Azoun recited the names of the nineteen young kings and seven warrior queens, starting with Gantharla, and of the four recognized illegitimate kings. He listed the current noble houses with ease, though he needed prompting to recall all the names of the dead houses that had ended through lack of heirs or loyalty. He recalled perfectly the lyrics of the song “The Cormyte’s Boast,” including the lewd ones, which he had learned the night before from a bard at the Old Owlbear. Of course, eventually the conversation would come back to sore feet, tender calf muscles, and the pain of traveling overland on foot and incognito.
“I still don’t see why we can’t tell anybody who we are,” Azoun complained, shaking his left boot while on a rest break. A single small pebble that had pained his footsteps for the past quarter of a mile dropped out.
“Two reasons. The first is safety. I shouldn’t have to remind you that we’re far from war wizards and Purple Dragon guards and the relative safety of home. I can aid and protect, but I cannot be all-wise or all-vigilant, so our best protection is secrecy. Enemies of the crown think the Obarskyrs cling to their castles and high society. We should do nothing to dissuade them from that view.”
The young prince waved away the explanation. That one he understood. The elder mage was certainly being a mother hen about the dangers abroad in the kingdom, but at least Vangerdahast now let him journey forth from the castle for these little forays.
“Secondly, when you wear a crown, the rest of the world is transformed. People tend to tell you what they wish you to hear, as opposed to what you need to know. Truths are shaded, identities are hidden, and facts are concealed. Would any troubadour dare teach his king the racy lyrics of ‘The Cormyte’s Boast’?”
This was the argument Azoun was prepared for. “So what you’re saying,” he said sharply, “is that the king has to seem something other than he is in order to get to the truth? That he has to deceive his own people?”
“I am saying that no one is what he seems,” said the portly mage, “and the king should recognize that fact and plan accordingly. That young waitress at the inn, for example.”
Azoun blinked. “What of her?”
“I noticed she was rather cold and aloof to you last night. Obviously the situation had changed by this morning. I trust you did not, by any chance, happen to let slip that you were more than Balm the Cavalier last night after I retired?”
Azoun reddened slightly and shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I did. I can’t remember.” He straightened his shoulders and added, “We were drinking parsnip wine,” as if that explained everything.
“Ah, but that’s exactly the point. We are travelling Cormyr on foot, not for my health nor for yours, but to understand both the land and the people. And even the most good-hearted may not be what they seem, and even the coldest may warm to the glow of the royal crown.”
They traveled for another two hours in the bright forest of morning, breaking once for another boots-off rest and once for an early, dry lunch. Vangerdahast lectured on the history of Eveningstar and the monster-haunted halls that reached through the gorge north of the village. This region had been his own playground back when he was a boy. It was here, he would point out, that he’d first decided to become a wizard, and there, he would note, that he was later taken on by Jorunhast, the last Royal Magician of the Court.
“I haven’t heard much about Jorunhast,” said Azoun, “save that he backed the wrong side during the reign of Salember, the Rebel Prince.”
“That and more,” said Vangerdahast. “Actually, he killed Salember when the Rebel Prince threatened to kill your father and your grandmother Truesilver. Then your father thanked the mage and banished Jorunhast from the court. Cormyr was without an official mage until your elder sister was born, and I was sent for to act as her tutor, and yours as well. However, King Rhigaerd has withheld the official title of Royal Magician from me, as is his right.”
“Yet if your teacher saved my father…” began the prince.
“Jorunhast killed a king,” said Vangerdahast. “A bad king, but a king nonetheless. I think your father was worried it might become a habit. And there are lessons here.”
“Such as?”
Vangerdahast sighed. “Returning to Suzail twenty years after Jorunhast left, I saw that the kingdom had survived being officially wizardless quite nicely. Thirteen centuries of careful and not-so-careful building had left a good foundation that two passing decades could not demolish. But small things had cropped up-the weakness of the battle wizards, the growth in power of the thieves’ guilds, the erratic politics of Arabel, and the shady dealings of Marsember. All small things in themselves, but with great future consequences if they were ignored. Your father chose not to ignore them and sent for Jorunhast’s pupil. In this your father showed great wisdom, a lesser king might see Cormyr’s prosperity and decide it did not need an official wizard after all.”
“Whatever happened to Jorunhast?” asked Azoun.
“I think Jorunhast was right, you know,” said Vangerdahast, ignoring the question Azoun had asked. “He had to make a choice between a mad current king and a young, untried would-be ruler. He made the choice, and in so doing, he knew he would be banished for his actions. Yet he spared your father any need to slay Salember, even with the excuse that he was defending himself. Jorunhast was willing to make an unthinkable choice if it was what was good for the realm. That’s an important lesson for both of us.”
Azoun was about to press the question of Jorunhast’s eventual fate again when he heard shouts from up ahead. Two people were running toward them, shouting and waving their hands. A older man and woman, just past their middle years, wearing dressing gowns and sandals. Not the sort of garb one chooses for a hike in the woods, thought Azoun.
“Ghosts!” cried the man. “Our house has been possessed!”
“They’ve taken over,” the woman gasped, “and driven us from our home!”
“You appear to be adventurers licensed by the crown. You must help us!” said the man.
“Let us be calm,” replied the wizard soothingly. “I am Borl the Proficient, and this is my young companion, Balm the Cavalier. You say you have ghosts?”
“We are but humble farmers,” said the man. “We’ve been living on an abandoned estate a mile up the trail, rebuilding the house and clearing the old fields.”
“That’s when the old nobles came back,” the woman added, tears forming in her eyes, “screaming and moaning, and drove us from the house!”
“Which nobles?” asked the disguised prince.
The old man blinked. “I don’t know. There was no indication, and there are so many noble houses in Cormyr. But it was a right fine building, it must have belonged to aristocrats.”
“And the fact the ghosts have returned proved that,” the woman added, almost triumphantly. “Only nobles care so much for their property they come back from the dead to protect it!”
“What do these noble ghosts look like?” Vangerdahast asked quietly.
The couple stammered as one, and then the old man’s voice trailed alone out of the confusion, admitting, “We’ve not exactly seen them.”
“No?”
“Oh, but they put up a horrible racket,” the woman exclaimed, leaping in. “Down in the basement, and up in the attic, making dreadful moans and cries for vengeance. For three days and three nights, we’ve huddled in our beds, but we could find nothing amiss in the light of day. We found one of the chickens dead this morning-brutally slain! We had to flee for our lives!”
“Sounds like something worth investigating,” said Azoun.
Vangerdahast shrugged. “There are hauntings aplenty in this Forest Country. All too much history assures us of that.”
“But still, our duty to the crown, that document we signed when the king allowed us to pass through his lands…” Azoun began, smiling.
The wizard waved him to silence. “Well, if it’s on the way…”