“The Crown Princess faces troubles at court. Though her words are firm and fair, some nobles openly refuse to obey her, vowing to follow only you, sire. The Dragon Queen is similarly ignored by those who choose to do so… and they are many.”
There came a stirring among the men standing around, a muttering without words, but Azoun never looked up from the laboring lips. The ranger coughed weakly and went on. “The situation is… not good. Sembian interests seek a breach in our armor, many factions at court rise like restless lions to renew old plots, dismissing the war in the north as a ploy of the crown to empty their coffers and keep their sons as royal hostages… and the old whispers of rebellion-Arabel and Marsember, hidden royal blood heirs, and all-are heard again in the passages of the palace and the back rooms of the taverns. The Wyvernspurs fear the Obarskyr hold on the Dragon Throne will be lost-and Cormyr itself split over warring noble ambitions-despite the real foes that threaten the realm here. All it will take, Cat says, if I may be so bold, sire, is one blade through the wrong hotheaded noble’s guts, and the bloodshed will begin. You are needed, Majesty, and better you come surrounded by loyal and ready knights, in strength, to slay any thoughts of daggers in royal backs or ceilings spellsent down onto crowned heads.”
The king nodded, allowing the wry ghost of a smile to touch his lips. “I can tell there’s more, yet. Speak.”
The ranger let out a deep and unhappy sigh, then said in a rush, “Princess Tanalasta looks unwell and-not content, yet she seems determined to personally destroy the ghazneths. The more they’re seen, the more she rushes to cross blades with them.”
He and Azoun stared into each other’s eyes for a long, shared breath, both of them keeping their faces carefully expressionless, before the ranger added quietly, “I, too, have a daughter left alone in this, sire. The Wyvernspurs are not the only ones who fear that Cormyr may soon lose its heir.”
“So it would be best,” Azoun murmured, “if I reached the ghazneths before the princess does.” Another smile twisted his lips before he added, “And even better if I had some sort of plan in mind for defeating them when we do meet.”
“Majesty,” Randaeron agreed carefully, “it would.”
Azoun nodded. “You’ve done well. Stay in the field with the Princess Alusair, I charge you, as I take the men we can best spare here and head south in haste to hold my kingdom.” He strode away, murmuring, “And if the gods really smile upon me, perhaps I’ll even win myself a little rest. Old lions, however stupid, deserve to lie down once in awhile.”
Randaeron knew he wasn’t supposed to officially hear that last royal remark, so he let his eyes close and kept silent. Silence is often the best court policy.
14
The echo of a distant splash rolled down the river behind Vangerdahast and faded into nothingness. The wizard turned and looked toward the sound. The water was as black as the foul air, and the air was as black as the contorted walls, and the walls were as black as a chimney flue-save that instead of soot, they were covered in some black scum that seemed half moss and half stone. Circles of the stuff floated on the water just a few inches beneath Vangerdahast’s chin, stinking of must and mildew and some ancient filth he did not dare consider, given that he was in a tunnel just one level beneath the city of the Grodd.
The cavern remained ominously quiet, but at the last bend behind Vangerdahast, the scum circles were rising and falling ever so slightly on the river surface. The wizard looked at the tiny crow leg hovering above his palm, which he was holding above the water more or less at eye level, and saw that it was still pointing forward. The ghazneth remained somewhere ahead-so what was behind?
Visions of albino sharks and cave-dwelling anacondas began to fill his head, but Vangerdahast dismissed these fears as unfounded nonsense. Such creatures needed a steady diet, and the goblins-the only substantial food source he had found in these caverns-had repopulated their city only recently. It seemed more likely that a patch of scum had simply fallen off the ceiling and made the sound as it landed. Much more likely.
Vangerdahast continued down the passage, following his makeshift compass down one fork of a three-way intersection. If he was right about the ghazneth’s identity-and he sincerely hoped he was not-the thing was Rowen Cormaeril, the handsome young ranger whom Princess Tanalasta had found so unfortunately infatuating. The wizard had last seen them together in the foothills of the Storm Horn Mountains, when the pair had pulled free of his grasp to avoid being teleported back to Arabel. At the time, Vangerdahast had been furious with the pair, but now he was-well, now he was scared to death. If Rowen had become a ghazneth, he could not bear to think what had happened to Tanalasta.
The water grew a few inches deeper, and the wizard tipped his chin back and slipped his feet carefully along the bottom. Holding the torch so high tired his arm, and he wondered whether it might be wiser to cast a spell of light on the crow’s foot. With both hands full, he would have a difficult time defending himself if there was something behind him, and there was a very real possibility of stepping into a hole and dousing the flame anyway.
But casting a light spell would mean feeding Nalavara more magic, and he was worried about how close he had come to freeing her already. A few hours after his near capture at the goblin tower, Vangerdahast had taken advantage of his pursuers’ lingering confusion to return to the great plaza and sneak a peek at Nalavara. To his horror, he had found a dragon fully six hundred feet long, with the remains of his weathercloak, wands, rings, and other magic items lying dull and drained of mystic energy around her head. Though she was still attached to the ground along one flank, writhing in the air were four tree-sized legs, a wing large enough to shade the Suzail Palace, and a spiked tail half the length of the Royal Parade Ground. The sight had frightened Vangerdahast so greatly that when the inevitable cohort of goblins found him out he very nearly allowed himself to be captured rather than cast another spell. Only his determination to track down the ghazneth and find out what had happened to Tanalasta had convinced him to flee.
Another splash sounded in the cavern behind Vangerdahast, louder and more certain than the last. The noise was followed by a hissed chitter, and for a moment the wizard could not grasp what he was hearing. It could not be goblins-not when the water was so deep it soaked his beard to the chin. He listened and heard a soft, rhythmic purling, and his disbelief changed to dismay. They had followed him-and his own nose told him how. Though he had grown accustomed to the acrid stench of his torch, the smoke it produced was heavy and rancid and must have seemed like a beacon to the goblins.
Vangerdahast glanced one more time at the crow’s leg in his palm, then thrust the butt of his torch into a small wall crevice. The flames began to lick a loose sheet of black crust, and almost instantly the edge began to smolder, sending plumes of ghastly smelling smoke rolling along the ceiling. Chuckling quietly at the thought of what the bitter stench would do to the goblins’ sensitive noses, the wizard set off into the darkness.
A few minutes later, the goblins seemed to realize what was happening and filled the tunnel with angry chittering. Though Vangerdahast was already feeling his way around the next bend, he paused long enough to look back down the passage into what had become a flickering ring of fire. The goblins were paddling into view on rough-hewn logs, sitting three and four to a raft with their legs dangling in the water and using crudely shaped paddles to propel their craft forward. As they approached the burning wall, they squealed and pressed their faces into their elbows, trying to shield their heat-seeing eyes from the flames.
The first log hit the wall and spilled its passengers into the water, and it became apparent that goblins could not swim-at least not in bronze armor. The second log seemed to be staying on course, so Vangerdahast backed around the corner and turned into the darkness-then let out a cry when he saw a pair of pearly eyes shining down on him from above.