Swords of Eveningstar komd-1

by Ed Greenwood

  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 Faerun. 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

  I t’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, and 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.

  Who sighed, shrugged, and said, “The king is the king. He does what he believes is best for Cormyr. Would you want adventurers with blades and spells looking for trouble in Espar? In Marsember? Arabel? Suzail? Well, neither does he. I… I hope I’m not going to just scream and run, when the first orc I see is coming at us. Hungrily.” She shivered.

  “Dathen Brook,” Islif interrupted, pointing ahead. “Time to stop and water the horses.”

  “And that’s what successful adventuring is about,” Semoor said brightly. “Taking the time to stop and water the horses.”

  The innkeeper had called this his “neither my best nor yet my worst” room, but it was little better than a closet. No window, two narrow bunk beds-Horaundoon undid his carry-coffer’s shoulder-slicing harness with relief, and tossed the heavy burden onto the lower bunk-and a rickety chair drawn up to a small, scarred table. A shelf with a towel and a cracked water-ewer. A candle-lamp with scrips and a striker. A chamberpot under the bed, with a mouse scurrying past it. Doubtless bugs in the bed.

  So this was upcountry luxury.

  The Zhentarim closed the door. It fit loosely; the floor was warped. At least there was a wooden toe-wedge to hold it shut. Horaundoon augmented it with three wedges of his own and tacked up the black blanket he’d be sleeping in tonight over the door, to block all curious eyes. Then he cast a scrying-shield that was much better than the ring-stored sort sold to wealthy merchants in Sembia, and waited until it turned the air its ghostly gray.

  So he was a merchant with secrets. That shouldn’t be so rare in Waymoot as to upset local war wizards enough to call in superiors. He’d already planned to hide his orb inside the hargaunt, and hide the hargaunt as part of himself, whenever he set boot outside this oh-so-cozy chamber.

  Horaundoon unwrapped his smallest scrying orb, set it on the table with the inn towel beneath it, laid his fingertips on it, and murmured the words that brought it to glowing, floating life.

  It was time to go hunting foolish new adventurers…

  Once dismounted, reins wrapped around her arm, Islif turned to Florin and embraced him. “Thank you,” she said huskily. “I meant to do this earlier, but those war wizards were determined we’d not get any chance to talk together before bedding down, without them eagerly taking in every word. I’m surprised they didn’t bed down with each of us; they did lock us in, you know.”

  Florin nodded. “I discovered that.”

  Islif kissed him. “Thank you. I don’t know how you did it-you must have had Tymora’s own shining luck, not to get killed! — but you got us our charter, and handed us all our dream!”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t become a nightmare.” Florin sighed. “This may be a huge mistake. I made a terrible blunder a few days back, and if I go on making them, I may well get us all killed.”

  “Excuse me,” the Lady Narantha said firmly, putting a hand on Florin’s arm and giving Islif a beseeching look-who nodded and let go, allowing the noblewoman to drag Florin a few strides away.

  Keeping her voice low, Narantha bent her head close to his and murmured, “You guided me in the forest; there, I was little better than a child. Please heed me when I say this now: forests may be unknown realms to me, but leading people, winning arguments, and manipulating folk high and low are where I can guide you, a little.”

  “Lady,” Florin agreed, “I will. For as they say of the Blue Dragons, I’m all at sea in this. I can bark commands and look imperious-my father did that very successfully, and I can ape him easily enough-but when I ride with my friends, and their lives are at hazard…”

  Semoor sidled a few steps closer to them, cocking his head with an exaggerated flourish to eavesdrop.

  Narantha gave him a dirty sidelong look and moved around Florin to face him squarely-and be able to look past his arm and watch Semoor.

  Putting her arms around Florin’s neck, she drew his head down and murmured, as they stood nose to nose, “I must give you stern warning. Never appear indecisive or less than confident. Even if you quail inside, or feel bewildered, be firm, give orders, and make others think you are in command of what befalls-and you will be. You must do this, Florin!”

  Sober blue-gray eyes met hers, and relief was growing in them. Florin let out his breath, smiled, and told her, “Thanks, La-”

  “Nantha,” she said firmly, kissed the tip of his nose, and stepped back out of his arms, catching hold of his hand to lead them back to the road.

  Semoor was holding their horses for them, and at their approach he observed loudly, “So you are a couple. Sidling off by yourselves for kiss-and-cuddle moments, embracing whenever you get the chance-”
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br />   “Master Wolftooth,” Narantha said crisply, “I’ll tolerate much from the friends of the man who saved my life. Yet a woman’s reputation is her all-for the nobly born, at least-and if you cast many more unfounded aspersions my way, be aware that you’ll soon be doing so without teeth! Or what are vulgarly referred to as your ‘family jewels,’ or both teeth and jewels, as my outrage moves me. Hear me, upstanding servant of Lathander, and guide thyself accordingly.”

  “Oh, well said,” Islif applauded. “Semoor, spare us any attempt at a clever rejoinder. Tell the lady: ‘Yes, Lady Narantha. Thank you, Lady Narantha. Sorry, Lady Narantha, and it won’t happen again, Lady Nar-’ ”

  “Hey, now!” Semoor protested. “I can manage all of those courtesies but the last. Lathander looks not favorably on falsehoods.”

  Narantha wrinkled her forehead in the deepest of puzzled frowns. “And so you chose to serve him why, exactly-you being what you are?”

  The Waymoot roadguard gave them a smile and a wave; evidently their fame had preceded them. The Swords took rooms at The Old Man after Narantha told them it was the quietest inn in town, ate a good meal, then strolled down the street.

  Doust was bound for evening prayers at the local temple of Tymora, but the others sought the doors beneath the hanging signboard of The Moon and Stars.

  Flanking the entrance, four watchful rangers with swords at their sides stood waiting, leaning against the jambs and side-panels with crossed arms and carefully expressionless faces.

  “Down blades,” one of them ordered.

  “Goodman,” the Lady Narantha replied politely, “you may guard my dagger.” As she calmly hiked the skirts of her glittering flame-hued evening gown to unsheath it, raising all the eyebrows the four doorwardens possessed, she added, “These my companions have a charter, newly given them by the king himself, that permits-”