Men call me Elminster. I was and am a prince, king for a breath or two, and am come here to salute another king, who ruled long and well, and should be remembered for it.

           Azoun, fourth of that name, rightful king of Cormyr and flower of House Obarskyr. I knew him better than most, yet not so well as those who fought at his side. Yet I will bend thine ears a moment, for any man is worth so much.

           What shall I say, of the death of a king?

           That Faer�n holds Azouns enough that the fourth of that name hath given way to the fifth, and Cormyr continueth, and all is right with the way of things, as gods watch and men strive and women know better?

           That Filfaeril has lost her man and her eldest daughter? That Alusair has lost her father and her sister? That Azoun the Fifth has lost his mother and grandsire without ever knowing their faces?

           Many a cottage and fair manor alike hath known such tragedies. In another world, a wise man said, "In times of peace, sons bury their fathers. In times of war, fathers bury their sons." In that world and this, lives are spent too swiftly, valued too little, and wasted so much. Yet that's more true for slaves and backcountry farmers and for kings -- for are there no more of the former, and rare few of the latter?

           Yet there is something special about kings.

           Shining things, they are, crowns with men under them, the pride and war-lion and heart of their realms and the folk they reign over. All across Cormyr men look up to the king, even if only to curse or sneer . . . and this was better a king than most. Most Cormyrians have known no other, but they've heard of worse, in other, less fortunate lands. They've been told of worse, in bards' tales of Cormyr past.

           Ah, the past. Betimes it drives us hard, kindling feuds and lost causes, sorrows and wrongs to be avenged. Yet I've said before that the past is more than the lives that have unrolled before ours . . . and no less.

           Building a shining collection of memories is what humans do in a life well lived, or should do -- and the only proper measure of a human is the friendships and the acts of love that a person builds and does, without thought of personal gain, but rather out of free love for others.

           This was Azoun's task, as it is the work of our all lives. And he measured up to the test. Many a Purple Dragon and a poor farmer counted him a personal friend, and his personal attention to his subjects remains legendary. He never shirked a task, however unpleasant or wearisome, nor, knowing a wrong thing, did it. Think of more petty, local rulers, and answer for thyselves: who among them hath done as much -- and as well?

           A long life, a full life, a good life. What more can a man do?

           Farewell, old friend. Ye shall be remembered with honor and with pride. I shall tell the large tales and the small, so that thy subjects -- and thy grandson -- shall know the true measure of the man now gone, who led the fair Forest Kingdom for so long.

           I am Elminster, and I say to thee, people of Cormyr: because of the man fallen, the fourth Azoun, the future belongs to thee.

--Elminster of Shadowdale
Year of the Unstrung Harp