“A Zhentarim,” Dove repeated softly. “Not a wizard, but a spy with a knife. The Princess Alusair came very close to being slain, as unpleasantly as possible-and knows it, thank the gods. Her life was saved by a young man known to you, the chartered adventurer Florin Falconhand.”
She felt Filfaeril stiffen, and saw Laspeera stiffen too.
“He took the knife-thrust meant for her,” she added, “on a rooftop, in the rain, though he knew not who she was until after. Or so, at least, she believes and remembers it.”
Queen Filfaeril tugged free of Dove’s embrace, and turned to look at her almost helplessly, and then at Laspeera. Tears streamed down her face as she murmured, “And I sent him away-I sent them all away. To the Nine Hells with Khelben’s schemes, and Vangerdahast’s too! Can’t we call them back?”
Far indeed from the castle in Cormyr where a queen known to the citizenry of Suzail for her icy manner sobbed helplessly, a man who was no longer a man pondered life as it now was.
Horaundoon might have lacked a body of his own, but he had all the bodies of living folk of Faerun to choose from. King or commoner, mighty-thewed bodyguard or curvaceous veiled dancer, human or snake-man or tentacled, slithering thing-he could “ride” them all.
No longer a cringing, middling mage of the Zhentarim, he could now wield the Brotherhood like a weapon, manipulating it or possessing those who gave orders within its ranks… or he could destroy it, butchering his way through those same ranks until none remained to menace the Realms.
Yet increasingly he found such struggles and schemes beneath him, or no longer mattering all that much. Being a wraithlike spirit was changing him, and the changes excited him, scared him, and thrust him ever onward into… an unknown life.
He still often plunged murderously into people, burning them out from within in the space of a few breaths as he drank their life-energies. Sometimes he did so just to lash out, dealing death as much out of furious frustration as out of his need for life-force to empower him.
Yet Horaundoon was learning to enjoy the rides, and to cherish his steeds as well as destroying them.
Just now, he was riding a hapless wealthy merchant of Amn, one Unstraburl Hordree.
Cloak swirling out behind him, Hordree was striding home through the glittering streets of Athkatla, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. His trotting bodyguards formed a grim ring all around him as he hastened along, teeth bared in a wider sharklike smile than was usual.
Horaundoon was broadening that smile with his own pleasure, having just ridden voyeur on Hordree’s lovemaking, at his secret loveden of enslaved-with-drugs mistresses.
Hordree was the third man Horaundoon had ridden for days on end without harming him all that much. He was learning.
Mastering his rage at what had been stolen from him, and learning to control humans rather than just drain them. Growing comfortable with being a wraithlike spirit, and starting to see the possibilities of his new existence.
Mindworms and stolen elven spells were behind him.
Nobles, adventurers, and royalty in Cormyr were just playthings, and he was past all that now.
No fearful, skulking retirement in hiding awaited him. No hargaunt and no fear of being hunted at Manshoon’s orders.
Why, if he went about things deftly and patiently, he could well slay all of his former rivals in the Zhentarim, by drinking their very lives. Lathalance and Sarhthor, Eirhaun Sooundaeril… and Manshoon himself.
Yes.
After all these years, if he kept well hidden-and who would be looking for “dead by his own hand” Horaundoon? — he could finally dare to strike at Manshoon.
Destroying Manshoon… now that would be true power.
“Well met, Dragon,” Dove said, as King Azoun strode back into the room. “You’ve been told all?”
Azoun nodded. “I have, and I thank you. We still have two daughters this night because of you.”
“Because of Florin Falconhand,” Dove corrected him. She looked at Queen Filfaeril. “I must leave you now, I’m afraid. Other business”-one of her fingers brushed her harp-shaped belt buckle for an instant, a momentary gesture unseen by Laspeera or Margaster through the intervening royal bodies-“presses me sorely. So you must guard your own princesses.”
Azoun gave her another grim nod. As he stepped forward to clasp her hand, he asked, “Margaster?”
The old war wizard bowed. “My king?”
Azoun waved at the sleeping Alusair. “The Dragondown Chambers?”
The war wizard nodded.
“Both Tana and Luse,” Azoun added. “Stay with them as much as you can. And you can put my lasses into spell-sleep for a year if you deem it needful-just don’t let them run off!”
The war wizard bowed again, looking grave.
Though it was dark enough in the shadow of the Hullack Forest to foil the eyes of most humans, it seemed that there were more trees around Lord Prester Yellander’s hunting lodge this night than usual-and that some of those trees were moving.
A patient eye would have eventually identified those extra dark trunks as the torsos of bodyguards. Many, many bodyguards, standing staring out into the night and listening intently for sounds of anyone approaching.
Those veteran swordjacks could hear nothing from inside the thick log walls of the hunting lodge, despite the relative quiet of small night sounds in the forest and their own breathing, because the three men inside all wore multiple magecloak magics on their persons. Enough to foil even the most intent war wizard scrying.
Which was a good thing, because every word of their converse was dark treason.
Chapter 7
So much magic lies hidden in Cormyr
That I scarce know where to begin.
Darlock’s six tasked spirits
The Crown of the Slayer
The Hunting Blade
The Door Into Nowhere
The wandering cloaks of wyvernshape
And dead Emmaera Dragonfire
Who left so many silent flying swords
To guard her enchanted bones
And I’ve but begun the list.
There are all the tombs of the nobles, yet.
The table between the three lords was small. If it hadn’t been for the metal goblets between them, their knuckles could easily have touched.
Lord Maniol Crownsilver stared across that small distance at Yellander and Eldroon, and said quietly, “I believe all Cormyr knows my very good reason for hating the Knights of Myth Drannor and wanting to see them meet swift and brutal dooms. Lords, may I know yours?”
The two lords across the table exchanged glances, Yellander gave the briefest of nods, and Lord Blundebel Eldroon leaned forward to explain calmly, “We’re furious at the Knights for shattering a means of income that brought us each more than a thousand-thousand golden lions a year.”
Crownsilver blinked. “Might, ah, I know how any noble of Cormyr manages to make such sums without all the realm knowing about it?”
“Smuggling,” Eldroon said simply. “Scarce or banned goods that command high coin, and upon which we pay not a copper thumb in taxes. The scarce wares include certain wines and scents much sought-after by many nobly born-and even more avidly by the wealthiest merchants of Suzail; those desperate to show the kingdom that they’re either worthy of ennoblement, or are wealthy and powerful enough that they can have what we nobles have.”
“And the banned goods?”
“Poisons and certain drugs prohibited under Crown law. Thaelur, laskran, blackmask, behelshrabba-that sort of thing.”
“I have heard of thaelur, and that it has something to do with pleasure,” Lord Crownsilver said slowly, lifting his eyebrows in a clear request for information.