Hurry.
El rushed to the books, silver fire rising into his mind. He must be careful not to let it leak out of his fingertips and damage spells he might want.
He must be careful, too, to choose those magics wisely. Yet he must hasten.
El growled again.
Aye, that purr was a delightful sound …
CHAPTER FOUR
A small, high-flying cloud of mist crossed the great green sward of pastureland, rushing south for the stout walls of soaring-towered Suzail. Never sundered or driven aside, even by the strongest breezes, the mist headed straight for the capital of Cormyr, taking care to stay higher than any Purple Dragon bowman would trust his eye, and to seem mere wild wisps rather than anything manlike in shape.
The half-ruined mansion of Dardulkyn wasn’t much of a welcoming familiar hearth. Nevertheless, the mist was heading home.
One day soon, of course, this would all be his: every chase and pasture, every palace and high mansion and hovel.
Yes, soon. The nobles were aching for a chance to take out swords and have at each other-the moment they’d finished butchering every hated courtier and the decadent, far-fallen ruling Obarskyrs. Divided, sick of old ways, and hungry for blood, they would be the toys of Manshoon.
A Manshoon none could gainsay. The Netherese postured and sneered from on high, yet were so weak they must needs skulk to power in Sembia and elsewhere, taking command like thieves where truly mighty mages would boldly declare themselves and blast down all defiance.
The Simbul might have fleetingly recaptured her sanity, but she was so feeble that she had to pretend to speak for a dead goddess, and wanted Manshoon-as well as her tamed lapdog Elminster-to pilfer enchanted baubles for her.
Hah. Manshoon the Mighty had no need of magic items. Manshoon need never trifle with them again. Manshoon-
That thought fled from him and was gone, as the towers of Suzail rushed up to meet him. A quickening sea wind brought the tang of salt, seaweed, and dead fish to him, for this mist could smell without a nose.
One more curious little property of vampirism, Manshoon mused, as he drifted over the city wall. He rose higher as he swept on, not out of any fear of war wizard spells or watchers on the walls, but mindful of the wards of the noble mansions he passed over, that might-carelessly or otherwise-extend high into the skies above their turrets and grand gardens.
His lofty vantage revealed something unusual on a street below. A small procession of grand walkers, the gleam of polished plate armor fore and aft, a man in a tabard in the middle … a Crown herald, flanked by what could only be a pair of wizards of war, a trio preceded and followed by two armored Purple Dragons. Big men, in the very best of armor; this must be an important formal call.
Curiosity afire, Manshoon arrowed down, taking care to keep directly over a street where no wards should reach. He should be able to recognize that tabard …
Yes. He was spying upon the herald Dark Dragonet, and those were war wizards, all right. Veterans, by their looks, though he recognized neither of them. The escorting Purple Dragons were huge, muscled and stern-faced giants. None of the three they were escorting were anywhere close to smiling, either. Well, well. Bad tidings for someone.
Manshoon drifted lower, just as the solemn procession arrived on the doorstep of Ambershields Hall.
Soaring stone, bright-gleaming copper doors as high as two men, sculpted winged lions flanking them on a raised stone porch wide enough for twelve men to stand at ease: the city mansion of the Ambershields noble family. Stiff-necked lovers of tradition who’d resisted his attempts to corrupt them just as they resisted the reforms of King Foril Obarskyr. Strong shoulders supported heads of stone.
Manshoon sank down into the ornate carved stonework surmounting the grand front doors of the Ambershields to eavesdrop. Dolphins and seawolves, sporting with merfolk and men with lances riding what looked like wyverns decorated the door; very warlike and striking, to be sure.
“Nay, my orders are not to enter, but to deliver my message from the threshold,” the herald was telling the doorwarden. “Summon him, please.”
If the mist could have crooked an eyebrow in surprise and amusement, Manshoon would have done so. Oh, this was better and better.
Nor was the wait long. Staunch upholders of tradition, to be sure.
“Yes?” Lord Ambershields gave the herald the briefest of nods.
Dark Dragonet bowed, then declaimed grandly and formally, “Lord Ambershields is commanded to hear my words, in the name of the king!”
As the noble nodded curtly, the herald swept on. “This same message is being delivered all over the city, right now, to all the heads of noble houses known to be in Suzail. King Foril Obarskyr, who sits the Dragon Throne and hath lawful and absolute dominion over all Cormyr, has taken to heart the misgivings of the foremost families of the land to many of his recent decrees. It is his most royal decision to cancel the Council of Dragons and spend the next season meeting personally with any and all nobles who desire to speak with him, to discuss privately and frankly their ideas for the governance and future of Cormyr, that all notions and wants be given fair and full hearing. The nobility of Cormyr are deeply thanked for attending the council and for their staunch love and caring for the realm, and are asked to return peacefully to their homes and the affairs they laid aside to attend, while a wiser King Foril considers what they have told him thus far, and begins these private meetings.”
Lord Ambershields made reply to this with another curt nod.
“Tender my thanks, good herald,” he said coldly, and he closed the door in Dark Dragonet’s face.
The herald shrugged and turned away, waving the Purple Dragons to accompany him. A moment later, the Crown party was hurrying away to make the same proclamation to the next eager audience.
Hovering above the door arch of Ambershields Hall in a pale writhing of mists, Manshoon gloated.
“The Obarskyr grip on the Dragon Throne has become a last, frantic clutch,” he murmured to himself. “And it’s slipping. My empire will rise soon.”
“Glemmeraeve soup,” Lady Marantine Delcastle announced with pride, setting the steaming tureen before them.
Catching her son’s look, she added sharply, “Yes, I made it myself. Not catching the glemmeraeves-netting sea turtles is a bit beyond my skills-but I did all the rest. I do snare ground garanth.”
Arclath gave her a wide, admiring, and genuine smile.
She held his gaze suspiciously a moment longer, then relaxed into a smile of her own, deftly swept the lid off the tureen in a smooth move to prevent trapped beads of moisture from raining down on the table, and reached for the ladle.
Wanting to hear all about what had been unfolding at court, Arclath’s mother had not only invited Storm and Amarune to a late eveningfeast at Delcastle Manor, she’d banished the servants from the room to “keep unwanted ears at a distance,” and was serving the meal herself.
Arclath was clearly astonished, but carefully refrained from any comment on how well his imperious she-dragon of a mother did serving duties. Lady Delcastle was the deft and attentive equal of any smoothly gliding maid-and far, far politer than her usual self, to boot. Patient, too. Though she had professed to want to hear all the latest from court, which nobles had been saying and doing what, and all the clack about the future of Cormyr, she hadn’t yet pressed her three guests for gossip. She usually pounced on every uttered word, wheedling and threatening with fierce enthusiasm and without pause, as if in great haste to wrest forth the next juicy revelation.
Seeing her smile grow increasingly strained, Arclath took pity on her. Her maid act was perfect, but who knew when all this forbearing would be too much, and she might explode?