. The Purple Dragons and war wizards in the crowd knew their tasks, too, and provided those cheers lustily—but were pleasantly surprised to hear themselves drowned out by the very real acclaim of the folk standing around them. The local lord stood high in the regard of the folk of this backwater, it seemed; he must be more than just a haughty nose and a hand that smote with the king’s authority.
“—and did battle with them, seeking to rescue the wounded horsemaster. The gods saw fit to send His Majesty the king thither at that moment, while riding out to a royal staghunt, and boldly did the Purple Dragon charge into the forest to slay the miscreants—whom, it now appears, had come creeping into Cormyr for the sole and most base purpose of slaying him. Florin Falconhand was already harrying these dastards, armed with but a sword and a dagger, and he and the king and the wounded Master Delbossan did great battle upon them, slaying all but one of the foe, whom the king graciously spared. In that affray, saith His Majesty, did Florin Falconhand personally save the royal life!”
Espar’s voice had risen into an impassioned shout, and it was answered with a mighty roar. Purple Dragons on the rooftops rapped dagger-hilts on their breastplates in ringing chorus, to keep the applause from falling into vigorous chatter, and the herald rushed in to recapture the attention of all.
“So now, in recognition of this valiant and loyal bravery, His Majesty has seen fit to grant—free of charge—a charter founding a new adventuring company this day! For this was the one reward your modest Florin desired, to lawfully pursue a dream he hath nurtured to his bosom lifelong: to adventure with these his fast friends who stand here with me now!”
There was brief applause, which the herald overrode by calling out on high: “Some of you are wondering why these fine, upstanding young men and women of Espar have chosen to take the name of another place than this the fair cradle that reared them. Some of you have demanded to know why they have turned their backs on Espar!”
The herald fell silent just long enough for talk to begin and swell, then cried, “Yet, know ye all, they have not turned their backs on Espar! It is royal law and long tradition that no band of adventurers, no matter how noble, can take the name of another, earlier-founded adventuring company—and Espar, cradle of lions, hath already spawned the brave Swords of Espar who so memorably defeated and slew the rogue dragon Azazarrundoth, whereof minstrels sing the ‘Dragondown Slaying’! Aye, there are still Swords of Espar alive in the realm today, so there cannot be a second company of that name. The king himself suggested Eveningstar be a part of their calling, and they have gladly accepted that wise royal advice!”
“Because to do otherwise would be muttonheaded self-slaying,” muttered one Purple Dragon on a rooftop, unheard amid the roar of applause.
When it started to fade, the herald continued, “By tradition, every charter must have a sponsor. A royal charter is, of course, sponsored by the Crown, but as a mark of royal favor, the monarch always personally appoints a ceremonial sponsor. His Majesty smiles upon Espar, upon those who have served the realm loyally, and upon those who have fought at his side, and for all of those reasons hath named Irlgar Delbossan, your own well-beloved horsemaster, sponsor of this charter!”
More applause greeted this, and rose into shouts as Delbossan, white-faced but smiling, and apparently healed of his wounds, came striding out the front door of the Eye onto the porch, and took his place at Lord Hezom’s shoulder.
He and the herald exchanged smiles and nods, whereupon Espar told the crowd, “Master Delbossan, mindful of the young man who saved his life as well as that of the king, desires to share his sponsoring duties, and has named—”
The man who strode out onto the porch then wore black armor, as smooth and as supple as velvet, that made no sound—and one of his hands was held out before him, palm up, with a faint glow flickering and skirling around it. Wary mutterings arose from the Purple Dragons and from the war wizards among the crowd, who’d known of the man but not expected the obvious magic, awake in his hand.
“—Hawkstone, ranger and swordmaker of some fame, who from his wanderings in the wild forests of Faerûn has come hither to mark the importance of this charter!”
Astonished applause, that sank away in eager anticipation when Hawkstone flung out his empty hand to halt the herald, and in a voice deeper and yet louder than Espar’s, that echoed off the fronts of houses across the green, said, “Witness all, that I bear the favor of Holy Mielikki here this day, to confer upon him who has pleased her well: Florin Falconhand!” He held up his glowing hand, and the applause this time was a storm of excited and awed talk.
Then Hawkstone cradled his hand to his breast, and nodded to the herald. The herald gave the famous ranger a look of wonder, but resumed his speech undaunted: “A noble lady of the realm in whose veins runs royal blood, a maiden Florin Falconhand also rescued from beasts in the forest, hath requested the right to bear witness to the granting of the charter. Folk of Cormyr, I present to you the Lady Narantha Crownsilver, flower of her house!”
Out of the inn door came marching a gleaming row of splendidly plate-armored knights, their spotless armor polished silver-bright. They split to right and left in succession, forming two lines—and between them appeared the Lady Narantha Crownsilver, smiling, in a gown of white a-sparkle with silver glister. More applause, sinking immediately into a great hissing of excited whispers. Narantha was blushingly and yet serenely beautiful, and knew it, yet seemed humbled by that knowing—and men’s hearts broke all over the green as they gazed upon her.
The herald from Espar let the babble continue for a few breaths, almost smiling, then let out a sudden bellow, “All hail the valiant hero of the Battle of Hunter’s Hollow!”
The crowd bellowed back, in a great roar that broke into wild cheering when Florin Falconhand, smiling a little uncertainly, strode out of the door of the Eye and lifted a hand in greeting.
When Hawkstone stepped to meet him and touched that glowing hand to his chest with words murmured too quietly for others to hear, Florin was visibly astonished—then moved to tears. Wet-faced, he gaped at his onetime tutor, as loud cheers rose in the green.
Espar waited until they had just begun to subside a little, then cried in a voice that rang out like a trumpet: “Folk of Espar, I give you: your king!”
No blare of horns followed, but none could then have heard them, even had all the warhorns in the realm winded at once.
Espar rocked with the din as Azoun, fourth of that name, the Purple Dragon, strode out onto the porch, and everyone there, led by the herald on one hand and Lord Hezom on the other, smoothly turned to face the king, and knelt to him.
“What did this Hawkstone just pull?”
Vangerdahast’s glare seemed sharp enough to split the scrying crystal asunder. The largest such crystal in
the realm, it floated before them, a bright, glossy oval as wide as an armchair.
Laspeera laid a comforting hand on the royal magician’s arm. “I doubt he planned it, Lord Vangerdahast. I heard awe in his voice, though he tried to hide it. Divine favor is … divine favor.”
Vangerdahast nodded, and clapped his free hand over Laspeera’s, patting it in silent thanks. The young lass always said the right thing. Always. Thrice as graceful a lady as any of the other nobility he’d seen at court, strong in her Art and growing stronger with astonishing speed, she was a treasure.
He’d mind-reamed her, pouncing without warning, at least twice a tenday since taking her into the Wizards of War, and seldom let her stray far from his side. Thus far he’d found nothing save that he both amused and awed her, and she saw him as the true ruler and savior of the realm.
Oh, and that she’d started to enjoy being mind-reamed. He blushed even now, at the thought—and blushed still stronger when the slender fingers of her free hand came down atop his, patting him soothingly.
Neither of them said a word, but stared into the scrying crystal together. In distant Espar, the charter had just been granted.
The herald’s glad cry of, “And so the charter is done! Behold your Swords of Eveningstar!” was almost drowned out by a thunderous cheer—a cheer that a blinking, smiling herald hadn’t had to lead. He had to wait some time for it to die away enough to be heard again, whereupon he grandly directed everyone “up the Way of the Dragon, to where feast tents await!”
There were fresh cheers, and the crowd started to move. Free food and drink can move men who’ll stand their ground against armies.
King Azoun’s own hand had signed the charter, under the watchful gaze of Hezom, Lord of Espar, and his herald, as Delbossan and Hawkstone held the parchment flat, and three war wizards who’d quietly stepped out of the Eye had stood behind the king with wands at the ready.
Now, cleaving through the crowd streaming north, Purple Dragons in full armor were converging, standing close to form a solid shield-wall curving all around the porch.
Florin, Doust, Semoor, Jhessail, and Islif stood close together as if facing a foe. They were all a little overwhelmed as they blinked at their king, almost nose to nose, and Azoun clasped their hands in his own and spoke words of congratulation.
“I have every hope,” he was saying, as Jhessail fought down a sudden urge to burst into tears, “that together you will stand and prosper and go on to greatness, becoming every bit as successful and famous as the Company of the Manticore Cloaks”—there were awed murmurs from those who heard—“and the Company of the Trollblood Blade!” More murmurs swelled; the king had named adventurers still famous all across the Sea of Fallen Stars.
“The Crown,” Azoun added then, “expects you to—”
Ah, thought Semoor a little sourly, here it comes.
“—make at least one foray into the notorious Haunted Halls of Eveningstar, and report whatever you may see there to my Lady Lord of Eveningstar, Tessaril Winter. She can give you directions to the halls, and be your guide in matters ethical while you are within her writ.” Azoun smiled. “I wish you fair fortune, and therefore warn you that you’d best recruit more members if you hope to stay alive for long. By giving my name and the word ‘Tathen’ you may compel Tessaril or other officers of the Crown to without fee add any such members to your charter, in griffon ink.”
Then Azoun dropped his grand manner, grinning at them like the reckless lad he must once have been, and added, “And now that all the bellowing’s done, we can go back in and eat!”
He turned to stride back into the Eye—and almost fell over Lady Narantha Crownsilver, who flung herself to her knees before him. “Your Majesty, a boon if you will!”
“Oh?” Azoun asked, gazing down into a face that looked humbled and windblown, far indeed from the haughty brightlass he remembered being presented at court. “What desire you, Lady?”
“I … Your Majesty, may I join the Swords? Ah, as an envoy, or something of the sort, for I must confess I’m useless in a fight.”
“Oh, I’d not go quite that far,” Delbossan muttered from close behind her, amid the general amazement. “Not when armed with rabbit stew.”
The king gazed gravely down upon Narantha, and shook his head almost sorrowfully. “My heart leaps at the thought,” he said, “just as I’m certain yours does. Yet duty of birth has a stern call that falters not, and must always be obeyed. I must, by blood and the needs of the realm, forbid the name of Narantha Crownsilver from appearing on this or any adventuring charter. The Crownsilvers lack an endless supply of daughters, to be hazarded on the wings of adventure!”
Azoun reached down and drew Narantha to her feet, kissing her gently on the brow. Then, still holding her hands in his own, he turned to the Swords. “Yet in the Cormyr I reign over, friend may freely ride with friend—so keeping this precious lady safe and away from you or safe in your company is entirely your affair.”
What was left of the crowd gaped in unison, and the king winked at Narantha and gave her the tiniest of shoves toward Florin.
A moment later their arms were around each other, they were kissing each other, and a ragged cheer was rising around them.
Florin’s parents stepped through the shield-wall with their own Purple Dragon escort before and behind them, and amid the happy chatter as the king led the way in to table, Florin’s mother drew her son firmly aside and asked pointedly, nodding at Narantha, as she laughed in the arms of both Doust and Semoor, “Is she now a close friend of yours, my son?”
As the last lingerers by the now-empty porch became aware of the increasingly flinty glares of the Purple Dragon guard and started toward the tents whence a happy hubbub was already rising, a tall and plain-faced woman in the robes of a priestess of Chauntea walked among them.
No war wizard had detected disguising magic about her person, for the robes covered her from chin to booted ankles, and her breast and hooded head were all hargaunt.
Beneath its warm flowflesh, Horaundoon was thinking. Yes, he could make very good use of these Swords. War wizards were all around him now, but later he’d start scrying them.
’Twould be simple enough to prepare a mindworm to ride the mind of one foolish young Sword or another …
Chapter 10
NEW BLOOD FOR THE OLD GAME
The chances and mischances of human folly and the whims of the gods hurl some of us high in life, and have some of us buried before we get any chance to leave our mark. The Year of the Spur saw the founding of a fellowship that was to shake thrones all across Faerûn. And it also saw the beginnings of some moderately successful adventurers, such as the Company of the Cleaver, Setesper’s Shields, and what was to become the Knights of Myth Drannor.
Thardok Duirell
Cloaked Whispers Behind Doors:
Cabals, Cults, and Fellowships
published in the Year of Wild Magic
It’s all been so … sudden.” Jhessail shook her head. “These horses—gods, what splendid beasts!—a gown, dagger and boots that’re finer than I ever hoped to own, and a belt full of lions from the king’s own hand; bestowed with a kiss, no less!”
“Nice to know your bed-price, in his eyes,” Semoor said.
“Some day, Stoop, that far-too-clever tongue of yours is going to get you—”
“Raised to exalted rank and showered with appreciative wenches, yes. Lathander smiles brightly on those who dare new roads, new views, and—”
“Wilder follies,” Islif grunted. “What’s wrong, Lady? What’re you staring at?”
Narantha Crownsilver smiled and waved at a grassy roadside verge in the trees. “My pavilion was pitched just there. It seems like an age ago, now …”
“So you’re feeling it, too,” Doust said. “A touch of bewilderment, a feeling of emptiness. Such sudden splendor, followed by—a letdown.”
“Nay. For me, it has been … I am different now than I was then. Before I met Florin, a
nd knew what a forest was.”
Riding beside her, the tall ranger kept his eyes calmly on the road ahead, turning his head only to look behind them, as he’d been doing since they’d started out, but Semoor cleared his throat loudly and meaningfully. “Aha. So what exactly did the pride of Espar show you, out in the green fastnesses?”
The Lady Narantha turned in her saddle to fix him with a direct and serious gaze, and said, “What it is to be a man.”
She let Semoor’s smile broaden and his voice begin a whoop of delighted derision before she added icily, “Not a lover, dirtyminded priest! Really, Master Wolftooth, your tongue is more suited to the tavern—or the gutter—than the cloisters of the Morninglord!”
There was applause from the riders all around them, to which both Doust and Islif added the same words: “Well said!”
Semoor tried to look innocent, raising an finger like a mild-mannered tutor seeking to make a point. “Priests must say what others dare not, in their ceaseless task of delving into morals and inner truths and—”
“High-heaped ripe verbal manure,” Islif snorted. There was more applause.
“Yet if he can win past his fascination with beds and lovemaking in the woods,” Jhessail said ruefully, “Semoor has a shrewd point. We chased bright adventure in our dreams for so long, seeing it as glorious freedom, and yet”—she indicated the horse beneath her, then the Way of the Dragon under its hooves—“our road ahead seems to have been rather firmly chosen for us.”
“By the king,” Semoor said darkly, “heeding certain furious parents.” He glanced meaningfully at Narantha.
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