He sighed. When the Purples were crushed, then perhaps the old crown would be fetched from the vaults. Yes, when the rebel Purples were crushed and Rhigaerd routed from whatever burrow he’d squirreled himself away in. When Rhigaerd’s Purples were finally destroyed, everything would fall back into place. And at last affairs in Cormyr would get back to normal, and he could forge ahead to make the land ever mightier. “Cormyr stands strong,” he muttered, bringing his fist down on the sill slowly and gently. Like a storm giant, he must be careful, he thought, lest his great strength break things around him that he held dear.
A distant sound came down the hall, a single, short slam or thump, booming along the bare walls.
The Red Dragon King turned and shouted, “Jorunhast? Is that you?”
The Blue Maiden looked up at him, calm and unchanging, from the floor beside the plinth he’d ordered her placed upon-how long ago had it been? A tenday, now? A life-sized, sculpted maiden of smooth blue glass, sitting gazing up at the dragon coming to devour her, the sages said. Her hands were too large, and her feet, too, some folk said, but Salember liked her strength, her courage to sit naked but for a cloak held against her, awaiting doom. That was the sort of spirit more folk in Cormyr should show. Besides, the sages said the maiden was linked to the good fortune of House Obarskyr and should never be smashed, disgraced, or lost. He’d have to give that order again and get her up on the plinth where she belonged without further delay. If he could only get the damned servants to answer his call…
“Jorunhast?”
The wizard would still be there. He was tethered to the crown like a mongrel dog, as all the Royal Magicians, Crown Wizards, and Lords of Magic of the past had been.
Yes! He, Salember, had found that in Baerauble’s original books: The wizards were magically bound to protect the crown. Others had forgotten that, but not wise old Salember. Whatever else happened, the Royal Magician would be loyal.
But Salember’s voice echoed down the halls to no response.
Cowards, thought Salember. No fire in the belly, no passion in the heart for a good fight. All the Dauntinghorns and Marliirs and Wyvernspurs, retiring to their country holdings to wait out the storm. Truesilvers, Crownsilvers, and Huntsilvers! They were cousins to both him and Rhigaerd, yet they mumbled their loyal oaths and equivocated and minced when pressed for troops and aid!
Salember held the high ground, the crown and the throne and the castle, and so the nobles remained loyal at first. Then slowly they started to drift away. Not to Rhigaerd, of course… never to Rhigaerd. They valued their own hides too much. A few traitors had died horribly, as examples. Salember had used his gold well, and the Fire Knives were very effective at creating examples.
And yet the cowardly nobles went on drifting away. They swore their fealty and tugged their forelocks, and then hied for the countryside, taking their students, scribes, and servants with them. What kind of kingdom could shine with such weasels, such men of straw, as its backbone?
Salember shouted again, an incoherent bellow. There came the clear sound of a door closing and latching somewhere in the distance.
A servant seeking to hide from his sire’s wrath? Or had Jorunhast finally returned? You’d think with all the magic at his fingertips, the old mage could find the errant prince with the simplest of divinations. But instead, the old wizard was continually abroad, overseeing this outpost or tracking down that lead or reporting on such-and-such a battle.
Salember padded down the hall and slowly made his way down the stone spiral staircase to the main floor, his tired footsteps echoed ahead of him. To the right was the throne room, the Hall of the Dragon Throne. Probably some loyal courtiers and captains were already gathered there, waiting to be reassured by their liege that all was proceeding smoothly, that the rebels were on the run. To the left were the four chambers of the Great Swords.
Salember turned left. The captains and courtiers could wait.
The king was sure that Jorunhast or one of his predecessors had ensorcelled this part of the castle, making the air heavy and muffling all sound. Even when the castle was bustling and vibrant, it had a tranquil, hushed nature to it, like the nave of a great temple to Helm or Tempus. Visitors once streamed here to see the Great Swords, but there were no visitors today… nor had there been on any day for weeks past. There were no visible guards, either.
Here, on velvet plinths, rested the four great blades of Cormyr. Ansrivarr, the Blade of Memory, was the first, a large, crude sword that hearkened back to the days of wilderness and elves. Symylazarr, the Font of Honor, upon which the treacherous nobles had sworn fealty, was as broad as the Blade of Memory and etched along its blade with archaic runes. Orblyn, King Duar’s mageforged sword, with which he rallied the kingdom during the Pirate Exile, was a thinner, more modern blade. And Rissar, the Wedding Blade, small and delicate and finely shaped, was used for marriage vows and blood promises. So much like Cormyr today-ornate, gaudy, and ineffective in a real fight.
Salember lifted the crystal dome and removed Orblyn from its cradle. Somewhere in the far distance a single gong rang, but there came no scurrying of booted and mailed feet, no hue and cry of guards, no panic among the Battle Brotherhood’s wizards, and no manifestation of guardian creatures.
Orblyn was covered with fine runes lightly etched into the blade. Salember had to hold the blade up to the light to see them clearly. The magical inscriptions seemed to twist and writhe as he watched. After all these years, Orblyn had held its edge and its sharpness.
Salember slid the unsheathed blade into his belt. Yes, now was the time for true battle. King Salember had the crown, the throne, the castle, and the blades. He had the loyalty of the remaining troops and the support of the people bought by nine years of peace and prosperity. He cared little for the false friendship of the nobles. Once the Purples were crushed utterly, those nobles who survived would come crawling back for his approval and forgiveness. Some he would spare. Others he would make examples of.
Now to the Hall of the Dragon Throne. Now to rally the troops and impress the remaining nobles. Now to ride to destiny and strike at his foes in their lairs. Even before the rebellion, Salember had remained too long in the castle, overseeing accounts and treaties and forecasts. And for too long after Rhigaerd declared his revolt had he stayed within, protected by stout walls and powerful magic. Now was the time for the Red Dragon to be unleashed on the countryside itself, he thought, and he smiled at the prospect.
No guards flanked the doors of the throne room, just as no guards had protected the chambers of the Great Swords. Had they all finally fled, or were they in the city, battling fires and treacherous Purples? The doors stood open.
The throne room was one of the oldest parts of the castle, the heart of the Obarskyr family’s lair for over a millennium. To one side stood the great sealed stone tomb of Baerauble himself, its surface worn smooth by the touch of a million hands over the ageless years. To the other side was the low rise of steps that led to the throne itself. Sometimes there were two chairs on its highest step, for king and queen. At the moment there was but one.
There were three figures standing just shy of the top level, a woman and two men. As he stepped into the room, Salember wondered if they were real or merely some magical vision.
Jorunhast was there, of course. Where else would the Royal Magician be save here, protecting the crown? Yet Rhigaerd, the treacherous pup, was also here, dressed in the white and purple of his rebellious band. And Damia Truesilver, most cowardly of the cowardly nobles, Rhigaerd’s confidante. The woman’s belly was swollen with child, and Salember remembered Lord Truesilver himself begetting her with another whelp ere he died in battle.