Florin and Islif both nodded slowly, but said nothing. Nor did the other Knights behind them.
“Our Court is teaching you tact already,” Filfaeril added, her smile as wry as it was sudden. “That will never do. One more reason that it’s best that you immediately and covertly depart Suzail and hasten to Shadowdale, as Khelben urged you to do.”
“Your Highness, may we know the other reasons?” Doust asked quietly.
“Of course. That which I alluded to: the rising anger of many noble families, across the realm, who out of ignorance or for their own purposes choose to blame you for the deaths of Lady Greenmantle and both Lady Crownsilvers. To say nothing of another and more just cause of noble fury: thefts from many nobles, here in Arabel.”
The queen turned her head to look meaningfully at Pennae, who looked demurely magnificent in a plain storm gray gown, but blushed guiltily under the direct and knowing royal gaze.
As that reddening raced down her throat and across her bodice, the obtainer among the Knights shrugged and became suddenly and intensely interested in the state and hue of her fingernails.
Semoor rolled his eyes at that, and asked his own diffident question. “So we’ll cause the Throne trouble by staying?”
Filfaeril nodded. “And goad some noble or other into trying to show the realm who holds true power in Cormyr by hiring someone to slay all of you—despite Our royal protection.”
“Your Majesty, we are honored to obey,” Florin said. “Command us.”
The queen smiled and rose. “Have my thanks. Such unhesitating obedience is gratifying. It is an art too few here at Court seem to have mastered.” She went to one of the beautifully carved wooden doors in the back wall of the chamber, drew it open by means of one of the many entwined dragons standing forth from its edges in bold relief, and waved at the Knights to pass through this inner doorway.
They did so, finding themselves in a stone room where a row of six chairs faced a group of gravely murmuring war wizards, who all fell silent and turned to regard the arriving Knights.
In turn, the adventurers beheld Vangerdahast, Laspeera, and five unfamiliar war wizards, one of them female and all of them looking very solemn.
“Be welcome, Knights of Myth Drannor,” Laspeera said with a smile, stepping forward. “May I present Melandar Raentree, Yassandra Durstable, Orzil Nelgarth, Sarmeir Landorl, and Gorndar Lacklar.”
All five wizards nodded unsmilingly as they were introduced. Pennae, who customarily looked first at the eyes and then at the hands of everyone she met, noticed that Melandar, Yassandra, and Orzil were all wearing unicorn-headed rings, Sarmeir and Gorndar wore no rings, and the rings on Vangerdahast’s and Laspeera’s fingers had been fashioned to look like the sinuous, scaled tails of dragons. Just what did those rings—or their lack—betoken?
Vangerdahast gave her no time to ponder. Like an impatient battlemaster, he waved the Knights to sit in the waiting chairs, his gesture an imperious command, and then took up a stance in front of them, frowning as if he were the coming storm of doom and their punishment were at hand.
Laspeera was already leading the five war wizards she’d just introduced past the Knights, heading for the door.
“Oh, Tymora,” Doust murmured under his breath, “this doesn’t look good.”
“Vangey never looks good,” Semoor whispered back, taking the seat beside Doust. “I think he battles nigh-constant indigestion. Either that or he’s just sick of all of us.”
By then Laspeera and the five mages had reached the door—where they turned, behind the Knights, and pointed to enact the same silent spell in unison.
And the six seated Knights slumped over, instantly deep in magical slumber.
The war wizards looked to Vangerdahast for approval.
“Well, what’re you waiting for?” the Royal Magician asked them curtly. “I want this mess off my hands as fast as you can work your spells!”
Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr had now seen thirteen summers, and they had proven more than enough to make her headstrong and rebellious, honing her hauteur and a quick temper, but failed utterly to quell her ever-welling curiosity. Wherefore, servants and courtiers alike had learned to avoid—and certainly never to rebuke or even to try to proffer suggestions—the young princess who so moodily prowled the Palace, forbidden to break blades with Purple Dragons or down tankards in any tavern or do much of anything on her own.
Alusair was a familiar sight in the Palace passages, all gangly arms and legs, a “lad in lasses’ clothing” who climbed where she shouldn’t, got dirty every chance she could, and seemed to wear a permanent scowl as she pointedly turned away from everyone who looked at her. Especially her everpresent war wizard and Purple Dragon minders and bodyguards, whose silent scrutiny she bitterly resented, almost as much as she hated their all-too-frequent interventions to stop her “having any fun at all.” They watched everything she did, from bathing to filling chamberpots to picking her nose—hrast them. There was nothing she liked better than an adventure in the dungeons, deep well chambers, vaults, and other dark, unfamiliar, and off-limits parts of the Palace—and it seemed there was nothing they liked better than preventing such forays.
Wherefore, when she paused in a dim, little-used chamber she was strolling through to get from the Chamber of Three Dragons to Runsor’s Robing Room, to look into a cloudy old crown-to-ankles looking glass and sneer critically at her oak brown eyes and swirling, honey-hued hair—and her ever-curious fingers traced the carved berries of its frame, finding and pressing the one that sank inwards, in the heart of the cluster—her heart leaped in quickening delight when the mirror shuddered and swung open.
Princess Alusair cast a swift glance back the way she’d come. Old Alsarra hadn’t yet turned the corner, and was probably flirting with the drooping-mustached doorjack she seemed to fancy so.
She swung the mirror open, to reveal narrow shelves of dusty old tomes.
The racing of her heart slowed a little, but then she smiled and shrugged. After all, a secret stair was unlikely, with a main hallway just the other side of this wall. What might these books hold? Forbidden spells? Descriptions of Palace trysts? The court gossip of yesteryear? Being ever-curious was good.
Alusair thrust fingers up both her nostrils to keep from sneezing, and with her other hand plucked forth the most intriguing-looking volume: a slender black book with no lettering down its spine. A musty smell, rag-paper pages that seemed to be wanting to return to being rags, and some of the most crabbed and dry poetry she’d ever tried to read. Ugly words in uglier phrases—“ ’Ywis my bonden heart now doth for thee bounding-hart-leap high/All across fair Cormyr in answer the realm’s maidens all tremulous sigh”—ughh! She slid it back into place, and with both hands wrestled out the thick maroon volume next to it, a squared-corners, metal-bound book as fat as her own arm.
It proved to be latched, the metal black with tarnish that dearly wanted to be on her hands, and to be an account of naval sailings of six long-ago reigns, with informed debate as to the best riggings to use in particular winds and specific waters. Alusair rolled her eyes, flipped its pages in hopes of finding a battle at sea or a map or something, and heard something metallic clink and then slither down the inside of the book’s spine.
With mounting excitement, she cupped her hand over the bottom of the spine to keep whatever it was—a key?—from falling out, turned so as to block Alsarra’s view of what she was doing—should her overshoulder spy finally wrest herself away from Lord Hairylust—and shook the heavy book as hard as she could. Its weight almost defeated her slender wrists; she had to go into a hasty crouch to keep from dropping it end-over-end.
Which is when, of course, she heard the expected cry, “Princess? Princess! Alusair, what’re you doing on the floor, child? Are you well?”
Alusair sat down with a thud, scooped the book into her lap, and worked its covers back and forth frantically with both hands—whereupon the slithering something fell out. A ring!
<
br /> An old ring, silvern and smooth-flowing in shape, like elven work. Not a stone on it, but it was on the first finger she could slip it onto in a trice, and—she gasped and shuddered as it shifted gently to resize itself, and a window seemed to open in her mind, showing her … showing her …
“Child, what have you gotten yourself into now?”
The trouble with Alsarra was that she acted like a disapproving old aunt, and that both Alusair’s father and mother confirmed her in full authority to do so, almost once or twice a tenday, very firmly and enthusiastically. Alusair wanted to tell the old watch-hound—watch-bitch, yes?—to run and plunge face-first into the mud of a castle moat, preferably a castle somewhere north of shining Silverymoon, half Faerûn away, and never stop eating that mud, but …
Bony hands were plucking the book from her hands, wrinkled lips were clucking as if she were some sort of disobedient barnfowl, and Alusair sighed, folded her hands together (the one without the ring over the one now wearing it), and announced, “I found some old books, and wanted to look at them. The only ones I looked at were very boring, but this one was so heavy I almost dropped it, and one”—she dropped her voice into viciously accurate mimicry of Alsarra’s own tones—“should never damage a book, so I—”
“Sat down to try to forestall the fall? Quite so, child, quite so—and may I say an admirable sentiment and deed for a younger princess, whose deportment and manner will be such an asset to House Obarskyr in time soon to come!”
So I can be married off like a prize cow, Alusair thought sourly.
“I say again, as I’ve said so oft before, that you should watch your sister Princess Tanalasta, and strive to act as she does!”
Alusair nodded out of unthinking habit, and Alsarra smiled and went gushing on, words flowing in a sharp and exclamatory flood. She restored the book to its place and hauled the wayward princess to her feet so the mirror could be closed, Alusair’s dust-soiled breeches could be exclaimed over, and Alusair could be chided once more for refusing to wear a gown that any fair woman-to-be would find fitting and suitable, to say nothing of a royal princess of Cormyr. Alusair nodded absently and heard not a word of it all.
Instead, she raced excitedly back and forth through the new thoughts and images in her head that the ring had put there, telling her that it was old and mighty, and had three powers: teleportation, to four set places that were unknown to her; something called a “non-detection shield,” that would make her, whenever she willed, invisible to all magics that sought to detect or locate her, or read or influence her mind … and something else, too, that she didn’t understand. Warm delight grew in her like a comforting fireside flame. With this, she had the chance to slip away from her everpresent war wizard and Purple Dragon watchers. She was free.
“Alsarra,” she said firmly, “I must find a garderobe. My near-fall, you understand …”
“Oh, but of course! Are you sure an examination would not come amiss? We really should—”
“If there’s blood, I’ll hasten to let you know, Alsarra,” the princess said very firmly. “Now, stand out of the way, or this royal bladder will—”
“Of course! Of course! Oh, gods and guardian spirits forfend! Here I am, a foolish old woman, a-twittering while—”
Well, at least you know what you are, Alusair thought sourly, slipping past her watcher. Wouldn’t you just be delighted if there were blood? Then I’d be fertile, and you could lock me up straight and proper, never again to set foot out of my bedchambers except to appear at feasts and be put on display for suitors—until one of them bit, and my life of true slavery could begin.
She sped down a narrow passage to the filigreed gates of the nearest ladies’ garderobe, and instead of turning left into its comforts, turned right, ducking through the hanging to the unlit, steeply descending servants’ stair. Standing in the darkness at the head of its steps, she told the ring: hide me.
And the adventure began.
First, to find herself a sword, a dagger, and some proper traveling boots! Then a little food, a belt flask of something to drink, and—
Alusair faltered, halfway down the stair, as she discovered she could feel the alarm of the war wizards who’d been their usual bored selves, magically spying on her. Their minds rushed past her like frantic wraiths who couldn’t see her. They were far from bored now. Her knife-abrupt disappearance from their scrying spells had them shouting at each other and ringing gongs!
She snickered—and then spat out a curse. Those ringing gongs were even now summoning thunder-booted Purple Dragons and irritated senior war wizards to start a search for her.
“Ilmater’s pain, but I hate this place,” she murmured, as lamplight spilled out into the hallway at the bottom of the stair. She hurled herself down the last few steps, her heavy pendant smacking her across the face, and just had time enough to duck around a corner, thankful for her soft slippers, before servants rushed out into the hall and up the stair she’d just left.
“Has anyone seen the Princess Alusair?” a maid asked sharply, in the room where the lamp was. “We’re to find her and bring her to the nearest war wizard. Drop all and get up into the staterooms, all of you!”
“Drag Little Lady Pouting-Trouble half the length of the Palace to find a spellhurler? And get beheaded for our troubles? After she kicks all our organs clear up and out of our bodies and pulls every last hair out of our heads?”
“Well, she won’t have much hair to pull on your shining pate, Jorlguld!”
“I’ve got nose-hairs, ye know,” Jorlguld said darkly.
“Well, there won’t be all that much dragging; every chamber of the Palace is filling up with war wizards, just as fast as they can—”
Alusair whispered something very rude, and went in search of a sword and dagger. Her purse would have to buy her the rest, once she was out of here.
This passage ran along to an end stair with a Purple Dragon ready-room. Normally it was a place she’d want to stay well away from, if she was trying to hide, but with the alarm raised, surely they’d all have rushed upstairs to poke and pry and waste much time before they got around to thinking a high-and-mighty princess might go below, down into the dark, dank servants’ halls. And not only did Purple Dragons never close doors unless someone ordered them to, they always had extra weapons in their armories. Lots of extra weapons.
Yes! The ready-room stood empty of men, the wooden racks on its walls a-gleam with swords and daggers in plenty.
But nary a scabbard for any of them, or even a cloak. Alusair peered around in dismay, and then shrugged, took down a sword she liked the look of, and then a dagger, likewise, and—
“I saw someone along here, I tell thee, and it could have been a lass!” The man’s voice echoed, still far down the passage.
Alusair spun around to face the door, hefted her sword and dagger—the sword was a trifle too heavy for comfort, but it would have to do—and thought about the ring. Hard.
And being elsewhere, to that first destination. Wherever it was.
Obligingly, the Palace whirled away, and she was suddenly falling, falling endlessly through chill blue mists.…
Chapter 3
MORE LEAVINGS
My life has been full of leavings—some tearful, some contented, and many of the sort that kings tend to term “not a moment too soon.”
Tamper Tencoin
A Life’s Cargo of Mistakes
published circa the Year of the Bloodbird
The Royal Magician—?”
“Has other pressing matters to attend to,” Laspeera said. “However, I trust myself and you five to translocate six sleeping Knights from here to Arabel. Now.”
It was rare for the warm, kindly manner of the woman most Wizards of War fondly called “Mother” to slip, even for a moment, and the mages around her blinked, carefully made not the slightest reply, and devoted themselves to swift, accurate spellcasting.
Wizards, chairs, and the sleepers slumped in them were suddenly
no longer in an inner chamber of the Palace, but in a smaller, dingier room with boarded-over windows, that by the sounds of clottering hooves and creaking wagon wheels, stood hard by a street or drovers’ alley, somewhere slightly colder than Suzail.
“Mother,” Wizard of War Sarmeir Landorl asked cautiously, “do I risk my neck at this time, if I dare to ask you some questions about this matter at hand?”
Laspeera’s sudden smile was as bright as a flaring flame. “Of course not, Sarm. You need not fear my ‘brisk moments’ in the slightest, so long as you obey me with alacrity during them.”
“Huh,” muttered another mage. “Vangey says the same thing.”
“Indeed, Orzil, wherefore it should come as no surprise to you to learn you’d do well to believe us both,” Laspeera said, “and conduct yourself accordingly. Your questions, Sarm?”
“This is the hideaway-house in Arabel, yes?”
“Yes,” Laspeera confirmed pleasantly.
Sarm waited for her to add more. In vain. As the silence started to stretch and Laspeera’s gentle smile wavered not at all, some of the other wizards started to grin.
“So,” Sarmeir said carefully, “that being the case, why didn’t we just march the Knights through the usual portal?”
“Sarmeir,” Laspeera replied, “we may need half the Dales not to know about that particular portal for a little while longer. Moreover, none of our snorers here are keyed to the portal, and I don’t want them to know about that, either.”
“Why would they need to be keyed?”
“Doing so cuts down on vanishings, and they’re carrying a pendant we do not want them to lose.”
“Vanishings?”
“Have you never wondered why—given that all sufficiently gifted folk can craft portals—merchants still struggle overland, through mud and stinging flies, brigands and blizzards, to carry, say, candles from the hamlet of Hither to waiting townsfolk at the market of Yon?”
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