by Ed Greenwood
“No part in it all? We’re noble! ”
“Precisely. And the essence of being noble is getting what you want without seeming to take any direct action to get it. Leaving your reputation unstained and your hands clean. Remember that, if you remember nothing else.”
Florin smiled.
Yon hillside was familiar; they were right where he’d planned to be. They’d already passed Espar well to the west, and must now circle back north and east to strike the road at Hunter’s Hollow where he’d agreed to meet Delbossan. It was time to slow their pace, so they’d not reach the road until that third day.
Behind him, trudging up to join him, Narantha groaned. Florin turned, lifting an eyebrow in silent question.
“My feet hurt!” Narantha hissed. “These stlarning boots!”
Florin nodded. “You can do them off now; we’ll halt here awhile. ’Tis past time we bathed.”
The Lady Crownsilver lifted her head to give him a startled glare. “Bathe? Where? ”
Florin pointed at the stream. Just here, the waters of the Dathyl looked placid-and green, as they slid lazily over scum-covered rocks. Narantha regarded the water with disgust, and rather predictably hissed, “I’m not getting myself wet in that!”
Florin turned and pointed through the trees in another direction, to where a swarm of tiny insects danced above a muddy patch of leaves. “There’s the alternative.”
The Lady Narantha Crownsilver drew herself up and said in her most frigidly haughty manner: “Falconhand, if you think I’m bathing here at all…”
“We’ll both be washing,” Florin said flatly. “One at a time, while the other stands beastwatch. We both stink enough that beasts can readily scent us, now, from a good distance away. Your long hair and reluctance to get wet have left you smelling a lot worse than I do, and if we wait much longer, so much of our reek will be in our clothes that we’ll attract beasts-and stingflies-just as readily as if we blew war horns with our every step.”
“I stink? ”
“Yes.”
“I see,” Narantha said icily. “And just how do you expect me to wash in… that?”
“Take off your clothes, sit down there-there’s a sandbar under the water, see? — to scoop up sand, and scrub yourself with it. Stings a bit, but you’ll be done soon enough, and I’ll crush some ardanthe sap into your hair. It has a nice smell.”
“And how will I dry myself?”
Florin pointed up at the sun then through the trees at a large boulder. “Lie down on that and bake until you’re dry enough to get dressed.”
“While you leer and look. And you seriously expect me to do that?”
“I hold no expectations, Lady, but I’ve been given to understand that many nobles of our realm are from time to time sensible. I’m hoping you’re one of them.”
Eyes flaming, Narantha clenched her fists and stepped up nose to nose with him-she had to look up to do it, which made her even more furious, and she was already seething. “Do you know who I am, knave? Do you know who I am? ”
Florin’s blue-gray eyes bored into hers. “Lady, increasingly I am learning what you are: a bone-idle, arrogant, spoiled chit of a girl. You seem to spend most of your labor in tirades and cursings, berating me because you find fault with my service-the service I tender out of kindness and my duty to the realm, not out of any obligation to you, or coin-hire. There’s an expression about ‘only a leucrotta being crazed enough to bite the hand that feeds it.’ Well, Lady, you’re a leucrotta.”
“How dare you speak to me so! Why, if it weren’t for the nobility-nobles like me-Cormyr would be all backcountry louts starving and grubbing in the dirt, bedding their sisters and mothers and having no law but that of the fist, and no tongue but gruntings! How dare you!?”
“Someone should have dared, long ago, and done so as often as it took to break you of this serenely wrong view of the ways of the world. Hear this, Narantha, and hear it well: Faerun is not going to change to your will. Either you must change to dwell in it, or it will break you.”
Florin slid his pack off his shoulder and added, “You’ve been doing this for so long that your tirades are almost a habit: the way you always deal with anything that displeases you. Count yourself favored of Tymora that I’m not the backcountry lout you see all of us common folk as-or I’d have silenced you forever with the back of my hand, or at least until you woke up with your head still ringing, and started crawling around looking for your lost teeth. We are schooled and taught courtesies, we commoners, and one of them is never to hit a woman-for women are the nurturers who keep families strong and therefore the realm strong. However, just now, my schooling is on the very sword-edge of slipping.”
Falling abruptly silent, Florin whirled around and stalked away to the stream, tearing off his clothes as he went.
Leaving Narantha staring at his back, open-mouthed.
His bare back. She blinked.
She closed her mouth, firmly, and turned her head away. How dare he speak thus! Why did he refuse to know his place, and keep to it? Why She looked toward the stream, and hastily turned away again. Gods, he was using sand.
She shuddered, tramped to the high boulder, and started watching for beasts. Ones that weren’t wet and hairy, and cheerfully sporting right over there in the stream.
Chapter 7
TO LOVE CORMYR
Far from being a traitor, I do love Cormyr. Deeply. Which is why I intend to raise an army and go back to the fair Forest Kingdom, slaughter every last Obarskyr, war wizard, king’s lord, and Purple Dragon in it, and claim every stride of its soil as my own.
Sorn Merendil
The Obarsk yrs Must Die (pamphlet) published in the Year of Moonfall
R eady?”
Jhessail nodded, and Islif brought the cudgel forward from her shoulder in a hard, fast throw that sent it end-over-end across the meadow, to crash down into the midst of the tangle of briars.
As expected, a rabbit shot forth, racing like the wind. Jhessail murmured, pointed, and a vivid blue bolt of magic lashed out, racing arrow-swift The rabbit changed direction, very swiftly. In a few moments it would zag again, then stop to Just as sharply, the magic missile turned in the air to follow its racing quarry-and lanced home.
The bunny turned a cartwheel in the air and thudded back to earth, where it lay still.
“Rose of Moander!” Islif gasped, growing a broad grin. “You did it!”
Jhessail’s answering cry was lost in a sudden chorus of barks and bays. Over the shoulder of the meadow came an all-too-familiar torrent of teeth and loping legs and burr-bedecked, flea-ridden coats. Hearing their voices, though they weren’t on Estle land, Belkur Estle had loosed his dogs.
Islif growled her annoyance and ran for her cudgel.
Jhessail took an uncertain step back-then stepped forward again, looking determined. She had but the one missile, but if she could down Old One-Eye, their leader, the others might well draw off in confusion.
Or so she hoped.
Islif waded into briars, cursing, but turned as One-Eye’s rising growl of menace suddenly turned into a yelp-and just as suddenly fell silent, as if cut off by a knife.
Or a spell.
The lead dog of Estle’s pack, it seemed, would never be a belligerent terror in the Esparran fields again.
The others were barking furiously at Jhessail-but they were doing so stiff-legged, leaping back and forth in a line of not-daring that confronted her, their headlong charge broken.
Islif laid hands on her cudgel and burst out of the briars in a roaring charge of her own.
To the dogs, she was a familiar foe, and they had bruises and stiffnesses of broken ribs a-plenty to remind them of her prowess. Their barkings rose higher and more fearful, marking their hasty retreat.
“Well done!” Doust called in cheerful greeting, as he and Semoor came out of Rorth Urtree’s woodlot together.
“Ah, the two holy men. Arriving just too late to be useful, as usual,” Islif repl
ied. “Saw you the spells?”
“Of course. We’re foolish, not blind. Shall we start a fire to cook the bunny, or did Jhess’s spell cook it for us?”
Islif reached for her belt knife. “We’ll have to find out. Yet, look you, we can be true adventurers now: We have our wizard!”
“True adventurers,” Jhessail echoed thoughtfully as they gathered around her. “I wonder where Florin is?”
“Mother Mielikki, that feels better!” Florin said, stretching. Water pattered on leaves as he clambered onto the boulder. His rippling muscles were magnificent, and he gave Narantha a bright smile as he joined her.
She broke off staring at him and looked away quickly, blushing.
“Your turn,” he announced, and when she looked up at him again, she discovered he’d assumed a hero’s pose: exact mimicry of the balled fists and sternly lifted chin of the famous statue of King Dhalmass Surveying The Realm. Oh, yes, there was supposed to be a copy of it on Espar’s village green, wasn’t there?
The effect was hilarious, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Florin moved one eye sidelong to give her a wink, and she looked away again, knowing he could see her suppressing her mirth.
When she looked back at him this time, their gazes met, and she blushed a deep scarlet, but kept her eyes on his and asked curiously, “That scar on your hand; how came you by it?”
“Dragon breath. Back when I was young, I was foolish-rather than the wise elder of the realm I am now. A caravan merchant had a pet red dragon he was taking to sell in Sembia, where the real fools live. It was about the size of a large dog-a wolfhound-and I made the mistake of trying to pet it.”
“What?”
“You’re terribly fond of that word. What merchant? What dragon? What happened next? Or d’you mean ‘I can’t believe you’?”
Narantha stared at him. “I… I guess I really mean ‘I don’t believe it.’ No one-no one’s ever talked to me as you do.”
Florin dropped his pose and stood casually facing her. “And are you going to have me horsewhipped for it, when we reach Espar?”
“No.” She looked at the ground, and said almost petulantly, “You must think I’m some sort of dragon. I-” Almost reluctantly, she looked up again. “No, of cour-no, I’m not.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Your turn in the Dathyl; ’tis not exactly warm, but it’ll be colder later on.”
Narantha looked at the forester thoughtfully, as if judging him, then blurted out, “Don’t stop doing it. Even when I scream at you. Please. You’re like the older brother I’ve never had.”
Florin smiled. “Have my thanks, Narantha. Those words are… nice to hear.” He reached out to pat her shoulder, and said not a word when she flinched away from him.
Swallowing, she deliberately stepped forward again to meet his hand.
“So,” Florin asked lightly, unhooking the catch of her weathercloak, “will you let your older brother help wash your hair?”
Horaundoon frowned over his scrying orb. The hargaunt belled questioningly.
Without taking his eyes off the glowing orb, the Zhentarim replied, “Echoes. I’ve never felt echoes before. I wonder…”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “They could just be wards, or detection spells responding to my magic… or they could be something more dangerous.”
Horaundoon went on staring into the orb. The hargaunt trilled and chimed again, but he made no reply.
“He knows,” Horaundoon said suddenly, one of his hands closing into a fist. “The elf knows my magic is drifting into his mantle. He keeps looking over… ah, there it is. A scepter of some sort, probably his strongest battle-magic. Yet he casts nothing, makes no adjustments to his mantle at all. Restless, though, as if he wants to. Yes, he’s itching to. So why the echoes, if he’s not-?”
His eyes narrowed, and he scratched at his jaw as if at an agonizing itch. “Once my spell conquers the focal gem and the spellstealing begins, the link back to me is strong. Yet if I hold back from the gem, and trace all spells linked to it, I should be able to see if our elf mage has some waiting friends.”
Horaundoon closed his eyes and let his hands fall to his sides, concentrating hard. “Yes,” he whispered, after a long moment. “Yes, there’s a second link… and a third. Tracing spells. Nigh a dozen.”
He opened his eyes as he ended his spell, letting it collapse and take the distant elf away from him. “And other mages at the end of every one of them! A band of wizards waiting to spring their trap on the mysterious Eater-of-Mantles. Not a mantle among them, but I daresay they’ll have minds brimming with murderous spells and eagerness to use them.”
The hargaunt spoke, and the Zhentarim smiled a wolflike smile. “Not ended, just halted for a time, until I can craft a spell to plunder mages’ minds when they’re not wearing a mantle. In the meantime, I can attend more revels and learn about a few more magical baubles in the collections of old and foolheaded Cormyrean nobles. While their house wizards probe at me in vain, finding minor cosmetic spells but not the shapeshifting magics they’re expecting. Thanks to you. ”
He grinned at the hargaunt almost fondly, and its chiming reply was intricate and enthusiastic.
The Lady Narantha Crownsilver came out into the glade and stopped in wonder. Florin strode on in his nigh-soundless way, but seemed to sense she wasn’t right behind him. He whirled around, saw that nothing menaced her, and came back to join her, moving as quietly as ever.
Narantha no longer felt sticky and dirty, and for the first time her boots felt familiar and almost painless. The sun was bright and warm, birds were calling in the trees around, and looking down the length of the glade she could see the land ahead rising in a great shoulder of pines and duskwoods, to a rocky ridge. Beyond, purple in the distance, great mountains rose like so many eternal fangs against the cloudless blue sky: the Storm Horns… and somewhere at their forefront, probably hidden behind the nearby ridge, rose the bright fang that was the great castle of High Horn.
Narantha looked long at the scene before her, breathing deeply of the clear air. The merest ghost of a breeze was bringing her the sharp scent of bruised needles, and just a hint of unseen, distant woodsmoke. She had never really looked at a sky before, or wild and magnificent Cormyr laid out in a vista before her. The green glory of trees and rolling hills…
Narantha pursed her lips and shook her head. She had gazed, but she had never really seen before. So much time wasted, so many petty nothings and empty fripperies crowding her life.
Florin was standing beside her, looking down at her. She looked up at him, not knowing how to say what was in her mind.
He caught hold of her hand with his own, and squeezed. “Memories are treasures,” he murmured. “Lock the best of them in your mind forever, the most splendid moments, and throw away the rest. Any day when you gain such a treasure is a day well-spent.”
She nodded, her throat tight on the edge of tears, and they walked on in silence together, still holding hands.
Jalander swallowed. Vangerdahast was looming over him, having appeared as unexpectedly and disconcertingly as always. He could not avoid that commanding gaze; bristling eyebrows lifted in a silent question, the eyes beneath them hard and keen.
Jalander was not a junior war wizard, and so could-just-control his awe and fear at such close attention from the Royal Magician of Cormyr. “ ’Tis these new ward-spells you’ve had us working at. They work well enough when cast on Jester’s Green or a back pasture somewhere, even when guarding someone who’s moving. But they keep collapsing-and going wild, too, in little outbursts here and there-whenever we cast them anywhere near the palace. Even up at High Horn we had problems. Too many other magics-”
“Indeed,” Vangerdahast said. “Wards upon wards, old enchantments underlying those we know about, some slumbrous and many awakening without warning. They all interfere with each other. I feared as much. So the gaps in our armor must remain.”
Jalander Mallowglar dared much,
then. He dared to sit back in his chair and observe, “I thought you’d be more upset than-than you seem to be.”
“Lad, if I let Cormyr see how upset I am most of the time, they’d lock me up as a madman. If I showed all Cormyr why I’m upset, they’d flee the realm so hard and fast, screaming their terror to the skies, that most of them would probably drown in the Dragonmere before they noticed they’d run right off the ends of our piers!”
There was a sudden shriek from the deep words to their left, and Narantha tensed, wide-eyed. “What’s that?”
The shriek rose wildly and broke off suddenly, leaving an ominous silence. Florin strode on.
“Aren’t-aren’t you going to go see?” Narantha asked, aghast. “That was a woman, frightened and in pain! Something just happened to her! Don’t foresters care-”
Florin spun around, looking grave. “That was a wolf, not a woman-and it was dying. Under the claws and jaws of something large enough to kill a wolf at a pounce, without much of a fight.”
He shrugged, and added a little sadly, “Whenever you hear that sort of noise, ’tis too late to do anything.”
Narantha stared at him, her face white, and Florin added, “ ’Tis the way of things. The forest is fair to gaze upon-but cruel.”
“Gods,” she said, her voice almost a sob ere she steadied it. “Even here. I thought-I thought…”
“You thought that out here, because ’tis beautiful and you’ve lost your first fears of it, that things are, ah, gentler than the games of verbal and social dagger-hurling nobles play at?” Florin’s voice was soft. “Ah, now, that would be a world…”
He drew his sword again, and reached out his free hand to take hers.
“Come, Narantha. The light will fail soon, and we must find a good place to camp-or yon wolf’s fate may yet be ours.”
Narantha shivered. “I… Florin, I’ve been horrible to you.”
And I far more so to you, Lady, did you but know it, Florin thought, guilt jabbing at him through his relief that playacting at being both square-jawed hero and veteran forester was largely done. Oh, you’d never forgive me, if only you knew. I wonder how long it will be, before I dare to tell you I chased you out here just for sport?
