[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

looked up sharply as he sensed, more than saw, a blade drawn. Halvundrar
Cormaeril gave him a silent glare over it, and jerked his head sharply, pointing at
its tip-which slowly, and ever so faintly, began to glow.
Maerlyn stared at it, and by its softly growing light saw the wooden swivel-
catch next to it-one of three around the edges of a door or panel that Cormaeril
was now patiently tracing. Halvundrar's hand closed on one, and he pointed with
his blade at another.
Maerlyn reached for it, but one of the others-Ilryn Merendil, Maerlyn could
just make out the line of his short, upcurled beard-was there already, leaving
Maerlyn to take the next. Klasker Goldsword and Aldeth Dracohorn squeezed
past, their own swords grating out with a sound that was startlingly loud among
all the gentle breathing. It earned them a fierce glare from Cormaeril, and he was
gesturing again at the catches.
Together, with slow care, they turned, freeing the dry, crumbling wood from
where it had rested for perhaps a century, and the panel shifted under their
fingers. At a nod from Cormaeril-and who'd named him lord of their little band,
anyway?-Maerlyn pulled gently on the catch in his hand, using it as a handle,
with Merendil at his side.
The panel came away easily, spilling light into their passage-light tinted
crimson by the tapestry in front of them. From beyond it, as they set the panel
carefully aside, they could hear female voices. Two: the princess, and the Mage
Royal, discussing possible traitors at Court, and what to do about them.
Maerlyn saw Cormaeril grin savagely at the irony, and met it with a mirthless
smile of his own. He freed the weighted cloak from his belt and shook it out ready
in his hand. The cloak would be his own contribution to the plans of the
phaerimm. It would go over the Caladnei wench's head as quickly as he could
get it there, to keep her from blasting them with magic before they could get their
blades into her. Risky, yes, but he'd far rather be skirmishing with a young,
untried Mage Royal than crossing blades with the Steel Princess!
Halvundrar Cormaeril ducked his head, brought his blade up over his
shoulder, and burst forward in furious silence-and they were all pounding forward
into the light, waiting for the screaming to start.
Seeking screams that did not come.
* * * * *
Glarasteer's hands trembled as he set down the call-crystal he'd just
shattered. "If I'm wrong," he muttered, "I'll take the blame."
"If you're wrong, good Rhauligan," the Queen of Cormyr said firmly, "I'll take
the blame. Lord Vangerdahast still owes me much, and-"
There was a flash of purple and white flame from the far side of the bed.
Silhouetted against it, they saw Laspeera and the four trusted Highknights
writhing in agony. Writhing-and falling.
Then the light was gone, and in the searing afterglow fitful lightning crackled
over the sleeping infant King. Laspeera's spell-shield was collapsing.
"Lasp!" Filfaeril snapped as she glided forward, snatching a dagger out of
her bosom with a speed that made Glarasteer blink. "Lasp! Speak to ye !
Only silence answered her-for the triumphant, merciless laughter that was
suddenly rolling all around them sounded only in their heads.
So disgustingly easy this best puling human scan do? Not worth you rule
even enough ground for their own graves hardly worth my trouble die then weak
human dross!
Fire was lashing them, inside their heads, and Filfaeril s scream was a high,
unearthly stabbing at Rhauligan's ears. Purple-white fire blossomed again,
around the royal bed, and by its light he saw the queen, dagger fallen, trying to
claw out her own eyes.
Then his own hands were coming up at his face, sharp steel still clutched in
them-and he threw himself sideways, knocking Filfaeril onto the bed with his hip,
driving on to roll away from her soft limbs and into a hard, bruising meeting with
the floor. His arms were trembling as he fought against the phaerimm's
dominance- gods, but it was strong!-and there was a sudden roar and flare of
golden light so bright the chamber seemed filled with the sun.
The vice tightening around their minds was gone.
Glarasteer blinked. Across the chamber, something clawed and bestial was
thrashing as it died, a last smoldering agony that framed the grim smile of a
bearded, robed, rumple-haired man with a very familiar face.
"Vangerdahast!" half a dozen throats gasped as one.
"You summoned, and I came," the wizard growled, as he stepped over what
was left of the phaerimm with spell-smoke still rising from his hands. "Bah! Why
should Elminster get all the fun?"
Glarasteer Rhauligan looked back at the shards of the call-crystal, then over
at the crisped and riven remains of the phaerimm. Drawing a deep, shuddering
breath, he put down his Sword. He'd sworn to defend the lives of the Obarskyrs
with his own, so long as he could still draw breath, and for the first time since
he'd taken up vigil over the king's bed, he began to hope that he just might live to
see another morning come to Cormyr.
* * * * *
The pride of Cormyr's exiled nobility were halfway across The Chamber of
Frostfire Candles, with the Steel Regent and the Mage Royal both whirling to
meet them, beautiful eyes flashing with anger and something else- eagerness?-
when the tapestries on the other side of the room boiled, and a nightmare of
black tentacles burst forth, snaking around the princess. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]