Yet they were now two of a kind, he and the Zhent. Possessing, mind-riding spirits.
Horaundoon just didn’t realize, yet, what a great victory he’d achieved.
“Bitter laughter and applause,” Old Ghost murmured. “For us both, I suppose.”
The hargaunt was wriggling as fast as it could, flowing along the cold stone floor of a dark passage.
The flying gauntlets that pounced upon it, lifted it into the air, and expanded around it into a spherical prison were quite a surprise-but ignored its most belligerent chimings.
“You, little flowing menace, are going to come in quite useful to this war wizard traitor,” the wielder of the gauntlets purred gloatingly, toying with a ring that bore a handsome, oversized carved unicorn head. “Yes, quite useful. When my time comes.”
The war wizards had been gentle, even respectful in their questionings, and had left her some privacy to recover herself while they fetched her a meal.
That was why Narantha Crownsilver was sitting alone in a pleasantly furnished chamber somewhere in the palace in Suzail when horror burst open in her mind, unfolding with such awfulness that she could only whimper.
There was something called a mindworm in her head, linking her to this wizard-a Zhentarim! — the murderer of her Uncle Lorneth!
Who’d cold-bloodedly taken her uncle’s face and voice to deceive her, using her to spread mindworms to Florin and others… so many others… nobles all across the realm!
“Gods deliver me,” she gasped, when she could find words. “What have I done? ”
This revelation was due to this Horaundoon’s own misfortune. She watched the monster suffer under his own snake and mindworms, and she felt his sick pain-a dull echo of it, at least, as her own mind staggered…
And even as he shuddered and shrieked and wallowed in agony, her dazed mind stumbled through his dark plans, laid bare to her at last.
“No,” she whispered. “Oh no.”
He would survive this.
He would control her again, through the mindworm in her head-and through her, all she’d subverted.
“Gods!” she whispered, “so many! ”
She must do something. Right now…
So this is what real fear tastes like. Fear for all Cormyr.
Weeping and trembling, she left the room and hurried through the palace.
“Failure, Lady Lord,” Dauntless said bitterly. “Complete failure. The fugitives got clean away. I stand deserving of any punishment you see fit.”
Myrmeen Lhal’s eyes bored into his as if she were reading something written small on the inside back of his skull, but she said nothing.
And went on saying nothing as a curtain parted behind her, and the Warden of the Eastern Marches came into the room, stepped aside, and handed in an unfamiliar woman as if she outranked him. She was tall and muscular, her hair a long fall of silver-not silver as old folk go silver, but the shining silver of polished metal-and she wore green leathers, with the crescent moon badge of the Harpers at belt buckle and throat.
Baron Thomdor gave Dauntless a smile. “Well met this day, Ornrion Dahauntul. Be also well met with Dove Silverhand, of the Harpers.”
Dove inclined her head in greeting. “Myrmeen, Dauntless: you share no failure. The fugitives you’ve been chasing have just been knighted by Queen Filfaeril, and are riding in triumph into Suzail right now.”
Two jaws dropped in unison. Almost tenderly, Dove added, “When they pass through Arabel again, in a tenday or so, ’twould be best if they were made welcome, not hounded or imprisoned.”
Stunned disbelief was clear on the newly restored ornrion’s face. “And-and how can you know this?” he sputtered. “Forgive me, Lady, but words are easily said-yet more slowly trusted. Why, I’ve never even seen you before!”
“Ah, but you have, gallant Dauntless. That night at the Leaping Hart, when you danced on the tables, remember? And loudly admired the behind of a certain lass?” Dove turned and struck a pose. “Have your fingers forgotten this backside so swiftly?”
Dauntless reddened as words failed him again, and Myrmeen and Thomdor exploded into laughter.
Dove grinned and patted the ornrion’s arm. “Ne’er mind. ‘Bold to face the foe,’ remember?”
The Horngate loomed high and impressive overhead. “Lady Queen,” Florin murmured over his shoulder, “you should ride at the fore, and we behind you. ’Tis not right that-”
“Ride on,” Filfaeril commanded, in a voice of sudden iron that sounded muffled. “Just as we are.”
Florin turned his head and discovered that the Dragon Queen had cast a mantle over her head, and ducked low in her saddle.
He exchanged looks with Islif, they both shrugged-and an ornrion was stepping into their path, his hand raised imperiously.
“Hold hard, there!” he said sternly. “So large a company, and under arms? Who are you, who seek to ride right into Suzail?”
“We are knights of Cormyr, and chartered adventurers besides, and so are doubly allowed to bear war-steel into this fair city,” Florin replied, as they reined in their mounts.
“Knights and chartered adventurers? On mounts bearing the royal crest on their harness?” The officer’s voice was hard and incredulous. “Down from your saddle, sir, and furnish me with your charter-if you have one.”
Purple Dragons behind him, in the arch of the Horngate, had already taken up cocked and loaded crossbows and were aiming them, their faces suspicious.
“I think not, ” Queen Filfaeril’s voice rang out. “Stand aside, loyal Dragons!” She urged her horse past Florin, mantle thrown back, and raised her hand in a wave that set folk to astonished chatter-and sent the gate guards to their knees, their bows hurriedly pointed elsewhere.
“Diligently done, ornrion. Thy vigilance has our royal favor,” the Dragon Queen said crisply as she spurred past the officer, leading the knights forward onto the Promenade.
Word seemed to spread like fire racing in a gale, and folk streamed out of shops and sidestreets to gawk at the passing riders.
“I wonder how many enemies she’s making us?” Pennae whispered uneasily, as ragged cheers arose, the queen waved, and folk-so many folk-stared, faces upon hundreds of faces. “I mislike being seen so prominently in public.”
“Get used to it,” Alaphondar murmured. “And keep smiling. Every hamlet and realm, and all the folk in it, need their goats and heroes.”
“Ah,” Semoor asked wryly, as the tall iron gates of the Royal Court opened before them, “and which are we, I wonder?”
Alaphondar’s smile was thin. “Learning how to find a way out of goatskins is the true mark of a hero.”
As they rode across the broad and muddy courtyard, bright horns began to sound.
Epilogue
There was only one way to defend Cormyr.
Only one way to restore the honor of House Crownsilver.
Every god there is, give me strength to do this.
To do what must be done.
Rethendarr was the war wizard who’d been most angry in questioning her-the youngest, most eager and restless. To Rethendarr she would go.
After she made one necessary stop.
“I am the Lady Narantha Crownsilver,” she told the startled Purple Dragon at the guardroom. “And I have need of-ah. This one will do.”
Her sliced thumb told her the slender long sword was very sharp. Carrying it like a walking stick, she marched off before the guard could think of a pretext to stop her.
“Two things,” she murmured to herself, “all the realm knows. The Wizards of War stand ever-ready to defend the realm-not the king or Obarskyrs or palaces, but Cormyr itself-and right now every last spellhurler among them has one peril uppermost in mind: the Arcrown, that can easily slay any mage from afar. They search for it day and night.”
She stood before the door to Rethendarr’s study for a long time, trembling, before she mustered courage enough to open it and step inside.