The Floodgate

It was a subtle way of taking for himself a bit of the credit for Matteo's early warning. Better still, it hinted that he had divined a threat that Zalathorm had missed. It wasn't quite what he'd hoped for, but he would work with it.

"You are obviously well prepared," Zalathorm noted, gazing at Procopio with eyes that saw far too much. "I will lead the attack on the approaching Mulhorandi army. The rest of you, summon whatever forces you command, and follow."

Good, thought Procopio. Two battles. Zalathorm will win one, and I, the other.

Matteo was not yet finished. "Your Majesty, there is another threat. I hesitate to speak of it in open council."

"This is no time for delicacy!" snapped Zalathorm. "As you yourself have observed, the safety of Halruaa comes before all other considerations. Speak!"

With obvious reluctance, Matteo told of Kiva's intrusion into the queen's chambers, of the many clockwork creatures she took with her. "I fear these creatures are nearby. The magic required to transport such large items any distance is immense. Kiva employed a spell of diffusion, a powerful battle spell that can scatter an army by sending its members to several nearby places."

Zalathorm's eyes narrowed. "You heard this spell? How did you happen to be in the queen's chambers when this occurred?"

"I was not. This device was."

He showed the king the magic mouth bottle, then pulled the cork. Procopio suppressed a snort of laughter when he recognized the carved visage of one of the northland's great wizards. It was said that the Old Sage cast a long shadow, but all the way to Halruaa?

The echo of Kiva's elven soprano filled the room with magic-rich chant, and Procopio forgot everything else. When the spell was complete, Matteo replaced the cork.

The king's face was grim. "Very well. The city must be fortified and secured. The battle wizard Lhamadas will command the city militia."

"There is yet another threat," Matteo said in a heartsick voice. "One within the palace itself."

He pulled the cork again. The voice of Queen Beatrix answered Kiva's questions. The entire Council of Elders heard Kiva commending Beatrix for a job well done.

For many moments, profound silence ruled the council chamber. "If I could have spared you this, sire," Matteo said softly, "I would have done it."

The king met his gaze. "You did your duty, jordain. I will do mine."

Procopio stepped forward to seize the moment, and, Mystra willing, the throne itself. "Your Majesty, none can deny that Beatrix is guilty of high treason. By law, the sentence is death, to be carried out immediately."

For the first time, Matteo saw the weight of long years in Zalathorm's eyes. His heart ached for the king, and for the strange, sad woman whom Zalathorm loved.

"Every Halruaan is entitled to magical examination," the wizard-king said coldly. "Surely the queen has the same rights as a fisherwoman!"

Before Procopio could protest, Matteo stepped forward. "The king is caught between two necessities. How can he defend both his queen and his country? Let this matter rest until our borders are secure."

"Halruaan justice is swift," Procopio reminded him.

"If it is too swift, it may not be justice at all," Matteo retorted.

A murmur of agreement moved through the room. "I suggest a compromise," said a tall, flame-haired woman. "The queen must be imprisoned until the invasion is repelled and this other matter given proper attention."

Zalathorm nodded slowly. "That is fair. Take her to the palace towers and place around her spells of binding. That is all. Now go-all of you know what must be done. May Mystra grant us strength."

In a quiet voice, one that barely reached the ears of the jordain at his side, the king whispered, "May Keturah forgive me."

Matteo started at the familiar name. His gaze leaped to Zalathorm's face, and read confirmation in the king's sad brown eyes.

There was no time for questions. He bowed to his king, then turned away to follow Procopio's quick, staccato retreat.

* * * * *

In the very heart of Akhlaur's Swamp, the undine lay panting on the edge of the deep pool, her black tresses hanging lank about her too-pale face. Gems lay in bright heaps beside her, treasures from the sunken tower.

These riches were hard won. Strange magic lurked in the waters of Akhlaur's swamp, power sufficient to raise Andris's slain comrades into zombie guardians. The undine had apparently run into other guardians. Her arms were a map of angry red welts, and a thin tentacle, still twitching, tangled in her hair.

Andris picked it out carefully, self-consciously. His own fingers were nearly as translucent as this remnant of a jellyfish. "A man-of-war," he said. "The poison will kill a man. I don't know how much damage it will deal a creature of water and air."

"Enough," Nadage said sternly. "The undine must rest until tomorrow."