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The two men shook their heads in amused disbelief, and Thomdor murmured, “The worst of it is, some folk’ll believe it when it comes to their ears, half a world away, in a tenday or two.”

Duke Bhereu nodded, ducked under a tree limb, and said, “Yet a full glass to it all, and more, if Tanalasta is fond of him. It’s better than the king trying out future sons-in-law on her… and forcing an unhappy marriage.”

“I can’t see Azoun playing that game,” Thomdor replied, frowning equally at his brother and the offending low tree limb. “Other kings, perhaps, but you know our Purple Dragon dotes on both his daughters. Truly, not mere honeyed words and kisses.”

“Aye, but our pet wizard has been going on of late about storied heritage and ancient bloodline and solemn succession. Pointing out none too delicately that age stalks us all, and Azoun’d best get his house in order before it overtakes him. You may guess how successful that argument has been.”

Baron Thomdor, Warden of the Eastern Marches, whistled air out sharply between wryly curled lips. “Azoun probably smiled, nodded, and serenely ignored the Royal Magician,” he judged, hefting a boar spear in his hand. Then he shrugged. “Vangerdahast worries about everything, you know. I swear the Obarskyr bloodline keeps Azoun young just as magic keeps old Vangey alive.”

He patted his stomach and added in grand, courtly tones of doom, “Age stalks us all.” An errant branch poked at his middle, and he backhanded it aside with a mock scowl, adding darkly, “Some, of course, more than others.”

“Some more than others,” echoed Duke Bhereu, passing a meaningful hand over his bald pate. “As the royal cousins, we’ll always be in Azoun’s shadow, growing old while his youth and vigor rides on. The day’ll come when we’ll both be doddering graybeards, counting our teeth as they fall into our laps by warm firesides-and he’ll still be using these hunts to check out suitors for his lasses.”

“And grandlasses,” said Thomdor with a rueful smile. “And bite your flapping tongue about counting falling teeth. May the watchful gods deliver us both from such a fate!”

“Grandlasses? Well, perhaps, if either daughter ever marries,” the duke replied, doubt heavy in his voice. “Tanalasta’s almost a wizard herself, at least with her ledgers and sums, but no taste for rulership there. You’ve seen her at court-cool and quiet. Too quiet. Hesitant to speak out, and the words halting when she does… a royal wallflower.”

The stout war-horse beneath him snorted, as if in dispute, and the duke steered it deftly between two phandar trees before adding, “Can you see her at the head of an army, staring fiercely at the foe as she draws her abacus and account book for the fray? Not your typical Obarskyr, that one.”

“Aye, all the family traits bred into young Alusair,” Thomdor agreed, scanning the nearby trees with the alert vigilance of a veteran warrior. “Hell on horseback, all ego and fury, with talent to match. Every time she comes home, bets are heavy among the kitchen staff as to how long it’ll be before she and her father get into a row about politics that breaks half the goblets and platters!” He leaned low over his mount’s neck to pass under another phandar bough and added, “She’s all swords and armor right now, and would rather be on the battlefield than on the throne.”

“Aye, it boils down to that,” Bhereu agreed. “Neither wants to rule, or truly has the aptitude for it. So perhaps a child of Alusair, or more likely of Tanalasta, will be the next king… and that’s what makes these hunting parties so bleeding important. You think Azoun would pull you from Arabel and me from the High Horn just for a social gathering? You’ll notice he asks us and not Vangerdahast, every time.”

The baron stuck his forehead in mock woe. “I am crushed under the weight of the responsibility. It smites our shoulders like a falling castle turret!” The heavier of the cousins chuckled, then added in more normal tones, “No doubt the good mage delivered a five-volume report on Aunadar and the entire Bleth clan-every last high-nosed noble and illegitimate woodchopper among them, back to the dawn days of the kingdom.”

The leather saddle creaked as he reined in his prancing mount and added more quietly, “I say let Tanny choose her own prince consort and be done with it. She was smart enough to see right through that proud flower of the Illance line… er, Martin?”

The duke smiled at the name. “Martin Frayault Illance, the most untrustworthy young noble in the kingdom. You know after Tanalasta rejected his entreaties, he got on his horse and rode hard and straight for Alusair? Of course, our elder princess had already told her sister all of Martin’s favorite lines.”

It was the baron’s turn to smile. “I bet she broke both his arms.”

“Dislocated a shoulder, actually,” said the duke. “With a table that had the misfortune to be standing, all innocent like, outside the window he was hurled through.” He snorted. “A month gone, and he was still telling folk he got it in a barroom brawl.” His voice took on the brightness of an earnest young courtier who’s just grasped one of the king’s dry jokes a day or so after hearing it as he added, “Which was true, strictly speaking!”

The baron snorted loudly. “I never liked that Illance boy. He’s got teeth like a werewolf-big incisors, the size of my thumb!-and he’s always smiling, like he wants to show them off.” He leered at the duke, cocked his head to one side, pointed at his teeth, and growled in mock lascivious tones, “Care to see what I ate last?”

As the duke snorted in amusement, Thomdor straightened in his saddle and growled, “Good thing neither lass showed him any favor. I’d hate to be hunting with that one.”

“Probably there’d be a ‘hunting accident’ before long,” Bhereu replied. “The sort that plagued the realm in the bad old days when Salember was regent. And if asked, I’d support the king’s story about it, whatever the story was.”

“I as well,” the baron grunted.

The trail to the river narrowed before them, and Baron Thomdor had to fall back behind his brother’s mount. Neither man had ceased his habitual, wary glances at the deep, damp, and watchful wood during the banter. They knew the king and Tanalasta’s young suitor had already reached the riverbank near the ruins of an old beacon tower.

The king still could pass for a man of forty, if you discounted the gray streaks in his hair and beard. Still, he was as lean and well muscled as ever, and could still best both his cousins at arm-wrestling, fencing, riding, or any other sport either could name.

His riding leathers were his informal set: white leathers trimmed with purple, even the heavy boots and gloves. His court garb had been left at the lodge, a symbol that the general ceremony attendant on the crown should be set aside. Azoun’s sword hung in a tattered scabbard on a weathered belt that one of the palace stewards would have consigned to the fire heap at a glance. The king wore a plain circlet on his brow, and an old, tattered brown scarf-a luck token from his queen-hid the hunting horn at his belt. Yet he rode like the great monarch he was, shoulders straight, quietly confident, clearly master of all around him without any need for arrogance or pomposity. As they came down the hill, both Thomdor and Bhereu were struck with the noble bearing of the man who was both their king and cousin.

The youth who rode beside Azoun seemed dim by comparison, as did any mortal next to the King of Cormyr. On a crowded dance floor, young Aunadar probably cut a dashing figure, his boyish charm and gallant looks leavened with a serious, almost bookish demeanor. The youth wore dark ebon leathers trimmed with gold, accented by a short golden riding cape. It was rather somber wear. Even so, in another hunting party, he would have been the center of attention, but here he was subdued by His Most Radiant Majesty.