Giogi raised his sword in salute. “You may.”
“Then you are to prepare an army and hide it well in your Hullack Woods,” said Tanalasta. “Should even one of those sellswords cross the Swamprun, you are to visit upon Sembia all that the ghazneths are visiting upon Cormyr.”
This time, Ambassador Hovanay’s eyes grew genuinely wide. He glanced toward Queen Filfaeril and, finding no support there, looked back to Tanalasta. “I assure you, Princess, that won’t be necessary.”
“Good,” Tanalasta said. “Because it angers me that I must even consider the possibility during our current troubles. You are dismissed.”
Hovanay bowed rather more shallowly than he had before, then left. Tanalasta watched him depart with a growing heaviness in her heart, and not because she feared any trouble Sembia might cause. Whatever their aspirations in Cormyr, Giogi would see to it that they found the price too dear to pay.
Once the ambassador was gone, Tanalasta looked back to the nobles below. “Giogi Wyvernspur has declared himself ready to serve the crown. Who will stand with him?”
Ildamoar Hardcastle, Korvarr Rallyhorn’s father Urthrin, and a handful of others stepped forward to declare their readiness to sacrifice life and fortune on behalf of Cormyr. Most of the other nobles, however, remained ominously silent. Tanalasta surveyed them silently, pausing on each lord just long enough to be sure they knew she had noted their reluctance, then came to the one true surprise, Beldamyr Axehand.
“Lord Beldamyr?” she asked. “The Axehands are not ready to defend Cormyr?”
Beldamyr’s face reddened, but he did not look away. “We are ready,” he said. “When the king calls.”
Though the refusal struck Tanalasta like a blow, she tried not to show how much it disheartened her. Even had she been given to self delusion-and she was not-Beldamyr’s refusal could not be attributed to cowardice. His family was one of the few that had remained steadfastly loyal to her father during the previous year’s attempt on the throne, and Beldamyr’s reluctance to commit now could only be attributed to his lack of confidence in her.
Tanalasta held Beldamyr’s gaze and simply nodded. “Then I will try to keep the realm together until he is able. Be ready.”
She ascended the dais again, then turned to face the nobles. “Between most of us, there is little more to say. I respect your decisions, even if I am disappointed in them, and stand ready to accept your help when you are ready to fulfill your liege duties. Until then, honor me in this much: The crown hereby forbids all non-royal use of magic south of the High Road, on pain of confiscation, imprisonment, or death-depending on whether it is we who find you or the ghazneths.”
There were a few grumbles, but most of the lords understood either the sense of the edict or the wisdom of keeping their objections to themselves. Tanalasta waited until the chamber fell silent again, then dismissed the assembly with a wave.
“I will hold a war council in one hour,” she said. “The royal chamberlain will make messengers available for dispatches for those who attend. Korvarr, you will prepare your men for a noon departure.”
The lionar bowed his acknowledgement and turned to issue the orders, and it was Queen Filfaeril who asked the obvious question.
“Departure? Where are we going?”
“Not we, Mother-me,” replied Tanalasta. “I’d like you to stay with Alaphondar and continue the research in the royal archives.”
Filfaeril folded her arms. “And what are you doing? Leading the ghazneth hunt?”
“Someone must,” said Tanalasta, “and I am the one who knows them best.”
13
Gods, but he’d missed the wild, rolling northern marches of the realm.
Azoun looked out over miles of sheep-studded hills with stone-rabble and tanglestump fences, broken here and there with dense stands of trees. A lone hawk circled high in the cloudless blue sky.
Turning his head slowly, the King of Cormyr could see the rising purple and gray bulk of the Stonelands on one hand and the distant green and gold of the tilled fields nigh Immersea on the other. It had been years since he’d ridden these backlands with no more cares cloaking his shoulders than keeping word of his worst exploits from his father’s ears.
A sudden thought made him turn his head to look at his younger daughter. Alusair’s gaze was fixed on his face, a curiously gentle expression in her often stormy eyes. Over the last few years, the cares of the Steel Princess had been just the same as those of her young and carefree father. Azoun wondered just how much the war wizards who watched over her omitted from the reports they sent back to the king. A lot, if he knew anything about wizards.
“Gods,” he murmured to Alusair, leaning his head toward her to make his lowered voice carry, “but I begin to remember, from my younger days, the real reasons you spend so much of every year out here, riding with your sword drawn and your men around you.”
“Prettier perils than at court, eh?” the Steel Princess murmured back. “Though truth be told, my nobles treat me to a petty, bickering little traveling court that’s all their own.”
“I suppose so,” Azoun agreed, eyes still on the rolling beauty of this corner of his realm. “And with all of that riding with you, why ever seek the dust of Suzail for pomp, feuding, and intrigue?”
“Why indeed?” Alusair echoed, as they shared a smile.
Azoun shook his head. Gods, but Alusair reminded him of himself-the younger, more rebellious self who’d chafed over formalities and ceremony and preferred flirtations to feasts. Why, for half the coins in his
“My King!” a lancelord he did not know called out.
“There’s a man come to us who demands audience with you. He gives his name as Randaeron Farlokkeir and says he brings urgent word from court.”
Azoun frowned and exchanged glances with the Steel Princess. Alusair gave him a half-smile and a gesture that said clearly: “Your trials, and you’re welcome to them.”
“Consider yourself in command for the next few breaths, ere I return,” he told her with a wry smile.
“Urgent word from court” always meant “trouble.” Moreover, the lancelord was obviously suspicious of the messenger. When armies go to war, many men ride with their suspicions held ready before them like a drawn sword.
“I will speak with him,” Azoun told the officer. “Conduct me to him without delay.”
It seemed like only a passing breath or two before Azoun found himself looking down at a travel-stained man in plain leather armor who lay gasping on his back on an untidy heap of blankets. His weapons had been taken from him, and he was ringed by the glittering points of many drawn swords.
“My King,” he panted, trembling with weariness. “I am come from the Wyvernspurs with pressing news intended for your majesty’s ears alone.”
“Withdraw,” Azoun murmured, lifting a hand without bothering to look up. “I know this man.”
In truth, he’d laid eyes on the ranger only once or twice before, and had never known his name, but if Cat Wyvernspur trusted a man, that was good enough for the King of Cormyr.
Shuddering with exhaustion, Randaeron was now trying to roll to a kneeling position. Azoun put a hand on his shoulder to stop him-and to induce the more suspicious Purple Dragons to put away their blades and step out of hearing.
“How came you here?” the king murmured.
“R-ran, my liege. The Lady Wyvernspur… used her magic… to teleport me to a watchtower, well south of here. A ghazneth came and circled it before diving at me. I… I fought it off and ducked into ditches and ran until it flew away. Then I met with goblins… and fought and ran more.”
“Goblins,” Azoun nodded. Thus far they’d encountered only orcs. The king took note of this, then asked, “What news?”