Death of the Dragon

46

Vangerdahast knelt at Azoun’s side a long time after the breath stopped coming, rubbing the ring of wishes he still wore on his finger and wondering if he dared. A simple gesture, a few little words, and Thatoryl Elian would not have been in those woods when Andar Obarskyr passed by. Lorelei Alavara would have lived and died a happy elven wife, Nalavarauthatoryl the Red would never have risen, and Alaundo the Seer would never have uttered his dire prophecy.

What then? Had Thatoryl Elian not been in those woods when Andar wandered by, Andar would never have had reason to flee the Wolf Woods and tell Ondeth about them, and there would never have been a Cormyr-at least not the Cormyr he served and loved. Vangerdahast had wished Nalavarauthatoryl out of existence once before, and it had cost him Azoun and Tanalasta and very nearly the realm itself. That was the temptation of magic. Like any power, sooner or later those who commanded it always abused it.

Vangerdahast took Azoun’s hands and folded them across the king’s chest. As he did so, he quickly slipped the ring of wishes off his own finger and onto his friend’s. Kings died and so did their daughters, but the realm lived on. It was better to leave it that way.

He uttered a quiet spell to hide the ring from sight, then said, “Guard it well, my friend.”

Only then did the tears start to come, pouring down Vangerdahast’s cheeks in long runnels. He slipped the golden tricrown off Azoun’s head, then stood and faced the others.

“The king is dead,” he said.

That was all he could think of, for Tanalasta was dead as well. The new king was an infant, not yet a tenday old, but the others did not yet know that, of course. He had kept Tanalasta’s death from them just as he had kept it from Azoun, and so they stood there watching, waiting for him to say what should have followed, their eyes frightened and sad and curious-but also hard and suspicious and calculating.

There would be scheming nobles who seized on the child’s paternity to challenge his throne, and there would be Sembia and the Darkhold Zhentarim and others who hoped to seize on Cormyr’s troubles to nibble off little pieces for themselves. There would be a long, cold winter ahead with few crops to feed the people, and no roofs to shelter them from the snow and rain, and there were sure to be the ordinary hordes of orcs and bugbears and even a few garden variety dragons sweeping south out of the wilderness in search of easy plunder. Cormyr would need a strong monarch in the days to come, and Vangerdahast knew Alusair well enough to know she would not want to be sitting in Suzail while her generals were fighting battles in every corner of the realm.

“Vangerdahast, what is it?” asked Owden Foley.

“There is something…”

The words caught in Vangerdahast’s throat, and all he managed was a rasping sob. He closed his eyes, then raised his hand to request time to compose himself and find the words he needed.

They did not come easily, and for a moment all he could do was stand and weep. Alusair and a few of the others also began to cry, and he realized he was not setting a very strong example. He reached up to the iron goblin crown on his own head, discovering much to his relief that he could finally slip a finger under it now that Nalavara was dead. He slipped it off and stood in the center of the crowded pavilion, holding one crown in each hand, and a gentle murmur began to rustle through the tent.

Vangerdahast stepped forward and was just about to ask for silence when a hard rain began to fall inside the tent. A cold hand clamped onto the arm holding Azoun’s crown.

“What are you doing, old man?”

Vangerdahast looked down and saw Rowen Cormaeril’s strong hand wrapped around his wrist. The ghazneth’s flesh was black and cold against his own white, wrinkled skin, a stark reminder of the price for betraying Cormyr.

The wizard met Rowen’s burning white eyes, then slowly raised Cormyr’s golden crown. “I was taking this to Alusair.”

“To me?” Alusair’s face paled, and she shook her head. “Oh no, Vangerdahast, I’m not-“

“It is your burden to bear, Alusair Obarskyr, not mine.” Vangerdahast pulled his arm free of Rowen’s grasp, then pressed the crown into Alusair’s hands. “I am afraid you must be regent until Azoun the Fifth is old enough to assume the throne.”

“What?” It was Rowen who gasped this question. “But Tanalasta-“

“Destroyed Boldovar,” he said sadly, “and died valiantly in the process.”

Rowen stumbled back, his face withering into a mask of grief. “No! Why would you… you must be lying!”

Vangerdahast closed Alusair’s fingers around the crown, then reached out to clasp Rowen’s arm. “I fear not. I hadn’t the heart to tell the king, but it is so. Tanalasta has gone to stand with her father.”

A terrible sob escaped the ghazneth’s lips, then there was no sound in the tent but pounding rain. Vangerdahast spread his arms and reached out to comfort Rowen.

“My friend, I…”

Vangerdahast could not finish, for the ghazneth pushed him away and retreated deep into the shadows. A beam of fading sunlight spilled across the floor as the door flap opened, then the rain stopped and Rowen was gone.