by James Lowder
Azoun ran his gaze slowly over the crowd, letting their expectation of his next words build for a moment. He could sense in their expressions that he'd won many of his subjects over already. "Do you know what else they want?" the king asked softly.
A ripple of hesitant answers rolled over the crowd. Azoun heard a few of these replies, and they revealed the names of his people's fears. He singled out some and used them as rallying cries.
"Will we let the horsewarriors take our land?" the king asked.
The crowd shouted a ragged reply of "No!" and "Never!"
Azoun balled his hands into tight, quivering fists and held them in front of him. "Will we let the horsewarriors take our homes?"
"No!" the people screamed. Men and women mirrored the king's stance, holding their own fists clenched before them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Azoun saw that a few of the guards that lined the platform to either side of him were shouting with the crowd.
At the garden's edge, Razor John felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck as he screamed his reply to Azoun's challenge. He glanced at Mal and Kiri, and saw that they, too, were caught up in the king's speech. In fact, almost everyone around the fletcher seemed to be shouting his or her defiance to the Tuigan threat.
Everyone, John realized, except a lone man, who stood next to the fat baker. He was tight-lipped and rigid, as if immobilized. Thin, almost emaciated, the man stood silently, his hard gaze locked on the stage.
The fletcher stared at the man for a moment, mesmerized by the contradiction he presented in the wildly screaming crowd. The rigid, green-clad man didn't notice John's gaze, though, as he stiffly pulled his tattered forest-green cloak a little tighter around his shoulders. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the king on the stage.
"Will we let the horsewarriors take our lives?" Razor John heard Azoun cry. A unified reply went up, and people raised their fists into the air. The fletcher glanced back at the platform and saw that the crowd again mirrored the king's stance. When John returned his gaze to who seemed to be the one silent person in the gardens, he saw that the ragged man had pulled a rolled, yellowing piece of parchment from under his tattered cloak.
He held the scroll up quickly, and his lips began to move. Because of the shouting, John couldn't tell if he was actually speaking. No one else seemed to be paying attention to the tight-lipped man, so John was the only one who saw the parchment he held in his bony fingers begin to glow with a pale red luminescence.
For a moment, the light puzzled the fletcher. Then the realization dawned on him: The man was casting a spell.
"I challenge every able-bodied citizen of Suzail," Azoun continued from the stage. "Citizens from any part of Cormyr. Be prepared to help me to defend our country."
The crowd roared, and John looked quickly from the glowing paper to the platform. "No!" he cried.
Shoving Mal out of his way, the fletcher lunged toward the assassin. He was too late. A second before Razor John touched the man's torn and threadbare surcoat, the parchment disappeared in a gout of red-orange flame.
Three things happened at once.
Azoun had just told the crowd that they should report to the city watch to sign up for the crusade. The king was about to inform them that several churches devoted to gods of Good were ready to enlist volunteers, too. He never got the chance.
A pinpoint of red light arched from the crowd and sped toward the stage. As it got closer to the king, it grew larger and larger, until, at last, it resembled nothing less than a miniature sun, blazing toward the platform. The ball of fire singed the hair of those it passed over and blinded those foolish enough to look directly at it. It left a trail of smoke and the smell of burned skin in its wake.
Razor John saw none of this as he slammed into the assassin, knocking him to the ground. The fletcher rolled on top of the man and grabbed him by the shoulders. Only after the assassin's elbow smashed into John's ribs did he realize that the ragged man was far stronger than he looked. That blow was the only one struck, as the fletcher's work-hardened muscles were enough to pin the man until help arrived.
"The city'll thank me," the man rasped over and over.
After the incident earlier that morning, the fletcher was only slightly surprised when the man's tattered green cloak flew back and revealed the bear trap badge of the Trappers' Guild bound to his thin arm.
On the platform, Azoun had only a second to react to the fireball rushing at him. Turning toward his wife, the king made what he knew was a futile effort to shield her from the blast. A few guards stepped toward the king and queen, but no one was fast enough to block the doom that hurtled toward the stage.
For his part, Vangerdahast seemed riveted with fear. In truth, he was reciting a brief but sincere prayer to the Goddess of Magic that the wards he'd placed on the stage held.
The fireball struck the front of the platform. All the king, the queen, or the others on the stage could see was a splash of brilliant red, though they could faintly feel the heat from the blast. Still, the flames never touched them. The magical attack struck the invisible wall Vangerdahast's wards created in front of the stage and exploded.
Guards and nobles hustled Azoun and Filfaeril off the stage, back through the gates and into the keep. Once he was sure that the king was safe, Vangerdahast returned to the platform to assess the damage. Though his vision was slightly blurred from observing the fireball too closely, the royal magician could hear the screams and smell the burned flesh quite clearly.
The wards had kept the king safe, but hadn't protected the people standing close to the stage.
4
Allies and Enemies
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 o
n 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 glan
ced 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?"
