The wizard strode toward them without slowing. The soldiers made a halfhearted attempt to block Baerauble’s path, but the wizard ignored them as if they were smoke until a blade actually menaced him. Then he looked straight into the eyes of its owner, and a careful look was exchanged. The man lowered his head, muttered something apologetic, and stepped back. The mage looked at the next guard, and then strode through the gap they’d left him, Sagrast drifting along at his heels. Behind the two, the guards closed ranks again, determined to prevent anyone else from passing.
The smooth flagstones of the antechamber thundered under Sagrast’s heavy boots. Baerauble glided soundlessly to the great double doors leading to the throne room itself. He pulled at a door handle, but it did not budge. The wizard said something that at first Sagrast thought was a spell but then realized was an elven curse.
Then Baerauble waved at him to stand back, took a deep breath, and began weaving a real spell. From his throat issued strange, twisted vowels and strings of consonants, and from his palm, laid flat against the door, issued a pale blue glow. Strands of the blue radiance streamed between the mage’s fingers and lanced out, like the strands of a spider’s web, to the edges of the doorframe. There was a series of snaps from the other side of the door, and one large thunk that could only be a bolt being released.
The doors swung open inward.
The throne room had been part of the original house built on this site, over the long years, the rest of the stonework had grown up around it and consumed it. Along the walls hung tapestries and a few battle banners. Along one side of the hall, a small series of broad steps led up to a single throne. Iltharl was standing on the top step, Gantharla at the bottom. Both were in armor, with their swords drawn.
Iltharl was decked in gold and white, his normally immaculate robes covered with a bronze breastplate and leg guards. The plate and guards were chased and sculpted into images of fantastic beasts and stood out in bold relief. Ceremonial, thought Sagrast, and the thought struck him that Iltharl had probably never owned a real suit of armor or had any cause to use it. On his head he wore the Crown of Faerlthann, the elven circlet that commemorated the origin of the realm.
Gantharla was in her foresters’ leathers, a mottled green from neck to foot, with a hood of the same material thrown back from her head. A shirt of elven chain, fine-linked and tinted green, tightly hugged her torso. Her hair, a brilliant red, was short and mannish. Her eyes gleamed, and Sagrast thought of Boldovar’s madness.
Baerauble apparently thought the same, for he raised his hands to work a spell.
Iltharl raised a hand that held the heavy, broadbladed sword of his father and shouted, “Hold!”
The wizard broke off in midword, but he strode on toward the pair at the dais. Uncertainly, Sagrast followed.
“I am glad you could make it, old teacher,” said the king. “My sister and I were discussing affairs of state.”
“My lord, I heard that you-” began Baerauble, but the king cut him off.
“Relieved my sister of command and summoned her here,” said Iltharl. “You heard correctly. Had I thought it would cause this much consternation, I would have consulted you in advance. I did not think Gantharla would respond by marching her entire unit here with her.”
“What was I to think upon receiving your letter?” Gantharla said, ice water in her words. “We had one of the better-marshaled areas among the western settlements, so naturally you would want to stop that. It makes the rest of the nation look bad.”
“And is our kingdom in desperate straits?” asked Iltharl softly, looking down on his sibling.
“I have told you,” spat Gantharla. “It is ill, but all it needs is a good king.”
“And am I a good king?” asked Iltharl in that same gentle voice, smiling.
Gantharla frowned and chose her words carefully. “You are my brother. You are thoughtful and sweet. But, no, you are not a good king.” The words echoed around a room that was suddenly very still. The woman in green drew in a deep breath, threw back her head, and continued. “But you are my king, and I will remain loyal, regardless of the foolishness of your decisions.”
“I thank you for your loyalty,” said Iltharl, “and I agree with your judgment. I am good at many things, but not at being a king. Therefore I now serve my country as best as I know how.”
And with that, the young king reached his free hand to his brow and doffed his circlet. “Kneel, my sister.”
Gantharla dropped to one knee and Sagrast saw what was about to happen. The young noble stepped forward, but Baerauble reached out and took him by the shoulder. Sagrast winced as he came to a dead stop. Now he knew why the Truesilver page had gasped, the old man had a grip like iron.
Iltharl laid his weapon aside and held the crown in both hands. “I have given this much thought,” he said. “I love Cormyr as much as any who have worn this crown, but I know that it needs one worthier than I.” His voice wavered on the last words but steadied again as he added, “Let me prove that love by abdicating for one worthier.”
He placed the crown firmly on Gantharla’s head, the gold shining against her red locks. “Arise, Queen Gantharla, first Queen of Cormyr.”
The new queen rose unsteadily. “Brother, when you summoned me here and I saw you in armor, I thought
” she began.
“There has been a good deal of foolishness in the past two reigns,” Iltharl replied. “Now comes a time for wisdom and strength. I hope you can do better than I.”
Gantharla looked into her brother’s eyes and slowly nodded.
Iltharl stepped down from the dais to the wizard and Sagrast. “Thank you for not stopping me, old teacher,” he told the wizard, “I’m not sure if I could go through that twice. I hope Gantharla will be easier to protect than I was.”
Baerauble looked into the Obarskyr eyes and nodded, but said nothing.
Iltharl turned to Sagrast. “And thank you, young Dracohorn. I caught wind of your plot, and I realized if I could not command the loyalty of my own steward, how could I hope to rule? As surely as any assassin’s strike, you convinced me to think again, and in doing so I found the best path out. Now I will need your help in convincing the other nobles to follow a woman as their ruler.”
Sagrast’s mouth was as dry as flax. He managed to choke out, “What will you do, my lord?”
Iltharl smiled. “I think I wish to go north to Cormanthor to join the elves. They will take in a hapless king and leave me to my studies and my art. That way no one will be tempted to put me back on the throne. Can you arrange that, wizard?”
Baerauble bowed low. “As you wish, my lord.”
Sagrast looked at the new queen. The young woman was adjusting the crown, setting it firmly on her brow. Looking up, she smiled at Sagrast, and the steward hastily bowed low. How had he missed the obvious? All the planning, all the scheming… and all it took was ignoring two and a half centuries of tradition to choose the best king!
Sagrast smiled to himself. Let Kallimar Bleth pledge his own troth to the new queen. Sagrast wished him luck. He flashed the queen a heartfelt smile and unbuckled his court sword, laying it at her feet so that there would be no misunderstanding as he drew it and offered it to her.
The steel grated out. As he drew it, on his knees and using only one hand, Sagrast was aware of Baerauble moving to one side and raising a hand. Ready to blast him with a spell, no doubt, if he tried any treachery now.
Sagrast smiled openly and laid his sword at the feet of his queen. “I offer you my life,” he said faintly, “though I want so much more to build a bright Cormyr in service to you.”
Gantharla touched his brow with her fingertips, and he looked up.
“Will you, Sagrast Dracohorn, be my loyal man and remain as diligent a steward of the realm as you have been?” she asked, eyes stern, yet dancing with excitement.