"What befell in Marsember?" a new voice asked from behind the two highest-ranking War Wizards, causing them in turn to whirl around. "Am I now holding the last living Obarskyr?"
The glow of a spell was just fading around the ankles of Storm Silverhand, who stood with the infant Azoun cradled in her arms, the sage Alaphondar at her side, Florin Falconhand standing watchfully by with two swords drawn—and Narnra flanking him, drawn daggers in both hands.
Of course, everyone started talking at once.
* * * * *
Storm, Florin, and, surprisingly, Alaphondar and Filfaeril all pitched in with the cooking, and the resulting feast was wonderful. Much later—magic being a wonderfully useful thing—the shattered kitchen had become a haven of warmth and softly leaping firelight, wherein all sat at ease with boots up and glasses to hand—save for the snoring King of Cormyr.
It was the first time in years that Narnra Shalace could remember being truly happy.
"Forgive me," Myrmeen asked her politely across the table, "but I hear the swifter, harsher speech of Waterdeep on your tongue. What brought you to Cormyr?"
Narnra smiled. "I was thieving and followed a man I failed to rob, who intrigued me." She nodded across the room, to where a white-bearded wizard was gently spell-rocking a conjured cradle for Azoun Obarskyr and humming a nameless tune, while rubbing the feet of a bootless Storm Silverhand as she groaned in contentment. "Elminster of Shadowdale," Narnra explained, "who turned out to be my father."
"Elminster?" Myrmeen asked. "Your father?"
"Yes. Wherefore I happen," Narnra added, "to be one of the two or maybe three women in all Waterdeep who aren't breathtakingly beautiful."
"Well, luckily the gods didn't give you the worst of his hawk-nose—or his beard," Myrmeen chuckled. "I remember from my younger days that being stunningly gorgeous was more bother than it was fun—being as I wasn't an empty-headed, spiteful little bitch of a noble, looking to spend my days marrying one nobleman and bedding all the others after revels."
Narnra nodded, drew in a deep breath, and turned to Caladnei. "So now that you know all about me, will you still have me in your service? Or slay me?"
"Of course I'll still have you," Caladnei replied warmly, and turned her head to look at the Lady Laspeera. "As for why, you're the best one to make answer, Speera."
Laspeera nodded. "Narnra," she said gently, "I, too, am a daughter of Elminster. Welcome, sister. Truly, I am. . . . and there are a lot of us."
"Myself, for instance," Queen Filfaeril said calmly, causing Cor-myrean jaws to drop all over the room. "Though neither of us knew it for some years."
"Gods," Myrmeen said, turning to gaze at the bearded man by the cradle. "You have been busy, haven't you?"
EPILOGUE
Humans like to mark endings—but such events are seldom the real end of any tale.
Amaelree Windhover
One Elfin Minstrels' Robes
Year of the Splendid Stag
Brine. This leaking cog was loaded with sides of pickled beef— bound for Sembia. Witch of the Dragon Waves, indeed. Harnrim Starangh sighed and hastened down the companionway. His spell would wear off in moments—if some vengeful War Wizard didn't trace him by it before then—and none of the other ships in Marsember were showing any signs of leaving soon.
He had to get out of Cormyr. With but three spells left to him—and certain superiors among the Red Wizards certain to be looking for him with even more fury than these law-mages of the Forest Kingdom—the mighty Darkspells was going to have to vanish for a while. Perhaps for a long while.
He had been close. So close . . .
Harnrim Starangh permitted himself a single soft but heartfelt curse before he worked the magic that would turn him into a ballast-stone . . . and toppled into the filthy water of the bilges.
* * * * *
Glarasteer Rhauligan was in no mood for delay. His burden had fainted as he'd carried her along dark and secret tunnels from the portal. The palace room they were in now was off limits to all but War Wizards, who were lazyrobes all, which meant that instead of a lantern that had to be lit, there'd be a hooded glowstone right about—here.
In the revealed radiance the Highknight selected a row of steel vials from one of the crammed shelves and started biting off their corks. Why they couldn't make these so they were easy to open one-handed, he'd never know.
He forced three of them down Noumea's lovely throat before her eyes fluttered open and her flank ceased to feel like . . . well, like some butcher of a nobleman with a sharp sword had slit it open.
"T-Thank you, sir," she murmured, staring at him. "You're . . . Rhauligan. A Highknight of Cormyr, I believe. I owe you my life. Why? What do you intend for me now?"
Rhauligan shook his head. Quick-tongued, these Sembian nobles, even while weary and weak with half their life-blood spilled. "Bed rest in one of the state guestchambers yonder," he told her, "a meal if you're up to it—and I'm certainly going to feast, even if you want nothing—and we'll talk in the morning. Cormyr has a certain shortage of nobles the realm can trust, right now."
"And one cast-aside highskirts woman from Sembia can make a difference?"
"Lady, one person can always make a difference—and their name need not be Azoun Obarskyr, Vangerdahast, or even Glarasteer Rhauligan, for that matter. What's Cormyr__or any fair realm—but a lot of lone persons, who believe in the same thing?" "This is the dream you believe in?" Noumea murmured, as Rhauligan picked her off her feet and carried her into the next chamber.
"Lady fair," Rhauligan told her, as he laid Noumea gently on a bed and started to arrange pillows behind her head, "'tis what gets me up in the morning."
* * * * *
Bezrar made a choking sound and lurched toward the rail. The Witch of the Dragon Waves was starting to roll and wallow already, with the harbor barely astern.
"Nine blazing Hells," Surth hissed, swallowing hard to keep his own gorge down, "are you going to do that all the way to Yhaunn?"
His fat business partner's reply was a whirl of impressive alacrity to grip Malakar Surth's throat with fingers that were as hard as their arrival was sudden.
"You shut up, for once, Cleversneer," Aumun Tholant Bezrar snarled furiously, "or by all the gods I'll—"
He fell silent to gape up into the sky and shrank away from Surth to cower.
Surth whirled around to see what had frightened his partner, knowing as he did so that it was an action he was going to regret.
He was right. Out of the mists something was gliding past, slow and low and menacing. Something larger than the Witch of the Dragon Waves, and far more gracefuclass="underline" a gigantic fang dragon with a rainbow-hued swath of scales on one flank.
When it was quite gone, Bezrar and Surth swallowed in white-faced unison, there as they cowered on the deck of the creaking, wallowing merchant cog.
"We can't reach Sembia swift enough for me," Surth whispered, though in truth he cared not if the rolling ship beneath him was bound for Yhaunn or the Pirate Isles, or Westgate, or anyplace else in all wide Faerun that wasn't controlled by Red Wizards. Yet.
"Well," Bezrar growled, from beside him, "at least we're well away from Darkspells, and all his schemes. That one made me shiver, I can tell you!"