“I can’t see Azoun playing that game,” Thomdor replied, frowning equally at his brother and the offending low tree limb. “Other kings, perhaps, but you know our Purple Dragon dotes on both his daughters. Truly, not mere honeyed words and kisses.”
“Aye, but our pet wizard has been going on of late about storied heritage and ancient bloodline and solemn succession. Pointing out none too delicately that age stalks us all, and Azoun’d best get his house in order before it overtakes him. You may guess how successful that argument has been.”
Baron Thomdor, Warden of the Eastern Marches, whistled air out sharply between wryly curled lips. “Azoun probably smiled, nodded, and serenely ignored the Royal Magician,” he judged, hefting a boar spear in his hand. Then he shrugged. “Vangerdahast worries about everything, you know. I swear the Obarskyr bloodline keeps Azoun young just as magic keeps old Vangey alive.”
He patted his stomach and added in grand, courtly tones of doom, “Age stalks us all.” An errant branch poked at his middle, and he backhanded it aside with a mock scowl, adding darkly, “Some, of course, more than others.”
“Some more than others,” echoed Duke Bhereu, passing a meaningful hand over his bald pate. “As the royal cousins, we’ll always be in Azoun’s shadow, growing old while his youth and vigor rides on. The day’ll come when we’ll both be doddering graybeards, counting our teeth as they fall into our laps by warm firesides-and he’ll still be using these hunts to check out suitors for his lasses.”
“And grandlasses,” said Thomdor with a rueful smile. “And bite your flapping tongue about counting falling teeth. May the watchful gods deliver us both from such a fate!”
“Grandlasses? Well, perhaps, if either daughter ever marries,” the duke replied, doubt heavy in his voice. “Tanalasta’s almost a wizard herself, at least with her ledgers and sums, but no taste for rulership there. You’ve seen her at court-cool and quiet. Too quiet. Hesitant to speak out, and the words halting when she does… a royal wallflower.”