Cormyr

Chapter 14: The Pupil

Year of the Leaping Hare (376 DR)

“Moriann, Tharyann, Boldovar the Mad, Gantharla, Iltharl…”

The elder wizard clicked his tongue at her.

“Moriann, Tharyann, Boldovar the Mad, Ilthan, Gantharla, Roderin the Bastard, Thargreve…”

“Which Thargreve?” interrupted Baerauble.

“Thargreve the Lesser,” spat Amedahast, and the older wizard nodded, allowing her to continue through the catechism of royal heads of Cormyr.

Baerauble was a teacher of the rote-and-repetition school, whether the subject was history or spell theory. Amedahast hated it. The crowned heads. The noble families. The lands about the Sea of Fallen Stars, past and present. The dead and dry tales of the Cormyrean legend. All the detritus that must be learned for her to serve as his scribe and apprentice in the court of King Anglond.

Baerauble needed a scribe these days. The wizard was skeleton-thin now, and his head was as smooth as glass. The only hair he had left consisted of a few long, white strands that marked where his beard and eyebrows had once been. He needed a gnarled staff to walk, had to be carried by chair from place to place, and was severely taxed by spellcastings. He needed at least an assistant, and at best an heir. Cormyr had always had its High Wizard and would need a new one in days not long to come.

That would be Amedahast, summoned from distant Myth Drannor at Baerauble’s request. The young woman had Baerauble’s blood in her, that much was certain. She was lean in form and sharp-featured in face, her light red-blonde hair gathered in an ornate, ordered braid halfway down her back.

She claimed Baerauble’s mantle through his mating with the elven ancestor of the family line, Alea Dahast. There would be a tale she’d want to hear, of elf and human falling in love on first sight, and a life of adventures during which they’d saved each other’s lives time after time. Not this droning repetition of facts and lists.

“To serve Cormyr, you must understand Cormyr,” said the elder wizard hoarsely. “Facts are merely tools and must be familiar to be utilized effectively.”

Amedahast was fully human, the result of many years of mortal blood watering down her elven ancestry. Even so, she had a fey, dangerous look about her, a look that she hoped would make her look even more dangerous among these rustics than she truly was. One lesson that Baerauble did not have to teach her was that if you looked like a tough fight, you did not have to be a tough fighter.

The lesson continued through most of the afternoon. Great battles. The legendary blades of the kingdom, starting with Faerlthann First-King’s legendary sword, Ansrivarr. How many times Arabel has seceded from the kingdom (three) and how many times rival Marsember has been abandoned (twice). The legend of the Purple Dragon and his reported sightings in recent times.

There was magical training as well. Visualization and meditation. Schools of spells and theories. Spell ingredients and suitable substitutions. Personal runes and godly interference. Amedahast wondered if she were ever going to see the country that she was supposedly being trained to defend.

In midafternoon a summons came for Baerauble from the king. With much grumbling and cursing, the ancient wizard hobbled to the waiting chair and, snarling at the bearers, set off for the reception hall. His last words to Amedahast, before he was borne around a corner, were that she should study her geography until he returned. His pupil nodded obediently and watched him disappear behind a wall. His now incoherent shouts at the bearers continued for another minute.

Amedahast pulled down the appropriate scrolls and stared at them for all of twenty minutes before she blinked, shook herself, and realized she had not absorbed the least whit of information. The words and descriptions registered through her eyes, but some goblin intercepted the knowledge before it reached her mind and memory. She sighed deeply and looked out the window. It was an early spring afternoon, and the apple trees in the orchard beyond were just starting to bloom.

Amedahast closed the scrolls and looked out the window for another twenty minutes. Baerauble had said to study the geography scrolls. He had not said where she should study them.

She gathered the scrolls up and put them in a small satchel, along with a pair of rolls from the larder and a small bottle of port, then left the wizard’s quarters in the royal castle.

The original keep had sprawled in a more or less haphazard fashion along the rolling hillock that dominated Cormyr. Most of the aristocrats, courtiers, and bureaucrats had been banished a hundred years ago for some rebellion or scheme or faux pas and now occupied a sprawling tumbledown chaos of stone buildings at the base of the hill called the Noble Court, or simply the court. The keep was home to the royal family, the important offices of state, the treasury and mint, and the court wizard. The Obarskyr castle loomed over the surrounding countryside, much like the Obarskyrs themselves.

Amedahast ignored the sprawling city and headed in the opposite direction, down the other side of the hill. This side had been left more pastoral, much of it a well-mannered garden. Orchards of apple, pear, and peach trees marched in neat rows along one side, and there were wide, stepped banks of primroses, marigolds, and stunted lilies. There was also a low garden hedge maze, a whitewashed gazebo, and a sprinkling of statuary, some of it imported from Myth Drannor itself. In the distance, rising above the trees, she saw roofs of colored slate, the homes of some of the highest-ranking nobles. There lived the Truesilvers, Crownsilvers, and Huntsilvers, surrounded by a sprinkling of lesser lights: Turcassans, Bleths, and the upstart Cormaerils and Dheolurs.

Amedahast chose the gazebo as her destination. It had a good view of the surrounding area and should provide sufficient warning of Baerauble’s return. As she approached, she made a face at the thought of more interminable study and pulled one of the scrolls out of the satchel.

And that’s when she struck him as she rounded a corner with her head down, her satchel swinging around in front of her, one hand pawing through the scrolls. He rounded an epic piece of statuary from the other direction, and the two collided solidly.

Amedahast teetered back three steps, as if she had struck a massive wall. She would have fallen, but strong, quick hands took her firmly by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry… are you all right, good lady?” asked the young man.

Amedahast regained her footing, and the youth removed his hands from her shoulders. He was as tall as she, and broad-shouldered. His face was open and smiling, his smile framed by the well-trimmed silkiness of a first beard. He was dressed in simple riding pants and a voluminous white shirt and bore a short, broad blade on his right hip. On his forehead, he wore a simple circlet, a gold band unadorned by ornament.

“You could look where you’re going,” she snapped as her brain slowly yielded information about the significance of the coronet. Worn by the lesser royals in Cormyr, the tomes had said, such as the princesses and princes. And Cormyr had but one prince at the moment. “If you would be so kind, Your Majesty,” she added, realizing whom she must be addressing.

“I’ll try,” said the young prince, and his smile deepened. Amedahast felt herself reddening. Her first encounter with one of the royal family, and she had chewed the man out. Though from the tales Baerauble had told her, yelling at the king seemed to be a required duty of the court wizard.

The youth did not move away. “May I ask why you’ve come to the royal garden?” he asked, and the young mage was struck with the softness of his voice. She had thought a man so muscular would have a deep, booming voice, but these tones were soft and cultured.

“I-I was studying some scrolls for my master, Baerauble, and thought I’d do better in the open air,” Amedahast began, then stopped as the young man’s face lit with surprise and glee.

“So you’re the old scarecrow’s secret project!” he shouted. “The servants’ve been wondering about you for two weeks now. You’re the mysterious figure Baerauble smuggled into the castle in the dead of night and kept imprisoned in his quarters! Some said you were a creature from the pits and the old wizard was going to trade the realm for eternal life. Others said you were a goddess he’d rescued from the Purple Dragon himself. I see that the rumors were closer to the latter than the former.”

Amedahast felt her reddening become a full-fledged blush. This one could give the silver-tongued courtiers of elven Myth Drannor some competition. “I am neither,” she said firmly. “Only an apprentice Lord Baerauble has chosen to take on. It was the middle of the night when I arrived, but that was mere happenstance.”

“Ah,” said the youth with a smile and intoned grandly, “Hearken ye to the First Law of Baerauble: Nothing is coincidence when it involves wizards, and the Royal Wizard in particular!”

“I’ve hardly been imprisoned, though it does feel like it sometimes,” continued Amedahast. “He has been busy teaching me the history and customs of this land before presenting me to the court.”

She held out her hand. “I am Amedahast, a middling mage of Myth Drannor, apprentice to Lord Baerauble, High Mage of Cormyr.”

The youth dropped to one knee, and Amedahast nearly jumped at the suddenness of his movement. He cradled her hand gently and kissed the back of her wrist. His breath was warm and his lips soft.

Yes, she thought, this one could definitely give the elven courtiers competition.

The smoothness of his manner was broken by the lopsided grin that spread across his face as he stood up again. A happy, puppy-dog sort of smile. She almost expected his tongue to hang out of his mouth. Instead, he said, “They call me Azoun. I mean, Prince Azoun, son of Anglond and descendant of fifty other kings going back to Faerithann himself, young lord of Cormyr and scion of House Obarskyr. Azoun the First, since I assume there will be others.”

“I know,” said Amedahast, bowing slightly but formally. “The circlet gave it away.”

Azoun touched the circlet on his head as if he had noticed it for the first time. Then he gave her another grin. “Comes with the title, I understand. Baerauble has trained the Obarskyrs to always make sure that whatever other fashion crimes they may commit, they always wear the proper hat.”

Amedahast found herself smiling at the image of Baerauble picking out the royal wardrobe. “Otherwise, you’d look like one of the castle’s hirelings.”

“This?” Azoun raised his arms to show off the blousey billows of his shirt. “I ride every morning around this time. I was taking a shortcut from the stables back to the castle.”

“I see,” said Amedahast. A small silence fell between the two. Then she said, “Well, I came out here to study. Baerauble is a cruel taskmaster.”

Azoun did not move away. “History?”

“Geography,” said Amedahast, taking two steps up the gazebo stairs. “Local geography.”

The young prince gave an exaggerated shrug. “Let me help. I know a good deal about the area, given that it is the family business.”

Amedahast flashed a hint of a smile and climbed the steps, taking a place at the back where she could watch the castle and keep an eye out for Baerauble’s eventual return. Azoun sprawled a respectable distance away. She sat sideways on the bench, with her knees up on the seat, and unraveled the scroll in her lap. “Soldier’s Green,” she said.

“Small chunk of land north and west of here,” Azoun replied.

She nodded. “Used for marshaling the militia and drilling the palace guards in large-scale maneuvers.”

“It was originally the site of an old settlement, wiped out by goblins, back before there was a Cormyr. That was where Keolan Dracohorn of Arabel gained the family name killing a blue dragon, and where Gantharla stationed her foresters when she marched on Suzail and seized the throne from her brother.”

Amedahast blinked. The blue dragon had been mentioned in the texts, but not the other two. “What about Mabel itself?”

“Almost as old as Suzail,” said Azoun. “Originally a logging encampment of folk who moved in when the elves moved out. It’s been part of Cormyr, off and on, for about three hundred years. It would petition to join, or be conquered, or be absorbed in one generation, then grow restive and break away the next. It’s officially part of the nation right now, but it has always been-and remains-very independent. The saying in court is ‘A rabid kobold could start a rebellion in Mabel.’ Of course, we don’t say that around folk from Mabel. They’re a little touchy about it, to say the least.”

And so the afternoon passed. The young prince was a font of knowledge, picked up from a lifetime of listening to the tales of Anglond’s court. It turned out that Baerauble had taught the young king his letters, and Azoun was amused to hear that the old scarecrow was as demanding and boring now as he was then.

Amedahast shared the bread she’d brought, and they passed the bottle of port back and forth. The shadows of the afternoon grew longer, and the young wizardess realized that she was no longer watching for Baerauble’s return. The old mage was probably back by now, wondering where in the Seven Heavens she had disappeared to and planning a suitable punishment for her return.

She jumped up at the thought, rousing young Azoun, who had moved himself to sprawl on the bench next to her. “I should get back!” she said, stuffing the scrolls into the satchel. “The old… that is, Master Baerauble will have me flayed if he thinks I was lollygagging around all afternoon.” She bolted down the steps two at a time while the young prince was still pulling himself up.

“Will I see you again tomorrow?” he shouted after her. “I’ll be here after my ride.”

Amedahast turned and waved. “If I’m not slain or locked in a tower room, I’ll be here.” And with that, she ran back to the wizard’s quarters, her long robes billowing behind her.

Baerauble was indeed there when she returned, bent over his workbench and examining some detailed clockwork through a huge lens. Without looking up, he asked, “Have you been studying?”

Amedahast gasped to recover her breath and gulped, “Yes, Lord Baerauble.”

“So tell me something about geography,” he responded. Amedahast took a deep breath. “Soldier’s Green was originally the site of an orcish massacre. It was also where the Dracohorn family gained its name. Keolan Dracohorn killed a blue dragon there. The ruins of Marsember are regularly used by pirates, and periodically adventuring groups are secretly hired to clear them out. The High Horn was the first fortification among the Storm Horns and remains the largest, with dwarves emigrating from Anauria being hired to hollow out the mountain itself.”

She paused to take a breath, and the old wizard interrupted, still without looking up. “Good enough, but slightly inaccurate. Keolan Dracohorn found a dead young blue dragon there, drove his sword into the cooling body, and told his version of the tale so often that it became the family legend. Not everything that is claimed as history is true. Remember that. Now go prepare for dinner. We’ll be discussing Lathanderian philosophy.”

Amedahast bowed formally and retired to her quarters, taking the steps two at a time. She couldn’t see the old wizard’s face as he crouched over the clockwork nor see the wide smile on Baerauble’s lips.

Amedahast and Azoun met in the garden for the remainder of the month. Azoun kept her posted on history, family legends, court gossip, and local custom. “Right now all the petty nobles are in their country estates overseeing the plantings and first shearings. Come month’s end, they’ll all descend on Suzail. There will be a great ceremony that takes forever as each family lists its triumphs since the close of the last noble season. Naturally there will be intrigue and fistfights over who gets to be presented to my father first.”

Amedahast told the young prince about elven poetry, news of the outside world, and ancient legends of heroes and wizards and great threats from beyond the borders of Cormyr. Azoun sat in rapt attention as she recited from memory the epic poems and love sonnets popular in Myth Drannor.

And each evening Baerauble would ask her what she had learned and correct the more obvious errors in Azoun’s stories. Once or twice she had argued with the mage over a point of history, but the old wizard pointed out how it could only happen in one particular way, and if young Azoun’s version was true, then all manner of other things should have occurred, which had not. Amedahast conceded the point, but grudgingly.

One afternoon, during their studies, Azoun turned to her and said, “You’re going to be my wizard. Do you know that?”

Amedahast was taken aback. “Baerauble is the King’s Wizard. I’m merely his apprentice.”

“The old scarecrow is my father’s wizard and High Mage to every Cormyrian king back to the beginning of time,” said Azoun. “But he’s never taken on an apprentice before. That means he’s finally feeling his age. I think he’s about to retire, or become a lich, or whatever old wizards do. And you’re going to be my wizard.”

The idea of becoming the master mage of Cormyr unsettled Amedahast slightly. Yes, she thought, she probably would like to attain high station and respect. But Baerauble had outlived all but the eldest of elves, enhanced by his magic and enchantments. Even in his frail state, he seemed invulnerable and eternal.

She crept around to the topic at the dinner table that evening. The old wizard nodded slightly and said, “Cormyr has always had a king, from the very first. It has always had a wizard as well, to advise, correct, and aid the king. Without its wizard, Cormyr would not be a true nation. Eventually you will assume that position, though not for some time. You still have much to learn.”

The month ended and the noble season began in Suzail, a brief spate of celebrations in the capital before the nobility took to their summer retreats. Amedahast was presented to King Anglond and Queen Eleriel and swore fealty to the crown on Symylazarr, the sword also known as the Fount of Honor. She was presented before any of the nobles. Standing there after swearing the oath, she saw both Baerauble and Azoun smile at her, the former’s tight and approving, the latter’s open-mouthed and proud.

The feasts and revels were rougher than the elegant court of Myth Drannor, but held a vitality lacking among the elves. The dances were reels and progressions, and what they lacked in organization, they made up for in enthusiasm. The mysterious mage, Baerauble’s pupil, stunning in her green gown with reddish hair wrapped with gold filigree, was a center of attention and danced with the noble sons and gossiped with the noble daughters. When those fine folk looked at her, their eyes held curiosity and just a touch of respect and fear.

She liked that very much-both the attention and the respect. Part of her told herself that it would fade in time, when she was no longer the Wonder of the North, when she truly took on responsibilities. But for the moment, her heart sailed on the winds of praise and adoration.

Then she noticed that Azoun was nowhere to be found. Of course he would want to dance with her, she reasoned. And all the other crowned heads were present, as well as the High Mage, so it wasn’t as if there were some affair of state to be tended to. She disengaged herself from a chatty young Turcassan who was extolling his virtues in bear-slaying and went looking for the handsome young prince.

She found him in the garden, in the gazebo. He was not alone.

They did not see her approach, but Amedahast got close enough to see the pair, she lying with her head in his lap, he dropping grapes into her overly reddened mouth. She was one of the lesser nobles, a debutante of the Bleth household perhaps. She wore a gown with a southern cut, low to the point of indecency and flaring at the hips. From his position above her, Azoun had a grand view of her charms.

Amedahast was close enough to hear them as well, the noble girl’s giggles and the young prince’s words. He was reciting poetry to her, dropping a grape into her open mouth at the end of each stanza.

It was elven poetry. Poetry that Amedahast had taught him. She realized she was trembling, though the night was quite mild.

Amedahast wheeled and headed back to the castle, where the warm lights beckoned and cries of celebration filled the evening air. She stopped at the doorway to raise her hands briefly to her face. No tears. At least that was something.

Yet her face told the tale as she entered the hallway. She nearly collided with an older noblewoman, of House Merendil, if her studies with the treacherous young Azoun had been correct. Azoun had described the ruling matron as a vengeful, petty old woman, and Amedahast vaguely recalled a story that she had caught Azoun stealing apples as a lad.

Now she thought about that story again. Lady Merendil had three daughters. Azoun had probably been caught with more than apples in his hands.

Lady Merendil shot a sudden, questioning glance at Amedahast, then looked out into the garden and smiled. “Ah, the young prince strikes again.”

Amedahast choked out her words, “Frankly, I don’t care what the ‘young prince’ strikes. Or whom.”

Lady Merendil laid a hand on Ainedahast’s shoulder. “You are not the first to have fallen to his charms, my dear. Did he let you think so? I am afraid he is like all the other Obarskyrs. Once their passions get involved, their common decency vanishes.”

Amedahast said nothing, and her ladyship steered her into a side alcove. She spoke in a low whisper. “I can see that you are hurt. You must understand that you are not the first in that respect. Azoun and his kind will continue to act in such a fashion until they are taught otherwise, much as a hound struck across the nose will think twice before stealing food from the pantry again.”

“He just makes me so-” Amedahast searched for the proper word “-so angry. I trusted him.” She began to feel the tears pool at the corners of her eyes, but she fought back the feeling of despair.

“Poor dear,” said her ladyship. “I know of a way to set the balance right. Are you interested?”

Amedahast thought for a moment, then nodded. He used poetry she’d taught him for his cheap conquests!

“I know of a group of foreign merchants. Let us call them the Steel Lords,” she said, smiling. “They have been hurt by some of King Anglond’s taxes and want to reopen negotiations. These Steel Lords think the king needs a message sent to him. I think young Azoun needs a lesson taught to him as well. Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Amedahast said, “Kill? No, I-“

“Forgive me… a poor choice of words,” said Lady Merendil, her smile becoming beatific. “We are no longer savages here in Cormyr. The plan would be to capture the young prince and simply hold him for a few days, then let him go when the Steel Lords have their concessions. A simple transaction. And if it becomes clear that his wenching brought him to this pass, I’m sure His Majesty will keep Azoun on a shorter leash in the future.”

Amedahast was silent. Perhaps it would be good to throw a scare into him before he brought ruin on the good name of Obarskyr.

Merendil brought her face close to Amedahast’s. “Is there a time when he is alone? A place where he has few guards or watchers?”

Aniedahast thought. There were no guards whenever they met in the garden. Which meant…

Which meant the young fool had planned this from the start. It was no random meeting a month ago. She was just a petty dalliance until the noble season began.

There is no coincidence. First Law of Baerauble, indeed!

“We get together in the garden,” she blurted, “in back, at the gazebo. After his ride. Though I don’t know if he will ever be back now.”

Merendil smiled like the canary-consuming cat. “Excellent,” she hissed.

“He won’t be hurt at all?” Amedahast pleaded.

“Dear girl,” said Lady Merendil, “where would the fun be in that?” And with that, she glided off to rejoin the party.

After a few minutes spent composing herself, Amedahast rejoined the throng as well. Most of the young nobles had paired off, and only a few were still spinning on the dance floor. Most were along the perimeter, gathered in tight little knots of deep conversation.

She found Baerauble ensconced in a chair, trapped in conversation with one of the rotund elder Crownsilvers. His face almost brightened upon seeing his pupil. To the Crownsilver, he said, “You must pardon me, for my student needs to walk her master home.”

Crownsilver bowed and backed away. Amedahast helped the old wizard to his feet. He felt frail now, as if the life had gone out of him.

Once they were in the hallway outside their rooms, he said, “I thank you for rescuing me. If I had to hear Lord Crownsilver’s epic treatise on rebuilding Marsember one more time, I would go quite mad.” The old mage weaved a bit, and Amedahast smelled ale on his breath.

“My lord?” she ventured.

“Hmmmm?” was his reply.

“Have you ever served an evil king?” she asked. “I mean, a really bad and foul man?”

“Two separate questions,” slurred Baerauble. “Cormyr has been blessed never to have a truly evil king. Mad, yes. Insufficient, yes. Greedy, bad, violent, petty, yes, yes, yes, yes. And lust-driven… oh, my, yes. But the Obarskyrs have been blessed with never having an evil king. The elves did well when they let the Obarskyrs stay.”

“But if they were mad and violent and… lust-driven, why did you serve them?”

The old mage turned and regarded Amedahast. “I serve the crown, not the head it rests on. I have lived for over four hundred years, and in that time I have seen this nation grow from a single encampment to something worthwhile. And if continuing that achievement means doing my best in the face of adversity, so be it. We do not rule here, pupil. But we do protect, and that means protecting men whom we might otherwise judge weak or foolish, because there is always hope with the next generation. ‘Do what you can,’ I always have said, ‘and it will be enough.’”

They reached Baerauble’s quarters, and the old man bade her good night. Amedahast stood in the hallway for a long time. In another part of the keep, the dance continued, and high, spirited music wafted weakly, lacelike, down the halls. She listened to it for a moment and thought of foolish men and weak women.

Then she returned to her own quarters and pulled down the ancient texts and spell grimoires she had brought with her from Myth Drannor.

On the next afternoon, Azoun was late and looked more than a bit bedraggled, but he did show up, dressed as always for riding. He hurtled up the stairs two at a time.

Amedahast looked up from the tome she was reading and regarded him unemotionally. “You are later than usual.”

“Kings set their own hourglasses,” he said cheerily, adding, “That was a wondrous dance last night. I missed you at the end.”

“Indeed,” she said calmly, “Lord Baerauble needed my assistance, and some of us still have duties, even in the midst of the season. I want to talk to you about the possible resettlement of Marsember.”

“Oh-ho! Crownsilver got to you,” said the young prince, giving her a smile that she now thought of as annoying. “He’d get the bulk of the farmland if it were truly reestablished. And his cousins in the Truesilver clan would benefit if we ever finally got rid of the pirates and smugglers once and for all.”

He went on about the ins and outs of the Marsember question, but Amedahast was only half listening. She scanned the surrounding garden. The flower beds, now in full bloom, seemed to hold menace, and every statue was a perch for a possible assassin.

Suddenly she saw it, a mere rippling of light along the side of the garden maze. Just the slightest shimmer, as if the holly leaves were caught in a breeze that existed nowhere else. The movement would be unnoticed by anyone not looking for it specifically.

But Amedahast was looking for it and knew what it meant. Elven cloaks, smuggled out from Cormanthor. They would bend the light about them, such that the wearer would be well-nigh invisible against an immediate background. With those cloaks, the kidnappers could come right up to their prey.

No, not kidnappers. There was the tiniest flash of silver blades and steel-tipped crossbow bolts. They were intent on sending a message, but the message was to be a stronger one than she had been told.

Azoun was going on about the various factions lined up for and against the Marsember question. “So the Silver families are straight-ahead on this, but need the support of the Dracohorns, Bleths, and Turcassans, who don’t want to see them get any stronger. And then the newer houses, like the Cormaerils, are in the-Hey!”

Amedahast leapt at the first sight of a weapon being raised, springing forward with frantic haste.

She was much lighter than Azoun, but the prince wasn’t expecting an attack, and the pair of them went sprawling off the bench. A crossbow quarrel buried itself in the wood where Azoun’s head had been a moment before. Another marked Amedahast’s last position.

The young mage came up shouting, bellowing the incantation she had searched for the previous evening. Her fingers lit with eldritch fire at the tips, and then the dancing flames arched forward into ravening streams that roared through the quiet garden air as they transversed the grounds. Each found the face of a different target. They did not even have time to scream.

As they fell, the assassins’ cloaks peeled away, drifting from the bodies, to reveal prostrate forms on the flower beds.

She had not felled them all, her first warning of that was when the last two assassins tore away their cloaks and charged the stairs of the gazebo. She readied another spell, but by this time, Azoun was on his feet, with his short blade drawn.

He ducked under the first assassin’s vicious slash and planted his sword deep in the attacker’s chest. The man gasped out blood and fell backward, taking the blade with him.

The other assassin tried to take advantage while the prince was engaged with his fellow attacker. His cutting blade was swung too fast, too short, and missed. He snarled-and caught an oversized riding boot in the face. The man’s head jerked back, and he crumpled like a sack of potatoes.

Amedahast looked around for other targets. Nothing else moved. Then the far gates of the garden and the doors of the castle flew open, and two units of the king’s guards poured into the tranquil space. The flames on her fingertips ebbed, flickered, and died.

Azoun was shouting orders to the men, gathering up the dead and healing the wounded to be questioned later. Baerauble appeared, moving slowly and leaning heavily on his staff.

“My lord,” began Amedahast firmly, “Lady Merendil…”

“… is probably halfway to the Chondathan colonies of Sembia by now to rejoin her daughters,” the mage said smoothly, old and knowing eyes on hers, “but we’ll send a message ahead on the off chance we can snare her. That was foolish, trusting that you could take them on by yourself, but I suppose you wanted to prove you could do it.”

Amedahast started to explain, then shut her mouth. “Yes, sir,” she said at last. “I will be more cautious in the future.”

Azoun came up to the two wizards and threw an arm around Amedahast’s shoulder. “They would have gotten us both if not for your student, Lord Baerauble. She’s going to be a great High Mage!”

Amedahast delicately grasped Azoun’s wrist with her still-tingling fingertips and gently removed it from her shoulder. She looked at the young prince stonily and spat, “Remember this, Sire. If I become High Mage, I will pledge to serve the crown. Not you, but the crown itself, regardless of whether the head beneath it is hollow as a gourd or not!”

Amedahast wheeled and stomped back to the royal court. Azoun watched her slim form diminish in the distance for a time, then turned to the High Mage, his face a question.

Baerauble merely shrugged.