Ed Greenwood - Cormyr

King Azoun was lying on the raised divan he always used on campaign, his armor and robes both set aside. Astride him was a woman who wore an open red gown and not much else. She had one hand raised-and that hand bore a bone dagger, ready to plunge into the king’s chest.

Vangerdahast’s curse slid into a snapped spell-simple magic, quickly effected. A gust of air filled the tent, booming its sides outward and hurling the red wizardess from her perch.

The wizardess was on her feet in a moment with the grace of a panther, backing away from the divan toward the edges of the tent, keeping Azoun between herself and the wizard. The young guard had the presence of mind to snatch at his belt whistle and sound an alert.

“A murder is foiled,” said the wizardess, “but a greater theft has been made.” She put her hands on her hips and smiled at Vangerdahast. “Tell your king that Thay thanks him for his gift.”

Vangerdahast pointed at the woman, and spears of blue fire lanced out at her. She shouted some brief words, then became a swirling, fading mist. The magical missiles scorched tent fabric or seared grass, and shouts arose from the guards.

Suddenly angry Purple Dragons with swords in their hands were running into the tent from all directions, shouting, “The king! The king!”

A sudden, silent flash of light made them halt and blink. Its source was the belt of the Royal Magician.

“Men of Cormyr!” he snapped. “I order you, in the name of Azoun, to stop trampling the king’s gear and forthwith search the camp and the grounds around, moving out as far and as fast as your legs can carry you. Look for a sorceress in a red gown, bring her back alive if you can, but bring her back. A Thayvian-tall, barefoot, long black hair! Take custody of any woman in camp that you do not recognize as one of this company, bring all such to the pavilion. Go!”

They’d find nothing, Vangerdahast knew, but at least their departure would let him get a look at Azoun before it might be too late. Men in armor streamed around the wizard for a moment, and then he was alone with the king.

Azoun seemed unharmed, but mazed in his mind, not seeing the wizard bent over him and mumbling when shaken. The effects of a magical charm.

Vangerdahast touched the brow of his sovereign with his fingertips and muttered words that should unwind any spell in the Thayvian arsenal.

King Azoun IV grunted, grimaced, and grabbed at his forehead. The shattering of his thrall apparently bestowed a cranial punishment akin to a hangover.

“What-what happened?” the king muttered, blinking in the lantern light.

“A Thayvian assassin,” Vangerdahast announced. “She’s been driven off.”

“She?” asked the king, frowning. Then, slowly, he nodded. “She. Yes! She appeared out of nowhere, all shimmering robes and soft scents. She had a name. Brandy? Brannon? I thought she was a dream.”

“A nightmare,” Vangerdahast replied softly.

The king shook his head firmly. “I hate assassins. Apparently clearing out the Fire Knives was not enough. When we are done here, we’re going to have to outlaw assassins. And Red Wizards to boot!”

“But we’re not done here,” said the wizard softly, spreading a blanket over the tired monarch and calling to mind a spell of magical purification and another of shielding. “First Gondegal and Arabel. Then we’ll take on Red Wizards and assassins. We’ll take on anything that threatens the crown or Cormyr, whatever its origin. Trust me on this.”

The king smiled sleepily. “Good old Vangey. Trust me “

“Trust me on this,” said the fat wizard, his voice carrying the strength of iron. “As always.”

Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

The Hall of the Dragon Throne was one of the oldest parts of the court, Obarskyrs had walked here for more than a thousand years. Tall, fluted pillars ran down both sides of the lofty chamber, supporting a wooden gallery added by Palaghard in one of many renovations performed on the site over the years.

Between the lines of columns, in the open area that was usually crowded with murmuring courtiers, stood the great sealed stone tomb of Baerauble the Mage, its surface worn smooth by the touch of a million hands over the countless years. Facing it was the lowest step of the short, curving flight that led to the high dais.

On that bright-polished height stood two arch-backed chairs of state for the princesses of Cormyr, and between them the filigreed Throne of the Dragon Queen and the taller, simpler, far older Dragon Throne itself. All of them were empty.

“Why are we here, love?” Crown Princess Tanalasta asked, nestling against Aunadar’s shoulder. Something about their lovers’ stroll felt wrong. They had never come near the throne room before.

“Some folk are going to meet us here, and if all goes well, something important is going to happen,” Aunadar Bleth murmured. The dark-paneled doors partway down the room opened, and a group of young nobles strode in. Gaspar Cormaeril led them, and behind him, Tanalasta recognized Martin Illance, Morgaego Dauntinghorn, Reth Crownsilver, Cordryn Huntsilver, Braegor Truesilver, and others.

Tanalasta stood very still. “This has the look of a meeting of state,” she said and stepped quickly to a bellpull to summon guards. The cord came away in her hand and fell to the floor. It had been cut through with a sword. No alarm sounded.

“This is not right,” Tanalasta said, and three quick strides took her back to Aunadar, to pluck at his sleeve. “Aunadar! What’s happened? Why are we gathered here?”

“The road ahead for Cormyr must be chosen,” Aunadar said, turning to face the high dais, as if he expected more figures to suddenly appear there. “Your father has died,” he added shortly. “We think he died some time ago-and that foul wizard, our Royal Magician, hid that fact from us all, hoping to take the throne before you could be crowned.”

Tanalasta reeled and then clung to him, fighting down sudden tears. Azoun! Papa! Oh, merciless gods! Her mind flooded with memories of a smiling bearded face, hands gently helping her to toddle her first few steps, or sweeping her up onto a saddle so high that she shrieked in fear, or…

Aunadar must have known that the wizard was going to appear by the throne. He was watching, hard-faced, as the air shimmered and glowed on the broad step below the thrones where men knelt to be knighted and envoys to plead. When the light died away, three men stood on that step: the fat old Royal Magician of Cormyr, and on either side of him a grim noble holding a drawn sword. Lord Giogi Wyvernspur was on the wizard’s right, and young Dauneth Marliir on his left.

Tanalasta stared up at them through helpless tears.

What was going to happen? Was there going to be a fight?

She turned to ask Aunadar, only to discover that she stood alone. Her lover had walked back to stand with Gaspar Cormaeril and the other young nobles.

The crown princess looked from the trio by the throne to the confident line of nobility, and a sudden chill shook her. Father! she cried silently, come back! Cormyr needs you! I need you.

A voice cut through her anguish, a crisp, measured voice that struck her like ice water.

“The fates of our king and his two cousins have left a perilous lack of authority in Cormyr,” said the wizard Vangerdahast, “particularly in light of the current dispositions of Princess Alusair and Queen Filfaeril. The whereabouts of both remain unknown, we can only presume they are in hiding. Moreover, Crown Princess Tanalasta is, by her own words, unwilling to take up the crown at this time.”

His words echoed around the room. One of the nobles stepped forward and raised his head to speak, but the Royal Magician went on. “I will act as regent until the princess is willing to assume the throne. If, at the end of five years, she has not done so, we shall meet again-the wizards, high clergy and nobles of the realm, all together in council, to debate the future of the realm. Until that time, there will be no council of nobles or anyone else in Cormyr. I shall assist the princess in making ready to ascend the Dragon Throne, and she shall marry her fiance Aunadar Bleth during this time if she desires to do so. I hold here”-the mage raised a piece of parchment over his head-“a writ of regency, signed by Queen Filfaeril. It names me rightfully what I now claim myself: Regent of Cormyr.”