Arclath froze for a moment, bewildered-then shrugged, swept Rune into his arms, and kissed her heartily.
After a good long time, she ended it with a smile and looked past his shoulder. “Storm? Mirt? What think you?”
“El’s right. Manshoon is here in Suzail, and up to something. Seizing the Dragon Throne will be his goal. Seizing thrones always is.”
Mirt nodded agreement. “El has the right of it. As usual.”
Rune’s smile faded as she regarded Arclath, nose to nose. “Much as I hate to think of an evil archwizard slyly at work in our city, it could very well be true. After all, these three believe it, and they’ve known this spellhurler and our realm far longer than we have. Whether they’re right or not, we dare not dismiss their warning as mistaken.”
Arclath let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You’re right, Rune. Of course. And I should need no one else to remind me of my duty to the realm. Nobles must watch for all perils to fair Cormyr, so we can save our land from itself if the need arises. For the sake of Cormyr and everyone in it, I dare not behave as if this tale of a lurking Manshoon is less than true.”
Storm spread her hands, but it was Elminster who spoke the words to go with them. “And so?”
Arclath waited for Mirt but heard only silence. With all eyes looking at him.
“We’re lost if we try to find Manshoon’s mind-slaves among all the lords of Cormyr,” he said slowly, thinking aloud. “They’re all traitors, in tiny matters or large schemings. Every last one of them will seem as suspicious as they always do. Our rooting among them warns Manshoon that we know of him, and gives him endless opportunities to slay us at will.”
He winced, seeing imagined disasters at every hand. “No, we must rally to the Dragon Throne. Return to the palace, try to keep out of Glathra’s clutches, and hunt for traces of Manshoon-and his mind-slaves and allies among the wizards of war.”
Storm and Rune both nodded vigorously.
“Using my Art and the Princess Alusair’s aid to hide from Glathra as much as we can,” El put in. “So, ye’ve brought us into the palace, amid much fun of dodging Purple Dragons and war wizards and hundreds of prying courtiers, lad. Where, with the aid of a score of friendly gods, we find and scour out every last traitor within the walls. Finding no Manshoon, who must be outside the palace laughing at us and thoroughly aware of our every belch, yawn, and need to scratch. What then?”
Arclath frowned. “Above all, the king must be protected. All Obarskyrs must, for that matter. Yet, I know not how.”
“Heh,” Mirt growled, “ye must make all ‘hows’ up as ye go along. I learned that well, the hard way. It strikes me this realm awash in Crown mages needs a ruling hand that every last wizard of war is afraid of. If the infamous Sage of Shadowdale has to step into Vangerdahast’s old boots and become royal magician and court wizard all in one, hated by every noble in the kingdom and feared by every commoner, well… so be it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
If you do try to become royal magician, Elminster,” Arclath announced slowly, “even knowing you mean well, I might be forced to oppose you. You’d be better for Cormyr than Manshoon, yet you’re still an old and mighty archwizard, and an outlander to boot. Magic has a way of… corrupting those who wield it.”
“It does indeed. Yet, if it makes ye sleep more serenely, lad, know this-I have less than no interest in becoming another Vangerdahast. Giving certain war wizards a solid kick up the backside, aye; but, commanding them in the name of the Dragon Throne, never. I’d as soon herd nobles of Cormyr. If ye’ll forgive me.”
Arclath smirked despite himself, and cast a glance at the towers of court and palace, visible above the rooftops, not all that far away.
“So, how are we getting into the palace this time? It’s too much to hope they’ll leave that house behind the stables unguarded again.”
“Ye keep hidden-the lot of ye,” Mirt offered. “I’ll do the talking. Me, the fat uncouth outlander, who’s been out in the city an’ has heard something the Lady Glathra must hear. Herself alone, from my maw straight to her ears, right now.”
Arclath rolled his eyes. “And if they don’t believe you?”
“Ah. Then ye burst out to the attack. Nay, wait a bit! Rune and Storm, scantily clad, dance forth, an’ I’ll admit I’m really a panderer, bringing ’em in for the crown prince, or Hallowdant… aye, Hallowdant’s safer. ’Tis a pose I’ve worked before.”
Storm winked at Amarune. “Really? You’re sure pandering is just a pose for you?”
“Well, now… back in Waterdeep, I’d know what to charge and who to offer-er, ah, knew. They’ll all be long dead now, hey? Well-”
The awning they were passing under suddenly crashed down atop Storm, with an attacker who landed heels-first, dashing her to the ground.
As their attacker landed, Storm bouncing under those boots, a sword slashed Amarune from behind, flashing up under her left arm and slicing into her side. A pulse of purple light-enchantment-burst from that flashing steel, and Rune shrieked as she fell.
As Arclath shouted something furious and desperate, Mirt charged like a human bludgeon, driving the attacker away from Amarune and stabbing with both his daggers as he bowled the stranger to the cobbles and they rolled together.
Storm’s tresses reached out to follow them, but the pair had moved too far-and the attacker, who was taller, faster, and more supple than Mirt, broke free of the wheezing man and up to his-no, her-feet, spinning to stand facing them, a silhouette dark and sleekly curvaceous, with a long, slender, and faintly glowing sword in hand.
That purple radiance brightened into a pale white light and showed them a tall, shapely, and fit woman in tight black leather armor and high boots that were too worn and mold-blotched to creak. Helmless, she had long, wild hair, dead-white skin, and a cruel, smiling face. Her eyes glowed red, and a small patch of mold adorned one of her cheeks.
“I am the defender of Cormyr,” she purred, “and Elminster of Shadowdale, for your crimes against this fair realm, your life is more than forfeit!”
She was gazing down at Amarune, who lay moaning on the cobbles, bright red blood flooding out of her and Storm rising to crouch over her like a grim gate guard, sword drawn and something else-a helm-in her other hand.
“Yes,” Targrael added, seeing Arclath’s horrified look. “I know. This is the Sage of Shadowdale, not a foolish little minx of a mask dancer. And it’s soon to become the remains of Elminster of Shadowdale!”
Arclath Delcastle swallowed, then charged at her, drawing his sword with a flourish as he went.
“I’m Elminster, disloyal Highknight!” he snarled. “Not this blameless lass! Is this how you serve Cormyr?”
Targrael’s glowing steel flashed up to turn his blade deftly aside as she hissed, “You dare to judge my loyalty, child of a noble? You, spoiled brat of one of the many traitor Houses who seek to sunder our fair realm? You’re no Elminster! He’s a fool, yes, but not your sort of a fool!”
Her sword lashed out, but Arclath parried expertly, smiling at the momentary surprise in her eyes-there are some benefits to a noble upbringing, and skilled swordwork is one of them-and advanced, pressing her. Out of a spinning clangor of parries, he ducked down into a lunge, then sidestepped her parry to lunge again, driving her back from Rune.
“Keep going,” Storm murmured up at him, and he turned his head toward her long enough to see her jam the helm in her hand over Amarune’s head.
It was the blackened helm from one of the helmed horrors El had felled. The helm full of roiling fire.
The wild shriek that rang out from inside it, in the instant before Rune jerked wildly in Storm’s grasp and then fell limp, distracted Arclath just an instant too long The glowing sword slicing at his throat came so close that he felt its chill along his cheek and jaw, a sear so slight it would soon fade, as Targrael sought to slay him-and Mirt rolled right under her, snatching her feet from the cobbles and pitching her helplessly onto her face, her blade falling away just before it would have cut into Delcastle flesh.