The last leaves dropped from the branches, and snowstorms whistled out of the north. One year died, another commenced, and through it all, foul hungers and violent urges nibbled at Kara’s mind. It occasionally happened even when she wore human form, which she did except when circumstances demanded otherwise.

Resisting the onset of lunacy as best they could, she and Chatulio recruited wyrms sympathetic to their cause, who then conceived various avenues of investigation. To Kara, some of their hypotheses seemed implausible if not preposterous, symptomatic of the corruption of the originators’ reason. Others had their basis in such obscure lore that she couldn’t even understand them. Yet even had her fellows ceded her the authority, she would have forbidden none of the inquiries that sent them flying to the far corners of Faerûn. In truth, they knew nothing of the doom that menaced them. What, then, could they do, except grope frantically in the dark?

Frantically and futilely it seemed, for one by one the drakes reported failure. Until late one night, in Melvaunt, a walled settlement of smiths and traders on the Moonsea’s northern shore, Kara felt herself slipping into a bleak mood. Accordingly, she sang, the throbbing notes echoing from the walls of the miniscule but private garret room she’d rented. But for once, even music failed to lift her spirits. She was about to give up, crawl between her thin blankets and sagging straw mattress, and hope for a few hours of oblivion, when the dying embers in the small fieldstone hearth crackled and flared a fiercer red.

Alarmed, she jumped out of her rickety chair, recoiled a step toward the shuttered window, and prepared to recite a defensive spell if necessary. A cloud of gray smoke billowed forth from the fireplace as if it had a wind behind it, even though that couldn’t be. The fumes massed themselves into the vague shape of a dragon’s head, while the sparks inside gathered to form a pair of slanted, luminous eyes. The apparition pivoted to stare at Kara but made no effort to harm her.

“Enough, Chatulio,” she sighed.

Evidently the copper had returned from the steppeland of the Ride sooner than expected, and no matter how frustrating their mission became, his relish for juvenile pranks never flagged.

But the image in the smoke laughed an ugly little laugh and said, “No, Karasendrieth, not this time. Chatulio’s still far away, and in fact, so am I. I conjured this sending to give you something on which to rest your gaze. It’s been my experience that people prefer that to a voice that simply speaks from the air.”

“Who are you?”

“An ally. Call me Brimstone.”

She frowned, for it seemed an ill-omened name, suggestive of devils and the tortures of the damned. Though conceivably a gold or brass, with his ability to breathe flame, might bear it.

“An ally in what battle?” she replied.

Despite the vague inconstancy of his smoky features, Brimstone managed a sneer and said, “Scrying, I watched Lareth’s conclave. I listened to you and Chatulio hatch your plot as well, so it’s no use playing ignorant. I know you and your comrades are trying to stop the Rage, and fortunately for you, I mean to help.”

“Then why haven’t you come forward before now?”

“As you understand nothing, and your studies lead nowhere, I saw no advantage. Now, however, I require a service of you.”

Kara neither trusted Brimstone nor appreciated his condescension, but her self-imposed task was too important for her to refuse to hear him out.

“What service?” she asked.

“Do you know of the Cult of the Dragon?”

“Of course,” she said.

It was a secret society of lunatics who imagined evil wyrms were destined to become undead entities and ascend to mastery of the world. To hasten the fulfillment of their prophecies, they ingratiated themselves with the chromatic drakes by providing various forms of aid and support and furnished the means of transformation when the objects of their worship opted to avail themselves of them. Apparently they imagined that when the wyrms achieved dominion over Faerûn, they’d reward their longtime helpers with authority over their fellow men.

“I think they have something to do with the Rage,” said the apparition.

“How could that be? The cult has only existed for a few hundred years. The frenzy has afflicted dragonkind since the beginning of time.”

“Still, it’s possible they at least know something about it,” Brimstone replied. “I’ve watched the cult for a long time, seeking to foil their schemes whenever practical. Of late, I became aware that they have a chapter in Lyrabar. Unfortunately, as you probably know, scrying doesn’t always work, especially if you’re trying to view the activities of wizards and priests who’ve warded themselves against it. I gleaned something of their activities, but not enough. For that reason, I resolved to hire a spy to infiltrate the cabal.”

“A human spy,” Kara guessed.

“Yes. The problem was, where and how to find him? I’m not like the bronzes who serve Queen Sambryl and live openly in the heart of her city. The small folk know nothing of my presence, and I wish it to remain so. Happily, not far from my lair, a crew of laborers from Lyrabar was digging a drainage canal. I spied on them and found a young man called Gorstag Helder.

“He seemed as if he might be brave and quick-witted enough to do the job,” Brimstone continued. “Just as importantly, he thought himself better than he was. He imagined that somehow, it was only cruel injustice that barred him from the life of ease so many in Lyrabar enjoy. He hated manual labor, and never would have stooped to it had starvation not forced his hand. He intended to earn just enough to keep him alive for a few more tendays, then rush back to the city, where, you may be certain, shame would keep him from admitting to anyone that he’d ever in his life laid hands on a shovel.”

“Except that you approached him first.”

“Yes,” said the phantasm. A bit of the wood smoke was diffusing away from the conjured image to fill the garret with haze. It smelled pleasant enough but stung Kara’s eyes. “I did so cloaked in a semblance of human form. I’d seen in the fool’s mind that he harbored romantic notions about the Harpers, so I led him to believe I was one. Once I accomplished that, he was eager to serve me.”

Kara disliked Brimstone’s obvious contempt for his human pawn but supposed that, too, was beside the point.

“Did Helder manage to worm his way into the cult?” she asked.

“Yes, and he told me they were jubilant because some new scheme was underway. I ordered him to find out what it was, but then he stopped sneaking out into the countryside to report, and no matter what magic I employ, I can’t locate him. Nor can I go into Lyrabar to seek him. I can veil myself in illusion to fool others for a time, but I can’t actually assume human shape.”

“But a song dragon can,” she said.

“Exactly. You could find Gorstag and fetch him to me. Or bring me his report.”

“It’s likely the actual cultists realized he was a spy and murdered him.”

“But it isn’t certain. Perhaps, for some reason, he simply can’t get away. Even if he is dead, he may conceivably have left notes or some other indication of what he learned.”

Kara frowned, deliberating.

Finally she said, “You still haven’t given me any solid reason to believe the cult’s plans and the Rage are connected.”

Brimstone sneered and said, “Do you think it mere coincidence that both are occurring at the same time?”

“You haven’t told me who you are, either. An unfamiliar name means nothing.”

“It’s all I’m willing to give,” he replied, “so long as we’re talking through the ether. Some other adept might overhear. I’ll reveal myself when you come to me in Impiltur.”

“How would I find you?”

“Travel northeast from Lyrabar after night has fallen. Five miles beyond the city, you’ll find a ring of menhirs on a hill. Nine of the stones are still standing, but the tenth has fallen down. Go to the center of the circle and speak my name. I’ll guide you from there.”

The image in the smoke melted into shapelessness.

Kara gathered her few possessions, threw her cloak over her shoulders, and departed the inn. Outside, the air carried the hot-metal tang of foundries and forges, even on such a bitterly cold night.

The streets were mostly deserted, and it didn’t take her long to find a square that afforded both the room and the privacy to shapeshift without alarming any of the inhabitants of the town. She swelled into reptilian form, spread her wings, and sprang into the air. The north wind bore her onward. In time, it carried her across the Moonsea, along the marshy river Lis, and on down the eastern shore of the Dragon Reach.

Until Llimark intercepted her.