by Ed Greenwood
“My thanks, Lord Yeschant—and, may I say, how swiftly and ably spoken. Is the ‘how’ we remove the Coronal easiest to decide among ourselves, as I judge it?”
“It must be some way that lets us strike him down personally,” Lord Tassarion said quickly.
“Yet ’twould be best,” the lord speaker of the Starym put in, “if it not be a formal audience or other appointment for which a suspicious Coronal could assemble a formidable defensive force, and thereby increase our losses and personal danger as he delays our success and places the realm in jeopardy of the very war and uncertainty we are all so rightly concerned about.”
“How then to trick him into meeting with us?”
“Adopt disguises, so as to come to him as his advisors: those six sorceresses he dallies with, for instance?”
Lord Yeschant and Lord Tassarion frowned in unison. “I dislike the thought of involving such extra complications in what we do,” said Yeschant. “Should one of them observe us, she’ll be sure to attack, and we’ll have a spell battle far greater than what we’ll face if we can catch Eltargrim alone.”
“Bah! As Coronal, he can call and summon a number of things,” the Starym envoy said dismissively.
“Aye, but if such aid arrives and finds him dead,” Lord Tassarion said thoughtfully, “things are far different than if we draw one or even all six of the lady sorceresses—members of noble houses themselves, remember, with the blood prices their deaths will inevitably carry—into the fray before we are sure that we can slay the Coronal then and there. I do not want to be caught in a drawn-out battle across half the realm with six hostile sorceresses able to teleport into our laps and then out again, if we can’t know that we are buying the Coronal’s sure and swift death with whatever price we pay.”
“I don’t think we are ready to slay a Coronal yet,” Lord Bellas lisped. “I see us still standing undecided between three alternatives: publicly challenging the Coronal’s rule; or openly slaying him; or merely being nearby when an ‘unfortunate accident’ befalls our beloved ruler.”
“Lords all,” their host said firmly, “ ’tis clear that we’ll be some time in reaching agreement on any of these matters. I have engagements ahead this eve, and the longer we six sit gathered here, the greater the chance that someone in the realm will hear or suspect something.” The Lord Maendellyn looked around the room and added, “If we part now, and all think on the three matters Lord Yeschant so capably outlined, I trust that when I send word three morns hence, we can meet again armed with what we’ll need to strike an agreement.”
“ ‘Strike’ is aptly chosen,” someone muttered, as the others said, “Agreed” around the table, and they rose swiftly and made for the doors, to depart.
For a moment El was tempted to linger and follow one or more of these conspirators, but their mansions or castles were all easily located in the city, and he had his own needs to attend to. He must see for himself if Cormanthor still had a Coronal to murder, or if someone else had beaten these exalted lords to the deed.
He swooped out of the window and around Castle Maendellyn without delay, racing past its other turrets in the direction he’d originally been heading. The lovely gardens stretched on beneath him as he went. Lovely, and well-guarded; no less than three barriers flashed in front of him as he thrust through them and raced on, seeking the spires he knew.
The gardens ended at last in a high wall cloaked in a thick tangle of trees. A street lay beyond the wall, and a row of houses fronted onto the street. Their back gardens rose through lush plantings and under duskwood trees to another street. On its far side were the walls of the palace gardens.
The watchnorns here might be able to see him, but El had to reach the palace, so he drifted on, cautiously now, for fear that the enchantments that girded the High House of Cormanthor would be more powerful than those he’d encountered thus far.
Perhaps they were, but they saw him not. Nor did any of the ghostly guardians appear. Elminster slipped into the palace by an upper window, and glided up and down its halls, feeling strangely ill at ease. The place was splendid, but its upper floor was almost empty; only a few servants padded about in soft boots, seeing leisurely to the dust with minor spells.
Of the Coronal himself he saw no sign, but in a little outlying turret on the north side of the palace he found a gathering strangely similar to that he’d just witnessed breaking up in Castle Maendellyn: six noble lords sitting around a polished table. This gathering had a seventh grave-faced elf present: the High Court Mage Earynspieir. Elminster did not know any of the others.
Lord Earynspieir was on his feet, pacing. Elminster drifted into the room and took his seat at the table, undetected.
“We know there are plots being hatched even now,” an old and rather plump elf down at the end of the table said. “Every gathering, be it revel or formal audience, from now on must be treated as a potential battle.”
“More like a series of waiting ambushes,” another elf commented.
The High Court Mage turned. “Lord Droth,” he said, nodding at the stout elf, “and Lord Bowharp, please believe that we recognize this and are making preparations. We realize we cannot wall away the Coronal behind armathors bristling with weapons, and d—”
“What preparations?” another lord asked bluntly. This one looked every inch a battle commander, from his scars to his ready sword. When he leaned forward to ask that question, his rich voice held the snap of command.
“Secret preparations, My Lord Paeral,” Earynspieir said meaningfully.
A lord who was sitting beside the head of House Paeral—a gold elf, and quite the most handsome male Elminster had ever seen, of any species—looked up with startlingly silver eyes and said quietly, “If you can’t trust us, Lord High Mage, Cormanthor is doomed. The time is well past for keeping coy secrets. If those who are loyal don’t know exactly where and when events are unfolding in the realm, our Coronal could well fall.”
Earynspieir grimaced as if in pain for a moment, before assuming a sickly smile. “Well said as always, My Lord Unicorn. Yet as Lord Adorellan pointed out earlier, every word let out of our lips that need not be is another chink in the Coronal’s armor. The Lord Most High is in hiding at this time, upon my recommendation, and—”
“Guarded by whom?” Lords Droth and Paeral asked in almost perfect unison.
“Mages of the court,” Earynspieir replied, in tones that signaled he preferred to say no more.
“ ‘The Six Kissing Sisters’?” the sixth lord asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Are they really a match for a determined attack—considering that some of them belong to houses that may be less than heartbroken to see Eltargrim dead?”
“Lord Siirist,” the High Court Mage said severely, “I do not appreciate your description of the ladies who serve the realm so capably. Even less do I admire your open misapprehensions about their loyalty. However, others have shared your concerns, and the six ladies have been truth-scryed by the same expert who even now stands with ready spells at the Coronal’s side.”
“And that is?” Lord Unicorn prompted firmly.
“The Srinshee,” Earynspieir said, a trace of exasperation in his voice. “And if we cannot trust her, lords, who in all Cormanthor can we trust?”
It was clear to Elminster as discussions went on that Lord Earynspieir was going to say as little as possible about whatever preparations he’d made. Instead he was trying to get these lords to agree to muster mages and warriors at various places, under commanders agreeable to obey anyone who gave them certain secret phrases. He wasn’t going to say which houses or individuals he knew to be disloyal, and he certainly wasn’t going to reveal anything about the current whereabouts of the Coronal and the Srinshee.
Without a means of teleporting, El couldn’t even look in the Vault of Ages for himself. It was well underground—and he didn’t even know where.
Feeling sudden exasperation himself, he soared up out of that room, hurled himself through the palace like a f
oe-seeking arrow, and turned north, out of the city. He needed the quiet of the trees again, to drift and think. Probably, in the end, he’d wind up poking and prying into the lives of elves all over the city, just to glean all the useful information he could. He really didn’t know how most elves earned coins to spend for things, for inst—
Something moved, under the trees ahead of him. Something that seemed disturbingly familiar.
El slowed swiftly, drifting to one side to circle and thus see it better. He was right out in the woods now, beyond where the regular patrols would pass, on the edge of a region of small, twisting ravines and tangled brambles.
The thing he was looking at was much scratched from those brambles, as it crawled laboriously along, moving aimlessly on hands and knees—or rather, one hand, for the other was bent back into a frozen claw, and the crawling, murmuring thing was leaning on the wrist instead. Sharp sticks or rocks or thorns had long ago torn open that wrist, as well as other places, and the crawler was leaving a trail of blood. Soon something that devoured such helpless things would get wind of it, or happen upon it.
El descended until he was floating chin-down in the dirt, staring through a trailing forest of filthy, matted blue tresses into the tortured, swimming blue eyes of the toast of the ardavanshee: the Lady Symrustar Auglamyr.
FOURTEEN
ANGER AT COURT
Elves today still say “As splendid as the Coronal’s Court itself” when describing luxury or work of exquisite beauty, and the memory of that splendor, now taken from us, will never die. The Court of the Coronal was known for its decorum. Even scions of the mightiest houses were known to pause in admiration and awe at the glittering panoply it presented to the eye; and temper their words and deeds with the most courtly graces; and from the Throne of Cormanthor, floating above them, went out the gravest and most noble judgments of that age.
SHALHEIRA TALANDREN, HIGH ELVEN BARD OF SUMMER-STAR
FROM SILVER BLADES AND SUMMER NIGHTS:
AN INFORMAL BUT TRUE HISTORY OF CORMANTHOR
PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR OF THE HARP
There came a skirling, as of many harp strings struck in unison, and the gentle, magically amplified voice of the Lady Herald rolled across the glassy-smooth floor of the vast Chamber of the Court: “Lord Haladavar; Lord Urddusk; Lord Malgath.”
There was a stir among the courtiers; quick conversations rose and then died away into a hush of excitement as the three old elven lords glided in, walking on air, clad in their full robes of honor. Their servants fell away to join the armathors at the doors of the court, and in the tense, hanging silence the three heads of Houses traveled down the long, open hall to the Pool.
A rustling grew in their wake as courtiers along both sides of the room shifted their positions to gain the best possible vantage points. Amid this flurry of movement one short, slim, almost childlike figure drifted behind one of the tapestries that hid exits, and slipped away.
Floating above the glowing, circular Pool of Remembrance was the Throne of the Coronal, and at ease in its high-arched splendor sat the aged Lord Eltargrim in his gleaming white robes. “Approach and be welcome,” he said, formally but warmly. “What would you speak of, here before all Cormanthor?”
Lord Haladavar spread his hands. “We would speak of your plan of Opening; we have some misgivings about this matter.”
“Plainly said, and in like spirit: proceed,” Eltargrim said calmly.
In unison, the three lords held aside the sashes of their robes. Lightning crackled around the hilts of three revealed stormswords. There was a gasp of horror from the courtiers at this breach of etiquette as well as at the danger drawn stormswords could bring, were they wielded in this chamber amid all its thickly laid enchantments.
Armathors started forward grimly from their places by the doors, but the Coronal waved them back and raised his hand, palm up, in the gesture for silence. When it fell, he gestured at the twinkling lights winking excitedly in the pool beneath him, and said calmly, “We were already aware of your weaponry and have taken the view that it was an error in judgment that you deemed necessary to underscore your solemn resolve.”
“Precisely, Revered High Lord,” Haladavar replied, and then added what his tone had already made clear: “I am relieved that you see it so.”
“I wish I could also take the same view,” the Srinshee muttered, settling herself in the ornate ceiling screen high above them all and aiming the Staff of Sundering down through it at the three nobles. “Now that your gesture is made, behave yourselves, lords,” she murmured, as if they were children again, and she was their tutor. “Cormanthor will thank you for it.”
Glancing up, she saw the row of downward-aimed wands were all in their places, awaiting only her touch to unleash their various perils. “Corellon grant that none of this be needed,” the sorceress whispered, and bent her full attention to the events unfolding below.
Unaware of the danger overhead, the three lords ranged themselves in a line facing the Pool, and the head of House Urddusk took up the converse.
“Revered High Lord,” he said shortly, “I’ve not the gift of a sweet or smooth tongue; few and blunt words are my way. I pray ye take no offense at what I say, for it is only right that ye should know: hear us not, or dismiss our concerns out of hand without parley, and we will try to use these swords we have brought against ye. I say this with deep sorrow; I pray it not become necessary. But, Most High, we shall be heard. We would fail Cormanthor if we kept silent now.”
“I will hear you,” the Coronal said mildly. “It is why I am here. Speak.”
Lord Urddusk looked to the third lord; Malgath was known as a smooth—some might even have used the word “sly”—speaker. Now, knowing the eyes of all the court were upon him, he couldn’t resist striking a pose.
“Most High,” he purred, “we fear that the realm as we know it will be swept away if gnomes, halflings, our half-kin, and worse, are let loose to run about Cormanthor, putting trees to the axe and crowding us out. Oh, I’ve heard that you plan to set all of us lords in stewardship over the forest, decreeing which tree shall be touched, and which shall stand. But, Lord Eltargrim, think on this: when a tree is cut, and falls dead, the deed is done, and no amount of hand-wringing or apologies for choosing the wrong one will restore it. The proper magics will, yes, but too much of the wisdom and energy of our best mages, these past twelve winters, has been set to devising new spells to make trees grow from stumps, and trees to become more vital. Those replenishment magics would be imnecessary if we simply keep the humans out. You’ve said before that the laziness of humans will ensure that most of them will give no trouble. Perhaps that’s true, but we see the other sort of humans—the restless, the adventurers, the ones who must explore for the sake of spying, and destroy for the sake of dominating—all too often. We also know that humans are greedy … almost as greedy as dwarves. And now you plan to let both into the very heart of Cormanthor. The humans will cut the trees down, and the dwarves will snarl for more to feed the fires of their forges!”
As Lord Malgath roared these last words some in the court almost shouted in agreement; the Coronal waited almost three breaths for the noise to die down. When things were relatively quiet again he asked, “Is this your only concern, lords? That the realm as we know it today will be swept away if we let other races settle in this our city, and the other areas we patrol and hold dear? For halflings in particular, many half-elven, and even some humans have dwelt for years on the fringes of the realm and yet we are here today, free to argue. I’ll have the armathors check, if you’d like, but I’m sure no humans have overrun this hall today.”
There was a ripple of laughter, but Lord Haladavar snarled, “This is not a matter I can find in myself room to laugh about, Revered Lord. Humans and dwarves, in particular, have a way of ignoring or twisting any authority put over them, and of defying our People wherever and whenever they can. If we let them in, they will outbreed us, outtrick us, and outnumber us from the s
tart. Very soon we’ll be pushed right out of Cormanthor!”
“Ah, Lord Haladavar,” the Coronal said, leaning forward on the throne, “you bring up the very reason I have proposed this Opening: that if we don’t allow humans some share of Cormanthor now, under our conditions and rule, they will march in, army after vast army, and overwhelm us before this century, or the next, is done. We’ll all be too dead to be pushed out of Cormanthor.”
“Purest fantasy!” Lord Urddusk protested. “How can you say humans can field any army capable of winning even a single skirmish against the pride of Cormanthor?”
“Aye,” Lord Haladavar said sternly. “I, too, cannot believe in this peril you threaten us with.”
Lord Malgath merely raised a disbelieving eyebrow. The Coronal matched it, raising his hand for silence, and called, “Lady Herald, stand forth!”
Alais Dree stepped forward from the doors of the Chamber of the Court. Her bright robes of office took wing after three paces, and she floated past the three glowering lords to attend the throne. “Great Lord, what is your need?”
“These lords question the strength of human warfare, and doubt my testimony as being bent to the support of my proposal. Unfold to them what you have seen in the lands of men.”
Alais bowed and turned. When she was facing the three lords, she caught the eye of each in turn, and said crisply, “I am no puppet of the throne, lords, nor weak-willed because I am young, or a she. I have seen more of the doings of men than all three of you together.”