Swords of Eveningstar

by Greenwood, Ed

  Horaundoon closed his eyes and let his hands fall to his sides, concentrating hard. “Yes,” he whispered, after a long moment. “Yes, there’s a second link … and a third. Tracing spells. Nigh a dozen.”

  He opened his eyes as he ended his spell, letting it collapse and take the distant elf away from him. “And other mages at the end of every one of them! A band of wizards waiting to spring their trap on the mysterious Eater-of-Mantles. Not a mantle among them, but I daresay they’ll have minds brimming with murderous spells and eagerness to use them.”

  The hargaunt spoke, and the Zhentarim smiled a wolflike smile. “Not ended, just halted for a time, until I can craft a spell to plunder mages’ minds when they’re not wearing a mantle. In the meantime, I can attend more revels and learn about a few more magical baubles in the collections of old and foolheaded Cormyrean nobles. While their house wizards probe at me in vain, finding minor cosmetic spells but not the shapeshifting magics they’re expecting. Thanks to you.”

  He grinned at the hargaunt almost fondly, and its chiming reply was intricate and enthusiastic.

  The Lady Narantha Crownsilver came out into the glade and stopped in wonder. Florin strode on in his nigh-soundless way, but seemed to sense she wasn’t right behind him. He whirled around, saw that nothing menaced her, and came back to join her, moving as quietly as ever.

  Narantha no longer felt sticky and dirty, and for the first time her boots felt familiar and almost painless. The sun was bright and warm, birds were calling in the trees around, and looking down the length of the glade she could see the land ahead rising in a great shoulder of pines and duskwoods, to a rocky ridge. Beyond, purple in the distance, great mountains rose like so many eternal fangs against the cloudless blue sky: the Storm Horns … and somewhere at their forefront, probably hidden behind the nearby ridge, rose the bright fang that was the great castle of High Horn.

  Narantha looked long at the scene before her, breathing deeply of the clear air. The merest ghost of a breeze was bringing her the sharp scent of bruised needles, and just a hint of unseen, distant woodsmoke. She had never really looked at a sky before, or wild and magnificent Cormyr laid out in a vista before her. The green glory of trees and rolling hills.…

  Narantha pursed her lips and shook her head. She had gazed, but she had never really seen before. So much time wasted, so many petty nothings and empty fripperies crowding her life.

  Florin was standing beside her, looking down at her. She looked up at him, not knowing how to say what was in her mind.

  He caught hold of her hand with his own, and squeezed. “Memories are treasures,” he murmured. “Lock the best of them in your mind forever, the most splendid moments, and throw away the rest. Any day when you gain such a treasure is a day well-spent.”

  She nodded, her throat tight on the edge of tears, and they walked on in silence together, still holding hands.

  Jalander swallowed. Vangerdahast was looming over him, having appeared as unexpectedly and disconcertingly as always. He could not avoid that commanding gaze; bristling eyebrows lifted in a silent question, the eyes beneath them hard and keen.

  Jalander was not a junior war wizard, and so could—just—control his awe and fear at such close attention from the Royal Magician of Cormyr. “ ’Tis these new ward-spells you’ve had us working at. They work well enough when cast on Jester’s Green or a back pasture somewhere, even when guarding someone who’s moving. But they keep collapsing—and going wild, too, in little outbursts here and there—whenever we cast them anywhere near the palace. Even up at High Horn we had problems. Too many other magics—”

  “Indeed,” Vangerdahast said. “Wards upon wards, old enchantments underlying those we know about, some slumbrous and many awakening without warning. They all interfere with each other. I feared as much. So the gaps in our armor must remain.”

  Jalander Mallowglar dared much, then. He dared to sit back in his chair and observe, “I thought you’d be more upset than—than you seem to be.”

  “Lad, if I let Cormyr see how upset I am most of the time, they’d lock me up as a madman. If I showed all Cormyr why I’m upset, they’d flee the realm so hard and fast, screaming their terror to the skies, that most of them would probably drown in the Dragonmere before they noticed they’d run right off the ends of our piers!”

  There was a sudden shriek from the deep words to their left, and Narantha tensed, wide-eyed. “What’s that?”

  The shriek rose wildly and broke off suddenly, leaving an ominous silence. Florin strode on.

  “Aren’t—aren’t you going to go see?” Narantha asked, aghast. “That was a woman, frightened and in pain! Something just happened to her! Don’t foresters care—”

  Florin spun around, looking grave. “That was a wolf, not a woman—and it was dying. Under the claws and jaws of something large enough to kill a wolf at a pounce, without much of a fight.”

  He shrugged, and added a little sadly, “Whenever you hear that sort of noise, ’tis too late to do anything.”

  Narantha stared at him, her face white, and Florin added, “ ’Tis the way of things. The forest is fair to gaze upon—but cruel.”

  “Gods,” she said, her voice almost a sob ere she steadied it. “Even here. I thought—I thought …”

  “You thought that out here, because ’tis beautiful and you’ve lost your first fears of it, that things are, ah, gentler than the games of verbal and social dagger-hurling nobles play at?” Florin’s voice was soft. “Ah, now, that would be a world.…”

  He drew his sword again, and reached out his free hand to take hers.

  “Come, Narantha. The light will fail soon, and we must find a good place to camp—or yon wolf’s fate may yet be ours.”

  Narantha shivered. “I … Florin, I’ve been horrible to you.”

  And I far more so to you, Lady, did you but know it, Florin thought, guilt jabbing at him through his relief that playacting at being both square-jawed hero and veteran forester was largely done. Oh, you’d never forgive me, if only you knew. I wonder how long it will be, before I dare to tell you I chased you out here just for sport?

  “No,” he said soothingly, “you were just being … what you thought nobles should behave like. And you may have done so very properly; you’re the first noble I’ve ever met.”

  Narantha shook her head, smiling ruefully. “No, we don’t all have my temper. If we did, there’d be very few nobles left in the realm now. Just a lot of crypts full of nobles who killed each other.”

  “Oh?” Florin gave her an innocent look, but arched a by-now-familiar eyebrow. “I thought there were lots of crypts full of—”

  She dealt his arm a friendly blow, her smile going wry, and said, “Please don’t make this harder for me. I—I’m not good at apologies; I’ve had little practice.” She drew in a deep breath, and pulled Florin to a halt, to look up at him squarely.

  “And … and I find I very much want to apologize to you.”

  He looked down at her in grave silence, and she added in a rush, “I’m sure my tongue will get the better of me again, but I see you as a friend now, not a servant—and I want to have you as a friend.”

  Florin started to smile, and Narantha swallowed again and asked, “Please? May I?”

  “If you’ll trust me,” he told her, raising her hand in his grasp to his lips, “I’ll trust you—and if we do that, we’ll be better friends than many who hail, jest, and gossip together.”

  Narantha blinked, then whispered slowly, “I have never trusted anyone, in all my life.”

  It was Florin’s turn to blink. “Gods above and below,” he murmured. “No wonder all nobles are mad.”

  He put his arms around her, and Narantha hugged him tight. A few breaths later, Florin realized the noble lass in his arms was crying against his chest. He stroked her hair and rocked her in his arms, looking warily about at the darkening forest.

  Overhead, in the reddening sky, the stars began to come out.

  Tathant
er Doarmond happened to be one of the most handsome Wizards of War in all the realm, blessed by the gods with an impressive, mellifluous voice. It was for that reason that, despite his junior standing and comparatively paltry mastery of the Art, he was often called upon to speak for the war wizards when old Thunderspells wanted a courtier impressed—or a citizen scared right down to the soles of his boots.

  Just now, he was busily frowning his best “I fear you’re in serious trouble” frown as he stared again at the two letters lying on his desk. They contradicted each other so flatly that even a child would have been forced to conclude that one of these two merchants was lying.

  Yet was this a matter for the Wizards of War, or merely a trader—perhaps both—saving himself a few coins in taxes? Not that even a single deception should pass unchallenged in the Forest Kingdom, but among merchants there were so many thousands upon thousands of them that no mage could hope to catch every last one. Moreover, Tathanter had been instructed to consult War Wizard Ghoruld Applethorn whenever he found himself uncertain … and Tathanter was more than a little afraid of coldly smiling, dagger-eyed Applethorn, master of wards and crystals. Perhaps—

  His office door squealed open and his closest friend and fellow war wizard Malvert burst in, bending close to his ear to hiss, “Tath! Remember you Garrlatus? And Sonthur, the one who was blasted to bits in his first tenday as a war wizard? Well, old Thunderspells thinks he knows what they were killed with now!”

  “Oh? Killed by whom?”

  “That he doesn’t know—or if he does, isn’t saying. Garrlatus and Sonthur were both spell-blasted when seemingly alone in warded chambers, studying their spells. Apparently whatever felled them was the same thing. Well, Thunderspells got to thinking what it might have been, and remembered the Arcrown did that sort of slaying. He thought he’d better try its powers to make sure, went to get it, and sure enough: the Arcrown’s been stolen!”

  “The Iron War Crown? From the vaults?”

  “The vaults. They say Vangey’s frothing, for to get it out of there without triggering all of his personal warning-wards, the thief must be one of the Obarskyrs—or one of us.”

  Tathanter whistled. “Oh, that’s going to be sweet! Tantrums of Mystra, if he’s going to be mind-reaming every last one of us, the kingdom’ll go to the rutting dogs!”

  “Pretty much,” Malvert agreed bitterly. “I caught just a touch—a stray edge—of one of his mind-probes once, that time he came after Talarla to find out who she’d been sneaking out at night to kiss and cuddle—remember?—and I thought I was going mad. My head hurt for days, and every few paces I took, memories kept tumbling out of nowhere and flooding my eyes. All I could see was them, not what was really around me. Couldn’t sleep, kept seeing Vangerdahast smiling, skeletons tumbling out of shadows or reaching for me, their grinning skulls always looking like Vangerdahast …”

  “Mal! Enough! Say his name that often and you’ll have him down here reaming us for real!”

  Malvert nodded quickly. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have … you really have no idea how horrible it was. I only have to think of it … Now, after all this time …” He clawed the air in a great sweeping away of something unseen, and added briskly, “So, would your wagered coins be on one of us, a bored Obarskyr playing at pranks or a parlor cult for nobles … or a sinister Obarskyr?”

  “One of us, I’m afraid—though any of your royal alternatives sound far more entertaining.”

  “Huh. No disagreement here. Remember the last scandal? Queen Fee’s mysterious stalker?”

  Tathanter chuckled. “Aye, and I remember who it was, too. Alusair the toddler, spying on Mummy to learn how to be a queen! How humiliating for our Imperious Leader! I thought he was going to vomit up a litter of kittens on the spot, all down his royal magicianly robes!”

  “Well, Vangey evidently remembers that too. For now, he’s not mindbursting all of us, but setting us all to hunt for the Arcrown. He seems to think it may have found its way to Arabel, so accordingly, I bring you your bright new orders.”

  “The Dragon you do! What about our morrow-night card game?”

  “If we’re lucky, we’ll be playing it with the Acting Captain of the Watch of Arabel, a—”

  “A watch officer? They’ve got us working with guilty-if-I-don’t-like-you watch stoneheads now?”

  “Well, he’s really a Purple Dragon ranker: the king gave secret orders a few years back, it seems, that thanks to the everlastingly rebellious tendencies in Arabel, all watch officers in that fair city be Purple Dragons, and so right under his thumb—”

  “Huh. And we know which cunning royal magician was behind that, don’t we?”

  “Aye, I doubt not. But Vangey’s cunning hand or not, this acting captain’s hight Taltar Dahauntul, and I’m told he—”

  “Ah, yes, the stalwart Dauntless!”

  “Hey?”

  “ ‘Dauntless,’ everyone calls him. He seems to like it, and uses it himself now, too. Duke Bhereu once called him that: ‘dauntless in pursuit’ or some such thing, and the name stuck. He’s all right. A little grim and ‘it be against my sworn duty to laugh at anything,’ but then they all are. Old Thunderspell’s orders say anything about what wands and such we’re supposed to take?”

  “No,” the inkwell under Tathanter’s nose said with some asperity, in a voice that made both war wizards freeze into instant gape-mouthed silence, their faces going pale, “but I’m on my way down to you two mirthful gossipers, to rectify that. Remain right where you are, though if you feel the need to wet yourselves, the potted plant by the window is quite dead; you can use its pot. Oh, and Doarmond: both merchants penned untruths into their little missives to you, but Harmantle is the one who should see a dungeon cell before the night is over. I’ll see to that. Both of you are going to be rather busy.”

  “Sometimes it seems as if I’ve been walking in the forest with you forever,” Narantha mused, “yet it’s been just a few days. And this is our last? I don’t want it to end, now.”

  “I’m afraid this must be our last,” Florin said. “Delbossan will be mad with worry—he’s probably been searching day and night since he lost you, and must be raving and reeling by now for lack of sleep. If he’s dared to tell Lord Hezom, there’ll be scores of men out searching for you, and if he hasn’t, Hezom will probably have sent riders south to see what’s delayed Delbossan. And if any war wizard has got wind of what’s befallen, your parents will know by now, and they’ll be tearing the Royal Court apart chamber by chamber getting Purple Dragons out of their barracks and onto horses and up here at fast gallop!”

  Narantha made a face. “I don’t want Lord Hezom’s teachings. I want … oh, I don’t know what I want. I—”

  Florin whirled and put two fingers over her mouth. “Be silent,” he whispered, and cocked his head to listen.

  “Wha—” Narantha shut herself up and strained to hear whatever Florin was so intent on hearing. They were in deep forest, carpeted in dead leaves and great green ferns, with the huge trunks of shadowtops and duskwoods soaring up all around them like dark columns. There were ridges ahead, and beyond them the forest seemed lighter, as if more sun reached down through the trees there.

  There came a very faint clink of metal on metal, and Florin turned to Narantha with a fierce warning to keep utterly silent blazing in his eyes. Then there came a slightly louder, lower rattling and whirring noise. Florin sank down to his knees, drawing the noble lass with him.

  “Hear that?” he whispered into her ear, his breath as warm as a candle flame. “That’s a windlass: a crossbow is being winched ready to fire. No forester around here uses crossbows, nor do Purple Dragons.”

  “Outlaws?”

  Florin nodded grimly. “Most likely. Yon sunlight ahead is Hunter’s Hollow, where the Way of the Dragon runs through the forest, ’twixt Espar and Tyrluk. Well suited for an ambush.” He wagged a stern finger in her face. “Stay here and keep quiet. No screaming, unless someone or something is rearing over y
ou, about to take your life.”

  “You’ll leave me undefended?”

  Florin slapped a dagger into Narantha’s palm, his eyes as iron-hard as its steel, and said grimly, “I must. This is what it means to love Cormyr. Above all else, serving the realm before oneself …”

  And with that fierce whisper trailing behind him, Florin crawled ahead, swift and nigh-soundless on his hands and knees. Trotting, then slinking, then trotting again. Just like the panthers Lord Huntsilver liked to loose in his gardens, to keep thieves away from his revels—and to keep his guests inside his mansion, rather than slinking out into the night to tryst and make shady trade deals, or depart early with some of his more handsome candlesticks and painted cameos. Narantha stared open-mouthed at Florin; he seemed, right now, more beast than man.

  She watched him rise up like a vengeful shadow on her side of a tree, just this side of the first ridge, and peer cautiously around it in the lee of a low, leaf-laden branch. At that moment there was a sharp snap, then another. A horse screamed. There were shouts of angry alarm, the ring of swords being drawn in scabbard-nicking haste—and Florin took off around the tree like an arrow, sword in one hand and dagger in the other, all stealth abandoned.

  Narantha stared at where he’d vanished, over the lip of the ridge, then hefted the dagger he’d put into her hand, set her mouth in a determined line—and hurried after him.

  Chapter 8

  BLOOD AND GLORY

  Glory always has a price, and that cost is almost always paid in copiously spilled blood.

  Harbunk Jhelliko

  One Halfling’s Wisdom

  published in the Year of the Wanderer

  Narantha ran hard. Outlaws. Gods above, she and Florin might both be dead a few breaths from now!

  “Mother,” she gasped aloud, “Father … forgive me for all the upsets I’ve caused you, all the disappointments I’ve occasioned, all—”