ELEVEN

19–24 KYTHORN
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Balasar rode at the wooden target Khouryn called a quintain. He grinned when the blunt tip of his practice lance thumped home, spinning the horizontal arm out of his way. He had some catching up to do if he was going to practice the strange new form of fighting when the army returned to Black Ash Plain, but he seemed to be getting the hang of it.

Behind him, some of his comrades raised a shout. He turned his horse around, then gaped in surprise.

Dozens of folk were marching toward the muddy training field from the place where Djerad Thymar rose like a broken-tipped blade against a cloudy sky. Several of them were carrying purple pennons with silvery dragon shapes coiling down their lengths.

Balasar hadn’t seen such banners since the night Nala fled and her treason became common knowledge, rekindling the average dragonborn’s hatred of wyrm worship. He hadn’t expected to see them ever again.

By the broken chain, he thought, what’s the matter with you people? Go home, lie low, and if anyone asks if you ever belonged to the Platinum Cadre, lie till your scales fall off! Don’t throw your lives away!

For it was possible that that was exactly what they were doing. A lancer whooped, couched his weapon, and rode at one of the cultists carrying a banner. The dragon-worshiper made no effort to dodge or otherwise defend himself. The lance slammed him in the chest and hurled him and his pennon to the ground.

It was conceivable that the impact had seriously injured or even killed him. Or that the horse trampled him; tall grass kept Balasar from seeing. Other lancers turned their steeds toward other living targets, and those cultists too made no effort to protect themselves. One warrior dropped his blunt length of ash and drew a sword of gleaming steel.

Balasar sent his horse racing toward the slaughter in the making. “Stop!” he bellowed. “Stop!”

No one paid him any attention.

But then Medrash galloped across the field, between some of the riders and the folk on foot. Even spattered with mud from the practice, even in the midst of the spring sunshine, he seemed to glow, and when he shouted for everyone to halt, his voice boomed like thunder. The lancers reined their horses in.

Balasar sighed and shook his head. Spit and roast him if he ever groveled to Torm or any other jumped-up spook. But there was no denying that it had taught Medrash some useful tricks.

“What’s wrong?” shouted one lancer. “These are the traitors! You brought them down!”

“I helped bring down their creed,” Medrash answered. “That doesn’t mean they deserve to be attacked on sight. Nala tricked them as she did the rest of us.”

“She tricked them worse,” said Balasar, riding out to take up a position beside his clan brother.

“Some of them were dragon-worshipers before Nala ever declared herself their prophet,” another lancer growled.

“And if I hadn’t infiltrated the cult and exposed it for what it was,” Balasar said, “some of you fools would be lining up to join. So the least you can do is accede to my judgment—and Medrash’s—when we tell you you don’t need to hurt these people. In fact, if you give yourself over to rage and viciousness, you’re embracing the same qualities that the dragon goddess tried to instill in them. So save your strength for killing ash giants!”

“And for practice,” Medrash said. “You all need more before we ride south. I suggest you get on with it.”

The riders stared back at him for a moment, then sullenly started turning their mounts around. An archer set his horse cantering, then loosed at a target. The arrow pierced the outer ring.

Meanwhile, Medrash rose in his stirrups and peered. Balasar looked where his kinsman was looking. Two of the cultists were helping the fellow who’d taken the blow from the lance get back on his feet. Evidently he wasn’t badly injured.

Medrash then regarded the group as a whole. “Get out of here,” he said. “Before your presence provokes them all over again.”

A brown-scaled female named Vishva stepped from the front of the crowd. Like a number of the cultists, she had little puckered scars on her face. They were the spots where she’d worn her piercings before her clan expelled her.

“With all respect,” she said, “we can’t do that. We came here for a purpose.”

“I don’t care,” Medrash replied.

She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Those few of us who were closest to Nala, who understood what she was actually doing and helped her make the talismans, went to ground when she disappeared. The rest of us want to go on fighting the giants.”

Medrash snorted. “That’s out of the question.”

“We need to prove our loyalty and atone for our transgressions.”

“Well, you’ll have to find another way to do it. Even if Tarhun would tolerate your presence in the ranks, the Lance Defenders and the rest of the army wouldn’t. They’d treat you as these fellows”—he jerked his head to indicate his fellow mounted warriors—“wanted to treat you.”

“Maybe not,” Vishva said. “Not if Clan Daardendrien and the very warriors who unmasked Nala sponsor us.”

Balasar laughed. “What a good idea! In case you haven’t noticed, the fight against Nala made Medrash and me heroes. Why would we want to jump down into the mud with you?”

“If you won’t vouch for us,” Vishva said, “then we’ll march without it, alone if need be. And if it’s only to lay down our lives, so be it. At least we’ll die with our honor restored, like Patrin.”

Medrash scowled. “Wait here.” He rode a little distance from the cultists. Balasar followed.

“What do you think?” Medrash asked.

“I think I’m surprised you’d even bother to inquire,” Balasar said. “You despise the very idea of dragon worship, remember? Our elders raised us to despise it. And since these people are still flying their banners, they still are wyrm-worshipers. They’re just trying to renounce Tiamat and give their devotion back to the real Bahamut. From a rational, decent perspective, what’s the difference?”

“We said we were trying to save them as much as everyone else,” said Medrash.

“You and Khouryn said that,” Balasar said. “I was busy trying to figure out where the cart had gone and keeping an eye out for trouble.”

“How have we saved them if they die on Black Ash Plain or at the hands of their own people before they even get there?” asked Medrash.

“We saved them from Nala’s lies,” said Balasar. “If they turn right around and commit suicide, that’s their problem.”

“Even if we could convince them to stay home, what sort of lives would they have?” Medrash asked. “People have always scorned them. They’ll hate and persecute them now. Unless they can redeem themselves.”

“Is this about you feeling guilty over Patrin?” said Balasar. “Because you’re a warrior from a warlike clan. It looks stupid if you feel bad just because you killed somebody.”

“I keep remembering how he said that Bahamut and Torm were friends, and we should be too,” Medrash said. “I remember that it felt … right to fight alongside him. And in the end, even though he realized I’d given him his death, he saved us from the mob.”

“I liked him too,” Balasar said. “But shepherding his fellow idiots won’t bring him back.”

“You’re the one who spent time with them. So tell me, are they deranged or depraved beyond all hope of redemption?”

Balasar sighed. “No. Nala dirtied them up a little, but essentially they’re just people. They joined the Cadre because they were unhappy. It’s not all that different from when you pledged yourself to Torm.”

Medrash smiled a crooked smile. “I don’t like the comparison, but we can save that for another time.” Sunlight glinting on the white studs in his face, mail clinking, he urged his horse back toward the cultists. Balasar clucked, bumped his mount with his heels, and rode after him.

Medrash raked the dragon-worshipers with a stern gaze. “You claim you want to atone,” he said. “But you still carry Nala’s taint. Right now, even as you’re asking for our help, some of you are swaying back and forth.”

“Can you cleanse us?” Vishva replied. “Nothing would please us more.”

“Are you sure?” Medrash said. “If I break your ties to Tiamat, you’ll lose her gifts. You won’t be able to use your breath attacks more often than any other dragonborn. You won’t feel the fury that fills you with strength and burns away your fear. As far as Balasar and I are concerned, that … weakening is necessary. We won’t sponsor warriors who fight like rabid beasts and gorge on the raw flesh of the fallen. But it means that for you, battle will be more dangerous than before.”

“We want to be clean,” Vishva said. Other cultists called out in agreement.

“Then you will be.” Medrash slid his lance back into the sheath attached to his saddle, then raised high his hand in its steel gauntlet. He whispered something too softly for Balasar to make out the words.

Brightness pulsed from the gauntlet like the slow, steady beats of a heart at rest. Each pulse gave Balasar a kind of pleasant, invigorating jolt, like a plunge into cold water on a hot day.

But the cultists didn’t look invigorated. They grimaced and cringed away from the light.

Medrash whispered faster, and the glow throbbed faster too. The distinct shocks of exhilaration Balasar had been experiencing blurred into a continual soaring elation.

The cultists fell to the ground and thrashed. Dark fumes rose from their bodies, five from each. The strands of vapor coiled and twisted around one another like serpentine necks supporting heads that wanted to peer in all directions at once.

The smoke, if that was the proper term for it, looked filthy. Poisonous. Even Balasar’s euphoria didn’t prevent a pang of loathing. If I’d let it in during my initiation, he thought, that stuff would be inside me too.

As they pulled free of the cultists’ bodies, the lengths of vapor whipped one way and another as if they too were convulsing in pain. Some looped around and struck like serpents, seemingly trying to stab their way back inside the flesh that had hitherto sheltered them. But each glanced off like a sword skipping off a shield.

Then, all at once, they leaped at Medrash. Balasar opened his mouth to shout a warning. A final burst of brilliance flared from the paladin’s gauntlet, and the vapors frayed to nothing midway to their target.

The light went out of Medrash’s hand, and his arm flopped down at his side. His body slumped as if he was about to collapse onto his horse’s neck.

Trying for a better look at his clan brother’s face, Balasar leaned down. “Are you all right?”

Medrash swallowed. “Yes,” he rasped, and then, with a visible effort, sat up straight. “It’s just that that was … taxing.”

“I don’t see why,” Balasar said. “All you did was the break the hold of a goddess on dozens of people at once. A hatchling could have done it.”

Medrash smiled slightly. “Next time we’ll find that particular hatchling and give the job to him.”

The members of the Cadre started slowly and shakily drawing themselves to their feet.

“Is everyone all right?” Medrash asked.

“I … think so,” Vishva quavered. “That hurt. It really hurt. But it’s better now.”

“Better than better,” said a fellow with umber scales. A grin lit up his face.

“I was so sick,” said a female—astonishment, revulsion, and relief all tangled together in her tone, “so ugly. And I didn’t even know!”

In another moment, a dozen of the cultists were clamoring all at once.

“Thank you,” shouted Vishva, making herself heard above the din, “and thank Torm, who lent you his glory! Thank Bahamut, who led us to you!”

Medrash looked like he didn’t know to respond. In the end, he settled on gruffness, perhaps to hide whatever he was feeling.

“Now comes the hard part,” he said. “Stripped of your powers, you’re nothing special. We can only hope that some hard training will make you marginally useful. As spearmen.” He turned to Balasar. “Khouryn doesn’t have a prejudice against Bahamut worshipers. Do you think he’ll teach them, and lead them into battle when the times comes?”

Balasar grinned. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be as thrilled as I am.”

Studying the rolling scrubland beneath them, Aoth and Jet floated on the night wind. Jaxanaedegor could shift the companies under his command as he saw fit. But he couldn’t neglect dispatching scouts to range across the countryside, or officers loyal to Alasklerbanbastos would realize something was amiss. Someone had to keep those scouts from reporting that reinforcements were reaching the Chessentan army.

Aoth spotted four kobolds skulking along the lee of a low rise. He kindled light in the point of his spear, swept the weapon down to point at the scouts, then extinguished the glow. He hoped that if the kobolds even noticed, they’d think they’d merely seen a shooting star.

Jet furled his wings and plunged at the kobold at the back of the line. Rising in the stirrups, Aoth braced for the jolt to come.

Jet’s talons stabbed home, and his momentum smashed the kobold to the ground beneath him. The scaly little creature likely died without ever even realizing he was in danger, and the thud of his demise was relatively quiet.

But not quiet enough. The other three kobolds spun around.

Jet yanked his gory claws out of the dead scout’s body, then pounced. He slammed another kobold down on the ground, raked with his leonine hind legs, and tore lengths of gut out of the warrior’s belly.

A third kobold hissed rhyming words and jerked a length of carved bone through a zigzag pass. Hoping to blast the shaman before he finished his spell, Aoth aimed his spear at him.

Then Eider plunged down on the reptilian adept to rend and crush the life from him. Gaedynn pivoted in the saddle, drew, and released. The arrow hit the last kobold in the throat, where his hide and bone armor didn’t cover. He toppled backward, thrashed, and then lay still.

Jhesrhi and Scar glided to earth. “You didn’t leave any work for me,” the wizard said.

“We didn’t want you to get blood on your new clothes,” Gaedynn answered.

Jhesrhi scowled.

Making sure they hadn’t missed any kobolds, or anything else requiring their attention, Aoth took a look around. Everything was all right.

Which was to say, they’d tackled the kind of task that sellswords were supposed to perform, and done it well. Wishing that the rest of life was as simple, he said, “This is as good a place as any for a talk.”

Gaedynn smiled. “I had a hunch. Why would you take both your lieutenants off on a patrol, unless it was to talk where no one could overhear?”

Aoth swung himself off Jet’s back, then scratched his head. It made a rustling sound and tinged the air with the smell of feathers. “I told you about Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor’s palaver. You’ve had some time to mull it over. What do you think?”

Jhesrhi dismounted and removed a leather bottle from one of Scar’s saddlebags. “Essentially,” she said, “assuming we can trust Jaxanaedegor, it was all good news. He and his minions will betray Alasklerbanbastos, and we’ll all destroy the Great Bone Wyrm together.”

Gaedynn snorted. “There’s a subtle analysis.”

“It’s a sound analysis!” Jhesrhi snapped. “And you’re a jackass if you don’t like it. We’re going to win, collect plenty of gold for our trouble, and restore the Brotherhood’s reputation. Which is exactly what we came to Chessenta to do.”

“So it is,” said Aoth. “And half the time, I feel like a fool for trying to look any deeper. But the other half, I worry that something bad will take us by surprise if we don’t. So, what do you make of the part of the conversation that Tchazzar didn’t share with us? The part that wasn’t just him and the vampire conspiring to bring Alasklerbanbastos down?”

Jhesrhi frowned as though she felt rebuked, although that hadn’t been Aoth’s intention. Pulling the stopper from her bottle, she said, “Have it your way. If you insist on fretting, I do have one bone for you to gnaw on. Do you know the tales of the final Rage of Dragons?”

“I recall a bit of them,” Aoth said, “and I lived through a nasty little piece of the Rage myself.”

“Well, Brimstone was the name—or, to be precise, the nickname—of one of the wyrms who helped destroy the lich Sammaster and put an end to the madness.” Jhesrhi took a drink, hesitated for an instant, then offered the bottle to Aoth.

He made sure his fingers didn’t brush hers as he took it. It turned out to contain lukewarm water. Too bad. He’d hoped for something stronger.

Gaedynn shrugged. “The last Rage happened even before the Spellplague. With all respect to our hoary old captain here, I don’t see how it could have anything to do with our current problems.”

“Neither do I,” Jhesrhi said. “Especially since in Karasendrieth’s song cycle, Brimstone dies at the end. But it’s all I have, so I thought I’d mention it.”

Aoth wiped his mouth and passed the water to Gaedynn. “This is just a guess, but maybe Brimstone’s a nickname you’d assume if you hoped to command a dragon’s respect or even his obedience. And Jaxanaedegor did speak of this Brimstone like it’s someone who could impose some sort of sanction against him and Tchazzar both.”

Seeming to sense its dislocation by sheer instinct, Gaedynn smoothed down a stray wisp of his coppery hair. “But really, what sense does that make? Jaxanaedegor’s overlord is Alasklerbanbastos, and his stated goal is to slay the Bone Wyrm and be free. And Tchazzar is even less inclined to acknowledge any sort of authority. How could he, when he believes he’s not just a god, but the greatest of gods?”

Jhesrhi glared. “He never said that.”

“Not in so many words,” Gaedynn answered. “Not yet. But it’s coming.”

“Here’s one thought,” said Aoth, “unlikely though it may seem. More than once, Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor spoke of playing a game. Some games need an overseer to tally points and enforce the rules.”

Gaedynn’s eyes narrowed. “Brimstone could be the overseer, and the Precepts could be the rules,” he said.

“You’re both letting your imaginations run wild,” Jhesrhi said. “Aoth, you have to remember you don’t speak Draconic perfectly. Even if you did, you don’t understand exactly how dragons think or what sort of relationships exist among them. Surely if they referred to a game, it was just a figure of speech.”

“Maybe,” Aoth admitted.

“Even if they do think of the war as being, in some sense, a game,” Jhesrhi said, “what does it matter? Won’t we fight it and profit by it the same as ever?”

“I hope so,” said Aoth.

“It may not matter to us sellswords,” said Gaedynn, “who wanted to fight somebody someplace. But if it’s all just an amusement, that’s hard luck for the Chessentans and Threskelans, with no choice but to struggle and die for their masters’ entertainment.”

“It clearly isn’t just an amusement,” Jhesrhi said. “Tchazzar and Alasklerbanbastos have been trying to destroy one each other for centuries. There aren’t two more committed enemies in all the length and breadth of Faerûn. In addition to which, Tchazzar wants to control all the lands that are rightfully his, just like any other king. And since when do you care about the Chessentans, the Threskelans, or anybody else outside the Brotherhood?”

Gaedynn smiled a crooked smile. “Fair enough. You have me there. Which doesn’t change the fact that Tchazzar is keeping secrets from us—and is crazy besides. He’s no more trustworthy than Nevron or Samas Kul.”

“He’s sick from his ordeal. You’ve never suffered anything similar, so you can’t understand.”

“You have no idea what I’ve suffered.”

“Actually, I do. You told me. And no matter how much you secretly pity yourself because of it, you got off lightly.”

Gaedynn hesitated, then said, “If we compared scars, I might concede that yours run deeper than mine. But we’re talking about Tchazzar.”

“Fine. Let’s talk about him. Let’s give him credit for getting better.”

“Absolutely. He seemed much better, freezing in terror when we needed him. And afterward, when he abused Meralaine and Shala for the heinous offense of helping to keep us all from being overrun.”

Aoth frowned. Gaedynn’s antipathy for their employer was unprofessional and quite possibly dangerous. Which didn’t change the fact that he agreed with the archer’s opinion.

“He was a great ruler,” Jhesrhi said. “That’s why, a hundred years later, people prayed for his return. And he’ll do great things again. He’s already started.”

Gaedynn sighed. “I understand that he’s rubbed balm on the galls that have pained you your whole life through. But that doesn’t make up for everything else he’s done. Or everything he’s going to do.”

Jhesrhi sneered. “You’re not a prophet. You don’t know what he’s going to do.”

“That’s true,” said Aoth. “None of us does. And, through no fault of either of you, this talk hasn’t shed much light on that or any other part of our situation. The only thing I’m sure of is what I already knew going in: We need to abide by our contract, fight the Threskelans, and beat them. If we don’t, the Brotherhood is finished.”

Gaedynn smiled. “But while we’re fighting?”

“We keep our eyes open,” said Aoth. “Figure out as much as we can.”

“Spy,” Jhesrhi said.

“Watch and think,” Aoth replied. “Does that bother you?”

“I’ll do it,” she said. She climbed back onto Scar’s back and brushed a fingertip down his neck. The griffon leaped and lashed his wings.

Gaedynn gave Aoth a sour look. “I don’t like you making her uncomfortable.”

Aoth sighed. “Why? Because it’s your job?”

As Khouryn bowed, he took stock of Tarhun. Viewed in bright sunlight, patches of the vanquisher’s hide were mottled and a paler green than the rest. That was particularly true around the square gold studs, which the red saurian’s fire had likely heated until they themselves were burning hot. But the eyes above the piercings were intact, and the hulking dragonborn stood straight and tall. He looked ready to lead an army once again.

“The healers gave me a great deal of attention,” Tarhun said. It startled Khouryn, who’d tried to make his appraisal without staring. “Too much, perhaps, considering that other warriors lay maimed and dying.”

Khouryn shrugged. “You’re the leader.”

“True. A leader who had difficulty walking abroad until recently. So I need my officers to tell me how the preparations are going.”

“Well. We’re just about ready to march.”

“I understand that you want to take the Platinum Cadre along.”

“I don’t want it. Medrash does. And Balasar too, I think, though he doesn’t say it outright. But they can’t turn them into cavalry. We don’t have enough war-horses for warriors in disgrace to rate mounts. So I get stuck using them as spearmen.”

Tarhun peered at him. “Are you implying you don’t trust them?”

“I trust them to be free of Tiamat’s influence. Because Medrash says he purged them, and I trust him. Do I trust them to stand their ground and follow orders when things get ugly? I don’t know. But then you never really know about that, do you?”

The vanquisher smiled. “No, you don’t. Not when the swords slide out of their scabbards and the arrows start flying. You’re all right, Khouryn Skulldark, and Tymanther owes you a debt. There’s a permanent place for you here, if you care to claim it.”

Khouryn smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate the offer for the honor that it is. But the Brotherhood of the Griffon is my home.” At least until the day came, if it ever did, when he could return to East Rift to stay.

“Majesty!” a voice called. “If you’re ready for us, we’re ready for you.”

Khouryn and Tarhun turned toward the pit, a raw wound in the earth amid the grass and splashes of red and purple wildflowers. Staves, wands, or orbs in hand, an assortment of wizards stood around the edges. To Khouryn’s knowledgeable eye, the majority didn’t look like battle mages. They were too diffident, too vague and abstracted, or just too old and rickety, stooped and gaunt with folds of loose hide hanging. But dragonborn didn’t produce an abundance of arcanists, and the vanquisher had mobilized all there were to deal with the current crisis.

“All right, Kriv. Tell me what’s going to happen,” Tarhun said.

The mage who’d spoken before stepped forth from his fellows. He had bronze hide with black freckles, yellow eyes, a single onyx ring in his left nostril, and a hexagonal brass medallion engraved with a triangle affixed to the center of his forehead. He carried one of Nala’s green globes in his upturned hand.

“At one point,” Kriv said, “some of my more … imaginative colleagues hypothesized that the talismans actually create the reptilian creatures from the raw stuff of primordial chaos. Even though the sheer force required would be prohibitive. And now that we’ve had the opportunity to conduct a proper examination of some functional orbs, it’s clear that they merely transport beasts that already exist in our world from one point in space to another.”

Tarhun nodded. “Go on.”

“The difference,” said Kriv, “is of practical significance. Because it’s possible for countermagic to prevent such an effect.”

“You mean, to stop the orbs from working,” the vanquisher said.

“Yes.”

“I like it,” Khouryn said. “It doesn’t necessarily mean we won’t have to fight any of the brutes. If they’re already alive in the world someplace, the place is probably Black Ash Plain. But if the giants don’t know that they need to march them to the battlefield, we may not have to contend with many. And in any case, the shamans won’t be able to make them pop out of nowhere and surprise us.”

Kriv smiled. “That was our thought. So, with Your Majesty’s permission, we intend to conduct an experiment in two parts. First, to make sure we truly do understand the operation of the talisman, I’ll summon a saurian. Then I’ll attempt to summon another, and my fellow arcanists will thwart me.”

“Do it,” Tarhun said.

Kriv walked to the edge of the pit, peered down at the bottom, raised the orb so its green curves caught the sunlight, and chanted words of power. The other wizards, Tarhun, and Khouryn moved up to look into the hole as well.

A feeling of pressure built up in the air. It made Khouryn’s skin itch and the pulp in his teeth throb in time with the beating of his heart. In one place and another, individual blades of grass grew long, forked, and writhed in a way that reminded him of Nala.

The chant ended on a rising note, and the sense of pressure vanished abruptly. But nothing appeared at the bottom of the pit.

Tarhun whirled. Khouryn didn’t know what had alarmed the monarch, but he figured he’d better spin around too, and snatch for the urgrosh on his back.

Three green kobolds crouched before them. No—not kobolds, for though they at first glance resembled them, they were inhaling in the characteristic manner of creatures readying breath weapons.

Somehow, Tarhun spat his first. The crackling, twisting spear of lightning stabbed one creature in the chest.

Khouryn charged another. It spewed, and he twisted aside. The fumes from the sizzling glob stung his eyes as it passed, but did no actual harm.

He sprang, struck, and his axe crunched into the saurian warrior’s skull. He sensed a threat on his flank, wrenched his weapon free, and pivoted. But he needn’t have bothered.

Like all the preeminent folk in Tymanther, Tarhun mostly fought with a greatsword. It was a symbol of his rank. It was also a weapon that was damnably hard to ready quickly when a warrior wore it sheathed across his back. Yet somehow the vanquisher had managed to draw it, and he cut into the last saurian’s torso with one precise little chop.

A moment of silence followed.

Kriv said, “That was … regrettable. But one has to allow for a degree of error when testing new magic.”

Tarhun grinned. “If one wanted to make sure one wasn’t charged with attempted regicide, one might have allowed for it by digging a bigger pit.” Kriv’s eyes widened. “Please. I’m joking. It’s all right. After my injuries, I needed to test myself, and you gave me the opportunity.”

Khouryn said, “I take it you can call the saurians, but not control them.”

“Correct,” the wizard said. “Since we decided the best tactic is to suppress the summoning, analyzing the other aspect of the talisman’s power didn’t seem as crucial.”

“Fair enough,” Tarhun said. He gave his sword a one-handed shake and flicked gore from the blade. “So let’s see you do it.”

“Of course, Majesty. I’m, uh, reasonably confident I can center the effect in the pit this time around.”

He raised the globe and recited as before. But after a moment, one of his fellows started chanting too. Then another joined in, and then another, their voices weaving a complex contrapuntal pattern.

A whine sounded beneath the measured insistence of the voices. Khouryn felt momentarily dizzy. Two more stunted reptilian warriors flickered in and out of view at the bottom of the hole, present one moment, gone the next.

Then Kriv cried out, dropped the orb, and reeled backward. Khouryn grabbed him and kept him from falling on his rump.

“Uh, thank you.” Kriv clumsily tried to get his feet back underneath him. Khouryn held onto him until he succeeded. “I’m all right now.”

Tarhun peered at him. “Are you certain, my friend? You have a nosebleed.”

Kriv brushed his hand across his snout, bumping his piercing in the process, then peered at the streak of blood on his index finger. “So I see. I have a pounding headache too.”

“Then I insist you see my personal healers.”

Kriv smiled at the implicit honor the vanquisher had shown him. “Thank you, Majesty. I will. But after we’re finished here.”

Khouryn said, “You’ve already shown us plenty. If your countermagic will give the giant adepts a kick in the head, it’s even more useful than you promised. We’re going to crush the bastards.”

“I hope that’s so,” said a female voice. “But you need to understand that our foes have other cards to play.”

Khouryn looked around. The speaker had snow-white scales, a color Khouryn hadn’t seen before, and several silver skewers pierced into the edges of her face. They ran into and out of little pinches of hide, with most of their gleaming lengths extending out the backs.

“Please explain,” Tarhun said.

“I was one of Kriv’s more imaginative colleagues,” she said. Her crimson eyes shot the summoner a sardonic glance. “Perhaps because of that, once we verified that his idea was correct, he wasn’t very interested in my help. And possibly that was for the best, because it gave me time to study the papers Nala left behind.”

The vanquisher frowned. “I assumed you scholars had already made a thorough examination.”

“We had,” said Kriv.

“Within limits,” the albino mage replied. “The fact of the matter is, Nala wrote in what I would describe as an esoteric, liturgical form of Draconic. Whereas we’re arcanists, not clerics. In addition, she was writing for herself and felt no need to explain every aspect of the plan to herself. Thus, certain facts only emerge by implication.”

“What are they?” Tarhun asked.

“Last century, when this land was Unther, Skuthosiin was a lord. He wants to be one again. To that end, he united the ash giant tribes.”

Khouryn fingered his scraggly beard. “You all told me it would take someone powerful to make the barbarians set aside their feuds.”

“I see how it was meant to work,” Tarhun said. “If Tymanther prevailed, but only through the efforts of dragon-worshipers, that would ultimately provide an entry for a dragon to claim a place of honor among us. And if the giants won, it would make him master of the realm.”

“Since the first possibility has fallen through,” Khouryn said, “he’ll put everything he has into the second. He’ll finally come out of hiding to lead the giants into battle himself.”

“And not just him,” the white-scaled wizard said. “He evidently has lesser wyrms serving him, although I wasn’t able to discover their names or much else about them.”

Tarhun looked down at Khouryn. “What do you think?”

“It’s not the best possible news. Especially considering the casualties we’ve already taken. But we finally won and pushed the whoresons back. We need to press the advantage. And at least we now know who we have to kill to break the giants’ alliance.”

Tarhun smiled. “I agree. And you’ll see that nothing brings out the best in dragonborn like the chance to slay true dragons.” He turned his smile on the mages. “Thank you all for the fine work you’ve done. And the fine work you’re going to do when we face the foe on Black Ash Plain.”

Her voluminous, bejeweled sleeves sliding down her skinny arms, Halonya raised the square little basket in both hands. “O mighty Red Dragon,” she said, “lend me your wisdom.”

Which seemed nonsensical to Jhesrhi. Halonya was performing the divination on Tchazzar’s behalf. If it would only yield insights the war hero already possessed, what was the point?

Not that there was much point in any case. Jhesrhi had met seers who could glimpse the future. She was certain Halonya wasn’t one of them.

But watching intently, Tchazzar plainly thought otherwise. He’d proclaimed Halonya his high priestess, and to his mind, that sufficed to invest her with sacred Power.

Halonya dumped the ivory tiles onto the ground, rattling and pattering from the basket. Jhesrhi suppressed a smile when the priestess peered at them, stooped, peered again, and then with obvious reluctance got down on her knees. She likely thought the position undignified for one of her elevated status and probably didn’t want to risk soiling her ornate robes. But in the darkened pavilion, with only the wavering yellow glow of two hanging lanterns to see by, she couldn’t make out the etched symbols unless she got up close.

Jhesrhi wished Gaedynn were there. He too would have appreciated the humor. But Tchazzar had wanted to dine with her and Halonya alone.

Halonya picked up a tile. “Here is fire. Pure and noble. Light and salvation for all who follow it. But there are some so evil that they only wish to put it out.”

Tchazzar frowned. “Go on.”

The priestess ran her eyes over the scattered tiles, then picked up another. “Here is the evildoer known to all—the serpent. The dead thing in the north. But the fire will fight death with death and cast it down.”

Since Tchazzar had told Halonya he’d made a pact with a vampire to destroy a lich, she surely hadn’t had to overtax her imagination to come up with that particular prognostication. Jhesrhi supposed she should be glad the priestess hadn’t said anything to shake the war hero’s confidence in the plan. Because, with Alasklerbanbastos rapidly advancing, it was too late for second thoughts.

“In the long run,” Halonya continued, “the greater danger will come from enemies in hiding.” She pointed to a tile. “Here’s the mask. The pretense of faithfulness and friendship. And look who’s hiding behind it.” She jabbed her finger at a different ivory rectangle. “The sun, jealous because fire shines brighter.” She pointed again. “The spear, always ready to stab anyone for coin.” And again. “The leper, flinching from every touch so people won’t find out she’s full of poison.”

In other words, Jhesrhi thought, the priests of Amaunator, Aoth, and me. Curse you, woman. Curse and rend your jealous, lying soul.

Jhesrhi didn’t want to let the slander pass unchallenged. Yet at the same time she didn’t want to acknowledge that she recognized to whom it referred, lest that give it a kind of credence in Tchazzar’s mind. So she simply heaved a sigh.

Tchazzar turned on his campstool. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m no diviner,” Jhesrhi answered. “It’s not one of my talents. But while in Thay, I read a treatise on the Four and Forty Tiles by Yaphyll herself.” She gave a Halonya a smile. “You recognize the name, I’m sure. The only oracle to foresee Mystra’s murder and the coming of the Blue Fire.”

Halonya scowled. “What about her?”

“She says that one tile can only influence at most two others. Which means the mask can’t possibly veil the sun, the spear, and the leper. Especially when there are other pieces—like the ox and the river—that fell as close or closer to it. Or is there some subtlety I’m missing?”

The former street preacher hesitated. “Maybe not. It was a long journey up from Luthcheq with the troops. I’m tired.”

Jhesrhi felt herself relax, because her statements had been as much a bluff as Halonya’s performance. She had no idea whether the late Zulkir of Divination had ever written about the Four and Forty Tiles. If so, Jhesrhi had certainly never read the results. But Halonya feared to contend with her in a contest of erudition, and Tchazzar was evidently no expert on that particular form of prophecy either.

“Maybe I can try again later,” Halonya continued. She shifted her gaze to Tchazzar. “If it’s just the two of us, it might help me concentrate.”

“Maybe,” said Tchazzar. He rose and lifted her to her feet—a tacit reassurance of his continuing favor—and she set about readjusting her layers of silk and velvet and dangling, clinking golden chains and amulets. “Or maybe you’d do better with a different style of prophecy! One that reflects my aspect as a god of fire!”

He picked up the bottle of Sembian red from its folding table and, careless in one of his sudden excitements, splashed more wine into the golden goblets his guests had set aside. “Imagine,” he continued, “a man—or an orc, a kobold, or whatever—burning alive. He’ll cry out. His limbs will twist and his skin will char. Smoke will rise. But the precise way it all happens will vary from case to case. And surely you, the chief priestess of a greater deity, will read meaning in the patterns.”

Halonya turned white and swallowed. “I … I’ll try if you want me to, Your Majesty.”

Tchazzar laughed loud and long. Jhesrhi couldn’t tell whether it was because he’d been joking about the whole idea of the immolations or simply because he found Halonya’s squeamishness amusing.

Finally, blinking tears from his eyes, he said, “I do love you, daughter, and I was wise to call you to my side. Important as it is, my temple can wait. I need both my truest friends to bring my luck.”

“I never want to be anywhere else,” Halonya said.

After that, for a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Tchazzar fixed his gaze on Jhesrhi. “And you?” he asked, a coolness lurking in his tone.

Caught by surprise, Jhesrhi stammered, “Majesty?”

“Surely you understand my plans for you,” Tchazzar replied. “I want you to stay in the land of your birth. You’ll look after your fellow wizards. Protect them and help them find their proper roles. And as you get that sorted out, you’ll assume additional offices and honors. In the days to come, you and Halonya will be the two greatest ladies in all the East. Surely that will please you.”

Jhesrhi supposed it would. After all, it was vindication, a lofty purpose, luxury, and power all bundled up together.

Whereas the Brotherhood was home. But Khouryn had already gone, and given the countless chances and perils attendant on the sellsword’s way of life, there was no guarantee he’d ever come back. And no matter how often she and Gaedynn resolved not to, they always went back to hurting each other. They’d been doing it ever since escaping the Shadowfell.

Still …

Suddenly she noticed the way Tchazzar was frowning at her hesitation, and the excitement gleaming in Halonya’s eyes. She didn’t want to believe the dragon was mad—at least not severely and permanently so—but sane or otherwise, he was certainly prideful enough to resent a refusal. And Halonya would do everything in her power to keep the wound rubbed raw.

Was he petty and shortsighted enough to answer a rebuff by turning against the Brotherhood? Or stripping Chessenta’s mages of their newly granted legal protections? Jhesrhi didn’t want to believe that either. But she also didn’t want to assume better of him and be wrong.

She swallowed away the dryness in her mouth. “Thank you, Majesty. Of course I’ll stay if you’ll have me.”

Halonya scowled, then struggled to twist the expression into a smile before Tchazzar noticed. It gave Jhesrhi another moment of spiteful amusement.

But no matter how exuberant the dragon seemed at her acquiescence, and no matter how she tried to respond in kind, that was the last bit of genuine enjoyment that came her way. Nor did she feel any gladder as, unable to sleep, she prowled through the camp later on.

Could she truly acquit herself well as a courtier? She, who felt ill at ease around nearly everyone?

Even if she could, did she have the right to abandon her comrades? Especially with Khouryn already absent?

The more she weighed her choices, the more intolerable each of them seemed. But finally she saw a glimmer of hope. If she was staying, maybe the entire Brotherhood could too.

She didn’t know whether Aoth would agree. But he might. Even if he didn’t, if she persuaded Tchazzar to ask, then neither the war-mage nor Gaedynn could say that she’d simply turned her back on them.

It was late. Selûne and her trail of glittering tears had nearly set in the west. But Jhesrhi was too energized to care. She strode through the moist night air with the snores of sleeping men snorting and buzzing around her and the butt of her staff thumping the ground.

When she got close enough, she smiled, because spots of light still shined inside Tchazzar’s spacious tent. She wouldn’t even have to wake him. She started forward, and then a sentry stepped into her path. In her eagerness, she hadn’t noticed him before.

He wore a scaly chasuble, part vestment and part armor, and carried a pick in his hands. One of the wyrmkeepers, then, who’d resumed wearing their customary regalia after Tchazzar proclaimed they could legitimately serve as clergy in his own church. Jhesrhi felt a twinge of distaste.

“The god,” he said, “is not to be disturbed.”

“He’ll see me,” Jhesrhi said.

“Perhaps in the morning,” he replied.

“I’m one of Aoth Fezim’s lieutenants, which means I’m a high-ranking officer in this army. I’m also the protector of all Chessenta’s wizards. His Majesty appointed me to that office earlier tonight.”

“Be that as it may, the god is not to be disturbed.”

Jhesrhi clenched herself against the urge to knock the fool out of her way with magic. Then she noticed details that made impatience give way to puzzlement.

She might have expected to encounter a sentry within a few paces of his commander’s tent. Instead, the wyrmkeeper had stationed himself a stone’s throw away, as though to make absolutely certain that he himself couldn’t intrude on Tchazzar’s privacy. There were other guards too, shadows blocking every approach to the pavilion, each of them standing just as far away.

But more interesting still was the roiling of mystical power that she suddenly discerned. She half felt it as a crawling on her skin, half saw it as sickly foxfire on the fabric of the tent. Tchazzar wanted privacy because he was conducting some sort of arcane ritual.

She gave a brusque nod to the wyrmkeeper, then turned and stalked away. Stepping over pegs and rope, she stopped in the narrow, shadowy gap between two humbler tents and pondered what to do next.

Earlier, Tchazzar’s offer had so flummoxed her that she’d forgotten that she had, in fact, agreed to spy on him if circumstances warranted. As they seemingly did now.

But since she’d agreed to serve him as her true liege lord, would it be wicked to follow through? One thing was certain—it would be dangerous. A dragon might sense magic at play around him.

Yet she found that her loyalty to Aoth, Gaedynn, and the rest of the Brotherhood outweighed all other concerns, ethical and practical alike. A day might come—indeed, seemed nearly at hand—when she’d have to tell them she was no longer one of them. But until then, she’d keep faith with them.

She whispered to the air. A cooperative breeze could carry sounds if they originated only a short distance away. And she’d been making friends with the winds thereabouts since Aoth, Tchazzar, and the other captains had selected the land for their battleground.

The cool breeze caressed her face and stirred strands of her hair, and then she heard Tchazzar like he was murmuring in her ear. He chanted sibilant, rhyming words in Draconic, meant to activate some enchanted object. The words were unfamiliar, but she recognized similarities to the charm that enabled her and Aoth to speak through a pair of fires despite whatever distance lay between them.

The incantation ended with three staccato syllables like raps from a hammer. A moment of silence followed. Then a new voice said, “Tchazzar.” Jhesrhi suspected from its depth and sibilant snarl that it too belonged to a dragon, one in his natural form.

“Skuthosiin,” Tchazzar answered. “Alasklerbanbastos has crawled out of his hole to attack me, and Jaxanaedegor is eager to betray him. This is our moment. Come north and help me make the kill.”

“I can’t,” Skuthosiin said. “My agents in Djerad Thymar failed me. If I’m to rule the south, I’ll have to win my crown in open battle. In fact, I came to this talk hoping you’d help me.”

“Forget the south for now!” Tchazzar said. “I’m offering you your chance at the Great Bone Wyrm!”

“Even if I were willing to forgo Unther,” Skuthosiin said, “the dragonborn have to change or die. Otherwise, their enmity will get in the way of every move we make. Ask Gestaniius to help you.”

“He’s on the other side of the Dragonsword Mountains. He wouldn’t arrive in time,” Tchazzar said. “Curse it, green, the three of us are allies. You owe me your help.”

“What about the help I already gave?” Skuthosiin said. “If not for me, your sellswords would never have come to Chessenta. Nor would they have searched for you in the Sky Riders.”

“A search you waited one hundred years to initiate!” Tchazzar said.

“A search for a false friend who killed and devoured me for my power,” Skuthosiin said.

“It was the Dark Lady’s will that we three fight for supremacy,” Tchazzar said. “I knew she’d bring you back to life.”

Skuthosiin laughed a rumbling laugh. “You neither knew nor cared, and I don’t blame you. I was trying to do the same thing to you and Gestaniius. But let’s not pretend there are any great bonds of fellowship between us. My proxies fetched you back because I hoped you’d prove useful.”

“I’m far more than useful,” Tchazzar said, his voice grating. “I’m the Chosen of Tiamat, and a god in my own right!”

“Then you shouldn’t need help to squash the occasional dracolich.”

A long pause followed. Jhesrhi imagined Tchazzar glaring and trembling with the futile urge to strike out at a creature hundreds of miles beyond his reach.

“I promise you,” the red dragon said at last, “you’ll have your new Unther, and the dragonborn will die. But first you have to help me.”

“I already explained why that’s impossible.”

“Then in accordance with the Sixty-Seventh Precept, I cut you off. You won’t have an inch of Alasklerbanbastos’s lands or one clipped copper from his hoard.”

“You can’t do that. The One Hundred and Seventh Precept—”

After a moment, Jhesrhi inferred that Tchazzar had ended the spell of communication, because there was nothing to hear but thumps and clacks. Evidently the war hero was kicking his camp furniture around.

She tried to make sense of the conversation that had triggered his frustration. It was like the parley with Jaxanaedegor; much of the import was maddeningly opaque.

But she understood that Skuthosiin and possibly other wyrms meant to exterminate the dragonborn, and it didn’t matter that Aoth and Cera had proved the Tymantherans innocent of crimes against Chessenta. Tchazzar wanted to kill them too.

Tchazzar, to whom she’d pledged her absolute fidelity.