Duke Bhereu, the king’s other cousin, shook his bald head. “Then know ye they bid fair to be gone for most of the day, my lord,” he replied in mock, courtly tones, sketching as much of an elaborate bow as one can in an old and worn hunting saddle, before erupting in easy laughter and continuing, “to return to the lodge with empty hands, tremendous stories-and raging thirsts-this evening.”

“Agreed,” said His Majesty, “And you, young Aunadar Bleth. What make you of this possible portent?”

The younger man took a ragged, obviously nervous breath, but there was only a slight stammer when he spoke. “If-if they’re chasing the legendary Ghost Stag of the King’s Forest, I’d not bet against the stag. They’ve Warden Truesilver among them, true, and Bald Jawn as their guide, but the Ghost Stag has eluded us all for generations. And besides, would even so noble a hunting party seek to bring down the chosen prey of the King of Cormyr?” As an afterthought, he added, “Sire.”

The king allowed himself a relaxed smile. “Perhaps that’s what’s been keeping the stag alive all these years. It’s waiting for me, eh?”

He nodded at the younger man and added, “Let’s go down toward the river-the ruin you wanted to see is there. And so long as we’re out here in the woods, you can drop the ‘Sire.’ Azoun will do very nicely, it’s a name I’ve heard a time or two before.”

“As you wish, Si-er, Azoun,” said the youth, and then added “my lord” with a quick smile.

The king matched it as he wheeled his destrier and reined it down a ferny slope toward a trail that led to the riverside. The youth followed, his mount tossing its head at the uncertain footing. The two royal cousins held back, watching their king and the young knight bobbing through the trees.