Crusade e-3 Page 6

  "I'd expect as much, Kiri," Mal replied, breaking into a loud, jolly fit of laughter.

  John turned to look at the woman called Kiri. She was thin, but had a slightly round face. Her feature were attractive but unremarkable-except for her eyes. Kiri's eyes, sparkling brown and full of laughter, drew the fletcher's gaze instantly. He felt himself grin rather fatuously when he saw her. The grin widened when Kiri smiled back at him affably.

  A few others adventurers sitting near John broke the spell as they loudly informed anyone who'd listen that they intended to go to Thesk and fight the barbarians. Drinks were bought, bravery and the king saluted. John wondered how many of the would-be Tuigan-slayers would actually ship out when the time came.

  "And what about you, fletcher?" Mal asked. "Are you going to stay here with the children and old folks?"

  "I don't know," John replied pensively. "I haven't really thought about it."

  That was the truth, too. John put little stock in gossip, and that was all he'd heard concerning the crusade. Still, if the king himself asked for soldiers, the fletcher would probably volunteer. He was a brave man and a good archer. Above all, John the Fletcher was loyal to his king and country.

  Azoun IV had ruled Cormyr for John's entire lifetime. In his twenty-one years, all of which had been spent in Suzail, he'd known no other monarch. Every year since he could remember, John had devotedly pledged his allegiance to King Azoun at the High Festival of Winter.

  Like most other commoners in Cormyr, John knew that his king belonged to House Obarskyr and that his land's calendar was based upon the date Azoun's family had established themselves as rulers in Suzail. This information, along with a smattering of math and the rudiments of Common, the trade tongue of the Inner Sea, was all John had gained from his brief formal education.

  Still, this was enough to instill a great sense of loyalty toward Azoun in John. To the craftsman, the king was Cormyr, not just a representative or a figurehead, but a real embodiment of everything that was good about the land. And since Cormyr, and especially Suzail, had flourished during Azoun's reign, John could only assume that the gods of Good approved of the monarch.

  "If King Azoun is going to lead the armies," Razor John decided aloud after a moment's pause, "then I suppose I'll go."

  Mal immediately bought John another ale, but the fletcher drank only a little of the murky, pungent liquid before he announced that he was off to the castle to hear the king's speech.

  "Why?" the burly, blond man asked, scooping up the fletcher's unfinished drink. "The wizards'll make sure Azoun's voice carries over the city. We're just going to go outside."

  The woman Mal had called Kiri stood up and attempted to pull the big man from his seat. "Let's go with John," she said between tugs. "I don't think I've ever seen His Highness in person before."

  Mal sighed, shrugged out of Kiri's grasp irritably, and downed the rest of the ale in one, long gulp. "All right, all right. We'd best get moving."

  So Razor John, Mal, and Kiri made their way out of the Black Rat and started off in the direction of the palace.

  "Pawn to king's four."

  Queen Filfaeril smiled warmly and scanned the chessboard with her ice-blue eyes. "Your game has become rather predictable, husband," she said, moving her hand to the board. She lifted a knight of purest ivory. "Knight takes pawn."

  Consternation crossed King Azoun's face. "You know that I'll take that knight with my queen," he said. "Losing it for a pawn seems rather pointless." The king slid an onyx queen across the board and picked up the white knight in one smooth motion. "Queen takes knight."

  Filfaeril studied the board for a moment, then moved her bishop. "Bishop takes queen." Azoun cursed softly. "In three moves I'll have you in checkmate," his wife added.

  Azoun lifted a rook, then moved it closer to his king.

  The queen's smile faded. "Are you sure you want to play this out?"

  "Of course. I never quit before the game's over."

  Positioning her queen to place Azoun in check, Filfaeril prepared to finish the game. As she had guessed, it lasted only three more moves.

  The king and queen set the pieces up for a future game. When the board was reorganized, Azoun asked, "Am I really that predictable?"

  The queen considered her answer for a moment, then nodded. "There are certain things I can count on you to do, and others I can count on you never to do."

  "Such as?"

  Filfaeril picked up a pawn. "You don't trade pieces well, my husband. That's why you didn't see my logic in sacrificing the knight."

  Azoun took the pawn from his wife's hand and replaced it on the board. "There should be some way to win that doesn't involve losing one piece for another."

  "As I said," the queen repeated as she smiled and took her husband's hand, "there are certain things I can count on you never to do."

  The king laughed, patted Filfaeril's white, slender fingers, and stood up. "I guess I'm still mulling over what Vangerdahast said the other day after the meeting. I don't really think of myself as inflexible, predictable." Azoun paused and looked into his wife's eyes. "Still, what he said about Alusair…"

  Filfaeril saw the pain in her husband's face when he mentioned their daughter's name. What had happened with Alusair pained her, too, though she knew that Azoun considered himself directly responsible for driving the girl from home. "Alusair was willful, my husband," she said after a moment. "Much like her father."

  The queen rose and moved to Azoun's side. She embraced him tightly. "If you're looking for proof that you're a good father, Tanalasta should stand as example enough."

  Azoun nodded, though the furrow in his brow did not lessen. He certainly loved Tanalasta, his eldest daughter, and she had given him plenty of reasons to be immensely proud of her. Still, she lacked the spirit, the fire her younger sister possessed. No, Tanalasta's devotion could never cover the rift between the king and Alusair.

  Filfaeril knew this, but had hoped her words would pull Azoun from the dark mood into which he had fallen. She caressed her husband's cheek and turned his eyes toward hers. "And you have me. You are not so unbearably rigid that I cannot love you."

  That last comment brought out Azoun's smile again. Looking at his queen, he noted that she was as lovely now as the day they'd married. Many around the court said that Filfaeril was classically beautiful, and Azoun agreed. The queen's delicate features seemed to have been smoothed out of the purest alabaster. And fifty years of life-thirty in the court-had done little to dull this loveliness. Even the wrinkles that pulled at the corners of Filfaeril's startlingly blue eyes seemed intentionally carved there by some artist.

  But it wasn't simply for her beauty that Azoun had first fallen in love with his queen. Filfaeril was far more than a nobleman's statuesque daughter; she was a bright and insightful woman, as well. In fact, she had won Prince Azoun's love more by her refusal to surround herself with flattering courtiers than by her slender figure and flowing blond hair. Filfaeril's ice-blue eyes were lovely to behold, but the young Azoun had quickly learned that they saw through illusion and idealism, down to harsh reality.

  Finally Azoun mocked a sigh and said, "Yes, at least I have you." Filfaeril wrinkled her brow in feigned anger, and Azoun kissed her, long and tenderly.

  After a moment, the king heard Vangerdahast clear his throat noisily. He glanced at the study's door to see his advisor standing there, red-faced and fidgeting, staring at the ceiling. "Come in, Vangy," Azoun sighed. "I suppose it's time for the ceremony and my speech."

  Filfaeril leaned close to the king and whispered, "We'll continue our discussion later, Your Highness." The queen gently pushed herself from Azoun's arms and moved toward the door. "I'll be waiting for you both in the throne room," she announced as she left the room.

  Vangerdahast waited until the queen closed the door behind her before he spoke. "Yes, it's almost highsun. I've already cast the necessary wards on the platform. Are you ready to begin the procession?"

&nbs
p; The king looked down at his ceremonial uniform. The purple surcoat was embroidered with thread spun from platinum and gold, and the hose were woven from the finest imported silk from Shou Lung. Azoun didn't like the outfit much; he considered it gaudy. It was, however, necessary for him to wear it in the formal crowning ceremony that was to precede his public address.

  Straightening an epaulet, Azoun said, "I suppose I'm ready to begin. I just wish we didn't have to make such a production out of this."

  "If you wish to-"

  Azoun quickly held up a hand. "I know, Vangy. An emphasis on pageant today will help to convey the crusade's importance." He moved to the window and looked out on the inner bailey. Servants and messengers rushed from the castle to the gate, their hurried pace an indication of the day's importance.

  "We should go, Your Highness."

  Azoun watched a page, who wore the royal purple, rush from the keep and hurry past the gatehouses. The sight reminded him of an errand he had assigned to the royal wizard earlier that morning. "Any news from Zhentil Keep?" the king asked as he turned to his advisor.

  The wizard spun about abruptly and headed through the door in an effort to move Azoun toward the throne room.

  "Actually, I did receive a message from the Zhentish hierarchy just before I came to get you," the wizard noted quietly. He bowed in response to a guard's salute as he and the king entered the drafty stone corridor, then added, "They're sending someone to talk to you about the Tuigan tomorrow."

  Azoun stopped short. The wizard took a step or two past the king, then wheeled about. "So soon?" Azoun exclaimed. "That doesn't give us much time to prepare."

  Vangerdahast hooked an arm around the king's elbow and started walking again. "I believe that's the whole idea, Your Highness."

  Queen Filfaeril was waiting in the throne room when Azoun and Vangerdahast got there. Crowds of musicians and nobles filled the long, sumptuously appointed hall, waiting for the king to arrive. Handmaidens straightened the queen's long dress of lavender silk as the royal steward ran to the king and announced that his crown, scepter, and medallion-the trappings of his heritage-were ready. Vangerdahast left the king's side without any leave-taking and went to find the other royal wizards who were to participate in the ceremony.

  Azoun soon joined his wife near the large, ornately carved wooden thrones that dominated the front of the hall. The queen already wore the symbol of her office-a small but beautiful silver crown. The white metal seemed to glow around Filfaeril's golden hair and catch the blue in her eyes. After nodding a silent greeting to his wife, the king took his chain of state from the spot on his throne where it traditionally rested. The thick gold chain felt reassuring in Azoun's hands as he lifted it over his head. The gold medallion had a skillfully wrought dragon, guardant and statant, covering its entire face.

  Next, the steward solemnly presented the king's crown, couched on a pillow of pure purple silk. Everyone in the room bowed as Azoun reached for the bejeweled crown and lifted it.

  Gold, silver, and gems twinkled in the sunlight streaming in from the stained glass windows lining the throne room as Azoun studied the crown. The sinewy, lithe form of a dragon curled around its rim, and the monster's head reared, openmouthed, at the headpiece's front. A priceless wine-red ruby stood captured in the dragon's open jaws, throwing off tiny, enthralling beams of light. This crown-the most ancient of three possessed by the king-was only used for very special occasions. Azoun wondered how many Cormyrians had ever seen this particular artifact as he placed it on his head.

  Finally the steward, still bowed, presented the king's scepter. Like a vine, a slender, scaled dragon curled around the two-foot-long staff from tip to crown. A glittering, golden head, like that of a mace, topped the scepter. The king grasped the staff firmly and held it outstretched toward the hall. The crowning was complete.

  "Arise, subjects," Azoun said formally, repeating the ancient rite. "Look upon your king."

  That said, he glanced around the throne room and found that the procession was ready, filed neatly into rows that would fall in line behind him and Filfaeril as they left the hall. All that remained now was for the king to lead the nobles to the Royal Gardens, where the speech was to occur. Taking a deep breath, Azoun turned to his wife and smiled, then started through the room.

  Drums rattled softly, marking a slow cadence for the parade. Azoun and Filfaeril reached the center of the room, and Vangerdahast, accompanied by a few other mages, moved into place behind the king and queen. Next came the nobles, then a contingent of the king's guard, then a few musicians. In all, forty people walked through the castle's halls. A few servants and guards stood in the corridors, bowing as their king passed by, but most of the keep's staff was assembled outside, in the castle's inner bailey.

  The king moved quickly through the bailey, the large open courtyard inside the castle's high stone wall. Occasionally Azoun nodded to a familiar servant or knight as he made his way out of the southern gate. The trumpets called almost continually once the procession reached the open air outside the walls. The music of expertly played instruments mixed with the loud roar of the drums in the blue sky.

  Animated by nervous excitement, the crowd milled restlessly outside the keep, waiting for their king and queen to walk slowly past. The procession, almost mindless of the masses, kept the castle's sun-bleached walls on their right and made their way through the cheering throng to the gardens at the rear of the keep. The trumpets blared more loudly as Azoun and his entourage approached the castle's western corner.

  Even that pompous heralding couldn't completely drown out a louder, more insistent noise.

  "Can you hear that?" Filfaeril whispered in Azoun's ear. Turning his head slightly, he listened. High, gray stone walls still stood between the king and the Royal Gardens, the location of his speech. Despite this barrier, the blaring trumpets, and rumbling drums, he could hear the Cormyrians gathered there. By the time the procession reached the westernmost tip of the wall, the murmuring crowd collected outside the walls drowned out even the musicians.

  As the king rounded the corner into the gardens, Vangerdahast gave a signal. On the battlements, the line of trumpeters snapped to attention. The brightly colored pennants hanging from their instruments flapped in the breeze. The crowd grew louder, more anxious.

  With almost military precision, the royal wizard glanced toward the handful of mages who stood with him. At his nod, a fat, balding wizard started to weave a spell. He was joined by a stooped old woman and a pock-faced young boy. The three sorcerers mumbled incantations and traced obscure patterns in the air. Suddenly, simultaneously, they stopped and nodded at Vangerdahast.

  The paunchy wizard winked at Azoun, then signaled the trumpeters along the wall again. They, in turn, lifted their polished brass to their lips and blew. A single high, clear note rang out over the gardens. Thanks to the spells cast by the wizards, the trumpeters' call didn't stop there. All over Suzail, no matter where he was, each Cormyrian citizen heard the note as if he were standing at the foot of the wall, before Azoun's keep.

  "Good luck, Your Highness," Queen Filfaeril said softly. She reached down and squeezed Azoun's hand for an instant.

  The king smiled at his wife warmly, then strode through the garden. The procession followed behind Azoun as he climbed briskly onto the large wooden platform that had been built at the garden's edge especially for the speech. When he reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the broad, polished deck, King Azoun looked out over hundreds and hundreds of people.

  He glanced back quickly at Vangerdahast, who was only then clearing the last step onto the platform. The gray-bearded old man bent over, winded after chasing the king up the stairs. Finally he took a deep breath and stood. The other wizards had joined him by now, and together they softly repeated their incantation, this time directing the spell at their monarch.

  Azoun thought he saw a small, intense spark of blue-white light form in the air in front of the wizards, but before he could focu
s on the spark, the spell was complete and the ember disappeared. He felt a sharp, burning prickle in his throat as he turned back to the milling throng.

  "My people," the king said, and his words called through the entire city.

  A thousand eyes looked up at Azoun from the Royal Gardens. Nobles with spyglasses lined the roofs of their homes to the north of the keep and watched the king. He, in turn, looked out on the sea of faces and smiled. He saw respect and awe and, perhaps, a little fear there. Those looks, the wide-eyed faces, momentarily eclipsed the speech Azoun had prepared in his mind. A warmth, a feeling of paternal duty and love, now filled the king's thoughts.

  "My friends and countrymen," King Azoun said, correcting himself. "Faerun is in great danger, and I need your help." He paused then, and let his subjects realize that he was asking them for assistance, that he needed them.

  That fact alone would have shocked most of the throng into silence, but the intensity and emotion in Azoun's voice fell upon the crowd and riveted them in place. Throughout the city, smiths put down their hammers and shipwrights lay down their awls, clerics put aside their holy books and tutors let their students set down their grammars and writing tablets.

  From where he stood, near the garden's edge, John the Fletcher couldn't see Azoun's face, but he imagined it was dark with passion. He'd never been closer to the king than he was that day, not even when Azoun had opened the previous year's spring fair, only a few hundred feet from his shop. John's proximity to the monarch made him happy, and the craftsman listened intently as Azoun described the Tuigan menace and the plight of Thesk and Rashemen.

  "I'm not in this to help witches or foreigners," Mal grumbled. A jowl-heavy baker held up a flour-covered finger and shushed the warrior. Mal scowled, but held his tongue. Silently John said a prayer of thanks that the warrior hadn't started a fight with the fat man.

  On the platform, Azoun was warming to the topic, falling into the same impassioned argument he'd used on some of his nobles to gain their support. "But the horsewarriors threaten more than our neighbors to the east," the king said, waving an open hand toward the horizon. "No. The Tuigan will not be content with that end of the Inner Sea, nor will they be happy if they conquer the Dales or Sembia."