by Ed Greenwood
The moment Gulkanun tapped him with one end of Rune’s cord, he looked up, nodded, seized it, tied it around himself in a crude sling, and was over the edge almost before they could brace themselves to take his weight.
Rune snatched up a scrap of broken-off wall bracket to guard against the paying-out cord being sawn at by the raw edge of broken stone Farland had vanished over, but she’d barely crawled to where she could thrust it under the moving cord before it stopped moving and the lord constable called hoarsely, “Pull me up. I’ve seen enough.”
“So,” Gulkanun asked a few puffing moments later, as they helped Farland to his feet, “what’s ‘enough’?”
The lord constable shook his head, seeking words. He’d gone so pale that old scars and pimples stood out on his face like startlingly dark festival face painting.
“More than the tower’s gone,” he said grimly. “The whole south face … blasted away, every floor laid open. I could see the passages like a column of holes, all the way down. For now, that is. Everything’s sagging.”
As he spoke, they heard a long, slow clattering crash from somewhere below the edge. It was the sound of stones falling away from Irlingstar like a lazy rain, as the shattered blocks beneath them crumbled and slumped.
Farland winced as if someone were smashing a precious treasure. “There’ll be more of that. I don’t think anything’s safe, as far back as the central well.”
“The stairs where Vandur fell?” Arclath guessed.
Farland nodded wearily. He looked close to tears.
“Mind!” Longclaws said sharply, darting out to clutch at the lord constable and drag him back. A deep, yawning groan had begun in the stone around and beneath them.
As they all hurried back past where the fourth pair of doors should have been, the stones off to their right started to lean.
As they stared, that slow lean became an inexorable topple … and an entire pillarlike buttress of the castle wall collapsed. It broke up as it fell so its descent became a roaring cataract of tumbling stone that shattered several trees and carried them away in an instant—exposing two men who’d been hiding behind them.
Two heavily armed men in motley leather armor adorned with gorgets and codpieces and other mismatched pieces of metal armor here and there, among all the pouches and baldrics and dagger hilts.
The five agents and officers of the Crown stared down at them.
“I am the lord constable of Castle Irlingstar,” Farland growled. “Who are you?”
The two strangers looked back up at him, taking heed that the hands of the two men flanking him were rising as if to work spells—and that one of those hands looked like a bouquet of flowers whose leaves were rapidly growing into curling, questing tentacles.
“Uh, Harbrand,” one of the men—the one who wore an eye patch—blurted out, before jerking a thumb at his companion. “He’s Hawkspike.”
They both added rather guilty grins to these names.
“Ah … any chance of a room for the night?” Harbrand asked. “There’s a dragon flying around out here!”
The doors of the well-hidden chamber deep in the haunted wing of the royal palace of Suzail were firmly spell-locked. Some conferences required privacy even from royalty.
“Glathra, just get used to the fact that some things are going to be kept secret even from you. Until the time is right for you to know.”
Glathra glared back at the spiderlike Royal Magician Vangerdahast, and spat, “But I should have known all about this! It’s vital to my work!”
“It’s no more than a distraction from your work until we know it functions, and safely, so it can be relied upon,” Lord Warder Vainrence husked, from where he sat slumped in a chair. He was still weak and pale, but recovered enough from the spell trap that had almost slain him in the palace cellars to rise from bed at last. “If we can use it for a time before word of it spreads, we’ll gain that much more by it. And word will spread fast, mark you; in the first reports brought to me since I’ve been up and about, some nobles have already begun to talk of war wizards as recently seeming very ‘watchful.’ So until you truly needed to know …”
Glathra’s eyes blazed, but she turned from glowering at him to give her glare to the current Royal Magician of Cormyr.
Ganrahast merely nodded and told her, “Correct. Hence my orders to that effect.”
Wizard of War Glathra Barcantle slammed both fists down on the table in exasperation, then whirled to face the silent, silver-haired woman sitting beside her, and wagged a pointing finger almost in Storm Silverhand’s face. “Yet she knew—and she’s not even Crown-sworn, or of Cormyr!”
“She knew because she did most of the work of perfecting it,” Vangerdahast growled, advancing across the table like a crawling spider. Glathra shrank back in revulsion, hating herself for her fear and disgust and finding fresh fury in his unlovely grin. He knew how she felt about him and was coming at her deliberately!
“Just as I knew about it because I did the rest of the work,” the spiderlike thing added, ere turning abruptly and crawling away.
“And as it happens, Lady Storm is Crown-sworn—and is of Cormyr,” Ganrahast said quietly.
“Not to our king! Nor is she a citizen dwelling within our borders, who pays taxes to the Crown! She presumes a lot, on a title bestowed centuries ago!”
“As to that,” Vainrence said with sudden heat, “we wizards of war all presume a lot. It’s what we do. Now have done, Glathra. I’m not sure how much longer I can stay awake, and this is important.”
Glathra looked away from him, and at Storm Silverhand. Keeping silent, Storm gave her a friendly smile, but Glathra pointedly turned her head away.
And found herself looking at Royal Magician Ganrahast, who shook his head sadly as he drew a coffer from his belt, opened it, and began to set forth its contents, in a gleaming row down the center of the table.
Rings, all identical. Plain bands except for the little dragonsnout point each one bore. War wizard team rings.
“The new mindlink magic works through these,” he murmured.
“A mindlink that works?” Glathra was unable to keep all incredulity out of her voice.
Ganrahast blinked. “Well, ah … no one’s gone mad just yet.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
I AM YOUR GENTLE REMINDER
Until now, we’ve not issued many of these,” Vainrence added, “but this last tenday, we’ve been getting them to all wizards of war we can reach.” He pushed one ring out of the row, toward Glathra. “This one’s yours. The rest are linked to others already being worn by several of our fellow Crown mages.”
Glathra eyed it suspiciously. “Are any of you wearing them?”
Vainrence raised his hand to show that he was.
“Anyone else?” She glared at the man-headed spider. “You?”
“Of course.” The spider rolled over like a toppled child’s toy, to display a bright ring snugged right up to the root of one of its nether legs. “I crafted them, after all.”
Glathra frowned. “I thought you said—”
“I don’t work much magic at all, these days,” Storm told her calmly. “However, I witnessed a lot of Elminster’s spellcraftings, down the years, and remember them all, very clearly.”
“So—”
Storm interrupted Glathra smoothly, “So while you take the time to decide if you dare put your ring on, dear, suppose we get to discussing the reason why everyone else at this table is so eager to start using this light, communications-only, non-coercive mindlink.”
“I’ve only your word for that,” Glathra snarled. “For all I—”
“Enough,” Royal Magician Ganrahast told her, his voice just short of a roar. “Lady Storm has the right of it. What matters is not our new magic, but the reasons we need it: far too many nobles plotting treason, and our growing need to respond swiftly to foil attacks on any Obarskyr—and on our fellow courtiers, several of who have been killed or wounded since t
he council.”
“Not just courtiers, but our fellow wizards of war,” Vainrence said heavily.
“What?” Glathra was too astonished to keep her voice low.
“In the last few days, war wizards across the kingdom, outside Suzail, have fallen silent—presumably slain. More than a score already.”
Glathra fell back in her seat aghast.
“You’re being told now,” Ganrahast said sternly, before she could voice the protest he knew would be forthcoming. “Though we lack a revealed and declared enemy, it seems Cormyr is at war. With itself, perhaps—yet I very much fear that longtime foes and neighbors are part of this, or soon will be. We cannot afford traitors within. We must smite treason where we see it, not waiting for investigations and trials.”
Storm shook her head. “No, Royal Magician,” she said quietly. “Once you ride that horse, tyranny has begun, and you are no longer defending anything worth fighting for.”
“Too late, Lady Storm,” Vangerdahast grunted, his spider legs taking him a little way down the table to face her. “I took to riding like that long ago, just to keep something called ‘Cormyr’ standing. As the one who tutored us both said: ‘the time comes when all airs and graces are torn away or must be cast aside, and ye must do what ye must do.’ That time has come.”
Storm locked gazes with him. “That time came, and has gone. The time for trust and holding to laws and principles has returned. For those who can.”
Glathra swallowed her instinctive retort, drew in a deep breath, then asked Storm gently, almost humbly, “Forgive me, lady, but who are you to tell us, the law keepers of Cormyr, to keep to laws?”
“I am your gentle reminder,” Storm replied, “before the commoners outside these walls tell you the same thing far more fiercely. If they rise, their telling will spill blood in this palace, and the Dragon Throne may well not survive.”
Glathra went pale, but hissed, “Is that a threat?”
Storm shook her head in sad denial. “A prediction, from one who’s seen such risings too often before. As Elminster once told me … if you cannot be a shining example,” she murmured, “be a dire warning.”
One of the line of team rings on the table suddenly burst, its fragments pinging and singing around the room. One shard sliced open Glathra’s cheek as it hurtled past. She managed to stifle a shriek and settled for clutching at where the blood welled forth.
“Another good man gone,” Ganrahast said grimly, looking down at the scorch mark on the table where the ring had been.
Vainrence shook his head. “Good woman. That was Laeylra, in Waymoot.”
Glathra stared at him. “Lael? She and I served together at—at—” She burst into tears.
Storm reached out a long arm and gathered the wizard of war to her breast, to cradle her while she wept. Vainrence muttered a curse and looked at Ganrahast.
“No,” Vangerdahast snarled, before the Royal Magician could say anything, “You bide here, to muster and give orders, and refrain from rushing off and playing the dead hero. Right now, you are of far more worth to the realm as a live coward.”
The spiderlike remnant of one of Cormyr’s most powerful mages turned again to give Storm a look, over Glathra’s shaking head and shoulders, and added, “Kindly don’t remind me of the circumstances in which Elminster told us those helpful words. I’ve remembered them, all by myself.”
Storm gave him the merest ghost of a smile.
The lord constable’s office, Amarune thought sourly, was beginning to feel all too familiar.
She and Arclath and a grim Farland and the two war wizards were crowded into it, neglected stomachs growling, to confer. At last. They had spent some tense moments locking people behind various doors, after checking that those doors—and the walls around them—were in a fit enough state to confine anyone. The two rogues hight Hawkspike and Harbrand had been hustled into the castle and locked into a suite of rooms meant for visiting priests or Crown healers, the nobles who’d dared to wander the halls had been firmly locked into various cells, and it was time to start deciding what had caused the explosion. Or how to go about uncovering that cause.
Was it “the” murderer, slaying other intended victims in a great explosion? No less than seventeen minor nobles were now missing, and at least some of them had to be dead given the blood and severed hands, feet, and other chunks of blood-drenched bodies strewn in the great heap of rubble due south of where the castle now ended.
Or was it the murderer getting killed himself—or herself, or themselves, hrast it—when something exploded before it was supposed to?
Or did the blast have nothing at all to do with the murders?
These two suspicious new arrivals, now, Hawkspike and Harbrand—thorough rogues if ever any of the five Crown-loyals had seen one—did they have anything to do with either of the two slayings, or the explosion? Or did the dragon they said they’d seen? Both of them insisted it flew away into the mountains right after the blast, a tale that was altogether too convenient—yet was echoed by a few of Irlingstar’s imprisoned nobles, who’d been given no chance to confer with Hawkspike and Harbrand.
“A black dragon is rumored to lair somewhere nearby in the Thunder Peaks,” Farland said glumly, as if admitting a personal crime, “and has been sighted many times over the years. Not by me, but by many I’d trust. It’s never been known to approach Irlingstar or raid out past the Hullack into settled Cormyr proper—so far as I know, at least.”
Gulkanun nodded. “We’ll tackle the dragon later—if it attacks us, or after we hunt it down, if that becomes necessary. Right now, we have a shattered prison and a lot of deaths, two of which couldn’t be the dragon unless it can shrink down greatly in size and breach the wards, or send spells through the wards … and I personally doubt any dragon can do either without leaving the wards destroyed in its wake.”
Everyone but Amarune nodded. She followed the Crown mage’s reasoning, but knew too little about warding magics to agree with anything.
“Exactly how many nobles are incarcerated here?” Gulkanun asked the lord constable, “and who are they?”
Farland looked doubtfully at Arclath and Amarune, and the taller war wizard snapped, “Aside from these two, whom I judge you can speak freely in the presence of.”
The lord constable regarded Gulkanun stonily. “I rather think that is my judgment to make.”
“Sworn officer of the Crown,” came the mildly voiced reply, “I feel moved to remind you that all of us have sworn oaths of service, and are here because we’re serving the Dragon Throne right now. Setting aside rank, I ask you to consider which of us commands spells that can turn others of us into frogs, or garden statues … or chamber pots.”
Arclath grinned. “Spoken almost like Vangerdahast,” he said approvingly.
Farland ignored him. “Is that a threat?” he snapped at Gulkanun.
“And if it is?”
After a moment of tense silence, Farland turned his head to favor each person in the room with his coldest glower, then said heavily, “The time has more than come for the full truth from all of us.” He turned to Arclath and Amarune. “Suppose you forget all about keeping secrets, and tell us precisely who sent you here and why.”
“We promised someone rather higher in rank than you that we’d keep his secrets,” Arclath replied coolly, “and we’ll continue—”
“You promised the king,” Gulkanun interrupted flatly, “in the presence of the Royal Magician, Lady Glathra, and your mother. There was also someone else present, whose identity wasn’t shared with me.”
“Storm Silverhand,” Amarune supplied. “The Marchioness Immerdusk. Tell them everything, Arclath.”
“Everything?” he asked reluctantly.
“Everything,” she said firmly.
“Well …” Arclath gave his beloved a doubtful look, then said in a rush, “You know our real names already, and that we’re not really prisoners, and who sent us. We’ve come to Irlingstar to find someone withi
n these walls who hails from Sembia, who’s trying to take over the castle or free its noble inmates and spirit them away into Sembia, to work treason against Cormyr from there.”
Farland gave him a disgusted look. “Oh, come now! There’s no—”
“Perhaps, lord constable, the ‘someone’ is you,” Arclath said firmly. “Please understand that I haven’t one shred of evidence to that effect, but your attitude of disbelieving dismissal is not shared by the king—and what better way to frustrate an investigation than to sneer and deride and refrain from cooperating?”
“How do you know the traitor inside Irlingstar is Sembian?” Longclaws asked quickly, waving Farland to silence. Surprisingly, the lord constable bit back whatever he’d been drawing breath and leaning forward to say, and sat back with a silent frown.
“I’ve no reason at all to believe King Foril Obarskyr would lie to us,” Arclath replied. “Why would he? Well then, he told us that wizards of war had overheard a passing spell sending, a verbal message they believe reached its intended ears without any attached suspicion of their hearing it. It was a man’s voice, saying this: ‘We’ll wait at the usual place, because it’s clearly our side of the border. If any Dragons come for us there, the griffonbacks’ll be waiting, and they’ll taste the new hurl bombs.’ ”
“And how would you interpret that message, lord constable?” Gulkanun asked quietly.
Farland stirred. “That whoever’s waiting for escaped prisoners from Irlingstar has alerted the Sembian border patrols—the ones that ride griffons, in the sky—to be ready for Cormyreans pursuing them.”
Gulkanun nodded. “I hear it the same way.” Beside him, Longclaws nodded.
“So now,” Amarune spoke up, “you tell me, lord constable, why we should trust you, when it’s feared prisoners might so readily escape Irlingstar. And”—she turned to give Longclaws a hard and direct stare—”you convince me that you’re a war wizard, yet have some sort of magical curse or affliction. I’ve never heard of a Crown mage going uncured of such a thing yet continuing to serve, so are you a wizard of war, truly?”
