"Avoid all inns," Doust said darkly, in the same grand portentous tones favored by priests of Tempus and of Torm, who often visited Espar.

Islif gave that feeble jest the sour smile it deserved, then turned arid asked Semoor, "If I answer you, will you say nothing more about our journeying and progress until the morrow?"

The priest of Lathander winced. "Well," he said carefully, "I'll certainly try."

Pennae turned in her saddle to fling a single word back at him: "Harder."

That smoothly twisting motion made the arrow that sped suddenly out of the trees burn past her cheek without striking anyone.

The second arrow, however, hissed to catch her squarely in the ribs. Sinking in deep, it smashed her, sobbing, right out of her saddle.

Chapter 1

For the good of Cormyr Why, down the passing years, have so many Purple Dragons died?

Why, every day, do courtiers in Suzail lie so energetically?

And why have war wizards and Highknights alike Slain so many, stolen so much, and destroyed so much more?

Why, for the good of Cormyr, of course.

Wizard of War Lorbryn Deltalon sat alone in the small, windowless II stone room, staring silently at the carefully written notes spread out on the desk before him. He was no longer seeing what he'd penned these last few months. He was staring past his neat jottings and beholding memories.

Recent memories. A succession of pain-wracked, sweating faces belonging to a lot of tormented nobles. Every one of them staring back at him in wild, mouth-quivering terror.

All too often, the sharp-eyed, faintly smiling visage of the Royal Magician of Cormyr loomed up amongst them. Looking back at him mockingly, Vangerdahast's unreadable gaze seemed a silent challenge. No frightened nobleman, he.