“And so,” Lady Yellander whispered fiercely, stepping forward, “before I forget everything of who I am and what I’ve done, there’s something I find I want to do, first. Vangerdahast has given me permission—if Azimander will.”
She reached out her hand almost beseechingly to Azimander Godal.
Slowly uncurling from where he was huddled against Laspeera, the old war wizard looked up at her. Then, slowly, he reached out and took the noblewoman’s hand.
She drew him to his feet and into her embrace, asking Laspeera, “Do you have a bed anywhere around here? Or a table someone’s not using?”
Lord Maniol Crownsilver stared, blinked, and stared again.
However, the purposefully striding dark-robed figures didn’t go away. In fact, they came swiftly closer, hurrying down his grandest passage straight at him.
“What by all the Nine Hells—?” he snarled, reaching for the intricate hilt of his ornamented sword.
There came no reply, though the somber gaze of the good-looking woman who walked at their fore measured him. Coolly.
“Just who by the Dungfaced Dragon do you think you are,” he addressed her, “bursting into my home like this?”
The intruders slowed not a whit, and an infuriated Lord Crownsilver spread his hands and awakened all the rings, bracers, and wristlets on them to glowing, menacing life. “Come one step nearer—!”
The woman gestured, and the air around Maniol Crownsilver seemed to freeze—an icy grip that settled around his heart and throat and left him gasping.
“If by ‘Dungfaced Dragon’ you mean the king,” she said coldly, “you can unsay those words right now, Lord Crownsilver. We are Wizards of War, here on Crown business. If your wife hadn’t spellguarded her chambers—and when did she master such Art without a word to anyone, Lord?—we’d have teleported there and you’d never even have seen us. I am Tsantress of the Wizards of War, ‘bursting into’ here, as you put it, on the explicit orders of the Lord Vangerdahast, to apprehend a traitor to the realm.”
“A trait—Jalassa?” Maniol Crownsilver was incredulous, and looked it.
In that moment, Tsantress believed he knew nothing at all about his wife’s dark doings, but allowed herself no shred of pity. He was noble, and the head of one of the oldest, proudest houses of Cormyr to boot; he would bluster—
He did. “And you think you can just march in here, like the rutting king himself, and—”
“Treason, Lord Crownsilver,” Tsantress said sweetly, making a gesture that turned the icy force holding Maniol Crownsilver so cold he couldn’t breathe. “That’s what those words you’ve just uttered are: clear treason. Spoken before many witnesses, too. And the penalty for treason is …”
She waved her hand, and her magic was gone, dropping Lord Crownsilver with a crash onto his face, breathless and barely able to moan. Death.
The war wizards hurried past him, and up the grand stair.
He was vaguely aware of one war wizard calling, “It’s this one, here!” and another saying, “Stand ye back, all!”
Then there came a loud crackling, laced with cries of alarm—and something that looked like a leisurely, many-forked bolt of lightning spat out from the floor above, writhing and spitting across the empty air high above him almost hesitantly.
Maniol Crownsilver was on his feet before it faded, staggering up the stairs on suddenly weak legs, hauling on the rails with his hands to drag himself up the long flight as more bolts erupted from the floor above.
“ ’Tis spellguarded, all right!” a war wizard shouted, reeling back against the balustrade beside the stairs.
“Enough attempts to grandly impress,” the voice of Tsantress rose, firm and calm. “Cast together, at my command, thus …”
As Lord Crownsilver reached the top of the stair, white light flared blinding-bright, war wizards cried out in dismay—and the radiance faded and the door of his wife’s retiring room sighed open, tiny cracklings and glows playing about its edges.
The room beyond was as femininely opulent as he remembered—save for the blackened area at its heart, where forlorn, still-smoldering ashes outlined the shape of a sprawled, spreadeagled human body.
A stocky young war wizard cast a swift spell, waited with arms spread and eyes closed, then reported, “No one. No one alive.”
Silently the other war wizards stepped into the room, spreading out to either side of it to form an arc along the wall, rather than advancing. At its center, Tsantress turned to the unmoving mage. “Lorbryn?”
He shook his head, hands still splayed out into the air. “No one on this level, clear out to … there’s a turret, that way, that’s shielded against me.”
“End it,” was the curt response.
“What’re you saying?” Lord Crownsilver demanded, as the man opened his eyes and brought his arms down. “Jalassa? Where’s my Jalassa?”
Tsantress turned to face him, face unreadable. “Stay here,” she said. “Come no closer to yon chamber.” She looked meaningfully at Lorbryn, who stepped in front of Crownsilver, blocking his way on.
Over Lorbryn’s shoulder, the lord saw Tsantress turn back into the room and murmur orders. Arms lifted in castings, the air glowed an eerie blue-white, and then … something ruby, orange, and sudden roared up from the ashes, whirling around the room in a shrieking, scouring cloud that left war wizards staggering or on their knees, clutching their eyes or covering their noses and mouths with desperate hands.
Then, quite suddenly, the roaring and roiling were gone, and Maniol Crownsilver was peering into a room that seemed to be full of dust—and dust-caked, coughing and choking war wizards, moving dazedly through the drifting clouds.
“Tsantress?” Lorbryn called urgently, over his shoulder. “Art well?”
“I’ve been better,” came the glum reply, from a soot-faced, barely recognizable apparition that came out of the dust to stand with him. “That was a trap-spell left on her ashes, to mix them with our own sweat and hairs, and make necromantic interrogation impossible.”
Maniol gaped at her. “Necro …? My Jalassa—is she—?”
Tsantress nodded.
“Nooo! No, she can’t be! My—my—not my Jalassa!”
Tsantress thrust Lorbryn gently aside and stepped forward, a soot-caked scarecrow, to put comforting arms around the sagging, weeping lord.
“Lord Crownsilver,” she said, “I’m afraid Lady Crownsilver is no more.”
“Jalassa! Jalassa!” the man in her arms sobbed, clawing at her, trying to get past her. War wizards coming out of the room stared at him grimly.
“Bring her back!” Lord Crownsilver howled at them. “You’ve magic, you can do that! Bring her back to me!”
Tsantress shook her head sadly, her blackened face almost touching his.
“Please,” he sobbed, shaking her. “Please!”
“Lord Crownsilver, your wife was working with an enemy of the Crown of Cormyr. That traitor is unknown to us, thus far—but that traitor murdered Lady Crownsilver to keep us or anyone else learning of them from her. Murdered her, spellguarded the room her ashes were in against scrying and translocations, spell-sealed its doors, and left trap magics waiting for anyone who came to investigate. Take whatever comfort you can from knowing the Wizards of War will leave no hint or trail unfollowed until that traitor is found—and destroyed.”
Maniol Crownsilver threw back his head to gulp in air, still crying, and after a few shuddering breaths managed to gasp, “No comfort at all!”
Tsantress kept firm arms around him. “Would you like to accompany us to the palace? Or have some of us remain here with you? You should not be alone—”
“No,” Crownsilver sobbed, “I don’t want war wizards standing around me speaking empty soothings. I want them at my side, casting every spell they have, to find me my daughter!”
“Your daughter?”
“My Narantha! I must find her. She’s all I have left of my beautiful Jalassa, now.”
Each grou
p of guards searched the three with stony disregard for modesty or gender, removing all the weapons they could find. It took a long time to reach the innermost chamber.
“State your name, each of you,” Dauntless growled then. After Florin, Jhessail, and Pennae had done that, he nodded, raised his hand to indicate the unsmiling woman in worn, unadorned battle-leathers standing behind the map-strewn table, and said, “Swords of Eveningstar, this is Myrmeen Lhal, the Lady Lord of Arabel. In this city, her word is law—and you stand here at her pleasure.”
Florin bowed low. “Lady, we are loyal to the king. What would you, with us?”
The lady lord said, “Produce your charter. Now.”
Florin bowed again, stepped back, and turned his back. Dauntless was at his side in a moment, sword half-drawn, to watch suspiciously as Florin unbuckled his codpiece and flipped it up, to undo a lacing inside, and pluck forth—a much-folded, tiny square of parchment.
Jhessail covered her eyes in disgust, but Pennae, Dauntless, and the guards behind Dauntless were all grinning as Florin tucked his codpiece back into place, spun around, and triumphantly unfolded the royal charter.
Myrmeen Lhal’s wry amusement gleamed in her eyes, but had completely failed to reach the rest of her face. She took the parchment from Florin almost reverently, read it, and handed it back.
“Your charter is in order,” she announced, “wherefore ’tis my duty only to give you fair warning. Swords, your activities within Arabel’s walls haven’t gone unnoticed, and further thievery will not go unpunished. Pennae, you could very easily find yourself imprisoned for a long time, with some of your nimble fingers broken so they’ll heal with rather less deftness than they’ve displayed thus far.”
She started to stroll, hands clasped behind her back like a swordcaptain glowering at disobedient novices, and added sharply, “Cormyr needs gallant adventurers—but Arabel has no room for villainous rogues, miscreants brutish in words and deeds, and impudent, cheating, lying, thieving outlaws. Your charter gives you no right to take coins by force from others, nor swindle them to support lazy, sneaking, or disloyal lives within our walls.”
Florin’s eyelids flickered. He’d heard such words before, from … ah, yes. He smiled. Dauntless tensed.
“Many folk do little but cower and try to keep warm in winter, sewing or whittling or honing blades,” Myrmeen added. “I will understand if you do little while the snows howl and deepen. I will understand far too well if you grow restless, and decide a little danger—lawless danger—is a good way to pass the cold days. It is my hope never to have cause to suspect you of anything, and to be able to smile when I hear of the Swords of Eveningstar, recalling heroism and gallantry. It would please me very much if you did not dash my hopes and disappoint me.”
She stopped strolling. “Have you anything you wish to say to me?”
“Lady Lord,” Pennae said, “you can depend on me, and us all.” Jhessail nodded.
Florin raised a hand. “May I request a private audience with you, Lady Lord? Now?”
“You may. All save Falconhand, withdraw to the outermost guardpost. Return their weapons to them.”
Dauntless and several other guards frowned, and the ornrion was bold enough to ask, “Lady Lord, is this wise? This man—”
“Heard the orders I gave as well as you did,” Myrmeen Lhal said. “And probably expects you to obey them as much as I do.”
Dauntless dropped his gaze to his boots, mumbled an apology, and turned and gruffly began to shoo everyone out.
“Horses of the Wargod,” Agannor growled, “but I mislike the smell of this! What if they never come back? The lady lord could clap them all in irons in her deepest cell and just forget all about them! Leaving us …”
His voice trailed away as a slender, large-eyed, pretty lass whose skirts seemed slit right up to her armpits sat gently in his lap and murmured, “You were so brave, both of you! Standing up to the Dragons like that, without even drawing blade! I’m Taeriana.”
“Uh, well met, Taer—”
“And I’m Kestra,” a slightly shorter and plumper version of Taeriana said breathlessly to Bey, deftly depositing herself in his lap.
“Ladylasses,” Bey said, “we must watch for our friends, and haven’t coin to spare for—”
“We understand,” Kestra said, licking his stubbled jaw. “We don’t want coin—not this time, at least—”
“And feel you deserve a reward,” Taeriana purred. “How about just a few moments together, behind yon curtain? Aviathus keeps yon for us, clean and safe; he’ll come if your friends return.” The wandering tip of her forefinger dipped inside Agannor’s jerkin, heading for his left nipple, as she added, “Like us, he admires you for standing up to the Dragons. So peacefully … but, ohhh, so sternly!”
Agannor and Bey exchanged glances and shrugged.
“I like to look behind curtains,” Agannor said, clapping a wary hand to sword hilt.
The hearty din of the Lion continued unabated as the four rose together—the tavernmaster bustling up with a nod and smile to cast his apron over the table to signify that it was still claimed—and made for the rear of the taproom.
The two Swords were almost surprised to discover no men waiting for them with knives or clubs, but a low-lanterned alcove with two well-padded cots.
Kestra and Taeriana were affectionate, eager, and had their tongues in the ears of Agannor and Bey within a breath of sitting down on the cots together.
A breath later, both Swords stiffened as cold and slimy mindworms rode those warmly darting tongues into their heads.
Then, of course, Horaundoon’s spell hit them.
Lord Maniol Crownsilver stared blearily at the ceiling for a long time before his mazed mind told him that it was a ceiling, and was in fact his own.
Faces were bending over him. Drawn and sour faces. Holy men.
“You’re healed, Lord,” one told him. “We’ll leave you now.”
The priests filed out, leaving Maniol blinking up from his bed at other, frowning men who’d been standing behind them: war wizards, dark and terrible still in his mind, their cold voices thrusting like sharp blades into his innermost secrets, his private reveries …
He turned his face away, knowing hatred and fear were all over it. After the lass who’d led them had departed, these mages had hurled their spells into his mind, uncaring of his grief, hounding him from misery into senselessness.
Misbegotten goat-whoring bastards.
“So just what was it you wanted to say to me, young forester?” Myrmeen Lhal gave Florin a smile, and indicated an empty chair at her table.
Florin remained standing, suddenly hesitant. What was he doing here? This woman was of the king’s lords, a hardened, keen-witted veter—
Something warm smiled inside his head, and he let that smile take over his lips.
“Lady Lord,” he heard himself saying, “until this day I’d never met a woman I could admire more than …”
Lorbryn looked down at the shattered nobleman and traded sighs with Jalander Mallowglar. Lord Crownsilver was guilty of nothing more than being an arrogant fool and boor—and he’d loved his wife far more than Cormyr had thought he did.
“Mages,” the man said, rolling over to fix them with burning eyes that trailed tears down his unlovely face, “help me find my jewel—my Narantha! Please!”
Well, why not?
Lorbryn leaned forward. “We’ve been watching over her closely for some time, Lord. She’s just arrived at the house of the Creths, in Arabel.”
Crownsilver shook his head, bewildered. “Whatever’s she doing there?”
Jalander gazed across the room at the Crownsilver arms, gaudily emblazoned on a tapestry, and told them, “We believe she’s seeking a husband, Lord. She’s been visiting many young noble lords, all across the realm.”
“What?” Maniol sat up, slack-jawed in horror. “Doesn’t she know I’ll pick her husband? Uh—hem—myself and the lad’s father, of course!”
“Of course,” Lorbryn echoed, unable to entirely keep contempt out of his voice.
“Well,” Lord Maniol snarled, not noticing, “at least she’s over that foolishness of wedding Falconfoot, or whatever he is, of the Swords of Eveningstar breaknecks! Where are they, anyway?”
“In Arabel,” Jalander said, with some satisfaction.
“What? I must get to her!” Lord Crownsilver’s howl was comical. “And you,” he spat, scrambling up off the bed and wagging an imperious finger at the wizards, “must arrest those Swords at once!”
Wizard of War Tathanter Doarmond, who’d been listening from the doorway, announced grandly, “We’ll send her to you, Lord Crownsilver. I trust you’ll be pleased to learn the Swords are under arrest right now.”
“Gods be thanked!” Maniol Crownsilver exulted, reaching his decanter-adorned sideboard and filling a goblet.
“To the watching gods!” he made offering, holding the goblet on high. Slamming the flaming fortified wine down on the sideboard, Crownsilver caught up its decanter again, grinned fiercely at the dark-robed wizards—and drained the entire vessel in one long quaff.
Reeling back to the bed, he sank down onto it, still clutching the empty decanter, called out, “Victory at last!”—and promptly sank back into insensibility.
The war wizards looked down at him.
“Nobles,” Jalander said in disgust. “And they think we’re unfit to be anywhere near the service of Cormyr!”
Lorbryn nodded. “Some of us are. But at least we know it.”
“Out, clumsy gallant,” Myrmeen Lhal said with a smirk. “I’m not one of your husband-hunting Esparran lasses. Take your good looks and come-kiss-me smile elsewhere. Lad.”
Florin stared at her, his hopes of winning some favor and leeway for the Swords falling in shards around him. He felt—stunned.
What had gotten into him? Of course she thought of him as a boy who had nothing to offer her but smilingly insulting effrontery …
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at her in horror. “I’m so sorry. I’ve insulted you beyond all honor, and—gods, Lady Lord, I’m sorry.” He sank to his knees, despairing. What had he—
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