“You could be the maurezhi,” Farideh said. Lorcan smiled at her.
“Precisely,” he said. “And beyond that, if you want a hope of surviving, you have to capture it, not kill it.”
“Because it’s serving someone worse,” Mehen said. “An invasion.”
“And I cannot tell you who,” Lorcan said. “But you don’t send a maurezhi into this world for minor matters. And the sort of demons who send them are … very bad things to have after you.”
“So it’s trying to replace people?” Farideh asked. “That could be to unsettle the city leadership? To … find some secret out?” She turned to Lorcan. “Where would you send one?”
“I have absolutely no shitting idea,” Lorcan said. “You can hardly predict a demon’s decisions. They’re little more than hunger and fear given limbs. And whatever orders it was given, it’s been carrying them out in its own way.”
“But it’s been sent for a reason. You said it was a harbinger of an attack—so what’s it here to do?”
Lorcan sighed and was silent a moment. “Gather intelligence. Or what it thinks is intelligence anyway. At this point—assuming it’s the source of your massacre—it’s most definitely had the opportunity to devour as many as a score of people. Which means it’s getting cleverer. Less demonic. More focused. And stronger.”
“So whoever sent it probably isn’t in the city,” Kallan said. Everyone turned to him, and he shrugged. “Can’t control it once it’s loose,” he said counting off on his fingers. “Have to take out a lot of not-so-powerful folks to get at the ones you want. It showed up and left a trail a league thick. And again, let’s all be honest—Vayemniri don’t truck with this aithyas in general. This isn’t something you do to steal the Vanquisher’s piercings or upset someone’s trade agreements, it’s too blunt a tool. Maybe you got a lunatic running wild in here, but they’re not working for themselves. The real threat is going to come from outside.”
“Who would want to take down Djerad Thymar?” Brin asked. “I mean, people out there don’t much bother with you.”
“Dragons,” Mehen said grimly.
Brin shook his head. “Maybe. But I’d assume a dragon sent a demon only just before I’d assume a drago—a Vayemniri did.”
“We have to find out who else it took,” Farideh said. “Zaroshni? The Kepeshkmolik guard? There have to be others. That could point us toward what it’s trying to do.”
“The maurezhi can certainly fight a group, as seen,” Lorcan said. “But it needs time to consume its victims—it has to devour every part and quickly—so people it can lure away in ones and twos are certainly preferable.”
Dumuzi cleared his throat. “If it wants information, it would head for the Lance Defenders. Maybe clan elders.”
A heartbeat of silence followed, and Dumuzi filled it with such grief and shame.
“That’s a good point,” Mehen said. He stood. “We need to alert Shestandeliath and Kepeshkmolik that they have weak points, the Lance Defenders as well, and … karshoj every clan in Djerad Thymar.”
“I’ll take Yrjixtilex,” Kallan said. “Should be able to spread that out to … Ophinshtalajiir, Kanjentellequor, Daardendrien, and … maybe Fenkenkabradon.”
“Anala will want Fenkenkabradon,” Mehen said. “But … Let me know. Who you talk to.”
Dumuzi sat motionless as plans were made, destinations assigned, a buzz of activity that didn’t reach him. Farideh sat down beside him. “Are you all right?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Come on,” she said. “Mehen and I will walk you home.”
“I’m fine,” Dumuzi said. “I can go myself.”
Mehen suddenly stood before him, and the memory of the lightning breath crackled along Dumuzi’s nerves. He held his breath. “You’re not going anywhere alone,” Mehen said. “After all that? Karshoj, none of us are the monster.”
“We have to go to Kepeshkmolik anyway,” Farideh said. “You’re not putting anyone out.”
“They don’t want you there,” Dumuzi said. “Forgive me for saying so, but Patriarch Narghon—”
“I am well aware what the Kepeshkmolik thinks about me,” Mehen said. “And if he asks, I will tell him you’ve said all the right things and made all the right gestures, and I do not give a dead dragon’s aithyas. If you were my son and Narghon made you walk alone after what just happened, I’d rip his karshoji piercings out. Now get up,” Mehen said. “We have a lot to do.”
Farideh folded her arm around Dumuzi’s as they walked, following Mehen. “He’s scared,” she murmured. “He shouts a lot when he worries.”
“I know,” Dumuzi said, even though he didn’t. He held her arm close as if she would keep him upright. This is not how Shasphur would react, he thought. This is not the way Nerifar would have faced her trials.
When they reached the Kepeshkmolik enclave, Mehen did not hesitate at the decorated doors. The guards looked wide-eyed at Dumuzi, and Mehen yanked them open without so much as acknowledging the young dragonborn. Dumuzi nodded, out of instinct more than anything, as he followed Mehen into the enclave, wondering what more could happen.
As if in answer, Uadjit came out into the entry hall. She stopped dead as she saw them. “Dumuzi?” She sprinted toward them, a fine edge of frost growing around her jaw. “What happened?” she shouted at Mehen. “What did you do?”
“We found the creature,” Mehen said. “Your son fought very well, but it’s a karshoji monster …” He faltered. “The guard, the one I asked you about. He’s dead. And so is Shestandeliath Zaroshni.”
Uadjit’s eyes flicked to Dumuzi, to Farideh … where they caught and lingered. “That’s not possible. I saw Zaroshni the other day. Dumuzi said she wasn’t there.”
“It was the maurezhi,” Dumuzi said. “The fiend. I was wrong.”
“The demon takes the form of those it eats. You need to tell everyone to be on the lookout for that guard,” Mehen said. “To be watchful for people acting out of the ordinary. People shouldn’t be wandering around alone. And stay the Hells out of the catacombs.”
Uadjit frowned at him. “Have you informed the Vanquisher?”
“It’s on the list,” Mehen said. “You want to go tell Tarhun for me, I’d be obliged. We still have to tell Shestandeliath, and I expect that to take the better part of the day. Come on, Fari.” Farideh hugged Dumuzi’s arm once, and slipped free.
“Wait!” Uadjit said. Mehen turned. “I told you. I need … We need to talk to your daughter.” She nodded at Farideh. “That one.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Mehen, this isn’t what you think,” Uadjit said. “Believe it or not, it has nothing to do with you.” Uadjit’s penetrating gaze found Farideh, and if she was surprised or upset or even amused, there was no telling. “I’m Kepeshkmolik Uadjit, daughter of Narghon of the line of Shasphur. Dumuzi’s mother.”
“Farideh,” she said, nodding to Uadjit.
Uadjit smiled. “I believe you mean Verthisathurgiesh Farideh, daughter of Mehen, claimed by the line of Khorsaya. A pleasure.” Her eyes lingered on Farideh’s face. “You’ll get the hang of it, I don’t doubt. In the meantime, the patriarch wants to speak with you. And my great-great-grandaunt.” Uadjit gave Mehen a significant look and nerves started curling up Dumuzi’s stomach.
“Ashoka?” Mehen said. “She’s still alive?”
“For the moment,” Uadjit said a little lightly. “So you see the matter’s a bit pressing.” She snapped her teeth, nervous. “Please,” she said. “Please. It won’t take long.”
Dumuzi reached over and squeezed Farideh’s hand, already sure he wouldn’t be allowed into this meeting, already sure whatever was coming for his friend, it wouldn’t be simple. Not with the last daughter of Thymara involved.
THE VEIN OF mithral seemed to glow in the gloom of the valley, reflecting and refracting scraps of light, standing bright against the ice-coated rocks around it. There was no path—only a long scrabble up a rocky slope—but as
near as they must have been to their goal, no one complained as they set out, aside from Volibar, who did not like sending the snake off once more to Djerad Thymar.
Seven Zhentarim, Dahl counted. Including Xulfaril and Grathson. Against himself and his brothers. And Mira—who more than usual had him on edge.
“Why are you cozying up to my granny?” Dahl asked as they climbed.
Mira shrugged. “So? I like her. She’s interesting.”
“So I wish you wouldn’t,” Dahl said. “I mean, hrast, it’s bad enough I have to convince my very Dallish family to accept my tiefling lover when she’s not even here to convince them—”
“Why isn’t she here?” Mira asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever explained that very well. Why are you sending her snakes?”
Dahl scowled at her. “Are you doing this because you think it’s funny?”
“It’s not funny,” Mira said calmly. “I’m not a child, so no, I’m not asking to torment you. I’m asking because none of this seems like you. You don’t go for tieflings. You don’t pine for anyone. Every word I’ve ever heard about your family makes me wonder why you’d possibly run at them, horns out, pardon the pun. This isn’t you. At all. And what are we for but made to watch where things don’t fit?”
“Maybe I am,” Dahl said. “But you’re also meant to destabilize, aren’t you? Isn’t that what the Zhentarim specialize in?”
Mira raised an eyebrow. “You think this about choosing sides?”
“Your superior is extorting me into working for the Zhentarim. You’re playing some odd mix of jealous or heartsick or coy and getting my grandmother on your side. Your murky conscience is a lot more likely than Farideh compromising me, or whatever you’re trying to imply. I’m not joining the Zhentarim.”
“No one said you should,” Mira replied with infuriating mildness. “You’re very testy about this, aren’t you?”
“Given my choices here are my agent has flipped entirely to the enemy or my former lover who broke things off in a stlarning field report suddenly cares so much about my happiness, yes. I’m testy.” He shook his head. “Decide what you’re doing, Mira. I’ve got enough on my plate to worry about without picking at why your actions don’t fit.”
Mira’s accusations dogged his thoughts like a predator in the shadows. She was right, even if she wasn’t, and wasn’t that worth considering? Was there harm in second-guessing? Of course not.
That just made you more certain.
Made sure you were right.
My champion, my wayward son. Oghma’s words cut through those runaway thoughts. There was no harm in being sure, but he was sure already, and letting others push him away from what was true so that he could feel right was a path he’d already stumbled down, losing the god of knowledge in the process.
Mira does not know you better than you know yourself, he thought as he climbed. Whatever she thought about him, about Farideh, it was old and obscured and knew nothing about what had happened in Suzail, about who they’d become to each other.
“What do you call people from Harrowdale?” Farideh had asked, her eyes on the chaos of the overcrowded taproom, his thoughts on his knee pressed against her thigh.
“Harrans. Why?”
“Because you need to talk about something and you keep getting quiet,” she said. “Tell me about Harrans. Tell me about two hundred years of Peredurs. What do you farm?”
“Rye. Sheep. Peas. Flax.” He hesitated, turning the flagon against the table. “Do you want to know a secret?”
She smiled, even as her eyes were on the crowd. “Do you want to tell me a secret?”
“Peredur … It isn’t my family name. I don’t have a family name. I didn’t,” he amended. “Until I went to the Domes of Reason and it was pretty clear going around without one made me look like some haynose Dalesman off a farm who didn’t belong.”
She’d turned, puzzled, her knees brushing his. “Aren’t you some Dalesman off a farm?”
He sipped the ale. “Thanks.”
“Don’t be like that,” she said. “I mean you can call yourself whatever you want—but if people are going to think coming from a farm means you don’t belong, does it make a difference? You’re still you, aren’t you? It doesn’t erase that. It shouldn’t.” He bristled but before he could respond, she waved it away. “Says the woman who goes about disguised as a human—sorry. We all do things to smooth the way, I suppose.” She gave him a tight smile before turning back to the crowd. “Karshoj to those snotty apprentices. If a second name made you quicker-witted, they’re lucky you had only one. I don’t see the draw personally.”
Dahl’s irritation evaporated. “You don’t have a Draconic surname you trot out for special occasions?”
She’d laughed. “Thrikominari,” she’d said. “Clanless Farideh.” Which even then he’d thought was a cruelty. It made her sound like she was all alone.
At the peak of the slope, a crevasse opened in the mountain, and they wound through it, single file. Above, only a ribbon of the sky, the color of the ice coating the walls, showed.
“It’s close,” Sessaca said, just loud enough for Dahl to hear.
“Good,” Thost replied. “I could use a sit.”
“Keep walking,” Xulfaril said.
The crevasse closed over, and beneath the overhang a doorway had been carved into the stone, etched only with the scroll of Deneir. No lock upon it, no handle to grasp—it looked more like the false idea of a door than the entrance to the greatest library in Toril.
A shiver ran down Dahl’s back, and the faintest presence of Oghma prickled at the edges of his mind.
“Well,” Xulfaril said, turning back to Sessaca. “That’s promising.”
Thost crouched to let Sessaca climb down, and Dahl and Bodhar gave her their hands. She kept a grip on Dahl’s and he led her around the Zhentarim, over the crusty ice. Her eyes never left the doorway.
“Is that how you saw it?” Dahl whispered.
“No,” she said. “It was open then. This is where I met her. Where she told me she needed help.” She pulled the heavy locket out from under her furs. “Help me with this?”
Dahl unfastened the necklace, while Sessaca turned back to the Zhentarim. “Swords in their scabbards, mind,” she said.
“Of course,” Xulfaril answered, before Grathson could protest. “We need to know if this works, after all.”
Sessaca shot Dahl a look that said clearly he oughtn’t trust the Zhentarim. Dahl returned it—what had he been doing the whole trip but gauging their captors? He glanced back at the Zhentarim, flanked by himself and his brothers. Mira in the middle. Not odds he liked, but odds he could deal with.
“There’s a possibility,” Sessaca admitted, “that this won’t work without someone on the inside.” She turned the locket in her wrinkled palm and considered the door. “But I suspect she wouldn’t have done that.”
The locket, made of bronze and the size of a flattened walnut, etched with runes that spelled out a long-lost prayer on every side, fit into the carving of the scroll’s roller end. She pressed upon it, trying to wriggle it into the seating just right.
“Ah, hrast,” she spat. “Help me here.” Dahl put his hand over hers and pushed hard. The locket sank into the door with an audible click.
A wave of power rolled over Dahl, over the door, over the mountainside. A rumbling, so great and deep, shook the stones beneath his feet. The door began to vibrate, to blur, and then it was gone. The rumbling passed.
Sessaca looked back over her shoulder. “Well, there’ll be a draft. But it’s open. Come along.” She took hold of Dahl’s arm once more.
This was not the main entrance to the library, Dahl thought as they entered. The shelves crowded close around the dusty, cracked circle of mosaic tiles, blocking any view of the library beyond those impossibly high shelves. The only acknowledgment that anyone might enter here was a pair of benches and the remains of a carving in Draconic along the opposite shelves. The shelves themselve
s were half empty, fallen books and scrolls littering the ground around them.
Even from this unflattering quarter, the Master’s Library sent shivers all through Dahl.
“Watching Gods,” Mira breathed. “This is … How is it still intact?”
“People gave a care for things back then,” Sessaca said.
Dahl kneeled and picked up a tome. From Heavens to Hells: A reflection on the names and natures of the planes, by Brother Itherius, priest of Oghma. Dahl’s shivers turned to a faint and persistant hum.
My priest may name the spinning plane, Farideh’s voice came to him, reading the lines of Oghma’s mark. The plane has never spun for him. From Heav’ns to Hells the planes will ring.
He looked at the Master’s Library as though it might come to life around him. Was he supposed to come here? Was the answer to Oghma’s riddle hidden in these long-abandoned tomes?
“Spread out, in pairs,” Xulfaril ordered. “Mira and I will stay here with the swordcaptain and her fellows.”
Sessaca shrugged. “Take them too. Just tell them what you’re looking for.”
Giants, Dahl thought. Underdark. Who stlarning knows? He searched the tops of shelves, considering how many answers were hiding in the Master’s Library, how many paths. He should be studying Xulfaril, he should be calculating the truth in her words, but his every thought dwelled on the thrumming presence of the god of knowledge, just out of reach.
Xulfaril hesitated before answering. “Somewhere in this library is a room that’s collapsed. A sinkhole. We suspect that if anything remains within the library, it’s going to be a room that holds mostly texts from Shou Lung, regarding philosophical notions and the gods. It might be this floor, it might be one of the upper floors, it might be below. Our understanding is that the library was shaped around the mountain itself. It might be that we must go up to go down. Find it, come back here, and mark the path you took.” She looked at Sessaca. “Anything you want to add?”
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