They peered in vain for a crown or dragonhelm, for gleaming armor or glistening jewels. More than a few of them had already sighed in disappointment and stepped back to look down the road for a second and grander band of riders as the newcomers reined in.
The woman at their head had unbound hair and wore a plain fighting-harness of worn and patched leathers such as a mercenary might prefer—but when she sprang down from her saddle and strode up the steps of the Sixcandles, the grim Highknight who’d spent the day turning the inn upside down emerged and knelt to her.
There was a sudden hush of awe and surprise—this, the Steel Regent?—then the infamous Princess Alusair turned and gave the gathered Hultailen a wave and a grin.
They stared at dirty and tousled ash-blonde hair, merry brown eyes, and eyebrows as black as coal. She was—beautiful. Slender, wild, and beautiful.
Her every movement smooth and yet those of a fighting man and not a demure maid, she caught hold of her scabbarded sword to keep it from tangling in her boots like any armsman might, raised Rhauligan to his feet and kissed him roundly on the mouth—awakening a loud murmur of astonishment and disapproval—and strode into the Sixcandles with him hastening after.
“Gods above,” one goodwife said disappointedly. “Not even a crown!”
“More to the point: no armor,” an old man beside her growled. “Any bow could have taken her life right in front of us! Little fool!”
“Nay,” the Suzailan merchant put in, “saw you her ring? The glowing one? Award against weapons, to be sure! We’ve seen something of Alusair in Suzail, I tell you, and—”
But by then he was standing alone and talking to the rear ends of departing horses, and the backsides of hastening villagers. Hultail was hastening up the steps of the inn, to see something of Alusair for themselves.
* * * * *
The innkeeper was white and trembling. Alusair went straight to her, spreading her hands as if welcoming a long lost sister. “Goodlady Matcham?”
Mutely the woman nodded, then Alusair’s arms were around her.
“Your Rorth died well,” the Steel Regent said almost fiercely as they stood nose to nose, “fighting the Devil Dragon herself! He died defending his king, and so helped keep my father alive until the fell wyrm could be defeated—and for that all Cormyr owes Rorth Matcham honor.”
The innkeeper stared into the face of the princess, mouth working—then burst into tears, sobbing helplessly in Alusair’s arms.
The folk crowded into the forechamber kept utterly silent as the Steel Regent rocked Rythra Matcham, murmuring gentle words, for a long, long time ere the innkeeper pulled gently away and sobbed something almost incoherent to Alusair.
The princess took her hand and replied, “You’ve nothing to be ashamed about, Rythra. I’ve cried many nights since my father went into that crypt—and I’ll cry again. Gods, I miss him!”
Her free hand clenched into a fist, then she sighed, threw her head back as if gasping for air, and announced, “If the cellars here are wet enough, the Regent of Cormyr would be pleased if all Hultail, and wayfarers guesting here, too, drank the health of Rorth Matcham, hero of the Dragonfall Battle—and his lady Rythra Matcham, good host of the Sixcandles Inn! The Crown will pay for all, provender and drink, as long as both last!”
The answering roar of approval was almost deafening. Rhauligan winced. That cellar was full of great tuns of wine, most of them full of potent vintages only months away from becoming vinegar.
It was going to be a long night, too.
* * * * *
The lightening grayness to the east told of dawn soon to — come, but there were still folk on their feet in the forechamber of the Sixcandles. Only a handful, amid all the snoring flesh draped over chairs, tables, and the floor—but that handful was lively enough.
Four candles ago, tables had been shoved to the walls at one end of the room to clear space for dancing, and many ragged tunes had been inflicted on drunken ears as the bolder Hultailen lads and lasses had panted and twirled about under the coldly vigilant eyes of a dozen Purple Dragons and almost that many War Wizards.
Most of the dancers were now gone—into slumber or out into the night, to either their beds or to pursuits best undertaken in some privacy—leaving a lone couple on the dancing floor.
The Steel Regent herself was whirling about the floor to the eerie duet of an unseen, conjured harp and shawm. Matching her in the dance, measure for measure, was the Sixcandles stableboy, his eyes wide with shining wonder.
Anon, Alusair threw up her hand in a signal, and the music turned slow and stately. The lad stopped, unsure of what to do—but the Princess Alusair Nacacia, her expression going serene and serious, stepped into his arms, guided his hands to her hips, and led him smoothly into a court dance.
“Stop, woman!”
The shout roused Rythra Matcham from her doze, sitting with the hardiest women of the village all along one side of the dancing floor, but by then the stablemaster it had burst from had come to a glowering halt against a fence of steeclass="underline" a barrier of four crossed Purple Dragon blades.
More than a few Hultailen blinked awake and slid into being aghast in the time it took them to clear their eyes.
The lad pressed against Alusair groaned and tried to shrink away, but the princess caught his wrist and commanded, “Aside steel, men, and let that man through.”
Andur found his way to the dancing floor clear. He strode forward, ignoring the risings of Rhauligan and Sharantyr from their seats and the beseeching look of despair the innkeeper gave him.
“Stand away from my son! Regent of the realm and royal blooded you may be—but we’ve all heard of your wanton ways, and your temper, too! Just keep you well away from my Darnen!”
Alusair let go of Darnen’s wrist and he fled across the room like an arrow sped from a bow. Folding her arms across her chest, face expressionless, she awaited the stablemaster… whose angry advance slowed, faltered, then came to a halt a few paces away from her.
“You’ll kill me, of course,” he spat, “but it needed to be said. You’re a wanton slut unfit to be anywhere near the Dragon Throne that I and so many like me have fought to uphold.”
Alusair sighed. “What’s your name, man?”
“Andur. Andur Imraith, once a Purple Dragon, now stablemaster here. They call me Old Andur.”
The Steel Regent nodded. “Andur, I’ve just three things to say to you.”
She waited until there was utter silence and all the room was listening. That took less than a breath.
“The first is: you’re right. I am a wanton slut, as you put it, and I am unfit to rule. I didn’t want to be Regent, and having done it for some days now, I like it even less. Consider me to be one of the poorer Purple Dragons you marched and fought beside, serving the realm poorly, because it’s the best he can manage.”
She spread her hands. “The second thing is this: I had no intention of doing anything more with your son than teaching him a court dance—because I want him, at his age and restlessness, to want to come to Suzail and see the Court and so get swept up into helping Cormyr after my generation falters. The King—the new King—will need men he can trust in, and I need to find them for him… or make them for him.”
She took a slow step toward him. “And the third is this, Andur: I need you.”
“What?” The stablemaster took a step back, hands rising as if to ward her off.
Alusair smiled crookedly. “Oh, not to bed you, though if you asked nicely…”
Rhauligan rolled his eyes and she made a rude gesture—a gesture familiar to Purple Dragons everywhere in the Realm—in his direction without ever taking her eyes from Andur’s shocked gaze.