Luthax’s voice caught for a moment. Thanderahast ducked away, then froze. Had he been spotted at the window? No, the senior mage resumed his discourse, and when Thanderahast looked again, had taken up pacing again, too.
“We are truly the wise heads of Cormyr,” Luthax proclaimed, and waited for the assenting murmurs of the crowd before continuing. “We can rule more wisely that any blood-tainted king or everlasting magess. We judge ourselves on merit and on real, tangible power. And we must be ready to move-and move quickly!-when the time comes to take the reins of power from old, enfeebled hands.”
Thanderahast would have wanted to hear more of Luthax’s schemes, but the cat against his chest began to squirm and howl, not the mewling cry of an imprisoned feline, but rather a deepthroated grumble that spoke of immediate threats. The cat’s tiny claws pierced his cotton shirt and drove shallowly into the young mage’s flesh.
Thanderahast stepped back from the window and pulled the cat away from his breast. Its fur was all on end, and its eyes were wide. It did not try to struggle against Thanderahast’s grip, but instead spit and hissed at the autumn air.
No, not the autumn air, the young mage realized. Rather, the cat hissed at something hanging in the air. It appeared as little more than a ripple in the starlight, a slight flickering of the few windows still lit. It was wholly invisible save for its edges, which shone like a soap bubble to reveal its troll-like form and its teeth, which gleamed like clear icicles.
Thanderahast retreated two more steps along the ledge, cat at his bosom, mind racing through his memorized lore to identify the creature. This must be Elmariel’s creature from Netheril. He’d been spotted after all, and this beast had been dispatched to take care of him.
The junior mage began an incantation of protection, but it was already too late. The beast swooped down upon him and gathered him up in invisible arms that coiled around him like serpents. Thanderahast choked back an involuntary shout, for those in the parlor would not come to his aid.
The invisible beast pulled Thanderahast off the ledge and suspended him over the street below. Thanderahast hung there as the night lights of Suzail swam all around him.
Then it threw him to the pavement from three floors up. The young mage clutched the cat and screamed.
He landed too soon to have fallen that far. It appeared to be a dimly lit hallway. He had not fallen more than three feet, and he had struck not rude cobbles but solid flagstones. The chill was gone, and the wind as well. He was inside a building, and a sharp pain was blossoming in one shoulder, where he had struck the flags. The cat had leapt out of his arms when he struck and was now calmly cleaning itself a few feet away.
He knew this place. He was not just in a building. He was inside the castle itself. Could the Netheril creature have thrown him that far? Or magically transported him there?
“You must get to the king,” said the cat.
Thanderahast shook his head, certain that a speaking cat was the result of wits dazed in his fall, and looked at the cat. Its eyes were glowing a radiant green, and it spoke with Amedahast’s voice.
“You must get to the king,” it repeated, “before Luthax’s beast does. He is in his quarters. I will take care of the conspirators.” The glow faded from the small creature’s eyes. It resumed grooming itself, oblivious to the spell that had surrounded it.
Thanderahast nodded and scooped the cat up, starting down the hallway. This part of the castle was strange to him, since he had never been in the royal wing. But all knew where the king’s quarters were, the light from that room’s fire would burn long into the night.
The hallways were empty, and Thanderahast’s soft-soled shoes slapped hard against the flagstones. Right, then left, then an immediate right, and there would be…a hulking guard in the violet and ivory of the Purple Dragons, standing before the door that led to the king’s chambers. He held up one hand. A war axe gleamed in the other. “Hold, young wizard,” he said, eyes stern. “Why are you here at this late hour?”
Thanderahast drew a deep breath. What could he say? He’d been spying on the leader of the war wizards, and a cat had told him the king’s life was in danger?
Instead, the mage thrust the cat up into view. As the guard stared at it, Thanderahast barked a series of short syllables that were old when Netheril was young and thrust out his free hand to touch the guard on the forehead. The guard managed to let out a mild curse as he slumped against the wall and then sagged there, snoring softly, as magical slumber claimed him.
Thanderahast burst through the doorway into an empty antechamber, then through its low arch into the king’s own private quarters.
There was an immediate squeal, and a flash of pink flesh and blonde hair as the woman in the king’s bed burrowed deeply beneath the covers. His Majesty himself was standing before the fire in a long nightshirt, a poker in hand, turning with a frown from tending the fire. Beyond him, the window was open to better vent its smoke.
Draxius’s expression began with bewilderment and clouded toward anger. “What is the meaning…?” he began.
Through the open window, stars rippled, and Thanderahast caught sight of a flash of icicle-clear teeth in the darkness outside.
He threw the cat at the shimmering stars.
The small creature screamed a high-pitched howl as it flew across the room. That challenge was matched by another, throatier roar as the cat’s claws dug deeply into invisible flesh. The cat seemed to spin in the air, raking the unseen assailant.
Long tears of blood appeared in midair. Apparently the creature’s interior was not as proof against vision as its skin. The beast bellowed again, and the cat let go. The feline skittered across the room to the far side of the fire.
The blood remained, marking the creature’s presence. Draxius charged and laid into it with the poker, battering it as if the cold-wrought iron was a battle mace. To Thanderahast, he shouted, “My blade… by the bed!”
The wizard snatched up the blade, oversized and unwieldy for his slight frame. When he turned back, the monster was more visible than before, blood painted a battered, teardrop-shaped head with a fanged mouth. From the bed came a muffled sob of hasty, fervent prayers.
Thanderahast shouted a warning and the king stood back. The wizard threw him the blade, sheath and all. Draxius caught the sword and spun it once to shake it loose from its sheath. Then he dropped the poker and returned to the fray.
Now the king of Cormyr cut long, deep slashes into the creature’s blubbery hide. He roared in exultation as his blade bit deep. Advancing across the bed chamber, Thanderahast was shouting as well. Old spells, taught by the High Magess and spoken in forgotten tongues. Thanderahast’s hands gleamed with pearly blue light, and out of its glow spewed a battery of darts made of solid magecraft, which leapt from his fingertips to lance into the beast’s flesh.
The creature stumbled, tried to rise, and stumbled again. Its teeth were sharp and visible now, coated in its own blood. King Draxius stepped forward, and with one last, mighty blow cleaved the monster down the middle.
Sudden stillness fell in the room. The Netherese beast was dead, the last of its lifeblood a spreading pool before the fire. King Draxius looked down at its corpse with his blade ready in his hands, panting slightly, until he was sure that the ichor-stained beast would never move again.
“Well, that was a bit of excitement,” the king said at last, exhaling deeply. Then he looked up at Thanderahast. “You’re Amedahast’s young whelp, aren’t you? How did you know to come here?”
Thanderahast stammered for a moment. “The cat…” he began.
“Your Majesty,” interrupted Amedahast, and the young mage nearly jumped. Even the king gasped and took a startled pace back.