John shook his head and looked down at the silver disk. The medal had a longbow engraved in it, with the words "Order of the Golden Way" etched around the image. It had been given to each of the archers who'd fought on the crusade, and ones like it-engraved with either pikes or horses-had been cast for each infantryman or cavalryman. The latter was a posthumous honor.
The medals garnered the wearer a great many courtesies in the city. The deference shown John by the elderly woman was only a small sample. The fletcher had found that the silver disk increased his business on the street, got him better service in taverns, even attracted the attention of single ladies. Not that John was all that concerned with such matters; Kiri had survived the crusade, too, and they were planning a wedding for the spring.
Razor John wore the medal because he was proud of the service he'd done Faerun. He'd gone on the crusade believing in Azoun's cause, and the attention the expedition now received only made John feel that much more pride in the Alliance and all it stood for. There was even talk in the inns that King Azoun wanted the bonds between Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dales to become more permanent. Such a union would make any invasion of the Heartlands almost impossible.
John looked to his right. The sprawl of government buildings known as "the Royal Court" lined the Promenade for a long way. Tax collectors and other city officials scurried about in the court's twisted hallways, and the policies enacted there had a great effect on John's life. However, those structures seemed insignificant when compared to the impressive castle that rose behind them. The fletcher stared up at the palace and wondered if the king would be able to unite Faerun.
At that moment, Azoun himself was wondering the same thing. He paced back in forth in the castle's highest tower, his hands clenched behind his back. Every few steps his left leg twinged slightly, but that wasn't a surprise. The arrow wound tended to give him trouble right before it rained.
Moving to the chessboard that lay on a table at the side of the room, the king shifted a knight, then resumed his pacing. His chess game had improved since his return from Thesk, much to Queen Filfaeril's dismay. She now beat the king only three games out of four.
"I hope you're done reading Thom's text, Your Highness," a voice called from the stairs. "The clerics are here to pick up the last pages."
Azoun turned to see Vangerdahast emerge from the open trapdoor. The wizard looked much more healthy these days; he'd spent most of the last two months in his laboratory, restoring the vitality the magic-dead area had stolen from him. His face was still wrinkled and his gait a little slower than in years past, but the wizard was once again the "Vangy" that Azoun knew and loved.
"Of course I'm finished," the king said. He reached down and handed a sheaf of parchment to his friend. "If you see Thom before I do, you can tell him the chronicles are just fine."
Without comment, the wizard took the pages and placed them neatly in his leather satchel. From there they would be delivered to the priests who awaited them in the palace's main hall. The clerics, worshipers of Denier, the God of Art, had been commissioned to copy Thom Reaverson's history of the crusade. The chronicles were then to be bound with Koja's notes on the Tuigan and his life of Yamun Khahan. Demand for the resulting book, which was to be stunningly illuminated by the priests, was already high, and the growing interest in the crusade promised to make the work even more sought after in the months to come.
"Yes, our bard does need encouragement these days," Vangerdahast noted sarcastically. "I understand that he's been offered quite a lot of money by one of our nobles to write a family history."
The wizard's comment brought no response from Azoun. He was confident that the bard would stay at the palace, at least for a little while. After all, when Alusair returned home in a few days, Thom was planning to finish his notes on her adventures. Those stories could then be added to the history of House Obarskyr.
Azoun had resumed his pacing, and Vangerdahast started for the trapdoor. The wizard was reaching to close the door behind him when the king suddenly looked in his direction.
"Thank you, Vangy," Azoun said sincerely. "By the way, have you heard anything from Lord Mourngrym or the other dalelords?"
"They'll come, Azoun. The crusade has earned you enough influence that they'll have no choice," the wizard said-a bit sourly, the king noted. "To be honest, I don't know why you're wasting your time. They'll never agree to unification with Cormyr. Neither will Sembia." When he noted the determined look crossing the king's face, he added. "Of course, that's just my opinion."
The wizard knew better than to argue certain matters of state-like the unification of the Heartlands-with Azoun since the crusade. The success of the foray against the Tuigan had bolstered the king's opinion that the tenets of Law and Good could be used to govern. In the wizard's opinion, that made Azoun rather intractable. Still, the old mage found that he respected the king more these days, even if he did believe his plans to be unrealistic. Like most people, Vangerdahast found it hard not to respect someone so dedicated to the welfare of others.
With a short bow, the wizard disappeared into the stairwell and closed the trapdoor behind him. The heavy wooden door forced a breeze into the small tower room, making the tapestries wave on the walls. The echo of the iron ring clanking against the wood had barely died before the king was pacing again.
In his mind the arguments for uniting Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dales turned over and over, arranging themselves into the best logical order. Azoun occasionally dismissed a reason for the extension of the union, and every few steps a new argument for or against the plan would present itself to him. At the heart of the king's thinking lay one thing: The crusade had proven, on a very limited scale, that such an alliance was beneficial.
No one could deny that. Relations between the three countries and the independent city-states that had offered troops for the crusade had never been better. With the exception of Zhentil Keep, of course. The increased activities of the raiding parties out of Darkhold troubled everyone, and the Keep now found itself politically isolated more often than not.
Most importantly, the crusade had shown Azoun that he could change the world. After all, the Alliance had been founded upon his ideals, his dreams. Certainly he had faltered once or twice, falling prey to the easy solutions of political necessity. Even now, the dalesmen pointed the finger of blame at Azoun for the problems with Darkhold. After explaining the treaty he'd signed with the Keep, the king had offered no excuse for his actions. The guilt was his, and he accepted it.
That was what his conscience advised him to do, and more and more these days Azoun followed that guide. It also told him to forge a new country from the Heartlands, a new empire dedicated to Law and Good. If possible, he was going to do that, too.
The king stopped pacing for a moment and opened the window. Suzail spread before him in the late autumn sunshine, still peaceful, still prosperous. The whole of Faerun could be like this, he thought.
Koja's comment about the world and great men came unbidden to the king's mind. His humility rebelled at naming himself great, but Azoun realized that the priest had been talking about him as much as Yamun Khahan. He pondered that thought as he watched the gulls wheel over the docks, the tradesmen and peasants hustle down the Promenade.
Closing the window, the king shut the chill breeze out of the room. If Koja is correct, Azoun decided as he began to pace again, then I must achieve what I can in what little time I have.