by Ed Greenwood
He grappled with her as she snatched a wand from his belt and used it on his two fellows.
They toppled, and she twisted, served him the same fate. The roiling ash seemed to thrust her away and hurry her to Amarune, who reached out and hauled a gasping Storm into the room.
“Help me with the door bar,” she hissed at Rune, smoke rising from her smoldering gown. “Hurry!”
As they barred the door together, they could hear distant shouting from the Hall of Justice. The shouts rose into full-throated roaring.
Arclath had been wrong; his fellow nobles were not done. Emboldened now, they were falling over each other to stand and shout for more. Lord Landrar Dathcloake had gone so far as to demand that a “Council of Regents-heads of noble Houses, all-should have clear governance over the war wizards, the armies of Cormyr, and all matters of royal succession, including Irvel’s. So the Council will choose, whenever a ruling Obarskyr dies or becomes unfit to rule, who-Obarskyr or non-Obarskyr-will next ascend the Dragon Throne!”
There were roars of approval, and many shouts of disbelief and disapproval, too, as Dathcloake sat down with an air of triumph.
The king was on his feet. “Now that,” he said sternly, “I cannot agree to. The only reason to have a royal line at all is to give the realm some measure of stability. If a Council can choose anyone to rule, that is all lost, and Cormyr will become an endless battleground of factions vying to put their people on Council and to destroy those councillors whose views they decry.”
Many nobles rose to shout responses to that, but one angrily overrode them all: Obraerl Foulweather.
“An easy doom to proclaim,” Foulweather declaimed. “We can all call down darkness and disaster in our imaginations, Your Majesty! Yet we do not see the Council as the strife-ridden, shallow thing you paint it. Elder nobles have at least as much sense-and regard for the realm-as most of your courtiers.”
There arose a general roar of agreement.
“Ah,” the king responded mildly. “Well, then, if so, it should be simplicity itself for everyone here to calmly and swiftly agree on just which nobles should sit on this Council, and which should not. So name your roster, lords, that all may judge your wisdom and prudence.” He looked up at the tiers of seats in clear challenge and repeated, “Name it.”
Uproar ensued, of course, with Arclath grinning in wry silence as it raged, until one leather-lunged noble-Lord Mulcaster Emmarask-prevailed with repeated shouts of “Hear me! Hear me!”
When the chamber quieted, Emmarask advanced a plan for an eleven-person Council, formed of members of specific oldcoin families such as Emmarask and Illance, but not including the Obarskyrs, Crownsilvers, or Truesilvers. Further, he claimed that this was the will of the last regent of the realm, the widely revered, heroic Princess Alusair, and was approved by her, her mother, the Dowager Queen Filfaeril, and the royal magician of the day, Caladnei!
This falsehood proved to be one blatant fabrication too much for one lurking witness in the room to stomach.
The glowing figure of Alusair Obarskyr appeared in midair above them all, pointing at Emmarask angrily and shouting, “You lie, Emmarask! Twist my words at your peril! As regent of the realm I advocated an advisory-only council of eleven citizens, to be named by the monarch or a surviving Obarskyr, and not to have members drawn from specific, set families, noble or otherwise. That was what my mother and Caladnei supported. But all the senior courtiers and nobles of the day hated it and said so, your father being one of those who openly threatened that the founding of such a Council would be immediate cause for rebellion; so, it came to nothing! Cleave to the truth, noble lords, or Cormyr is surely doomed!”
Lord Mulcaster Emmarask sneered at the ghostly princess. “What war wizard trickery are you?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he looked around the tiers of seats and said loudly, “The falcons are certainly flying this season.”
About a dozen older nobles seated all over the room rose as one. Arclath, as most others there, peered around, trying to mark all of them; the two nearest were Lathlance Goldfeather and Corladror Silversword.
Emmarask pointed at Alusair. “Begone, false and lying apparition! You’re not the Steel Princess of legend; you’re some young chit of a war wizard, saying and doing what Ganrahast tells you to! Begone!”
That enraged Alusair, who plunged down through the air as nobles gasped and ducked away and rushed right through Mulcaster Emmarask. He clutched at his heart and fell to shivering, bent in pain and frozen into silence. Swirling, she swooped and did likewise to all the nobles standing in support of him, one after another.
Leaving them terrified and chilled, shaking-and furious.
Other nobles were struck to anger, too. The scribes laid aside their quills and rose to defend King Foril with their wands. Whereupon many nobles promptly and loudly accused them, as war wizards, of “meddling in the lawful debate” of the Council.
In a trice, ceremonial swords and daggers flashed out of scabbards and sheaths all over the room; the Highknights made ready to hustle the king out to safety. And nobles rushed from their seats to surround the king and prevent him escaping anywhere.
Arclath Delcastle sighed as he drew his sword. This was all so predictable.
War wizards and Purple Dragons traded worried frowns as the shouting they heard coming through the closed and guarded doors rose to a full-throated roar, like unto battle. Should they go in? Were they needed to prevent bloodshed? Regicide?
At that moment Storm Silverhand, in a scorched ruin of a gown, with Amarune right behind her, came marching up to them.
“You cannot pass, by order of the king,” a Dragon said automatically, barring their way.
“The king,” the silver-haired woman snarled, “has been poisoned. We’ve only just uncovered the plot! He’ll very soon fall on his face, dead. Let me through this door! Do I look like I have any weapons?”
She spread her hands, showing what was left of her once-magnificent gown clinging to her shapely figure, to reveal that she wore nothing much beneath. Involuntarily, the wizards and guards blinked at her.
Then they stared at each other, worry and doubt on every face.
“What if they’re Marsembian agents? Or Sembians? Or from Westgate?” one mage snapped, waving at the two women.
“Can’t be,” one of the youngest Dragons replied, pointing at Amarune. “Seen that one before, dancing at the Dragonriders’-an’ if she’s some sort of secret agent, I’ll eat my cods!”
From inside the Council chamber came the ring of steel and shouts.
“Oh, farruk!” snarled the senior war wizard. He turned and flung open the doors.
“Sit down!” Lord Summerstar, Lord Delcastle, and other nobles bellowed, but many nobles clearly intended to menace the throats of the crown prince and the king, and were already crossing swords with the Highknights.
In moments, a pitched battle was raging around the two royals. A war wizard reeled, clutching his slit throat; a Highknight went down under a dozen stabbing nobles; and someone managed to stab Irvel-only to discover that his dagger plunged through a royal midriff as if the prince weren’t really there; although, the hard punches Irvel was landing told him the struggling Obarskyr was present and very solid, to boot.
“Ironguard!” that murderous lord cried and clawed at the prince’s gorget-which was popularly rumored to confer such protection-to tear it off.
A Highknight’s desperate leap took the lord away from Irvel and down to the floor with a heavy crash. The landing proved fatal for the lord, as both the dagger and sword of a writhing, groaning noble he landed on burst through him.
Startled shouts and gasps rose all over the Hall of Justice as a woman in archaic fluted armor appeared out of thin air in the empty uppermost tier of seats. A pair of hooked and curved swords-blades like something out of Calimshan or far Raurin-gleamed in her hands.
As nobles stared, she vaulted two tiers down and ran both blades through Lord Barelder, who was
wrestling with another noble from behind.
He arched, shrieked, and fell limp. Kicking him off her swords, she sprang down to the next tier of seats, ducked past a shouting dagger-wielding noble, and pounced on Lord Ambrival, hacking ruthlessly.
He managed to half-turn to face her amid that storm of sharp steel before she slashed out his throat. As he toppled, head flopping loosely amid a fountain of pumping blood, she spun away and leaped down another tier of seats.
The unknown swordswoman was seeking specific targets, moving like lightning as she hunted-lunging and slashing with eerie speed through nobles, wizards, and guards alike. But what awakened fear in the brawling Cormyreans wasn’t her deadly swordplay. It was the aura of cold blue flames that wreathed her, igniting nothing but leaving those they touched wincing and moaning with chill.
“Blueflame ghost! A blueflame ghost-a new one! Right here!” Lord Mountwyrm shouted hoarsely.
“Get her!” a young lord bawled. “If we all strike at her, we can have her down before she slaughters every last one of us!”
As he shouted those words, the flaming figure reached a tall, aging lord-Foulweather-and hewed him bloodily to the floor.
Then blue flames flashed brightly-and were gone.
The ghost had disappeared as suddenly as she’d arrived.
Oaths filled the air. The nobles of Cormyr might be many things, but few of them were slow or stupid men. What they’d just seen… aye, it had been real enough; there was Foulweather lying butchered, and up there Ambrival was draped over the seats with his throat still spewing gore. It meant that someone in the room, a noble attending Council, had a blueflame item and knew how to use it.
Curses faltered in that grim realization-until a lord thrust his belt dagger into the face of a longtime rival, and the chamber erupted in wild battle again.
So much Arclath saw as he fought his way along the seats toward the Obarskyrs, to defend them-before someone he knew sprang out of nowhere, so close their noses bumped. A face grinned at him as he stared in dumbfounded astonishment.
Amarune Whitewave stopped smiling long enough to kiss him on the nose and vaulted past him onto the nearest seat.
Standing tall on it, she shouted in a rough old male voice that rang across the chamber thanks to magic, “I, Vangerdahast, order you all to stand away from the king and crown prince! All of you!”
In the wake of that thunderous shout, as everyone turned to stare, she smiled with sad, old eyes.
Her hands wove a spell, and as nobles began to shout derision, seeing only a young woman instead of a wizard, she unleashed her magic.
It was a spell Elminster had perfected centuries before. A horrible spell.
As it flooded the chamber, it tore bones out of noble bodies, killing this lord and that, but leaving others untouched, taking down only those who were charging at the royals. As the shrieking deaths mounted, dumbfounded Highknights, war wizards, and Obarskyrs stood back, untouched.
The clash of steel died as those who remained stared at the boneless, blood-drenched things, whose screams fell into dying burblings.
Amarune reeled and slumped, starting to gibber.
Shocked and frightened, Arclath reached out to catch her before she fell. Storm Silverhand already had hold of Rune’s other arm and was whispering, “Oh, El!”
Doors burst open all around the chamber, and more war wizards and Dragons came storming in. Servants entered after them, and the uproar arose again as hasty misunderstandings reigned, spells were hurled, and servants dashed the wine they were ready to serve into noble faces. Meanwhile, the Obarskyrs were hustled out.
As Storm slumped into a seat as Rune abruptly stopped gibbering and instructed Arclath in her own voice, “Come!”
Looking at her, then down at Storm in bewilderment, Arclath found the wrist of his free hand captured in Amarune’s firm grip. She guided it to Storm’s waist.
“Carry her!” Rune snapped. “Hurry!”
Arclath blinked, nodded, hauled Storm up against his hip, and took one awkward step, waving his sword for balance.
A war wizard promptly loomed up in front of them. “Halt, in the name of the king! Surrend-”
Amarune’s leaping kick hurled the man’s wand high into the air, shattered the fingers that had held it, and burst through them to the mage’s chin. He went over backward without a sound, out cold.
As Amarune landed like a cat, two gleaming-armored Dragons raced up to confront them, but gave way before Arclath’s wildly swung sword and her desperate snarl, “Harm us and you are both traitors! We serve the king!”
When the Dragons’ blades came up in reply, Arclath hacked them aside. Rune flung herself at the guards’ boots in a roll that swept them off their feet with a wild clangor of blades and armor, leaving Arclath’s path to the door clear.
He ran, dragging Storm, with Rune gasping, “I’m right behind you! Hurry!”
A few frantic moments later they raced out of the palace together, into a bright and sunny morning.
Palace Understeward Corleth Fentable had spent much time being angry these last few days, but he was really angry now. War wizards and countless Dragons rushed this way and that, and not one of them would stay still long enough to hear his orders. He wanted some to seek the Lord Arclath Delcastle, others to find a young lass who’d been admitted into the palace that day but shouldn’t have been, and He was just about to let loose a great bellow of rage and hit someone with something when a familiar, faintly glowing shadow that looked very much like the portrait of Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr, the Steel Princess, that hung in the High Hall of Heroes-strode up to him and snapped, “I have orders for you, Fentable. Do none of those things you’re gabbling about, and instead apply yourself to something important, for once. Namely, getting down to the Hall of Justice with mages enough to put the worst belligerents to sleep. Then disarm everyone, summon healers from the temples, and set yourself to calming all surviving nobles who attended Council, before some of them-possibly several cabals of them-decide making war on the fair family of Obarskyr will bring a brighter future to Cormyr!”
“Nobles always think that,” Fentable snapped before he could stop to ask himself why he was bothering to talk to a ghost. “Why should I do anything about your silly fears?”
“Because some of those nobles can’t wait to execute every last war wizard-or courtier-they can find,” Alusair told him calmly, “and because your silly fears are about to include this.”
She stepped right into the same space his body was occupying-plunging the understeward into an unbearable cold that drove him into uncontrollable, gray-faced shivering, his teeth chattering wildly.
Just as everything started to go dark and he fell, she stepped back, looked down at his gasping body, and said briskly, “Now get up so I can do that again, Saer Fentable. You aren’t sick enough of it yet. You aren’t pleading.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BLOOD ON THE WHIRLWIND
T o Arclath’s astonishment, Amarune steered him along the outside of the palace to the stable gates, where they found the row of guards gone and only one worried-looking hostler and a lone young Purple Dragon left on duty.
“What’s happening?” the Dragon asked them sharply.
“Fighting at Council,” Arclath replied grimly, holding up his sword to show the bright blood on it.
The young soldier stared at it and looked a little ill. His spear trembled as it came up to menace Arclath. “I’ll be needing you to surrender that, lord, and-”
“I’ll be needing you to stop trying such foolishness, and get yourself to the Hall of Justice as fast as you can run,” Arclath snarled. “They tried to kill the king! And the crown prince, too. Some of the old lords, that is, and they’re all still loose in the palace right now, most of them waving swords. Go!”
The young Dragon gave him a frightened stare-and went.
Leaving the gates unguarded, their way into the royal stables clear. The hostler had taken to his heels at his firs
t sight of Arclath’s blade.
Rune strode into the stableyard. “We’ll be needing a horse. Storm won’t be able to walk for some time.”
“You’re Elminster, aren’t you?” Arclath asked, struggling along in her wake with Storm draped over his back. “What have you done with Amarune?”
Rune turned, found the point of his blade at her throat, and smiled a little sadly at him.
“No, Arclath, it’s me.” She shook her head wearily. “Even if it was the old wizard, if you kill your Amarune-well, you kill your Amarune, don’t you?”
With a growl, Arclath took his blade away.
Together they went into the warm, dimly lit stables. Horses occupied every stall, but Arclath and Rune found no guards and surprisingly few hostlers-and the handfuls they did see were whispering excitedly in various corners.
None paid them any heed as Arclath shifted Storm’s limp body onto his shoulder and let Amarune guide him deeper amid the stalls.
When she started to stride too swiftly, he flung out a hand and caught hold of her wrist. “I’m not leaving your side. Come what may to House Delcastle or the Dragon Throne, whether that was Vangerdahast or Elminster or the ghost of the fourth Azoun himself speaking through you in that chamber, when you stood and shouted, I–I-all gods damn it, Amarune, I love you!”
Eyes shining, Rune spun, flung her arms around him, kissed him as if she wanted to take his entire body into her mouth, and gasped, “And I love you, so hurry!”
They hurried.
“So,” Arclath puffed as they hastened past stall after stall, “are-are you really you right now, Rune? How can I tell?”
His lady gave him a wink. “Trust, Lord Delcastle. Trust. Believe me when I assure you it was truly Amarune Whitewave, whose dances you’ve enjoyed so often, who kissed you just now-and professed my love in return. I do still have some scruples.”
She pointed at Storm’s slack face and gaping mouth, within which she knew ashes were roiling in merry madness. “Him, I’m not so sure about.”
