Ed Greenwood: Death of the Dragon

There would be scheming nobles who seized on the child’s paternity to challenge his throne, and there would be Sembia and the Darkhold Zhentarim and others who hoped to seize on Cormyr’s troubles to nibble off little pieces for themselves. There would be a long, cold winter ahead with few crops to feed the people, and no roofs to shelter them from the snow and rain, and there were sure to be the ordinary hordes of orcs and bugbears and even a few garden variety dragons sweeping south out of the wilderness in search of easy plunder. Cormyr would need a strong monarch in the days to come, and Vangerdahast knew Alusair well enough to know she would not want to be sitting in Suzail while her generals were fighting battles in every corner of the realm.

“Vangerdahast, what is it?” asked Owden Foley.

“There is something…”

The words caught in Vangerdahast’s throat, and all he managed was a rasping sob. He closed his eyes, then raised his hand to request time to compose himself and find the words he needed.

They did not come easily, and for a moment all he could do was stand and weep. Alusair and a few of the others also began to cry, and he realized he was not setting a very strong example. He reached up to the iron goblin crown on his own head, discovering much to his relief that he could finally slip a finger under it now that Nalavara was dead. He slipped it off and stood in the center of the crowded pavilion, holding one crown in each hand, and a gentle murmur began to rustle through the tent.

Vangerdahast stepped forward and was just about to ask for silence when a hard rain began to fall inside the tent. A cold hand clamped onto the arm holding Azoun’s crown.

“What are you doing, old man?”

Vangerdahast looked down and saw Rowen Cormaeril’s strong hand wrapped around his wrist. The ghazneth’s flesh was black and cold against his own white, wrinkled skin, a stark reminder of the price for betraying Cormyr.

The wizard met Rowen’s burning white eyes, then slowly raised Cormyr’s golden crown. “I was taking this to Alusair.”

“To me?” Alusair’s face paled, and she shook her head. “Oh no, Vangerdahast, I’m not-“

“It is your burden to bear, Alusair Obarskyr, not mine.” Vangerdahast pulled his arm free of Rowen’s grasp, then pressed the crown into Alusair’s hands. “I am afraid you must be regent until Azoun the Fifth is old enough to assume the throne.”

“What?” It was Rowen who gasped this question. “But Tanalasta-“

“Destroyed Boldovar,” he said sadly, “and died valiantly in the process.”

Rowen stumbled back, his face withering into a mask of grief. “No! Why would you… you must be lying!”

Vangerdahast closed Alusair’s fingers around the crown, then reached out to clasp Rowen’s arm. “I fear not. I hadn’t the heart to tell the king, but it is so. Tanalasta has gone to stand with her father.”

A terrible sob escaped the ghazneth’s lips, then there was no sound in the tent but pounding rain. Vangerdahast spread his arms and reached out to comfort Rowen.

“My friend, I…”

Vangerdahast could not finish, for the ghazneth pushed him away and retreated deep into the shadows. A beam of fading sunlight spilled across the floor as the door flap opened, then the rain stopped and Rowen was gone.

Though her new dress plate had been made by the same smith to the same specifications as her old battered field armor, Alusair felt clumsy, vain, and somehow naked in it. Made of the finest dwarven steel, it was fluted, etched, and trimmed in gold damascening. The Royal Dragon of Cormyr was embossed in purple relief on its abdomen, and it had been perfectly cast and joined by the royal armorers. The royal artists had decorated it beautifully, the royal pages had polished it to a mirror sheen, and the royal squires had hung it on her glove tight-and Alusair would rather have ridden nude into battle than in such elaborate harness. Not for the first time, the Steel Regent cursed Vangerdahast for foisting the crown off on her instead of having the courage to set it on his own head.

Alusair was standing between her mother and Vangerdahast on the Review Balcony, holding her ridiculous dragon’s head helm in one arm and King Azoun Obarskyr V of Cormyr in the other, nodding numbly and smiling stupidly as noble after noble paraded past her with his company of knights. Half the lords were so fat that even a full-sized shire could not have charged more than a hundred paces with so much blubber and steel, while the other half did not seem to know which side of the sword to hold outward as they raised it in salute. It was all she could do not to go down and start barking weapon drills.

Young Baron Ebonhawk led his lancers through the Presentation Arch and nearly put an eye out when he snapped the wrong side of his curved falchion against his face. The bronze bill of his garish helm caught the worst of the blow, but did not prevent the keen edge-no doubt honed razor-sharp by some beleaguered squire-from opening a bloody line down his cheek. The whimper that followed drew a chortle even from baby Azoun, but the young lord managed to avoid further embarrassment by riding on without stopping to call for a healer.

Alusair smiled and nodded as though she had not noticed, then muttered under her breath, “If this is the best that remains, the realm is lost already.”

“They’re only border garrisons.” Vangerdahast smiled and waved enthusiastically to the young baron. “And each company will have a lionar and a war wizard along to advise it-and to take command at the first sign of an engagement.”

“And the lords agreed to that?”

“Not exactly,” said Filfaeril. The queen looked strong and supple and somehow younger than she had seemed in years, though also much harder and infinitely sadder. “But what they don’t know will kill them, should it prove necessary.”

Alusair cocked her brow. “That should inspire loyalty.”

Filfaeril gave her a patronizing smile and said, “My dear Alusair, you have much to learn.” She patted the arm cradling young Azoun. “On this battlefield, all that matters is power-who has it and who doesn’t. At the moment, you are holding it in your arms, and we must all do everything we can to make certain it stays that way.”

Alusair glanced down at the chubby-cheeked baby and wondered if she were truly up to the job Tanalasta had left her. To be a queen and a mother and who knew what else in Cormyr’s darkest hour…

At least she would not be alone. Filfaeril would be there beside her, pointing out which nobles to trust, which to watch, and which to execute at the first sign of disobedience. There would also be Owden Foley, who had agreed at her insistence to stay as the child’s spiritual educator and do what he could to help Tanalasta’s legacy live in her son.

And, of course, there would be Vangerdahast, who was even now nudging her with his elbow and murmuring quiet guidance.

“Give Earl Silverhorn a big smile. The poor fellow has spent his entire fortune outfitting his cavalry, and we wouldn’t want him to think you unappreciative.”

Alusair did as Vangerdahast suggested, even going so far as to raise her nephew and wave one of his tiny hands at the passing company. This drew a roaring cheer from the spectators, which immediately caused the young king to break into a round of gurgling.

“Now you’ve done it,” growled Vangerdahast. “Now every lord will want a wave from the king.”

“I suppose I’ll have the strength to manage that,” Alusair growled back. “I am holding him in my sword arm.”

“Sword arm?” harrumphed Vangerdahast. “It’s about time you put that limb to a proper use.”

“What?” Alusair thundered.