“Not so. In seeking to do so, you would be breaking the law and dooming the realm.”
“What?”
“When this realm was founded, the first Obarskyrs to dwell on these shores entered into agreements with the elves who held this land, just as the elves had with the dragons who ruled here before them. Down the years, there have been many disagreements as to just what happened back then, and what was agreed to-and to quell ceaseless civil war using such pretexts as its banners, solemn treaties have been written, and laws devised and passed pertaining to those treaties. In short, no matter what really befell, Cormyr has agreed to commonly accept and abide by a certain version of events and rules tied to them. If this agreement is broken, we are taught (and so the heads of households grand and rude all across this kingdom believe) the Dragon Throne will shatter, the dragons will return in great numbers to hunt humans, and the realm will be swept away.”
“So a treaty dictates what will happen, if my-if the king and queen die.”
“Indeed. Simply put, in Cormyr, nobles of the realm cannot be magically restored to life, it is expressly forbidden to resurrect ruling monarchs and regents, and all other members of the blood Obarskyr will only be brought back if they agree to this before death, and do not principally follow a faith that forbids such customs. Heirs cannot be recalled to life and still remain heirs; no one who has died and been returned to the living can inherit the Dragon Throne, or even sit upon it by right of conquest. Even if the royal family is extinguished, and the succession passes to other houses-a process that almost certainly will plunge the realm into bloody civil war.”
The eyes of Princess Tanalasta had grown very large and dark. “Why-” She licked dry lips, swallowed, and tried again. “Why can’t my father just change this inane treaty? Why can’t any Dragon King name a clear sequence of successors, to head off war?”
“Ah, I fear not, Lady Highness,” the royal magician said gravely, pacing away from her with his hands clasped behind his back, “for there’s a law-another law, relatively recent but just as strong as any law in our code-forbidding that. Laws, I fear, inevitably pile up like a beaver’s dam, a great untidy intertwined heap one must traverse with care.”
Tanalasta frowned. “But my royal father is the king! Surely he can ignore a law that stands in the way of his will? His justice? Do his decrees not make law?”
Vangerdahast whirled around to face her, robe swirling, and leveled a finger at her-and despite all her training, despite all she’d schooled herself to do and not do ere entering this chamber, Tanalasta flinched back from a spell that never came.
She’d have fled in tears if the royal magician had sneered then, or even crooked his mouth in amusement.
But instead he stood looking sternly at her, as if she’d been very bad.
“Laws and rules,” he said firmly, “ must be observed at all times. Even by kings. For if a realm is a bright-armored knight, every rule broken is a piece torn away from his armor that a traitor’s blade can thrust through later, with its wielder crying, ‘But in days gone by, so-and-so set aside this rule; why then cannot I?’ ”
Tanalasta trembled for a long, pale-faced moment, then blurted, “But you break rules. All the time. I’ve heard Father say so, and nobles and Alaph-” She fell abruptly silent, afraid to say more, trembling in shoulder-shaking earnest.
The royal magician took a slow stride forward.
“So I do,” he replied, his voice calm. “For the good of the realm. That is my duty-and my doom. For the great engine that is the court to work at all, someone must kick and tug and heave at it nigh daily, breaking the rules when need be-the rules that all others must follow. I am that rulebreaker.”
Tanalasta’s tremblings were almost shiverings, now, but she lifted her chin almost defiantly to meet his eyes. “And if you are ever wrong in your breakings? What then makes you not a traitor? Nor someone who should be hounded as an outlaw?”
Vangerdahast was smiling, now, and it was a thin, mirthless, unwelcoming smile. “I have been wrong in my breakings, as you put it. Many times. Yet kings have forgiven me.”
“Why?” Tanalasta whispered. “Have you… enspelled them?”
“Their wits, to compel them? No. Though most of the realm believes otherwise. Nor do kings leave me unchained out of fear, or hatred. Can you see your father fearing me?”
“Yes.” The crown princess was as white as her favorite snow-fur robe, her lips bloodless, but her whisper was firm.
The royal magician regarded her, smile gone again to leave his face old and expressionless, for long enough to make her quail, and said casually, “Well, perhaps he has grown wise enough to do so by now, at that. We’ll leave such considerations for another time, Princess, and return to the matters you must know and understand before another night comes. It is needful for you to know these things, that you be fit to serve the realm properly, when the day comes that you’re called upon to do so.”
Uncertainly, one of Tanalasta’s hands rose to her mouth. “When-when Father dies, and I… become queen?”
Vangerdahast’s face became severe again. “It is sincerely to be hoped that any princess of Cormyr will serve the realm fittingly, in many, many ways large and small, before she’s called upon to actually rule. There are other ways to serve than giving commands.”
“As you would know well,” Tanalasta murmured, the graceful verbal slash so like her mother that Vangerdahast, far from being angered, had to quell a grin. Ah, but the lass was an Obarskyr true, under that stonefaced mask and haughty starch! Best to ignore her comment and simply “Mage, why are you telling me this now?” Tanalasta was frowning at him in real concern. “What are you really trying to tell me, with Father off hunting more than a tenday, now; he’s all right, isn’t he?”
Chapter 6
Most of us fall afoul of the tangles our tongues make for us when we trade in falsehoods too seldom and too clumsily. Yet there are courtiers, peddlers, seers, and moneylenders who lie adroitly, and can spin deceptions within deceptions deftly, rather than desperately or unintentionally. They court discovery as do clumsier liars, but flirt also with another danger: weaving deceptions so well that they lose sight of who they are, and without perceiving it are themselves transformed by their own falsity.
Tarth Ammarander, Sage of Athkatla
World of Coins: Musings On Merchantry published in the Year of the Saddle
W e halt here,” Florin murmured, going to his knees in another place of rocks. Narantha had been clutching her arms and shivering for some time, and her face showed him how heartily sick she was of trees, trees, and more trees. She sank down beside him without a word.
“See, here?” Florin asked, reaching out a finger to trace a roughly scratched symbol of two ovals joined by an arc on a head-sized stone in front of him. Narantha nodded wearily.
“Remember it: this is a foresters’ cache. There are hundreds of them in the King’s Forest.” He rolled the stone aside to reveal a stone coffer set into the ground, a mossgirt cluster of other stones heaped around it. Florin had the coffer lid off in a trice, plunged a hand into the dank interior, and drew forth a leathery bundle that stank of mildew.
Inside, when he shook it out, was another pair of boots, a belt, a tunic, breeches, some rope, and a weathercloak. There was also a sack of something right at the bottom of the coffer, beside a scabbarded knife that was dark and sticky with something oily, and some arrows.
Florin drew out the sack, poured a handful of nuts onto a stone, and handed a smaller stone to the noblewoman. “Crush some of these and eat them.”
She gave him a glare then nodded and set to work. Nuts bounced and flew under her clumsy attack, but Florin paid no heed. As a breeze rose and rustled through the trees around them, he shook and laid out the clothing.