Ed Greenwood - Swords of Dragonfire

“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 some thing, 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.