Spellstorm (4 page)

Vainrence looked at Ganrahast, who seemed to quell a smile as he gestured that the Lord Warder should speak freely.

Vainrence nodded gravely, then said to Glathra, “The bids made by various overbold lords to persuade Raedra Obarskyr to marry one of them so Cormyr can have a king again.”

Glathra rolled her eyes. “And that king will be the winning bidder.”

Vainrence nodded. “Whereupon they can strike down the new boldness of the common folk and either recruit we wizards of war to be their ruthless right arm—or see us all exterminated in favor of swords sworn to loyal nobles.”

“Plunging Cormyr into some decades, perhaps centuries, of noble faction battling noble faction for the Dragon Throne, and bleeding the realm white in their strife,” Glathra said bitterly.

Vainrence smiled wryly, nodded again, turned to Ganrahast, and concluded triumphantly, “And
that
was why I hadn’t bothered you with this matter until now. I judged, perhaps wrongly, that—”

“There was plenty of time to burn down that bridge once we were standing on it,” Tarn Lionmantle told the ceiling, earning him a scowl from Vainrence but startled grins from Glathra and the Royal Magician of Cormyr.

Ganrahast went so far as to chuckle before he asked the Lord Warder, “And this promenade of the magically mighty arriving at Halaunt’s country mansion; what did they do? Blast Oldspires to the ground? Plunder it? Or just spirit Halaunt away for a
real
mind reaming?”

“Every one of them tried magics, openly but vainly, to force their way through a mysterious ‘storm of spells’ that now surrounds Oldspires. Literally, this is a swirling spell-chaos of unknown origin—one apparently well-known in local lore as appearing regularly, once a month, and enshrouding Oldspires for a tenday at a time.”

It was Ganrahast’s turn to favor the ceiling with a comment. “And how is it that every last wizard of war neglected to inform the
Royal Magician of Cormyr
of the existence of this
minor
enchantment manifesting monthly for
years
, within our borders?”

Vainrence and Glathra winced in unison. “I’ve checked the records,” Glathra said hurriedly, “and found instructions from Royal Magician Vangerdahast, who recorded it as a defensive enchantment of the building that’s to be left alone in case it proves useful in future.”

Ganrahast nodded. “I’m unsurprised at that, just a little taken aback at not knowing of it. What else have you learned about it?”

“Well, it’s not Halaunt’s doing, for neither he nor his father have ever been known to have any skill at the Art, nor to employ wizards—except when Halaunt’s father was dying, and hired a house wizard to seek remedies, almost certainly because that would have been cheaper than paying an independent mage by the day or tenday. Dismissing the man was one of the first things the current Lord Halaunt did, after his father perished.”

Ganrahast nodded again. “Fair enough, but surely my—ah, old Vangey set down some specifics about it; he did for everything else!”

Glathra inclined her head as she called up the memory, and recited in a singsong voice: “ ‘The storm of spells, as it is known locally, is a violently swirling opaque fog, having the appearance of the white smoke of a clean fire. It is no more than a navigational hazard to those who lack aptitude for the Art, but enfeebles the minds of all who have any ability to cast magic who try to march through it, though fleeting contact causes only a sickening nausea and does no harm if the affected individual flees its confines forthwith. It has always been observed to last for ten days at a time.’ ”

She ended her recitation and added in her normal voice, “Several ambitious minor Sembian mages have become its most recent casualties over the past four days. It has been around the mansion for four days now.”

“Halaunt and his household servants—who hustled him home, after Lionmantle here got him out of the burning Dragon—were observed to pass into it,” the Lord Warder put in, “and have not come out again.”

“So if any of them were wizards, they’re mindless now,” Tarn mused aloud, “and if a wizard snuck in while Halaunt was visiting us here in Suzail, any such intruder is presumably trapped inside Oldspires until the storm abates.”

“And in six days,” Vainrence observed, “any wizard can march right into Halaunt’s mansion and try to take the Lost Spell. I foresee the mother of all spell battles, as mage after mage …”

Ganrahast sighed. “Yes. Some will be wise enough to let someone else attempt the seizing first, and someone else pounce on that seizer, and so on. We could have mayhem all over the realm.”

All four wizards of war nodded in grim unison … and silence fell. Tarn tried not to be the first to break it, though he was eager to hear what Ganrahast decided. Yet the Royal Magician parted the heaped and strewn documents in front of him far enough to lay bare a splendid map of the Forest Kingdom, and studied it in silence for what seemed a long time. At last he looked up with a polite smile and said, “Well done, Lord Lionmantle. Both for your actions in the Dragon Rampant, and your contributions here and now. You left a sickbed to make your report, and must be both hungry and thirsty. Glathra here will take you to the kitchens to enjoy a good feast with her and the off-duty wizards of war who are here in the palace.”

Tarn summoned all the schooling of face and voice his Lionmantle elders had taught him to try to hide his disappointment, but knew, as Glathra silently swept him out, that he’d fooled no one in the spell-shielded chamber.

“You’ll grow used to that,” Lady Barcantle said softly, as she led him along still more dark secret passages, deeper into the palace. “I did.”

Tarn didn’t know how to reply, and settled for thanking her formally. He hadn’t known the infamous Glathra “Razortongue” could be kind or understanding.

Truly, Cormyr held fresh surprises every day.

T
HE SPELL-SHIELD SIGHED
out a momentary wash of white sparks as it sealed itself over the door that had just closed behind Glathra Barcantle.

Whereupon Ganrahast sat back in his chair and cursed bitterly, a string of colorful oaths that ended with a heartfelt, “I’m
far
too busy trying to hold Cormyr together to deal with
this
just now!”

Vainrence nodded sympathetically. “Fresh trouble since this morn?”

“Of course. As long as the realm has its nobles …”

Ganrahast studied the map in front of him, sighed, and added, “Every new day brings new schemes and outbursts; it seems every last noble wants to revel in their own swaggering moment of arrogantly goading the rest of us. Today, the usual mix of lords grumbling about or passively resisting Raedra, and some others starting to talk about their own new ideas about reducing the ruler’s powers—notably the younger Lord Tathcrown, this morn.”

“Oh? Young Ralaghar? And what’s
his
ideal Cormyr?”

“He wants the monarch reduced to a first among equals, among nobles who can and should be a lot freer to do as they please. Starting with dismantling the wizards of war, and killing or exiling most of us, in favor of every noble having their own paid—by the Crown, if you please!—house wizards who are sworn-loyal to their noble patrons, not the realm!”

“Trifling demands, to be sure!”

“Rence, he’s one of the more reasonable ones! The moderates had their days of talking it all over in public, and we did nothing; that’s emboldened the out-and-out traitors, and they’re just warming up their tongues. Why—”

The light in the room changed, becoming silver blue. Ganrahast and Vainrence both looked up sharply, hands going to amulets even as they saw what was fading into visibility on the other side of the table.

And their jaws dropped in unison.

They were staring at a gently smiling, curvaceous woman clad from wrist to throat to toes in supple leather armor crisscrossed with baldrics and studded here and there with rounded armor plates and the sheaths of daggers. A long regal blade was scabbarded down her back, and a slender long sword rode her hip. Her hair was long and unbound, she wore a gorget and an oversized belt buckle, both adorned with the Obarskyr dragon, her riding boots flared to the tops of her thighs—and they could see right through her silver-gray form. Her eyes were two friendly flames.

They knew her, for they had both seen her many times down the years. They were looking at the ghost of Princess Alusair, the fabled Steel Regent of the Forest Kingdom.

“Well met, Lords,” she greeted them dryly. “Be at ease; I bring no harm.”

Then she turned to Ganrahast and added formally, “Royal Magician of Cormyr, know this: you don’t have to deal with Halaunt and his Lost Spell and this rabble of overly mighty mages it’s luring to the realm. As you well know, Vangerdahast has been itching to do something useful without meddling in the here-and-now politics of the realm—and this looks to be it.”

Before Ganrahast could even begin to make a reply, white sparks whirled up behind the ghostly princess as one of several secret doors into the room opened in well-oiled velvet softness. A woman slipped into the room, nodded and smiled polite wordless greeting to the two wizards at the table, and stepped forward.

It was Myrmeen Lhal, and out from behind her stepped a man whose life-size portrait glowered at everyone who ascended the main public stair of the Royal Palace: Vangerdahast, the former Court Wizard and Royal Magician of the Realm.

“Well?” he rasped eagerly, eyes alight.

Both of the wizards at the table sighed.

“I don’t think so, Father,” Ganrahast said sourly. “I find trusting what you tell me a trifle difficult. You’ve obviously been eavesdropping—and you’ve lied to me just about thirty times too many.”

“You’re
keeping count
? This is what the Royal Magician of Cormyr has fallen to?”

The Lord Warder lifted his chin and told Vangerdahast firmly, “There are some in the realm who deem your son weak, or a shirker because he tries to work with everyone, delegate all he can, and allow citizens leeway rather than playing tyrant. You chose the other path, and during your time, there are many who would have wished to ask you that very same question, had they dared: this is what the Royal Magician of Cormyr has fallen to?”

A tense little silence fell, during which the ghost of Princess Alusair turned to face Vangey and half drew the sword at her hip.

Suddenly, Vangerdahast chuckled. “Fairly said. Though the old me feels moved to snap: ‘My time’? Just who are you or anyone else to judge my time over, while I yet breathe?” Without waiting for a reply, he added more gently, “I chafe at idleness, and if I can help in this matter, in any way …”

Ganrahast sighed. “I appreciate that. Truly. Yet I cannot set aside my own view that if all these gathering mages are kegs of smokepowder waiting
to be ignited, you set among them would be the flame that would send the whole lot up—but I
really
don’t have the time to deal with this Lost Spell mess myself, just now.”

“So delegate,” Vangey murmured archly.

Ganrahast gave him a reproving look. “What needs to be done is to ascertain if Halaunt truly has a powerful but useful spell that could endanger the realm, or if he was mistaken or just bluffing—and if he does have something really powerful, to prevent it falling into the hands of someone mighty in the Art who might use it against Cormyr. Ideally, the spell should be gained for the wizards of war, and if that’s not possible, destroyed before it can be copied and spread. At the very least, if any of these powerhouse wielders of the Art get inside Oldspires, some trusted agent of the realm has to get in there with them, and see what they get up to.”

“Agreed,” Vangey said, “with every last word. I’d have done all of that, if this had landed in my lap when I was Royal Magician.”

“Ah, so you admit you no longer are?” Vainrence pounced. “Well, that’s progress!”

It was Vangey’s turn to tender a reproving look. Myrmeen and Alusair snorted in unison as they swallowed mirth.

“Father,” Ganrahast said quietly, “I respect you, and revere you for the service you’ve done the realm. Cormyr survives today in very large measure because of what you did.”

Vangerdahast regarded his son with a lopsided smile. “Thank you for those words. A little thanks was all I needed, down the years, and all too seldom got. However, those same long years did not leave me a simpleton: I can hear a ‘but’ coming, as loudly as if you’d blown a fanfare from the battlements. So …”

Ganrahast’s answering smile was thinner. “To put it bluntly, I don’t trust you off on your own—and for the sake of the realm, I dare not trust you. Luckily, I don’t have to, because I need you for something more pressing and more important.”

Vangerdahast promptly demonstrated that he could still arch an eyebrow eloquently, conveying interest, disbelief, and wry amusement in one silent movement.

“I need you,” the Royal Magician told him, “to tell me the closeted skeletons and backgrounds of all the most objectionable nobles who have
been coming here to Suzail and staying in their city residences busily trying to influence court rulings and courtiers’ enforcement of Crown policies and generally making life like unto the Nine Hells for the monarch—not to mention for me and Vainrence here, too.”