Ed Greenwood: The Best of the Realms, Book II

She waited until there was utter silence and all the room was listening. That took less than a breath.

“The first is: you’re right. I am a wanton slut, as you put it, and I am unfit to rule. I didn’t want to be Regent, and having done it for some days now, I like it even less. Consider me to be one of the poorer Purple Dragons you marched and fought beside, serving the realm poorly, because it’s the best he can manage.”

She spread her hands. “The second thing is this: I had no intention of doing anything more with your son than teaching him a court dance—because I want him, at his age and restlessness, to want to come to Suzail and see the Court and so get swept up into helping Cormyr after my generation falters. The King—the new King—will need men he can trust in, and I need to find them for him… or make them for him.”

She took a slow step toward him. “And the third is this, Andur: I need you.”

“What?” The stablemaster took a step back, hands rising as if to ward her off.

Alusair smiled crookedly. “Oh, not to bed you, though if you asked nicely…”

Rhauligan rolled his eyes and she made a rude gesture—a gesture familiar to Purple Dragons everywhere in the Realm—in his direction without ever taking her eyes from Andur’s shocked gaze.

“I need your service,” she continued, taking another step forward, her voice rising. “Your trust. Your loyalty. I need men like you—men who’ve fought for the realm, and know the blood-price to be paid for Cormyr’s laws, pride, good roads, and full bellies—to believe. If not in me, than in the future I’m fighting to bring to the realm. My sister’s babe is a long way from being even the shadow of my father, but my mother still rules from behind the throne, as she always did. I still ride with and rally the young nobles of the realm, as I always did. The sun still rises over the Thunder Peaks and sets over the western Storm Horns, as it always has. I need you, Andur Imraith, to keep your sword sharp and suffer no lies from courtier or noble or Regent.”

The stablemaster stared at her in silence.

“But do you need me, Andur?” the princess asked softly. “Do you still need someone to love, someone to look up to, someone to fight for? Or is it all over for you but the drinking and the grumbling that things were better in your day, and that the realm’s all ruled by a pack of corrupt, wanton fools these days?”

Andur Imraith growled, “I—I’ll not serve you. Just keep away from my son. Give me your word on that, then you can kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Alusair said wearily, “but I do want to rule you. So I’m going to do just that. Shall we dance, stablemaster?”

“No,” Andur spat. “I’ll not—”

“Shall we fight, then?” Alusair asked softly, eyes glittering. “No blades, no spells, just fists and the rest that the gods gave us. For lam a princess and my word is law, Andur of Cormyr, and I give you a choice, one or the other: dance or fight? Dance… or fight?”

“I don’t fight women,” Andur growled, turning his back on her.

“I’m not a woman, I’m a wanton slut, remember? And Purple Dragons certainly drink deep of those, as I recall.”

Andur whirled around, his face twisted. “Don’t do this,” he hissed. “Don’t demean me in front of my son!”

“Just how,” Alusair asked, “are you demeaned?” And she strode toward him, reaching for his wrist and his hip as if to take up the dance he’d interrupted earlier.

And with a wild roar, the stablemaster drew back his fist and sent her flying.

Rythra Matcham screamed. Two Purple Dragons grabbed at their sword hilts, and both Rhauligan and Sharantyr winced as they saw Alusair’s head whipped around and blood fly.

She landed hard, sending chairs flying, and rolled to her feet slowly—but when she rose, she threw out one hand in an imperious “keep back” signal. There was a stiffness in her

gait as she walked back to Andur, who stood unmoving, fists clenched.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t make me do this.”

Alusair reached for his wrist and his hip again, her eyes on his. “Dance or fight, stablemaster. Dance or fight.”

He slapped her hands away and stepped to one side, shaking his head warningly—and the Steel Princess darted at him.

With a roar he punched at her, once and again, then reached out for a chair to snatch up and fell her—and the reeling princess, on her knees before him, brought both of her hands together up into his crotch as hard as she could, throwing her entire body behind the blow.

Andur Imraith managed a sort of whistle as he flew over her, up, then down, face-first, to greet the floor. Where he landed senseless, limbs bouncing loosely.

Alusair turned, blood dripping from her ruined lip, one eye already starting to swell shut, and called across the room, “Darnen? That dance we were just starting?”

The stableboy threaded his way through the tables very hesitantly, looking down at his father more than once.

“You didn’t—?”

“No,” Alusair told him, “he lives—and his face will probably be prettier than mine when he awakens.”

Darnen looked at her, then at his father, then back at the princess—and smirked. “Gods, that was—that was wonderful, seeing that! Aye, he’s my pa and all, but he’s clouted me for years! I—uh—what you said about the Court…”

“I meant it. Want to see Suzail, knights with glittering blades, sages who can tell you stories you can’t even dream of—oh, yes, and ladies in dresses cut up to here and down to here?”

Darnen gulped, went as red as the blood dripping off Alusair’s chin, swallowed, and nodded.

“L-lady, you’re hurt,” he stammered.

She smiled at him. “Which might make your choice easier: dance or fight?”

Darnen looked down at his father, gulped again, and said hastily, “Dance.”

Andur Imraith whimpered once after his groans had warned the world that he was rejoining it. Then his eyes fluttered open, he groaned again, and found himself looking up into the stony face of Glarasteer Rhauligan.

“Still hungry to beat up princesses?” the Highknight asked. “Or should I ask you if you’re still capable of fathering anyone?”

Andur gave him a dark look, but his growl of pain became a wince as Rhauligan hauled him to his feet and helped him to limp to a chair.

“Pa?”

Andur’s head jerked up at Darnen’s voice and his eyes blazed at the sight of his son standing on the dancing floor with his arms around Alusair.

He rose with a growl that slid into a groan, and hastily sank back down again, face going gray. No one laughed.

He shook his head, and turned almost imploringly to his employer. “I—I can’t be taking orders from… from…”

From her seat beside him, Rythra Matcham gazed at him angrily, her lips set in a thin, disapproving line. Oh, she was angry, all right. Angry at him.

Andur blinked at her in surprise.

“From a wanton slut, Andur?” she asked icily. And in a whirl of skirts she rose, strode across the dance floor, drew Darnen away from the princess, and firmly put her own arms around Alusair, her glare back at Andur as sharp and as steady as a sword blade.

“Oh, gods,” Andur groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Hands that were taken in a firm grip that brought a slight, spicy perfume with them…

He opened his eyes. Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr was kneeling in front of him, one eye almost closed from his blow and her lip a twisted, swollen ruin. Her cheekbone was gray where it wasn’t yellow. Thanks to his fists.

And she was a Princess of the Realm…

“Oh, gods,” Andur groaned again.

“Your choice has changed a bit,” she murmured. “Dance, fight, or obey.”