Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [160]
Alusair's lips twisted in a wry smile and she turned to regard the shield ring. Sardyn had turned to address her, but the others, true to their training, were still facing the battlefield, leaning on their blades and resting now. Gods, what brave swords!
"I need the king and the royal magician carried-as gently and as safely as possible, in a ring of blades-to the royal tent. Tarry not."
Sardyn inclined his head, then bellowed, "Break ranks! Walking ring! Elstan, Murrigo, Julavvan and Perendrin-to me!"
All around her, men started to move. Alusair stood, motioning Owden and Rowen to keep their distance from her, and went a little distance away, to where she could wipe the dragon's blood from her boots, knees, and hands. Her fingers went to the clasp of the weathercloak she wore, bunched and sweat-drenched, around her shoulders beneath the high-fluted shoulders of her armor.
"He's alive, Tana," she murmured in relief, as she fixed her sister's face in her mind and concentrated on it.
The contact did not come. Frowning, Alusair closed her eyes and shut out the battlefield, its calling crows and tramping men fading away, to see Tanalasta as vividly as she could.
That time she'd thrown back her head and laughed so heartily that she'd spilled her tallglass of flamekiss or when she'd slapped Alusair, and had her wrist grabbed and held, and they'd stared into each other's eyes as slow fear over Alusair's strength mounted in Tanalasta's eyes. Or…
Nothing. Emptiness, darkness-not even the confused, dim dream images of someone sleeping. The clasp tingled as she drew on it. Abruptly Alusair turned her thoughts away, calling up the face of one of the few men who'd attracted her for more than a few nights-the turret-merchant Glarasteer Rhauligan. Twice her age, and iron calm, with hair going gray and wrists as strong as steel. She wondered if the court spies had ever informed Vangerdahast or her father of those acrobatic liaisons among the shadows of the armory, or what they'd thought.
The contact was almost instant. Rhauligan was in an alleyway somewhere-Suzail, by the look of it-holding a man none too gently against a wall.
The next time you think armsmen off to war means their wives are yours for the taking… Rhauligan was snarling, the words echoing in Alusair's distant mind.
Even as he felt her presence, she breathed the words, "We'll speak later, I promise," and broke the contact.
So the clasp's enchantment was working, all too well.
She bent all of her will to capturing and holding as vivid a collection of remembered Tanalasta's as she could, but met only with darkness, an empty sensation, and ominous silence.
Alusair threw back her head, her mouth suddenly dry, gulped in a deep breath, and rose to her feet. Owden and Rowen were waiting on either side of her, well away but obviously standing guard, and the procession carrying Cormyr's king and court wizard was just disappearing from view down the hill.
The Steel Princess ignored their anxious glances and stared at the royal tent on the distant hilltop. From her lips, after a moment, came a long, shuddering sigh. She shivered as a sudden chill washed along her shoulders and arms.
There could be only one reason why Tanalasta did not answer.
45
The fire of surging, thudding pain-a roiling that only comes from being struck hard and deep by magic seeking to slay-lashed the royal magician back to wakefulness. There was an iron tang of blood in his mouth, and his fingers were tingling as if they held huge, rushing spell energies overdue to burst forth. The world was lurching.
Vangerdahast was being carried across uneven ground, the sky storm-riven smoke above him. He was still on the battlefield, with the dark peak of Azoun's tent looming above him. The blood-streaked faces of the knights who bore him were turned toward it, and he thought he knew why.
Long ago, Baerauble had said it was the curse of the magely protectors of Cormyr to be right, all too often. The weak, bubbling voice that came to the royal