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Amarune Whitewave was what he had to work with, and she was young and strong and vigorous and … would have to do.

Yet she must still be won over from thinking him some sort of crazed old fool who lusted after her or who was too madwits to need heeding at all, to, well, embracing her heritage.

“I can’t trust anyone else,” he muttered aloud. “Everyone else will end up saving the Realms for themselves to rule.”

Idly he tapped a spot on the passage wall where he’d have hidden a door if he’d been building this part of the royal palace—and a long-hidden door obligingly groaned open. To reveal a passage, complete with a spike-studded trap. A trap that had claimed a … war wizard, by the looks of him. Walled up for centuries and mummified into a withered, dessicated husk in his robes.

Something winked at Elminster from the throat of those robes. A pendant—enchanted, of course; that was where the glow had come from—dangling from the shriveled remnant of a neck.

“Ah,” he said, brightening. “This will do, indeed. Alassra can be herself again. For a little while.”

It was early evening, and it didn’t seem that long since Tress had dragged Amarune out of a deep sleep and had told her to get ready and take the stage.

The snakeskins merchant was close with his coins and was one of those whose eyes burned into her flesh even as he dared not get bolder, but he’d been a good patron for three years, and seemed honest enough. His name was Raoryndar or Rindlar, or some such.

So when he’d told the others at the table Amarune was dancing above about three lordlings scouring the city menacing everyone with their swords, to yield up any hand axes they might own, she’d believed him—and promptly had left the stage, hurriedly pulled on her clothes, and hastened for Delcastle Manor.

Arclath had told her more about those three since they’d brawled in the Dragonriders’ … he must know about it right swiftly, must—

Amarune found herself coming to a rather breathless halt in front of the gates of Delcastle Manor sooner than she’d thought she’d be. “L-Lorold?” she asked, by the hole next to the knocker. “May I speak with Arcl—the Lord Delcastle?”

The porter slid open his spy plate, and she was aware of the guards stepping forward to peer at her through the bars.

“Lady Amarune,” the porter greeted her formally. “You are welcome, if you’ll accept our escort to the house proper. The Lord Delcastle is at home and has given orders that you are to be admitted, if you come alone.”

“I am alone,” Amarune assured him, sighing with relief. The gates had already been unchained and opened just enough to let someone slip through, and the tallest of the guards—there were four of them, this time—was standing in that gap, beckoning her. She followed him, smiling as pleasantly to the others as if they weren’t holding ready crossbows not quite aimed at her, on down the sweeping path that led to the looming mansion. He immediately waved her past him, then unshuttered a lantern and followed her, just to one side, holding the lantern low and shining it on the path ahead to light her way.

Either the porter had a means of signaling, or the manor guards watched for approaching lanterns, because the doors of the great house stood open between watchful guards, with a steward waiting and two housejacks waving mistballs on long poles to try to keep night insects from entering.

Wordlessly the steward smiled and bowed low to Amarune, then beckoned her and led the way within, one of the housejacks smoothly taking her cloak from her shoulders as she went.

Amarune heard the doors being shut behind her as her guiding servant hastened through the lofty entry hall, leading her to the left and avoiding the grand sweeping stairs that led up into the warmly lit great rooms above.

They passed through a door and into a darkened parlor, where the steward spoke for the first time. “Lady, are you here to see Lady Delcastle? Or the younger or elder Lord Delcastle?”

“Torold,” a crisp, harsh feminine voice said