chapter three

30 Tarsakh–8 Mirtul, the Year of Blue Fire

The door squeaked open, and Szass Tam turned in his chair. Azhir Kren and Homen Odesseiron faltered, their eyes widening. Their consternation was silly, really. As tharchions, they were accustomed to eyeless skull faces and skeletal extremities. They commanded entire legions of soldiers of that sort. But their master had always presented himself in the semblance of a living man, and though they knew better, perhaps they’d preferred to think of him that way. If so, it was their misfortune, because the truth of his condition was suddenly unavoidable.

“It’s nothing,” Szass Tam said. “I’ll reconstitute the flesh when it’s convenient.” And when he was sure he could perform the delicate process without the magic slipping out of his control. “Don’t bother kneeling. Sit by the fire, and help yourselves to the wine.”

“Thank you, Your Omnipotence,” Azhir said. Skinny and sharp-featured, the governor of Gauros had doffed her plate armor, but still wore the sweat-stained quilted under-padding.

“We’re crowded,” Homen said, “but all the troops have a place to sleep.” An eccentric fellow with a perpetually glum and skeptical expression, trained as both soldier and mage, he wore the broadsword appropriate for a tharchion of Surthay, and also a wand sheathed on the opposite hip. “The healers are tending to the wounded, and we can feed everyone for a while. Nular Zurn stocked sufficient food for the living, and the ghouls can scavenge corpses off the battlefield.”

“Good,” Szass Tam said.

Homen took a breath. “Master, if I may ask, what happened? We were winning, and then …” He waved his hand as if he didn’t know how to describe the immolation that had overtaken them.

Szass Tam wasn’t sure he could, either. He disliked admitting that all sorcery, including his own, was crippled. But Azhir and Homen were two of his ablest generals, and they needed to comprehend in order to give good advice and make sound decisions.

But because it would do no good and might shake their faith in him, he didn’t admit that he should have known what was coming—that Yaphyll’s prophecy had revealed the event, if only he’d had the wit to interpret it. The white queen had been Mystra, the black one, Shar, goddess of the night, and the assassin, Cyric, god of murder. The fall of the city, the collapse of the cavern, and the agonies of the tree referred to the ordered structures of magic crumbling into chaos.

Now that he’d had a chance to reflect, he thought he might even understand how Yaphyll’s initial prediction of victory had so resoundingly failed to come true. It would have, if the world to which it pertained had endured. But Mystra’s demise was a discontinuity, the birth of a new reality, where the rules were different and certainties were warped.

In touch with that terrible tomorrow, Yaphyll had seized some of the blue fire—enough to break the hold of Thakorsil’s Seat and negate the power of the Death Moon Orb. Szass Tam supposed he was lucky it hadn’t empowered her to do worse.

By the time he finished his abridged explanation, Azhir and Homen were gawking at him. He felt a twinge of disappointment. He understood that since they were mortal and not archmages, he could scarcely have expected them to share his own perspective, but it was still irksome to see two of his chief lieutenants looking so flummoxed and dismayed.

People, even the best of them, were such flawed and inadequate creations.

“What does this mean for all of us?” Homen asked.

“Well,” Szass Tam said, “plainly, we failed to win the overwhelming victory we anticipated, and now we’re facing some unexpected problems. But we took the Keep of Sorrows. That’s something.”

“If the ground doesn’t crumble beneath it and cast it all the way down into Priador,” Azhir said.

“Portions of the cliffs are still collapsing,” Szass Tam said, “but I examined the granite beneath the castle. It will hold.”

“That’s good to know.” Homen drained his silver cup. “But when I asked what this all meant, I was asking about … the whole world, I suppose. Is everybody going to die?”

Szass Tam snorted. “Of course not. Do you imagine the gods are necessary to the existence of the universe? They’re not. They’re simply spirits, more powerful than the imps that conjurors summon and command, but much the same otherwise. Deities have died before, goddesses of magic have died, and the cosmos survived. As it will again. As for us, we simply must weather a period of adversity.”

“How do we do that?” Azhir asked.

“My thought,” Szass Tam said, “is that we must garrison the Keep of Shadows. It’s too valuable to abandon. It can play a vital role when we go back on the offensive.”

“But you don’t intend to continue attacking now,” Homen said.

“No. We need to withdraw the majority of our forces back into the north, to rebuild our strength and lay new plans. But you two are the soldiers. If you care to recommend a more aggressive course, I’m willing to listen.”

Azhir and Homen exchanged glances. “No, Master,” the latter said. “Your idea seems the most prudent.”

“Good. Then let’s sort out the details.”

Bareris sang a charm of healing, plucking the accompaniment on the strings of his yarting. Mirror, currently a smeared reflection of the bard, hovered silently beside him.

Aoth had been escorted to a dark tent, and sat with bandages wrapped around his eyes. He opened them from time to time and glimpsed the world for just a moment, even though a man with normal vision wouldn’t have seen through the bandages or in the dark. Then sight turned against him, jabbing pain into his head, and he had no choice but to flinch away from it.

He felt a cool, tingling caress on his face, a sign that the song was trying to heal him. Bards too were reportedly having difficulty casting spells, but not as much as wizards.

Still, Aoth doubted the charm would be any more effective than the prayers of the priests who had sought to help him already, and at the end of the song, he was proven right. Another peek brought another sickening spasm, and he gritted his teeth and hissed.

“I’m sorry,” Bareris said. “I don’t know anything else to try.”

“It’s all right,” Aoth said, although it was anything but. He felt a pang of resentment and struggled to quell it, for there was no reason to take out his frustrations on his friend. He could scarcely blame Bareris for failing to deliver what even accomplished clerics could not achieve.

“At least,” Bareris said, “you can see through Brightwing’s eyes.”

“Yes, that solves everything. I just have to live the rest of my life outdoors.”

“No, you have to resign yourself to being a blind man indoors, at least until your friends find a way to restore you. But outside, you’ll be whole. You’ll be able to fly, cast spells, and fight the same as always.”

“No. I won’t. It’s clumsy when your sight isn’t centered in your own eyes. It throws off everything in relation to your hands and body.”

“In time, you’ll learn—”

“Stop! Please, just stop. How are the men and the griffons?”

“The army’s still in disarray, and we left much of the baggage train behind when we ran. But I made sure our company got its fair share of what food there is, and of the healers’ attentions.”

“Good. The Griffon Legion’s yours now, what’s left of it. I’m sure Nymia will proclaim you captain.”

“If she does, I’ll accept, but only until you’re ready to resume your duties.”

“That’s good of you to say.” Aoth opened his eyes. He’d found that, even though he knew the discomfort that would follow, the urge periodically became irresistible. An instant later, he stiffened.

Because he saw two Barerises, the figures superimposed. One—the real one, presumably—sat on a campstool, cradling his yarting in his lap. Smirking, the illusory one dangled a marionette and twitched the strings to make it dance. The puppet was thick in the torso, clad in the trappings of a griffon rider, and clutched a spear in its hand.

A throb of pain closed Aoth’s eyes again, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as usual. He was so shocked, so appalled, that it blunted his physical distress.

He took a deep breath. “I’ve told you, this blindness isn’t like normal blindness.”

“Yes,” Bareris said.

“I’m beginning to sense that at certain moments, it may even turn into the opposite of blindness. It may reveal things that normal eyes can’t see.”

“Really? Well, then that’s good, isn’t it?”

Aoth felt a crazy impulse to laugh. “Perhaps it is, if it shows the truth. You can help me determine if it did. I was ready to desert, and you talked me out of it. Remember?”

Bareris hesitated. “Yes.”

“Did you seek to persuade me as any man might try to influence another, or did you use your voice to lay an enchantment on me?”

This time Bareris sat mute for several heartbeats, a silence as damning as any confession. “I did it to save your honor,” he said at last, “and because I knew you’d feel like a coward if you left.”

“Liar! You did it because you wanted me, and the riders who would follow my lead, to stay and fight. For ten years, I’ve been your only friend. I’ve sought out your company when everyone else shunned your bitterness and your obsession. But you never truly felt friendship for me, did you? I was just a resource you could exploit in persuit of your mad vendetta.”

“It’s not mad.”

“Yes, it is! You aren’t Szass Tam’s equal, fighting a duel with him. You’re just one soldier in the army his peers have fielded against him. Even if the other zulkirs defeat him, it won’t be your triumph or your revenge. Your part in it will be miniscule. But you can’t see that. Even though you’re just a pawn, you had to try to push your fellow pawns around on the game board, and as a result, I’m crippled!”

“Maybe not forever. Don’t give up hope.”

Aoth knew precisely where his spear was. He could grab it without looking. He sprang up from his stool and only then opened his eyes, using his instant of clear and painless vision to aim the weapon at Bareris’s chest.

The earth bucked beneath his feet and pitched him forward, spoiling what should have been the sudden accuracy of his attack. Vision became unbearable and his eyes squeezed shut. He toppled to his knees and the spear completed its thrust without any resistance.

“If you’ll allow it,” Bareris said, “I’ll help you up and back into your seat.”

“No.” Aoth realized he didn’t want to kill the bard anymore, but he didn’t want anything else from him, either. “Just get out and stay away from me.”

Bareris panted as if he’d just run for miles. His guts churned and his eyes stung.

“He swore an oath to serve the tharchion and the zulkirs,” he said, “and so did I. I was right to stop him.”

He was talking to himself, but to his surprise, Mirror saw fit to answer. “You deceived him,” said the ghost. “You broke the code of our brotherhood.”

“There isn’t any brotherhood!” Bareris snapped. “You’re remembering something from your own time, getting it confused with what’s happening now, so don’t prattle about what you don’t understand!”

His retort silenced Mirror. But as the spirit melted back into the shadows, he shed Bareris’s appearance as if it were a badge of shame.

“What about a taste of the red?” a rough voice whispered.

Startled, Tammith turned to behold a short, swarthy legionnaire who’d opened his tunic to accommodate her. She’d known she was brooding, but she must have been truly preoccupied for the soldier to sidle up to her unnoticed, her keen senses notwithstanding.

Those senses drank him in, the warmth and sweaty scent of his living body and the tick of the pulse in his neck. It made her crave what he offered even though she wasn’t really thirsty, and the pleasure would provide a few moments of relief from the thoughts tumbling round and round in her head.

“All right.” She opened the purse laced to her sword belt, gave him a coin, then looked for a place to go. Big as it was, the Keep of Sorrows was full to overflowing with the northern army, but a staircase leading up to a tower door cast a slanted shadow to shield them from curious eyes.

As they kneeled down together, voices struck up a farmer’s song about planting and plowing, which echoed through the baileys and stone-walled passageways of the fortress. Today was Greengrass, the festival held to mark the beginning of spring. Some folk evidently meant to observe it even if Thay had little to celebrate in the way of fertile fields, clean rain, and warm, bright sunlight.

Tammith slipped her fangs into the legionnaire’s jugular and drank, giving herself over to the wet salty heat and the gratification it afforded. It lay within her power to make the experience just as pleasurable for her prey, but she didn’t bother. Still, the legionnaire shuddered and sighed, and she realized he was one of those victims who found being drained inherently erotic.

He should be paying me, she thought with a flicker of amusement.

The tryst was enjoyable while it lasted, but brought her no closer to a decision. She sent her dazed, grinning supper on his way, prowled through an archway, and spotted Xingax riding piggyback on a giant zombie at the other end of the courtyard.

“Daughter!” he cried. “Good evening!”

Reluctantly, she advanced to meet him.

“Good news,” Xingax said. “I’m going home. It’s no surprise, of course. I assumed Szass Tam would need me there to help rebuild his strength, but I’m still delighted. Perhaps you can come along and command my guards.”

Tammith’s upper lip wanted to rise, and her canines, to lengthen, but she made herself smile instead. “I believe you made me so I could charge into the fiercest battles, not stand sentry waiting for foes who, in all likelihood, would never find their way to me.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Xingax said, “but maybe you can at least escort me to the sanctuary, and then I can send you back again. I’ll ask Szass Tam about it.” He leaned over the hulking zombie’s shoulder, reached down, and stroked her cheek with the hand that was shriveled, twisted, and malodorous with rot. Her skin crawled. Then his mount carried him on his way.

If I have to travel with him, Tammith thought, he’ll know. He isn’t a necromancer himself, not precisely, but he, or one of the wizards in his train, will figure it out.

Then they’d change her back, and she wondered why she’d needed to ponder for so long to realize that would be unendurable.

As the singers struck up another song, she made her way to a sally port and peered around. As far as she could tell, nobody was watching her. She dissolved into mist and oozed through the crack beneath the secondary gate.

She drifted across the battlefield with its carpet of contorted, stinking corpses. The crows had retired for the night, but the rats were feasting. Most of the enormous squid-things had stopped moving, but three of them were still crawling aimlessly around.

When she reached the far side of the leviathans, she judged she’d put enough distance between herself and the castle to risk changing from fog to a swarm of bats. It was unlikely that a sentry would notice her in that guise, either, and her wings would carry her faster than vapor could flow.

Just as she finished shifting, a creature big as an ogre pounced out of nowhere. Its head was a blend of man and wolf, with crimson eyes shining above the lupine muzzle. Dark scales covered its naked body. It had four hands and snatched with two of them, catching a bat each time. Its grip crushed and its claws pierced, and even those beasts that were still free floundered with the shared pain.

“Turn into a woman,” Tsagoth said, “and I’ll let them go.”

She didn’t have to. She could survive the loss of some of the creatures that comprised herself. But it would weaken her, and she was reluctant to allow that when she knew Tsagoth could keep pace with her however she chose to flee.

She knew because their abilities were similar. He was a blood fiend, an undead demon who preyed on living tanar’ri in the same way that vampires hunted mortal men and women.

She flowed from one guise to another, and he released the captive bats to blend with the rest of her substance. She shifted her feet, but subtly; she didn’t want him to see she was ready to fight. But he evidently noticed anyway, because his leer stretched wider.

“You should have fled,” he said, “as soon as the blue fire came, and you realized the enchantments compelling your obedience had withered away.”

“Probably so.” Irredeemably feral and in some cases stupid to their cores, a number of ghouls and lesser wraiths had bolted instantly. She, however, had long ago acquired military discipline, and during those first moments, it had constrained her as effectively as magic. Only later had she recognized that escape was an option for her as well.

“Now you’ve missed your chance,” Tsagoth continued. “The necromancers understand that they may not have complete control over even those undead who obediently followed them into the keep. They charged me to watch for those who try to stray.”

“Good dog,” Tammith said.

Tsagoth bared his fangs. “Do you really think it wise to mock me? Your powers are just a debased and feeble echo of mine. I can destroy you in an instant if I choose. But I’d just as soon reason with you.”

Tammith shrugged. “Reason away, then.” At least a conversation would give her time to ponder tactics.

“You hate our masters,” he said. “I understand. So do I. But you thrive in their service. You’re a celebrated warrior, and Szass Tam promises you’ll be a rich noblewoman after he wins the war.”

“I don’t want gold or station. I want my freedom.”

“Your freedom to do what and go where? Where, except in Szass Tam’s orbit, is there a place for a creature like you? And even if it were possible for you to escape me, where could you be safe from the other hunters the lich would send after you?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

“You understand, the blue fires are still raging back and forth across the world destroying all they touch. The earthquakes are still shaking towns to rubble. It’s the worst possible time to forsake your allies and strike out on your own.”

“Or the best. The necromancers may decide they have more important things to think about than chasing after me.”

“At least return to the castle and ponder a while longer. Don’t act recklessly.”

“I don’t have ‘a while longer.’” She smiled. “You truly don’t want to fight me, do you? Because you sympathize with me. You wish you could do what I’m doing.”

He glared as if she’d insulted him even more egregiously than before. “I don’t sympathize with anyone, least of all one of your puny kind! But of course, I’ve tried to break my own bonds. It’s like a vile joke that the blue fire liberated common ghouls and spectres and left a blood fiend in his chains.”

“Try again,” Tammith said. “Don’t fight me. Change into your bat guise and fly away with me.”

“I can’t.” Suddenly, he sprang at her.

Fortunately, she was ready. She whirled out of the way and drew her sword, then cut at Tsagoth as he lunged by.

The enchanted blade bit deep into Tsagoth’s back, staggering him. She ripped it free and slashed again.

Tsagoth spun back around to face her. His left arm swept downward to meet her blade. The weapon sliced his wrist, but it was only a nick, and the block kept the sword from cutting another gash in his torso.

At the same time, he raked at her with his upper hands. She recoiled, and his claws tore through her sturdy leather jerkin to score the flesh beneath. If she hadn’t snatched herself backward, great chunks of flesh would have been torn away.

She leaped farther back, simultaneously extending her sword to spit him if he charged. He didn’t, and they started circling.

He gazed into her eyes and sent the force of his psyche stabbing at her like a poniard. She felt a kind of jolt, but nothing that froze her in place or crushed her will to resist. She tried the same tactic on him, with a similar lack of success.

Her wounds itched as they closed. The cut on Tsagoth’s wrist was already gone, and no doubt the more serious wound on his back was healing too. In theory, they could duel the night away, each suffering but never quite succumbing to an endless succession of ghastly injuries. Until the sun rose, when she’d burn and he wouldn’t.

But it was unlikely to come to that. As he’d boasted, he was the stronger, and if she couldn’t beat him quickly, he was apt to wear her into helplessness well before dawn.

He murmured a word and ragged flares of power in a dazzling array of colors exploded from a central point like a garish flower blooming in a single instant. Tammith was close enough that the leading edge of the blast washed over her and seared her like acid.

Even as she staggered, she realized her foe had wounded her but likewise given her an opportunity. Fighting in a war of wizards, she’d seen this same attack, and understood how it worked when it achieved its full effect. Perhaps she could convince Tsagoth that it had done so. It all depended on her skill at pantomime.

She fell on her rump as if her mind and body were reacting too slowly for her to catch her balance. She dropped her jaw in what she hoped was a convincing expression of surprised dismay and started to rise, all with the same exaggerated lethargy.

Tsagoth sprang at her, all four hands poised to snatch and rend. She waited until the last instant, then abandoned her pretence of sluggishness and thrust the point of her sword at his chest.

She knew the ruse had fooled him when he failed to defend himself in time. The blade plunged into his heart.

He kept clawing at her, but for a moment, the shock of the injury made his efforts clumsy, and except for a scratch down the side of her face, she was unharmed. She tore her sword free and slashed open his belly. Guts came sliding out.

He plunged his talons into her shoulder and nearly tore her arm off. It wasn’t her sword arm, but it might be next time, or he might manage something even worse, because his wounds were no longer slowing him.

She had to finish this exchange quickly. One sword couldn’t parry four sets of talons for long. She dodged out of his way, swung the blade high, and sheared into his luminous scarlet eyes. Then she broke apart into bats, localizing the injury of her mangled shoulder in one crippled, expendable specimen.

The bats flew in the general direction of the Keep of Sorrows, the weak one trailing behind the others. She made sure their wings rustled audibly.

Tsagoth peered after her. Two red gleams appeared above his muzzle as his eyes reformed. Tammith could only hope they couldn’t yet see as well as before, and that the desire to catch her and hurt her had pushed every other thought out of his head.

He vanished and instantly reappeared in her path, hands raised to rip the bats out of the air. He didn’t realize that by shifting through space as he had, he’d placed himself directly in front of one of the squid-things that still showed signs of animation. Now, if the giant would only react!

It did. Trailing filthy tatters of mummy wrappings, a gigantic tentacle rose and slammed down on top of the blood fiend’s head, smashing him to the ground. Then it coiled around him, picked him up, and squeezed. Bones cracked and their jagged ends jabbed through his scaly hide.

Ready to dodge, Tammith waited to see if the leviathan would strike at her, too, but it didn’t. A scattered swarm of bats evidently wasn’t as provocative a target as a nine-foot-tall undead demon.

She wasn’t certain that even the squid-thing could destroy Tsagoth, but she was confident he wouldn’t pursue her any time soon. As she swirled upward, she pondered one of the questions her adversary had posed: Where, indeed, could she go now?

Situated at a juncture of secondary roads, Zolum was a humdrum farmer’s market of a town. As far as Dmitra could recall, she’d never visited the place before, and she felt none the poorer for it.

But at the moment, it possessed two attractions. Even for battle-weary legions, it was only a few days’ march east of the Keep of Sorrows, and it was still standing. No wave of blue flame had obliterated it, nor had any earthquake knocked it down. So the council’s army had crowded in, compelling the burghers to billet soldiers who ate their larders bare.

As Zolum was second-rate, so too was the hall of its autharch with its flickering oil lamps, plain oak floor, and simple cloth banners, devoid of gems or magical enhancements. In other circumstances, some of Dmitra’s fellow dignitaries might have sneered at the chamber’s provincial appointments, or groused about a lack of luxuries. Not now, though. Everyone had more important things to think about.

Which was not to suggest that everyone was frightened or downcast. His nimbus of flame burning brightly, Iphegor Nath looked excited, and Malark smiled as if life were merely a play staged for his diversion, and the plot had just taken an amusing turn.

A soldier led Aoth Fezim and helped him to a chair. The captain wore a dark bandage wrapped around his eyes.

It was a pity about his blinding. He was a good officer. Still, he couldn’t command the Griffon Legion as he was.

The most interesting thing about him at that moment was that he was an anomaly. The blue fire had injured but not killed him, and since the zulkirs needed a better understanding of that enigmatic force, Dmitra had a mind to vivisect him and see what could be learned. Although it could wait until he was in one place and his legion in another. Supposedly, the men liked him, so why distress them and perhaps undermine their morale when a modicum of tact could avoid it?

The autharch kept a little brass gong beside his seat at the big round table, presumably to command everyone’s attention and silence, and Dmitra clanged it. The assembly fell silent, and the others turned to look at her. “Your Omnipotences,” she said, “Your Omniscience, Saers, and Captains. Not long ago, we believed ourselves on the brink of defeat. But fate intervened, and now we have another chance.”

Samas Kul snorted. Although no one had set out food in the hall, he had grease on his full, ruddy lips and a half-eaten leg of duck in his blubbery hand. “Another chance. Is that what we’re calling it?”

Dmitra smiled. “What would you call it?”

“Considering that we have reports of whole cities and fiefs burned or melted away, of the land itself tortured into new shapes, I’d call it a disaster.”

“That,” said Iphegor, “is because you don’t understand what’s happening.” He raked the company with the gaze of his lambent orange eyes. “What you take to be a calamity is actually an occasion for great rejoicing and great resolve. Kossuth has always promised that one day the multiverse would catch fire, and that much of it would perish. It’s our task to make sure it’s the debased and polluted portions that burn, so that we’ll dwell in a purer, nobler world thereafter.”

“Nonsense,” Dimon said. The tharchion of Tyraturos had even fairer skin than most Mulans, and blue veins snaked like rivers across his shaven crown. He was a priest of Bane, god of darkness, as well as a soldier, and wore the black gauntlet emblematic of his order.

Iphegor pivoted to glare at him. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re talking nonsense. This blue stuff isn’t really fire, and your god and his prophecies had nothing to do with its coming. It’s here because Shar and Cyric killed Mystra. We know that much even if we know precious little more, so you might as well stop trying to convince us that the crisis means we ought to exalt your faith above all others.”

“You see only the surface of things,” Iphegor replied. “Look deeper.”

“That’s always good advice,” Dmitra said, hoping to avert an argument between the two clerics, “whatever god one follows. We need to weigh our options and choose the one that will leave us in the strongest position when the disturbances end.”

“Assuming they ever do,” Lallara said.

“They will,” Dmitra said, trying her best to sound certain of it. “The question is, what shall we do in the meantime?”

“Make peace,” Lauzoril said.

“No!” someone exclaimed. Turning, Dmitra saw that it was Bareris Anskuld. She wondered briefly why he’d remained on the other end of the room from Aoth. They generally sat together if they both attended a council, and it seemed odd that he wouldn’t be at his comrade’s side in the moment of his misfortune.

Prim and clerkish though he was, Lauzoril was also a zulkir, and unaccustomed to being interrupted by his inferiors. He gave Bareris a flinty stare. “Another such outburst and I’ll feed you to your own damn griffons.”

With a visible effort, Bareris clamped down on his emotions. “Master, I apologize.”

“As is proper,” Lallara said. “But I might have produced an outburst myself, if you hadn’t beaten me to it.”

“I hate Szass Tam as much as any of you,” Lauzoril said. “But the truth is, we’ve all been fighting for ten years, with neither side able to gain and keep the upper hand. As a result, Thay was on its way to ruin even before the blue fires came. Now the realm truly stands on the verge of annihilation. All of us who possess true power should work together to salvage what we can. Otherwise, there may be nothing left for anyone to rule.”

“Are you talking about reestablishing the council as it once was?” Zola Sethrakt asked, her voice cracking. She was a youthful-looking woman, comely in an affected, angular sort of way, who never went anywhere without a profusion of bone and jet ornaments swinging from her neck and sliding on her arms. As a result, she could scarcely breathe without clattering. “I’m the zulkir of Necromancy now!”

“Rest assured,” Lauzoril said, “you will always enjoy a place of high honor.”

“Every order has the right to elect its own zulkir, and mine chose me!” Zola screeched.

“The dregs of your order elected you,” Lallara snapped, “after the lich led all the competent necromancers into the north. So I suggest you pay careful heed to whatever your seniors on the council advise, and graciously accept any decision this body may happen to reach. Otherwise, if we do invite Szass Tam back, and he resents you spending the last ten years in his chair, you can contend with his displeasure without any support from the rest of us.”

Nevron scowled. It made his face almost as forbidding as the tattooed demonic visages visible on his neck and the backs of his hands. “Then you agree with Lauzoril?”

“No,” Lallara said, “at least, not yet. But I concede that for once, his idea is worth discussing.”

“So do I,” Samas said.

“I would, too,” Dmitra said, “if—”

“If you didn’t know Szass Tam better than the rest of us,” Lallara said. “By all the fiends in all the Hells, will we ever have a conversation without you harping on that same observation?”

“I apologize if it’s become tiresome,” Dmitra said, “but I repeat it because it’s both pertinent and true. I don’t claim I truly understand Szass Tam. None of us do. But I have some sense of the way his thoughts run, and I assure you, it’s a waste of time even to consider making peace. Having begun this war, he’ll see it through to the end, no matter the cost. If he indicated otherwise, it would be a ruse.”

“We could play that game, too,” Samas said. “Pretend we believe he desires peace, exploit his talents to help manage the current crisis, then turn on him later.”

“Remember how this all started,” Nevron said. “The assassinations and other maneuvers that nearly won him his regency without even needing to fight a war, and then tell me you’re confident you could play as cleverly. I’m not sure I could. I’d rather have the bastard as my open enemy raising armies against me in the north than give him free run of the south.”

“Well said, Your Omnipotence,” Iphegor said. “The Lord of Flames wants us to fight, and cauterize the vileness that is Szass Tam from the face of Faerûn.”

Dimon made a sour face. “As I’ve already explained, His Omniscience is mistaken if he truly believes that his deity, who is, to speak frankly, merely the prince of the fire elementals, has any sort of special role or significance in the current situation. But though his premises are faulty, his conclusion is valid. Speaking as a hierophant of the Black Hand, I too advise relentless aggression until we lay our enemy low, for such is the creed of Bane. It’s how men achieve glory in this life and the one that follows.”

“It’s how Red Wizards commonly conduct themselves, also,” Dmitra said, “and it’s an approach that’s served me well. So I oppose the idea of sending any sort of emissary to Szass Tam.”

Samas heaved a sigh. “I suppose I do, too. He’d probably just change our envoys into ghosts and zombies and add them to his legions.”

One by one, the remaining zulkirs rejected the notion of suing for peace. Zola looked relieved when it became clear how the informal vote was leaning.

At the end of it all, Lauzoril pursed his pale, thin lips. “So be it, then. Perhaps it was a bad idea. But surely we all agree that, even if we’re resolved to remain at war, we can’t prosecute it aggressively at the moment. According to Goodman Springhill’s spies, Szass Tam has retreated north with the greater part of his army, and we should retire to our own strongholds, to rebuild our strength and determine how to overcome the current impediment to our spellcasting.”

Bareris lifted his hand. “If Your Omnipotence has finished, may I speak to that point?”

“You’re here to offer your opinion,” Dmitra said, “so long as you do it courteously.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” said the bard. “I’m well aware that I lack the wisdom of a zulkir, a tharchion, or a high priest. I’m just a junior officer. But I have learned a little about war during my years of service, and it seems to me that now is the perfect time to launch a new campaign against Szass Tam.”

Lauzoril shook his head. “How can that be, when our forces are crippled?”

“Because, Master, such things are relative, and the lich is more crippled. For the moment, wizardry has lost a measure of its power. That means, in the battles to come, men-at-arms and priestly magic will play a decisive role, and who has more of both? You do—you zulkirs who control the populous south and the sea trade that enables you to hire sellswords from abroad. Whereas the majority of Szass Tam’s troops are undead, constrained to serve through sorcery, and when the blue fires came, he lost the use of a good many of them.”

Malark nodded. “My agents confirm it.”

“So I respectfully suggest you press your advantage,” Bareris said, “before Szass Tam figures out how to neutralize it.”

Nevron grunted. “I see the sense in what you recommend, but the world is in turmoil. I doubt we understand a tenth part of what’s happening. We certainly don’t know how to extinguish or turn back the blue fires. Do you think an army can march and fight under such conditions?”

“Yes,” Bareris said, “and why shouldn’t it try? What do you have to lose? The blue fire is no more likely to consume a legion on the march than one hiding in its barracks. It can spring up anywhere, with no warning.”

Malark fingered the birthmark on his chin. “The disruptions have damaged my network of spotters and scouts. But some of my agents are still on the job, and even with impaired magic, I’m optimistic that they can relay information quickly enough for it to be of use. If a wave of blue flame is flowing across the countryside, perhaps I can warn an army in the field in time for it to get out of the way.”

“That’s encouraging,” Dmitra said. “Having heard the advice of our tharchions and their subordinates, I now believe we ought to fight the northerners as aggressively as we can. What do the rest of you think?”

Samas shook his head. It made his jowls and chins wobble. “I don’t know …”

Lallara sneered. “No one is requiring you to go yourself.”

The fat man seemed to swell like a toad and his blotchy face bloomed even redder. “Are you questioning my courage? I fought at the Keep of Sorrows, the same as you!”

“Yes, you did,” Dmitra said, “and none of us doubts the bravery or loyalty of any of the zulkirs.” It was, of course, a preposterous statement, at least with regard to their alleged fidelity, but it might serve to steer the discussion back into productive channels. “I understand your misgivings. Truth be told, I share them. But I also know we’re fighting for our lives against a powerful, brilliant adversary, and we must take advantage of every opportunity.”

Samas snorted. “I seem to remember you saying much the same thing before we marched a critical portion of our strength into Szass Tam’s trap. But all right. Let’s see if we can finally bring this stupid war to an end.”

One by one, the other zulkirs concurred. “So—specifically, what will be our strategy?” Lauzoril asked. “Do we take back the Keep of Sorrows?”

The silver stud in her nostril gleaming in the lamplight, Nymia Focar cleared her throat. “Master, that wouldn’t be my advice. Reclaiming the fortress would require a lengthy siege, if it can be done at all, and we want to accomplish something quickly, before Szass Tam regains the full measure of his arcane powers.”

“What would that something be?” Nevron asked. “Is it time to assault High Thay itself?”

Dimon shook his head. “No, Your Omnipotence, I wouldn’t recommend that, either. It would be even more difficult and take longer than getting back into the keep. So my advice is to ignore the fortress but reclaim the rest of Lapendrar. It should be easy enough with Hezass Nymar and his legions dead. Next, retake your lost territories in northern Eltabbar, and conquer as much of Delhumide as you can. Once you do that, you’ll have the Thaymount surrounded, cut off from the Keep of Sorrows and Surthay and Gauros as well.”

“I like that,” Dmitra remarked. Then, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed an unfamiliar figure standing just inside the door. Startled, she jerked around in that direction.

Bareris looked where everyone else was looking, then cried out in astonishment.

Tammith had somehow slipped past a locked door without an assembly of the greatest wizards in the world noticing until she was fully inside. Tammith, clad in the somber mail and trappings of a champion or captain of Szass Tam’s host, her pretty face, though dark in life, now whiter than white in contrast to all that black. Tammith, whom he’d destroyed ten years ago, or so he’d always believed.

Iphegor Nath jumped up from his chair, overturning it to bang against the floor. He raised his hand and scarlet flame burst from it.

Bareris leaped up, too, without knowing what he intended, or why.

Tammith dropped to her knees. “I come as a peaceful supplicant!”

That was enough to persuade Iphegor to hesitate. He had plenty of reason to despise and distrust the undead, but not quite enough to lash out when one humbled herself before him. Even now, such creatures were considered to have their legitimate place in the proper Thayan order of things. Most of the vampires and dread warriors in the realm served Szass Tam, but thanks to the labors of Zola Sethrakt and her subordinates, the lords of the south commanded some as well.

“It appears,” said Dmitra Flass, “that everyone can safely be seated.” She fixed her gaze on Tammith. “I see what you are, blood-drinker. But who are you?”

“My name is Tammith Iltazyarra. Until Szass Tam and his lieutenants lost control of me and I deserted, I commanded the Silent Company. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Bareris ached to hear her speak. Her voice was sweet and familiar, yet cold and flat, a travesty of the one he remembered.

“Yes,” Dmitra said. “You’ve given us a good deal of trouble over the years.”

“Then perhaps,” Tammith said, “I can atone for it now. I want revenge on Szass Tam for forcing me to serve him, and the only way I’ll get it is to fight for the council.”

“That sounds plausible,” Lallara said. “But then, if the lich sent an impostor to mislead us and spy on us, I imagine he would give her a persuasive tale to tell.”

“Your Omnipotence,” said Bareris, “I know Tammi … Captain Iltazyarra.” Although if she still remembered him, at least with any vestige of emotion, no one could have known from her demeanor. “I mean, I did when she was alive, and I can vouch that she didn’t accept her transformation or induction into Szass Tam’s army willingly.”

“That’s fine,” said Samas Kul, “but how do we know she isn’t acting under coercion now? The blue fire didn’t free all of the lich’s puppets.”

“Zola Sethrakt is the zulkir of Necromancy,” Lauzoril said, “and I’m the realm’s greatest enchanter. Even with our abilities diminished, we should be able to determine whether her spirit is free or not.”

“But what,” asked Iphegor Nath, “if she came to embrace her condition and her station during her years of service to the lich? It’s plain from her stature and features that she was born Rashemi. Szass Tam gave her immortality, supernatural abilities, and high rank, and by some accounts, drinking blood is a carnal pleasure surpassing any the living can imagine. Perhaps she eventually decided she didn’t have it so bad.”

“Your Omniscience,” Tammith gritted, “if you believe that, then, for all your wisdom, you comprehend very little of what it truly means to have your life stripped away from you, with only thirst and servitude left in its place.”

“If Szass Tam doesn’t have her spirit chained up tight,” Zola said, “then it doesn’t matter what she truly feels. I can bind her to serve me.”

Tammith rose so swiftly that the eye could scarcely track the motion. “No, Mistress. With all respect, I’ll never submit to another such shackle. If you try to impose it, you’ll have to destroy me.”

And me, Bareris realized. He’d stand with her, crazy and suicidal though it would be.

“I hope you realize,” Dmitra said, “that even with our magic impaired, we can destroy you. If we all exert our powers against you, you won’t last an instant.”

“I understand,” Tammith said. “But then you’ll forfeit the chance to strike a crippling blow against your real enemy.”

“Meaning what?” Nevron asked.

“I heard you discussing strategy before I sneaked in.” Tammith smiled. “Vampires have keen ears. Your plan is good, but it could be better. Szass Tam lost many of his warriors to the blue fire. Now Xingax will labor to create replacements. But ifwe attack his manufactory, we can prevent it, and keep the northern armies weak.”

“I take it,” Dmitra said, “that you know where Xingax currently has his lair, and how we can get at it?”

Tammith inclined her head.

Bareris positioned himself beside a pale marble statue of a robed wizard and struck up a song about a starfish that decided it belonged in the sky. The ballad detailed its comical misadventures as it doggedly tried to clamber up into the heavens and take its place among the other luminaries. The sculpted wizard seemed to frown as if he disapproved of levity.

Bareris disapproved of it, too, or at least had long ago abandoned the habit, and the merry lyrics and rollicking tune felt strange coming out of his mouth. In fact, for some reason, they hurt.

But Tammith had always laughed at the song when the two of them were young, and at length, huge bats swooped out of the darkness. Bareris recoiled a step in spite of himself.

The bats swirled and melted together to become a woman. She’d removed her armor and wore a mannish leather jerkin and breeches. He wondered if she ever opted for skirts anymore.

“Of all the songs you ever wrote,” she said, “I always liked that one the best.”

He swallowed. “After the council of war, you just wandered off with Zola Sethrakt. You didn’t even speak to me.”

“And so you thought to flush me out with a tune. Here I am. What do you want?”

“For one thing, to say I’m sorry for what I did in the Keep of Thazar.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t take.”

“Don’t say that. You have your freedom now.”

“But I’m still dead.”

“No. Xingax laid a curse on you, but curses can be broken.”

“By whom? Your zulkirs, whose magic is crippled, and to whom I’m more useful as a vampire?”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand. You came here of your own volition, and yet you’re so bitter and cold. You act as if you don’t even want to see me.”

“I didn’t think I would. I didn’t see it myself, but I heard reports that the blue fire burned most of the Griffon Legion out of the air.”

“You’re saying you hoped I was dead?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t hate you, and I don’t blame you any longer for failing to rescue me. But I want my existence to be easy, and it’s easier when I don’t have to look at things that remind me of what I’ve lost.”

“Perhaps you haven’t lost as much as you think.”

She laughed. “Oh, believe me, I have. And even if I were still capable of loving the boy I adored when I was a child, where is he? Long gone, I think, poisoned by hatred and regret.”

“I thought so, too, until you appeared before me.”

“It will be easier for you if you realize nothing has actually changed. Bareris and Tammith are dead. We’re merely their ghosts.”

He shook his head. “You can’t avoid me. You’re going after Xingax, and I am, too.”

“We can hunt together. Just don’t prattle of things that neither one of us is capable of feeling or being any longer.”

“All right. If that’s what you want.”

“It is. Good night.” She turned away.

“Wait.”

She pivoted to look at him.

“I took care of your father and brother. I sent money. But they’re both dead. Your father drank so much it poisoned him, and Ral caught a pox.”

He didn’t know why he told her so brusquely, as if he were trying to match her coldness. Perhaps he wanted to hurt her, or to force her to betray soft human emotion, but if so, she disappointed him. She merely shrugged.