“To your duty,” Dauneth said. “If you do not produce an heir, the Abraxus Affair will be a mere game compared to what follows your father’s passing.”
“My reign will follow my father’s passing,” Tanalasta said.
“And without an heir of your own, your reign will be one of plots and intrigues, with every noble family maneuvering to claim the throne upon your death. Sooner or later, one of them will see an advantage in assassinating you, and Cormyr will have a usurper for a king-or a war to unseat him.”
“And you think to prevent this travesty by getting a child on me? I think not. I will have a husband I can trust-or none at all.”
The hurt showed in Dauneth’s eyes. “I meant no offense, milady, nor do I say this for my own good, but you must take a husband, and soon. If you are angry with me, there are plenty to choose from.” He pointed into the crowd below. “There is Amanthus Rowanmantle if you fancy someone handsome, or one of the Silversword boys if you like wit, and perhaps even Dier Emmarask if you prefer someone who shares your love of learning.”
“Thank you for the suggestions,” Tanalasta said, struck by the absurdity of Dauneth recommending his own rivals. “If I were to choose a husband I did not love, it would probably be you. Even if I cannot trust you, you are loyal to Cormyr and that counts for much.”
“Thank you, milady.” A hopeful light returned to Dauneth’s eyes. “Do you really have time to think of love? We must think of Cormyr.”
“I am thinking of Cormyr.” Tanalasta started to rebuke the warden for trying to argue her into marrying him, then realized there was no point. She did not love Dauneth, and she was not going to marry him. “I am always thinking of Cormyr.”
“If that is true, you will-“
“Dauneth, please don’t presume to tell me what is good for Cormyr.”
The warden flushed and looked away, clearly aware that he had been doing just that. Tanalasta wanted to explain to him, to tell Dauneth of the vision she had experienced at Huthduth, but how could she expect him to understand something she could barely put into words? The revelation had been one of those slippery things that a sharp mind could twist into a thousand meanings, but in which a true heart perceived only one. How could she trust Dauneth to trust her feelings, when he had already proven that she could not trust him?
“I’m sorry, Dauneth, but it must be love. I really cannot abide less.”
A look of exasperation came over the warden, then he nodded and said, “Very well, milady. I shall fall in love with you on the morrow.”
Tanalasta’s jaw dropped, then she caught the note of self-mockery in his voice. “I wish it were that easy, good warden,” she laughed. “I truly do.” After a moment, she stopped laughing and gently took his hand. “But I fear your feelings would go unrequited. You don’t respect me in your heart, and after Vangerdahast’s meddling, I can never trust you as a woman should her husband. Forgive my bluntness in this matter, but you deserve to know. Your loyalty to Cormyr demands it.”
Dauneth’s face fell, and he sagged away from Tanalasta in shock. The nobles below did not seem to notice. They gasped in awe as Azoun displayed a four-foot dragon carved from a single crystal of amethyst, then applauded Ayesunder Truesilver as he descended the rostrum beaming with pride at the king’s superlative words of royal gratitude.
Seeing that there were no more nobles waiting to ascend the stairs, Dauneth gathered himself together, then went forward to express his admiration for the many treasures strewn across the rostrum. After swearing that it would take a whole caravan of war wizards to return the hoard safely to Suzail, he invited Alaphondar Emmarask to present his gift. The Sage Most Learned ascended the rostrum and presented the king with a massive leather-bound volume entitled, The Dragon Rides: A Complete and Accurate Account of the Life of Azoun IV of Cormyr, Volume Sixty-Two.
Filfaeril drew a raucous round of chuckles by remarking that she hoped it was not “completely complete,” then Vangerdahast stood to present his gift, pulling a simple switch of willow from the billowing sleeve of his robe. The king accepted the stick with a somewhat puzzled look.
“We thank you, Magician,” said Azoun. “What kind of wand is it?”
“None, Majesty. It is a plain switch.” Vangerdahast looked directly at Tanalasta, then added, “I think you shall soon have need of it.”
Much to Tanalasta’s dismay, the wizard’s wry response sent the room into convulsions of laughter. She could do little except pretend to enjoy the joke and fume inwardly. If Vangerdahast could not bend her to his will through tricks and traps, then he seemed determined to undermine her prestige with outright mockery. The princess could imagine the campaign continuing until her father died, and no matter that it would weaken her own crown when she ascended the throne, The old staff swinger believed that only he knew what was good for Cormyr. Usually, he did, and if that had been so this time, Tanalasta would have married Dauneth on the morn. But this time the royal magician was wrong, this time, the future of Cormyr was not a matter of the mind, but of the heart, and she was not sure that Vangerdahast even had a heart.
Once the mirth faded, Dauneth turned to the princess and cocked a querying eyebrow. Though he was careful to maintain an expression of practiced congeniality, the rest of his face was at odds with his broad grin. Hoping the audience could not read his disappointment as clearly as she, Tanalasta smiled and nodded.
Dauneth extended an arm. “Lords and ladies, I give you the Princess Tanalasta Obarskyr.”
Tanalasta took a deep breath, then rose to a polite ovation and stepped to the front of the rostrum. “Thank you.”
The princess needed to say this only once to silence the applause.
“As you know, I have been in retreat at Huthduth for the last year. While the royal magician seems to fear that I have been somehow corrupted by Chauntea’s humble monks-” Tanalasta was interrupted by a round of nervous laughter as she waved at the switch lying across her father’s knees, then continued, “Let me assure you nothing could be further from the truth. The mountains were a place of great peace and harmony for me, and my gift is to bring some of that bounty to King Azoun IV, and through him, to all of Cormyr.”
Tanalasta waved toward the entrance of the ballroom, where Owden Foley stood beneath the Grand Arch with a silk-wrapped gift box the size of a peasant hut. As the crowd turned to look, the Harvestmaster took up a golden rope and began to haul the gift across the floor. At first, his progress was labored and slow, for he seemed able to drag the huge box only a few paces before stopping to rest. Several minor nobles volunteered their help, which he gladly accepted.
The lords began to haul on the cord, and the box flew toward them so fast that they fell to the floor in a heap. A puzzled silence descended over the chamber, until Owden returned to take the golden rope. Claiming that earls and counts were too clumsy for such dangerous work, Owden shooed them away to a chorus of laughter, then resumed his labored trek toward the rostrum. This time, however, the box seemed to have a will of its own, sometimes flying toward him so fast that he barely kept from being run over, other times refusing to budge no matter how he pulled, cursed, or kicked at it. By the time he reached the rostrum and climbed the stairs to present the cord to Tanalasta, the ballroom was shaking with laughter.
Tanalasta beamed, for she and Owden had worked out the act together, spending much of her last tenday in Huthduth choreographing every move. She thanked the Harvestmaster for his hard work, then presented the rope to her chuckling father.
“You have but to pull the cord, Sire.”
“If I dare!” Azoun chuckled. He stood as though bracing himself for an onslaught, then jerked the cord.
The walls of the box fell instantly away, revealing twelve guilty-looking monks on a small pedalcart crowded with large earthenware kettles. As the audience erupted into guffaws, two of the priests leaped off the cart and placed a pair of pots on the lowest step of the rostrum, then spoke a quick prayer to Chauntea. By the time they had finished, two more monks were placing another pair of pots on next step.