If some sort of resident undead had done the slayings, why now-when it had supposedly been haunting the palace for years?

What deeper darkness was it going to herald or goad into happening?

In the darkness of his cavern, Manshoon smiled. Clinging lightly to a small part of Lord Warder Vainrence's mind, he sent his will plunging somewhere else, into a mind darker, colder, and deeper.

Awaken, my Lady Dark Armor. A little task awaits...

Hurrying along a pa.s.sage in the darker, damper depths of the royal palace, Ganrahast and Vainrence stiffened in unison and exchanged anxious frowns. An age-old alarm spell had interrupted them, unfolding in their minds like a forgotten door. An unwelcome surprise telling them one of the caskets in the royal crypt had been broken open!

Now fresh tumult was unfolding in their minds. A second Obarskyr coffin had just been breached.

"Should we warn Mallowfaer?" Vainrence snapped.

Ganrahast emitted a very un-Royal Magician-like snort. "Lot of good that that will do." will do."

His second-in-command smiled. "Heh. Point made. Well, then, shall we warn Fentable?"

"Time enough for that later-when we know what we're warning him about."

They turned the last corner, wands raised and ready and shielding spells spun into being in front of them. A thief's poisoned dart could be a very nasty greeting.

The pa.s.sage stood empty, and the doors of the crypt were closed.

They exchanged silent glances. Undead, within?

Ganrahast drew a rod he'd hoped never to have to use from its sheath down his leg, and Vainrence activated one of his rings.

At a nod from his superior, the Lord Warder unsealed the doors.

Then he opened them, wand up again, to reveal...darkness. Still and silent darkness.

The two mages looked up and down the pa.s.sage, then at the ceiling, then peered at the ceiling inside the crypt. Nothing.

Ganrahast held up one hand with a ring pulsing on it as seeking magic stole forth, and waited tensely as it found...nothing.

The two men exchanged doubtful looks again. Then, hesitantly, they stepped into the crypt, wands held ready.

The silence held. Nothing moved, nothing seemed out of place-hold!

The royal crypt was not visited often, but to both men it seemed the coffins and the few relics on the shelves along the back wall were undisturbed, everything very much as it had been the last time they'd been there.

With one exception that was making them both peer again into every corner of the crypt and check the ceiling once more.

One casket-an old and rather plain, ma.s.sive one, probably one of the kings not long after Duar-stood open, its unbroken lid laid neatly on the floor beside it.

The two senior war wizards peered suspiciously around at all the silent, undisturbed coffins. Nothing moved, and there was no sound but that of their own breathing.

Cautiously-very cautiously-they moved forward, Vainrence at the fore and Ganrahast shooting glances here, there, and everywhere around the crypt and back out the open doors at the empty pa.s.sage they'd come from.

There was nothing in the stone casket but unmoving, shrouded bones, under a thick cloak of dust.

Vainrence put one hand slowly into the burial cavity, the ring on his smallest finger blazing a steady, unchanged white. No undeath there. Nothing stirred at his intrusion, and he felt no tingling of awakening magic.

Withdrawing his hand, he stepped back and looked at the Royal Magician who had taken a pendant out from under his robes and was holding it up, turning toward this wall of the crypt and then that. It, too, glowed a faint, steady white.

They traded suspicious frowns, then without a word strode to stand back-to-back and started to search all over the crypt, Ganrahast moving cautiously to look here and there, and Vainrence guarding his back.

Still nothing.

There was certainly no intruder-not an invisible one, and not a ghost. The wards that prevented all translocations were still pulsing strongly around them; the magic alive in the crypt was so strong and swirling that they had no hope of telling what spells, if any, had been used there recently...still less, longer ago.

The alarm spells had told of two disturbed burials, yet there was only one open coffin. With nothing missing or disturbed, if that dust could be trusted. Still, there were simple, everyday spells to settle shrouds of dust on things...

"Your guess?" Ganrahast asked calmly.

Vainrence shrugged. "Some long-ago spell to lift a casket lid? Either it started to fade and was written so as to function before its energy ebbed too much for it to do so, or something among all the wards and shieldings in here triggered it?"

"That," Ganrahast murmured, "seems entirely too convenient. Not to mention overly benign."

"So I feel, too," Vainrence agreed. "I await your better explanation, Mage Royal."

In the silence that followed, they traded wry grins.

Then Ganrahast shrugged. "Let's shift this lid back where it should be and see what that does to the alarms; reset, gone off and gone, or still awake and insisting an intrusion has occurred."

The coffin was old; there were certainly no spells to levitate the lid. They staggered under the weight of the carved stone slab momentarily, grunting and huffing to heave it high enough to restore it to the top of its casket-and only then saw a fresh piece of parchment on the floor under where the lid had lain. There was writing on it.

Vainrence stooped. "You are doomed," he read aloud.

As he spoke, the lid of the closed casket beside them lifted just enough for magic to be triggered from within it.

There was a singing sound, as if an idle hand had slashed across the highest strings of a harp-and the two war wizards stiffened in unison.

To stand frozen, unseeing and unbreathing in the midst of their own new and pale auras.

"Well, well," Targrael murmured, lifting with casual ease the lid she'd lain concealed under and climbing gracefully out from atop the bones she'd been relaxing on during the blunderings of these two. "These old Obarskyr trinkets still serve quite effectively. Unlike the realm's wizards of war, these days."

Ganrahast and Vainrence stood mute and immobile, caught in stasis. Targrael smiled at them almost fondly.

"Pair of prize idiots."

She examined Ganrahast's nearest hand then plucked the ring she wanted from its finger-it took a strong tug, but she'd known the stasis would hold and really cared not if she broke the man's finger; he had plenty more-and donned it.

No doubt he could trace its whereabouts when he was capable of doing anything again. That might well be a very long time later, however.

The faint beginnings of a smile twisting her lips, Targrael put each of the stasis-frozen men into his own opened coffin and restored the two lids to their proper places.

"Ineffectual dolts. That'll keep you. Once I use this useful useful little ring to seal the crypt, no one will think to look here for you until the next Obarskyr dies. Whereupon they'll hopefully be too upset and concerned with the succession to dare to go around opening up royal coffins to peek at moldering contents." little ring to seal the crypt, no one will think to look here for you until the next Obarskyr dies. Whereupon they'll hopefully be too upset and concerned with the succession to dare to go around opening up royal coffins to peek at moldering contents."

With a chuckle, the undead highknight departed that silent chamber, her dark cloak swirling.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

EXPECTING M MUCH B BLOOD.

Storm slowed a little, to try to catch her breath. It wouldn't do to try to talk pleasantly to hostile guards if she was panting so hard she couldn't even gasp out words.

Inevitably, Elminster ran into her from behind, head-b.u.t.ting her rump and propelling her helplessly around the last corner.

Where she was promptly greeted by far too many cold, vigilant stares.

She found herself smiling wryly, despite the looming danger. It seemed that the Room of the Watchful Sentinel was very well named.

Architecturally small and unimportant, a mere antechamber off the far larger and grander Starander's Hall, it was guarded day and night to prevent covert departures-and unwelcome incursions-by way of the small, flickering doorway that stood in its northeast corner, bereft of surrounding walls or even a physical door or frame.

The Dalestride Portal's usual guardians were fourteen. Two highknights, eight battle-tested Purple Dragons, and four wizards of war.

Right then, there were more guards than that just in the pa.s.sage outside-and they had unfriendly faces and ready weapons. The pa.s.sage ahead of Storm looked like a crowded forest, with every tree a waiting sentinel expecting battle, and with eyes fixed on her.

Still breathing hard from her brisk run through the palace and from the brief tussle that had punctuated that journey, Storm turned her walk into a stroll as she approached the row of waiting spear points.

Beyond those leveled spears, several wands were aimed her way, and she could see some dart-firing bowguns held in highknight fists, too.

"El," she murmured, "this is going to be messy. There's no way I can force pa.s.sage through this many-"

"Keep moving. Duck aside against the wall, if they let fly at ye from inside the room once ye try to enter," Elminster muttered from behind her, where he was lurching along bent over, an arm held up to shield his face.

Storm lacked both breath and will to point out to him that he was fooling no one; any Purple Dragon or war wizard who'd been warned to watch out for Elminster of Shadowdale or any other old, bearded, male stranger walking the palace would know at a glance exactly what was scuttling along in Storm's wake.

"I don't want want to kill or maim scores of good and loyal folk of Cormyr," Storm hissed over her shoulder. "These are our allies, remember; those who stand for justice and-" to kill or maim scores of good and loyal folk of Cormyr," Storm hissed over her shoulder. "These are our allies, remember; those who stand for justice and-"

"I've not forgotten that. Don't believe what ye're about to see, overhead," Elminster warned her. "I still have a little magic to spend."

Storm nodded, eyeing bowguns being aimed carefully at her throat-as the ceiling of the pa.s.sage came down with a roar.

The pa.s.sage shook, a hanging lamp starting to swing wildly. Dust billowed, swallowing many of the arrayed guardians-who shouted in fear and started sprinting wildly along the pa.s.sage.

Right at Storm.

"El," she snapped, reaching for her sword, "I-"

Darts came streaking at her, and there was a sudden snarl of crimson flame as a wand spat in her direction.

The flames rushed at her, expanding with the usual terrifying speed-only to fall silent and begin to spin in a great pinwheel right in front of her that...that...

"El, what're you doing?" doing?"

There came an all-too-familiar chuckle from behind her. "How many times have ye asked me that, la.s.s? Down the pa.s.sing centuries?" many times have ye asked me that, la.s.s? Down the pa.s.sing centuries?"

"Don't remind me," Storm replied sharply, sword up and out and seeking foes she couldn't see. "How many times have you destroyed bits and pieces of palaces? Or castles?"

"I don't keep track," came the gruff reply. "Always seemed a mite childish, all this keeping score. Those who do tend to be those I dislike. Now, don't step forward, whatever ye do. The results would be...unpleasant."

"You're sending what they hurl right back at them, aren't you?"

"Wise la.s.s; I am indeed. And I'm destroying no palaces this day-at least, that's my present intention. Yon collapse was no collapse at all."

"But if you try to scare them away, those who'll flee will come running right into our laps!"

"Oh? Has thy lap greeted anyone, yet?"

"No, but-"

"More years ago than I care to remember," the Sage of Shadowdale announced, straightening out of his crouch with a brief wince, "ye may recall I had a hand in crafting some of the wards cast here. Without the Weave, I can't twist them much now-there are so so many later castings-but in some places I can temporarily cause a room or pa.s.sage to, ah, adjoin another that's really halfway across the palace. Wherefore-heh-a lot of guardians, whether fearful or enthusiastic, are now sprinting along the torchwalk outside the Hall of the Warrior King, heading for the royal court at a pace that shouldn't break many later castings-but in some places I can temporarily cause a room or pa.s.sage to, ah, adjoin another that's really halfway across the palace. Wherefore-heh-a lot of guardians, whether fearful or enthusiastic, are now sprinting along the torchwalk outside the Hall of the Warrior King, heading for the royal court at a pace that shouldn't break too too many necks, if the door at the end of that pa.s.sage is as flimsy as I remember it being. I do hope they've repaired the little bridge over the silverfin pond, or more than a few loyal defenders of Cormyr are shortly going to wind up rather wet." many necks, if the door at the end of that pa.s.sage is as flimsy as I remember it being. I do hope they've repaired the little bridge over the silverfin pond, or more than a few loyal defenders of Cormyr are shortly going to wind up rather wet."

Storm smirked, despite herself. "How far do your magics reach? Into the Room of the Watchful Sentinel itself-or are all the honor guard undoubtedly waiting for us in there going to be standing untouched, crowded to the very walls, and itching to fell Elminster, infamous enemy of the Dragon Crown?"

The Sage of Shadowdale favored her with one of his more sour looks. "D'ye think I started spinning spells yestermorn?"

"No," Storm replied dryly, "I believe you only started thinking of your own neck about then. Yes?"

"Stormy one, when did ye start wanting to take all the fun out of things? Eh?"

A man in ankle-length robes came staggering out of the roiling dust just then, a wand in one shaking hand starting to spit sparks, so Storm ducked into a low lunge that gave her reach enough to shove him into the wall.

The young and startled wizard of war rebounded off it hard, head lolling and wand cartwheeling away, so Storm didn't bother braining him with her sword hilt. She just glided out of the way and let the handy, hard flagstones feed him that fate instead.

"Yon overbold unfortunate wasn't one of those waiting for us in the pa.s.sage," Elminster remarked, "so I'd say the portal guardians are coming out after us. Time to send my shield of return spell in to greet them-and let them harm themselves with everything they hurl at it. I am, after all, a hand that brings about the fitting justice of the G.o.ds."

"We all were, we Chosen," Storm reminded him sadly. "When Mystra still spoke to us and the Weave still sang."

"Not now, la.s.s," Elminster grunted. "I'm busy." The walls and ceiling ahead of them seemed to shudder, as the very air around them seemed to snarl and then whirl and rush loudly.

"Keep thy sword up and handy," he added a little grimly a shrieking moment or two later. What sounded like the wail of a gale-force wind was rising around them, as the Sage of Shadowdale wrestled his magic sideways and through a doorway that wasn't made to accommodate it-at the same time as a dozen or more mages inside the room beyond that door hurled their own spells at the pinwheel of intruding magic, seeking to destroy it.