by James Lowder
His apprentice was a young lad with sandy brown hair and nimble, long fingers. As the fletcher entered the bright, open-fronted shop, the boy was stripping feathers, preparing them to become fletching. “Take time out at highsun to hear the king,” John told the boy, examining his work over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Master John,” the apprentice chimed.
The fletcher laughed. “It’s your duty to King Azoun to listen to his proclamations, Loreth, not a gift I can give you.” John tossed some poorly prepared fletching onto the dirty wooden floor and patted the boy on the back. “Take more care with these. Tell Mikael and Rolf at the guildhall that I’ll have work for them for the next few days. You’ll be busy, too,” he added as an afterthought. Then John gathered up the arrows he needed to deliver at the tavern and left.
The Black Rat was crowded when he arrived. Smoke hung in the low-ceilinged taproom, making the dark interior only darker. Two dozen men and a few women squatted on wobbly chairs around uneven tables, smoking pipes, eating breakfast, and telling wild tales.
“No,” John heard someone yell, “storm giants are at least twice that size!” He turned to see an elf wearing leather armor. The exotic-looking man, his fine-boned cheeks flushed with wine or the argument in which he was engaged, leaned back in his chair and gestured wildly.
A squinting, tomato-nosed dwarf sitting across from the elf folded his arms across his long, white beard and barrel-like chest. “Bah!” he rumbled. “I’ve killed more giants in my time than you ever saw!”
The elf leaned forward, made some comment about orcs, and continued the argument more quietly. John couldn’t hear what was said next, but he caught snatches of dozens of other conversations, some more interesting, some less than the one going on between the elf and dwarf. Mixed in with these, men and women called for the barmaid. The woman usually responded with a shrill, “In a minute.”
Over this cacophony, the fletcher heard someone yell, “Hey, Razor John! Over here!”
He scanned the room for his customer, a sailor named Geoff from a Sembian merchant ship. Eventually the fletcher spotted the man sitting at a table near the back of the room. Pulling the bundle of arrows close to his chest to avoid jostling anyone in the taproom, John made his way to the sailor.
“Well met!” the Sembian said, clapping John on the shoulder as he reached the table. “I see my arrows are ready.”
John smiled amicably and opened one of the bundles. The arrows it contained had the standard shaft and fletching of those used by many hunters. Their heads, though, were quite different from those on typical, pointed hunting arrows. Shaped like crescent moons, these arrowheads were meant primarily to cut through rigging on ships.
Geoff glanced at them and nodded. “The pirates off the Turmish coast will be surprised to see these slash through their lines.” He slapped down a few gold pieces in payment, then signaled to the barmaid and motioned for John to join him at the table.
“I suppose you’re waiting to hear King Azoun’s speech this afternoon,” the sailor said once the barmaid had delivered an ale for John and another for him.
The fletcher sipped the warm, bitter brew and nodded. “I’ve heard he’s going to announce another heir is on the way. I don’t much believe that, though.”
“Nah,” Geoff snorted. “He’s much too old.” When he saw John’s scowl, he added, “Not that I meant that as disrespectful or nothing.”
A brawny, ham-fisted man, sitting at the next table, spun and grabbed the sailor by the collar. “You just wish you had a king like Azoun,” he snarled. “All you’ve got is your pitiful merchants’ council.”
The Sembian pulled away from the bigger man, but knocked over his own mug of ale in the process. The heavy metal tankard bounced off the table, spewing ale everywhere, and clattered to the floor.
Whole tables quieted quickly at the first sounds of conflict. A member of the king’s guard who sat near the door stood and started to move across the room. However, Geoff was neither drunk enough nor foolish enough to start a fight in a Cormyrian tavern, especially by insulting the king who was perhaps the most popular leader in Faerun.
The Sembian reached over and snatched John’s mug. “To King Azoun,” he called, “the bravest ruler on the continent.” No one in the room considered the sailor’s toast genuine, but it was a suitable apology. After raising their own mugs, the tavern’s patrons turned back to their business and the Purple Dragon returned to his seat.
Geoff bought the ham-fisted man a drink and replaced John’s. Silently, he said a thanks to King Azoun for forbidding anyone from bearing arms not bound by peacestrings in the city. Then, after a few moments of small talk, he awkwardly excused himself and left the Black Rat, intent on returning to his ship and fellow countrymen.
As the Sembian took his leave, the big man from the next table leaned toward John and grumbled, “He didn’t belong in here in the first place.”
The fletcher agreed. He didn’t much like Sembians. They were far too interested in money and leisure rather than honest hard work. And they had little in common with Cormyrians, as far as John was concerned. Sembians had only a weak loyalty to their country, and their rulers were salesmen, like many of their subjects. They didn’t even have a strong standing army.
“If His Highness does call this crusade,” John said to his countryman by way of a reply, “you won’t find many Sembians on the battlefield—not unless they’re mercenaries.”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” the man exclaimed, pushing a lock of his curly blond hair from his eyes with a meaty hand. “We are going to Thesk to fight the barbarians. Tuigan, they call them. Azoun had a meeting with a bunch of nobles a few days ago.”
John nodded. “That’s what the king will announce today, I suppose.”
“Aye,” the brawny man said, his voice betraying his excitement. “He’ll be calling for volunteers. A friend of mine from Arabel told me just yesterday that Lord Lhal has already started rounding up soldiers and wizards.”
“Azoun should be able to raise quite a few in Suzail,” John noted, finishing off his ale.
With exaggerated motions, the big man slapped himself on his broad chest. “And I’ll be one of the first to sign on!”
“And me,” said a woman from a nearby table. “I’ll be going, too, Mal. I wouldn’t let you gather all the glory for yourself.”
“I’d expect as much, Kiri,” Mal replied, breaking into a loud, jolly fit of laughter.
John turned to look at the woman called Kiri. She was thin, but had a slightly round face. Her feature were attractive but unremarkable—except for her eyes. Kiri’s eyes, sparkling brown and full of laughter, drew the fletcher’s gaze instantly. He felt himself grin rather fatuously when he saw her. The grin widened when Kiri smiled back at him affably.
A few others adventurers sitting near John broke the spell as they loudly informed anyone who’d listen that they intended to go to Thesk and fight the barbarians. Drinks were bought, bravery and the king saluted. John wondered how many of the would-be Tuigan-slayers would actually ship out when the time came.
“And what about you, fletcher?” Mal asked. “Are you going to stay here with the children and old folks?”
“I don’t know,” John replied pensively. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
That was the truth, too. John put little stock in gossip, and that was all he’d heard concerning the crusade. Still, if the king himself asked for soldiers, the fletcher would probably volunteer. He was a brave man and a good archer. Above all, John the Fletcher was loyal to his king and country.
Azoun IV had ruled Cormyr for John’s entire lifetime. In his twenty-one years, all of which had been spent in Suzail, he’d known no other monarch. Every year since he could remember, John had devotedly pledged his allegiance to King Azoun at the High Festival of Winter.
Like most other commoners in Cormyr, John knew that his king belonged to House Obarskyr and that his land’s calendar was based upon the d
ate Azoun’s family had established themselves as rulers in Suzail. This information, along with a smattering of math and the rudiments of Common, the trade tongue of the Inner Sea, was all John had gained from his brief formal education.
Still, this was enough to instill a great sense of loyalty toward Azoun in John. To the craftsman, the king was Cormyr, not just a representative or a figurehead, but a real embodiment of everything that was good about the land. And since Cormyr, and especially Suzail, had flourished during Azoun’s reign, John could only assume that the gods of Good approved of the monarch.
“If King Azoun is going to lead the armies,” Razor John decided aloud after a moment’s pause, “then I suppose I’ll go.”
Mal immediately bought John another ale, but the fletcher drank only a little of the murky, pungent liquid before he announced that he was off to the castle to hear the king’s speech.
“Why?” the burly, blond man asked, scooping up the fletcher’s unfinished drink. “The wizards’ll make sure Azoun’s voice carries over the city. We’re just going to go outside.”
The woman Mal had called Kiri stood up and attempted to pull the big man from his seat. “Let’s go with John,” she said between tugs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen His Highness in person before.”
Mal sighed, shrugged out of Kiri’s grasp irritably, and downed the rest of the ale in one, long gulp. “All right, all right. We’d best get moving.”
So Razor John, Mal, and Kiri made their way out of the Black Rat and started off in the direction of the palace.
“Pawn to king’s four.”
Queen Filfaeril smiled warmly and scanned the chessboard with her ice-blue eyes. “Your game has become rather predictable, husband,” she said, moving her hand to the board. She lifted a knight of purest ivory. “Knight takes pawn.”
Consternation crossed King Azoun’s face. “You know that I’ll take that knight with my queen,” he said. “Losing it for a pawn seems rather pointless.” The king slid an onyx queen across the board and picked up the white knight in one smooth motion. “Queen takes knight.”
Filfaeril studied the board for a moment, then moved her bishop. “Bishop takes queen.” Azoun cursed softly. “In three moves I’ll have you in checkmate,” his wife added.
Azoun lifted a rook, then moved it closer to his king.
The queen’s smile faded. “Are you sure you want to play this out?”
“Of course. I never quit before the game’s over.”
Positioning her queen to place Azoun in check, Filfaeril prepared to finish the game. As she had guessed, it lasted only three more moves.
The king and queen set the pieces up for a future game. When the board was reorganized, Azoun asked, “Am I really that predictable?”
The queen considered her answer for a moment, then nodded. “There are certain things I can count on you to do, and others I can count on you never to do.”
“Such as?”
Filfaeril picked up a pawn. “You don’t trade pieces well, my husband. That’s why you didn’t see my logic in sacrificing the knight.”
Azoun took the pawn from his wife’s hand and replaced it on the board. “There should be some way to win that doesn’t involve losing one piece for another.”
“As I said,” the queen repeated as she smiled and took her husband’s hand, “there are certain things I can count on you never to do.”
The king laughed, patted Filfaeril’s white, slender fingers, and stood up. “I guess I’m still mulling over what Vangerdahast said the other day after the meeting. I don’t really think of myself as inflexible, predictable.” Azoun paused and looked into his wife’s eyes. “Still, what he said about Alusair …”
Filfaeril saw the pain in her husband’s face when he mentioned their daughter’s name. What had happened with Alusair pained her, too, though she knew that Azoun considered himself directly responsible for driving the girl from home. “Alusair was willful, my husband,” she said after a moment. “Much like her father.”
The queen rose and moved to Azoun’s side. She embraced him tightly. “If you’re looking for proof that you’re a good father, Tanalasta should stand as example enough.”
Azoun nodded, though the furrow in his brow did not lessen. He certainly loved Tanalasta, his eldest daughter, and she had given him plenty of reasons to be immensely proud of her. Still, she lacked the spirit, the fire her younger sister possessed. No, Tanalasta’s devotion could never cover the rift between the king and Alusair.
Filfaeril knew this, but had hoped her words would pull Azoun from the dark mood into which he had fallen. She caressed her husband’s cheek and turned his eyes toward hers. “And you have me. You are not so unbearably rigid that I cannot love you.”
That last comment brought out Azoun’s smile again. Looking at his queen, he noted that she was as lovely now as the day they’d married. Many around the court said that Filfaeril was classically beautiful, and Azoun agreed. The queen’s delicate features seemed to have been smoothed out of the purest alabaster. And fifty years of life—thirty in the court—had done little to dull this loveliness. Even the wrinkles that pulled at the corners of Filfaeril’s startlingly blue eyes seemed intentionally carved there by some artist.
But it wasn’t simply for her beauty that Azoun had first fallen in love with his queen. Filfaeril was far more than a nobleman’s statuesque daughter; she was a bright and insightful woman, as well. In fact, she had won Prince Azoun’s love more by her refusal to surround herself with flattering courtiers than by her slender figure and flowing blond hair. Filfaeril’s ice-blue eyes were lovely to behold, but the young Azoun had quickly learned that they saw through illusion and idealism, down to harsh reality.
Finally Azoun mocked a sigh and said, “Yes, at least I have you.” Filfaeril wrinkled her brow in feigned anger, and Azoun kissed her, long and tenderly.
After a moment, the king heard Vangerdahast clear his throat noisily. He glanced at the study’s door to see his advisor standing there, red-faced and fidgeting, staring at the ceiling. “Come in, Vangy,” Azoun sighed. “I suppose it’s time for the ceremony and my speech.”
Filfaeril leaned close to the king and whispered, “We’ll continue our discussion later, Your Highness.” The queen gently pushed herself from Azoun’s arms and moved toward the door. “I’ll be waiting for you both in the throne room,” she announced as she left the room.
Vangerdahast waited until the queen closed the door behind her before he spoke. “Yes, it’s almost highsun. I’ve already cast the necessary wards on the platform. Are you ready to begin the procession?”
The king looked down at his ceremonial uniform. The purple surcoat was embroidered with thread spun from platinum and gold, and the hose were woven from the finest imported silk from Shou Lung. Azoun didn’t like the outfit much; he considered it gaudy. It was, however, necessary for him to wear it in the formal crowning ceremony that was to precede his public address.
Straightening an epaulet, Azoun said, “I suppose I’m ready to begin. I just wish we didn’t have to make such a production out of this.”
“If you wish to—”
Azoun quickly held up a hand. “I know, Vangy. An emphasis on pageant today will help to convey the crusade’s importance.” He moved to the window and looked out on the inner bailey. Servants and messengers rushed from the castle to the gate, their hurried pace an indication of the day’s importance.
“We should go, Your Highness.”
Azoun watched a page, who wore the royal purple, rush from the keep and hurry past the gatehouses. The sight reminded him of an errand he had assigned to the royal wizard earlier that morning. “Any news from Zhentil Keep?” the king asked as he turned to his advisor.
The wizard spun about abruptly and headed through the door in an effort to move Azoun toward the throne room. “Actually, I did receive a message from the Zhentish hierarchy just before I came to get you,” the wizard noted quietly. He bowed in response to a guard�
�s salute as he and the king entered the drafty stone corridor, then added, “They’re sending someone to talk to you about the Tuigan tomorrow.”
Azoun stopped short. The wizard took a step or two past the king, then wheeled about. “So soon?” Azoun exclaimed. “That doesn’t give us much time to prepare.”
Vangerdahast hooked an arm around the king’s elbow and started walking again. “I believe that’s the whole idea, Your Highness.”
Queen Filfaeril was waiting in the throne room when Azoun and Vangerdahast got there. Crowds of musicians and nobles filled the long, sumptuously appointed hall, waiting for the king to arrive. Handmaidens straightened the queen’s long dress of lavender silk as the royal steward ran to the king and announced that his crown, scepter, and medallion—the trappings of his heritage—were ready. Vangerdahast left the king’s side without any leave-taking and went to find the other royal wizards who were to participate in the ceremony.
Azoun soon joined his wife near the large, ornately carved wooden thrones that dominated the front of the hall. The queen already wore the symbol of her office—a small but beautiful silver crown. The white metal seemed to glow around Filfaeril’s golden hair and catch the blue in her eyes. After nodding a silent greeting to his wife, the king took his chain of state from the spot on his throne where it traditionally rested. The thick gold chain felt reassuring in Azoun’s hands as he lifted it over his head. The gold medallion had a skillfully wrought dragon, guardant and statant, covering its entire face.
Next, the steward solemnly presented the king’s crown, couched on a pillow of pure purple silk. Everyone in the room bowed as Azoun reached for the bejeweled crown and lifted it.
Gold, silver, and gems twinkled in the sunlight streaming in from the stained glass windows lining the throne room as Azoun studied the crown. The sinewy, lithe form of a dragon curled around its rim, and the monster’s head reared, openmouthed, at the headpiece’s front. A priceless wine-red ruby stood captured in the dragon’s open jaws, throwing off tiny, enthralling beams of light. This crown—the most ancient of three possessed by the king—was only used for very special occasions. Azoun wondered how many Cormyrians had ever seen this particular artifact as he placed it on his head.