Then the Hall of the Dragon Throne rocked under the force of a blast that hurled flames up in a roaring column to scorch the ceiling, but touched nothing else.
Cat Wyvernspur, whose spell had directed the flames harmlessly upward, reeled back into the Obarskyrs, father and daughter. Azoun’s other arm found its way around her as well. The spent sorceress sagged against the king’s shoulder briefly, then immediately disengaged. The ragged panting of the magess was suddenly loud in a chamber that had grown silent again. All within the Hall of the Dragon-royals, spellcasters, Purple Dragons, and nobles-were silent for a moment.
The sphere was gone, leaving only a scorched circle on the marble tiles. Aunadar Bleth was gone. The abraxus was gone.
And on the steps beside the throne, the old wizard rose unsteadily, his hands on the shoulders of two faithful nobles. Vangerdahast cleared his throat and roared, “The king is restored to us! Long live the king!” The ceiling echoed back the Royal Magician’s words, and they rolled out and down the room.
Someone in the crowd of nobles cried, “Long live the king!”
Other voices joined in an instant later: “The king! The king! Long live the king!”
“Azoun!” roared the Purple Dragons, their swords flashing straight up in salute. “Azoun!”
“Long live the king!” The chant was spreading beyond the room now, resounding through the palace as wondering people flooded toward the Hall of the Dragon Throne.
“Long Live the king!” The roar echoed around the Hall like thunder, and then an old noble burst into tears and went to his knees. “Azoun-lead us!”
“Long live the king!” the chant came again, but it seemed to be coming almost entirely from outside the chamber now. Inside the Hall, man after man after highborn lady were going to their knees-another, and then another-until only the king, Tanalasta, and Vangerdahast remained on their feet. Dauneth dropped to one knee, but kept his sword ready and his wits sharp for one last attack.
Dauneth let his gaze drift to the face of Azoun-who was smiling quietly, and nodding to noble after noble, and to faces in the line of Purple Dragons-and then to the smiling face of the crown princess.
The heir to House Marliir looked at that face thoughtfully for a long time. He knew that both Lord Wyvernspur and Vangerdahast had noticed his intent gaze and followed it to its destination, and he did not care.
Gods, but she was fair. He could kneel to a woman like that. Dauneth drew in a deep breath, noting that Tanalasta had not wept for her lost love, Aunadar. Perhaps there was hope yet.
Dauneth Marliir, heir to a stained family name, sprang to his feet. “Long live the king!” he roared like a lion, raising his blade in flashing salute.
Azoun’s head turned in time to see Giogi’s blade flash up to join Dauneth’s, and then the old man between them giggled like a schoolgirl. Sudden magefire shaped a sword in his hand, too. The three blades swung up together as Cat, Azoun, and Tanalasta laughed as one, and the three men on the steps thundered, “Long live the king! Long live Cormyr!”
The echoes of their shout were so thunderous that only Giogi and Dauneth heard the old wizard’s muttered addition: “This ought to be worth a feast.”
Epilogue
Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
The conspirators, real and incidental, were gathered in Gryphonsblade Hall. The king’s sickbed had been removed and the original furnishings replaced. The windows that had been sealed for fear of contagion were now flung wide, and below them the city of Suzail was spread out like a blanket, leading downward to a cool, blue sea that mirrored the sky above. Somewhere down there a bell was tolling, long ringing peals that cascaded through the streets.
“The king lives,” said Cat Wyvernspur, nodding her head towards the bell’s joyous clangor. “Long live the king!”
The king in question was playing chess with Cat’s husband, Lord Giogi. Giogi would stare intently at the board for many minutes, then carefully nudge a piece to its new location. Azoun would then stroke his beard twice, reach out, and make his move. Giogi would sink his chin into his hands and return to his intense concentration.
“How’s the game going?” she asked, stroking Giogi’s shoulders.
“Totally engrossing,” her husband replied. “I’ve tried every variation in the book, but I can’t crack his defenses. Worse, every time he repulses one of my assaults, I’m in a worse position. He’s won three games so far, and in this little slaughter, I’m down two turrets and a Purple Dragon already.”
Cat smiled fondly at the top of her lord’s head, exchanged a solemn wink with the king, and took up a ewer of wine before sauntering over to where Vangerdahast, Dauneth Marliir, and Tanalasta were deep in conversation.
The Royal Magician looked over at the game in progress. “How is young Lord Wyvernspur doing?”
“Badly,” said Cat, pouring herself a goblet of blood-red wine. “He’s baffled by the king’s masterful defenses.”
“Should I let him in on the secret?” asked the mage, his eyes twinkling.
“Secret?”
“Azoun never plans out his moves in chess,” said the wizard. “He just moves what catches his fancy at the moment. Thinks of a move, does it on the instant, and-bless my soul-it’s usually right.”
Cat chuckled. “Oh, don’t tell Giogi. His Majesty beat him twenty-seven games straight when we were keeping him in the basement. My poor husband was up half the night memorizing Chess Variations of the Masters of Old Impiltur just on the chance of getting one more game in. I think he’d be crushed if you told him.”
Giogi let out a curse, and the king answered it with a mighty laugh as he took the noble’s queen and forced checkmate.
“Looks like he’s crushed anyway,” said the wizard, loudly enough for the two combatants to hear.
“It was a Theskan double-counter gambit,” said Giogi mournfully. “I didn’t stand a chance after the tenth move.”
“One more noble crushed beneath the heel of the Purple Dragon,” Azoun said, smiling.
“It’s good to see you up and around again, Sire,” said Dauneth. “But I’m puzzled as to how you were cured. It was my understanding that no magic worked against the venomous disease in your blood.”
“Ah, but that’s exactly the point,” said Vangerdahast. “The blots of disease in the abraxus’s venom were all enwrapped in their own dead-magic zones. Spells couldn’t reach the disease itself through the zones, and so His Majesty could not be cured by magic. But those very zones held the key to defeating the disease.”
Dauneth looked puzzled.
Warming to the task, Vangerdahast went on with the enthusiasm of a proud crafter of magic. “We bled His Majesty, then enchanted the blood we collected. A simple spell-Nystul’s Magic Aura-that would just turn the blood magical. Except, of course, the parts of the blood surrounded by dead-magic zones.”
“The disease.”
“Precisely. Then we worked up a spell to teleport enchanted blood to another container. That left the diseased blood, with its tiny dead zones, back in the original container, since it could not be affected by the spell. Then we infused the king again with the purified, magic-free blood.”
Dauneth shook his head. “But you couldn’t do that with all the royal blood at once, or His Majesty would die. And such a process is like diluting wine-the taint grows thinner and thinner, but there will always be some scrap of disease left.”
“Again correct,” the wizard replied, “but eventually the healthy blood overwhelmed the tainted, and the body of the king began to heal naturally. We had to effectively replace all of the blood in the king’s body twice before his natural resistance could deal with it.”
Dauneth goggled. “But that must have taken days! I can’t think of anything else so time-consuming…”
“And painful,” added the king, taking a seat with the others around the table. Giogi, still shaking his head, moved to where Cat perched. She handed him a goblet of wine, and he held it in one hand, rubbing her bare shoulder absentmindedly with his other hand.