by Erin Evans
Across the estuary, Djerad Kethendi sat, a trio of pyramids shining white in the midday sun. The air thrummed faintly with the sounds of drums, the dark shapes of circling bat riders against the clear sky. Along the wall that now ran right along the water’s edge, more warriors paced, the size of mites at this distance.
“Not an easy prize,” Namshita murmured. “But how will they fare against a mad god?” She nudged Dahl with her shoulder. “Water,” she reminded him. “Watch the rapids.”
Dahl made his way down to the silty, sandy bank and waded up to his ankles. If he could get the Untheran rebels to Djerad Thymar, could he even trust them to treat with the dragonborn as allies? Gilgeam’s hateful speech made clear he wasn’t going to pass their city by—would the rest of his people?
If you just hadn’t left Harrowdale, he thought, scooping buckets of water.
A flash of silver caught his eye, popping up behind the rocks. Dahl edged closer to the cataract—a fish, and then another and another, trying to leap up the steep rock. He registered a patch of pink, a hooked jaw. Salmon, running up the river toward the mountains to spawn.
Dahl’s heart started to pound.
It was late for salmon to be running, he thought, staring at the fish. The water should be too cold. But then as the world unwound, as magic returned, the sea levels had risen. The rivers had changed. And the salmon that ran up the Alamber found themselves trying to futilely leap up a stone wall that hadn’t been there the prior year, that would be impossible to pass until the tide came back in.
And after my priest speaks, the god’s words had read. Where the salmon demand the tide.
Dahl wasn’t supposed to be in Harrowdale. Dahl was only supposed to be right here.
At least until he figured out what priest he was waiting for.
• • •
FARIDEH KNOWS—SOMEHOW—SHE SHOULD be more afraid as she moves through the Lost Library of Tarchamus the Unyielding. The stone shelves make a maze, and she can’t find the exit, can’t find the others, can’t remember what’s in the library that she should be afraid of. Wisps of blue fog drift over the limestone floor. Farideh leaps out of their path, feeling sure she shouldn’t touch them.
She sees the old man ahead, the long robes of a war wizard dragging across the stones, and she sprints to catch up, but she no more than turns the corner but the library’s not there—this is the basement of the temple of Oghma in Neverwinter. She starts opening doors—a jumble of memories and nightmares and nonsense. One-eyed Oota from the internment camp and poor dead Pernika picking grapes off a vine. A trio of erinyes decking a room in torture equipment—whips and chains and shackles and irons. Dahl and Mira whispering over a book. The flames of Asmodeus race up over her, sudden and anguished and unstoppable—
Dahl looks up, his eyes more silver than gray, and he smiles. “I haven’t left,” he says.
“But you did.” And now she’s alone.
He shakes his head. “Never alone.”
“Fari!” Someone yanks her arm, pulls her back from the scene that’s turning her into a monster. Havilar, glaiveless and furious. “Karshoj, what in the Hells is this place? Is this what you dream about?”
“The temple of Oghma.” Farideh looks around—all the open doors reveal empty rooms. What was she looking for? “You came here with me.”
“No,” Havilar said. “Listen to me: You have to find Caisys the Vicelord.”
The warlock. The confederate Adastreia mentioned. She calls up the soul sight and searches the hall—where is he hiding?—and nearly blinds herself. She blinks. There is Asmodeus.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says. Flames flood her hands, her whole self. He clucks his tongue. “None of that. I have something you want.” He holds out a staff, shining white as a bolt of lightning, thrumming with the power of a thousand storms. “Assuming,” he says, “you’ll make a trade.”
“What do you want?” Farideh asks.
“Hey!” Havilar shouts. “Me! Listen to me! You have to find Caisys the Vicelord, because—”
“Havi! Not now,” Farideh says. She turns back to where Asmodeus had been standing, but he’s gone, and so is the staff. The blue fog is getting thicker, rising to their knees. If she doesn’t find the staff …
Maybe you don’t find the staff, Farideh thinks. Maybe you leave it all be.
Havilar yanked her back. “Look. At. Me. This isn’t real, but I’m real. You have to stop getting distracted. You have to remember that you need to find Caisys the Vicelord. Understand?”
Farideh searches her sister’s face. This is a dream. “Havi?” she says. “Are you … Are you all right?”
“Caisys the Vicelord,” Havilar repeats firmly. “Say it.”
“Caisys the Vicelord.” Grief overtakes her swiftly as a rising river. “Havi, why did you go? I’m so alone.”
Havilar sighs. She puts her arms around Farideh. “Me too. Well, I mean, I’m alone with Alyona, but gods above, it’s still lonely and—”
Farideh opened her eyes to the still-drawn drapery around the bed in Adastreia’s stronghold, despite the fact she felt certain she’d only just fallen asleep. Her head thundered with the echoes of her dream, particularly Havilar’s shouting, the strange feeling she had been right there beside Farideh. This is a dream. She thought of Asmodeus trying to hand her the staff. Was it a dream or was it another vision?
Caisys the Vicelord.
She curled around the knot of the coverlet made by her tossing and turning, hating the silence, feeling the truth in her gasped I’m so alone. How much of that is your fault? She thought. You left Mehen behind, and Ilstan too. You weren’t quick enough to stop Bryseis Kakistos, and so Havilar left, and Brin went with her because he loves her best. You’ve drawn your lines with Lorcan and Dahl …
She buried her face in the blankets, embarrassed beyond mention by the moment she’d dreamed of Dahl and Mira, the flood of furious, jealous magic. You should be alone, she thought. You’re acting like a madwoman. He’d be safer with her. He’d be happier.
I love you. I miss you. I am sure of that.
She climbed out of bed, not caring what the hour truly was, and dressed, before pushing into Lorcan’s room. Again, he slept, thrown across the bed as though somehow it had defeated him, and here he lay, an unwashed corpse. Farideh pulled the coverlet over him, and thought herself a fool once more. If she were smart, when she got back to Djerad Thymar, she would ask Sairché what had happened to him. She would look for ways to work around his weaknesses and build her spells up.
If she were smart.
You don’t have time for anything else, she told herself.
When Farideh went back out into the sitting room, Adastreia was waiting for her, sitting in one of the padded wooden chairs, before a table of breads. “Good morning,” she said.
Farideh looked away. “We’re leaving shortly.”
Adastreia nodded. “I’d assumed.” She fiddled with the beads of her necklace, still staring at Farideh, but saying nothing for so long. “You can’t paint us all monsters, you know,” she said finally. “Those of us who did the ritual.”
The ritual. “How many people were involved in making me?”
“We had the best of intentions.” Farideh said nothing, too many angry words crowding in her mouth. “If anything,” Adastreia went on, “we were too idealistic.”
“You were ready to sacrifice me twice over,” Farideh said. “Karshoj to your idealism.”
At that, at least, Adastreia had the decency to look wounded. “Fair enough.” Then, “I think I might come with you. If the offer stands.”
Absolutely not, Farideh wanted to say. She made herself think of Havilar and of Bryseis Kakistos, as she strapped her armor back on. “What about Kulaga?”
“Kulaga is convinced I might woo you away from the cambion,” Adastreia said. “And I … I think you might be right about Bryseis Kakistos. She isn’t someone to underestimate.” Farideh looked back to find Adastreia staring at
her. “Are you underestimating her?”
“She has my sister,” Farideh said. “I can’t afford to underestimate her.”
“Whereas Kulaga can,” Adastreia said. “So. We’ll go to Djerad Thymar. But don’t mistake me: I’m not offering to help you. Whatever plans you have, you’re on your own. I’ll take the offered sanctuary and that’s all.”
Farideh bit her tongue—you don’t want anything else from her, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter if Adastreia was a coward or a blackguard or a saint. All she needed to be was near enough to protect and central enough to trap Bryseis Kakistos.
“You ought to wear a cloak,” she said, heading back into her room to gather the last of her things. One heir down, she thought. That’s all that matters.
6
30 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)
Djerad Thymar, Tymanther
MEHEN COULDN’T HAVE SAID WHICH WINGED SNAKE WAS WHICH, and so he carried one and gave the other to Dumuzi to carry up to the halfling in the Vanquisher’s Hall, where Volibar was repeating what he’d told Mehen to the elders there. An army of thousands, a message from Dahl, and Farideh was still not back.
“Better than waiting,” Kallan teased him as they climbed the stairs. “At least you’re carrying something. You going to miss these little fellows?”
The snake licked at Mehen’s knuckles, as if scenting the blood beneath the scabs there. “I never thought I’d say so, but I prefer the hound.”
White cloth draped the Vanquisher’s throne, a symbol of mourning and a sign of respect for Tarhun, dead not five days at the hand of a vicious shapechanging fiend that had wreaked havoc on the City-Bastion. A score or more of dragonborn, gray-scaled elders and their scions shifting uneasily beside them, surrounded a man that came hardly to their hipbones, settled on a low cot.
“He’s calling himself Gilgeam,” the halfling was saying. “Doesn’t like folks who aren’t humans, and seems like maybe he specifically doesn’t like you all or the genasi. Army’s pushing forty thousand and he’s got a solid number of demons leashed among them.”
“More demons?” Narghon spat. “What enemy has set its sights on us?”
“Who says it’s related?” Ophinshtalajiir Kaijia said, leaning heavily on her cane. “The last one came through those hatchlings’ fool actions. I doubt even the most determined children can summon up an army forty thousand deep.” Here she cast her eyes toward Mehen, and Dumuzi beside him. To his credit, the boy didn’t flinch, even if Mehen could hear the soft tapping of his tongue against the roof of his mouth as they approached.
“If you ask me,” Shestandeliath Geshthax said to the green-scaled matriarch, “it would be wisest to round up all the ones who paid worship to the Dragon Queen. Everyone knows she’s got her claws in the Abyss.”
Kaijia frowned at him. “Who on every broken plane knows that?”
“What about the giants?” Mehen interrupted.
Volibar shook his head, puzzled. “If there’s giants in the middle of this, I don’t know about ’em. He’s heading for Unthalass. Dahl’s said you ought to make sure that port city of yours knows it.”
“Already done,” Anala said. She nodded at Mehen. “Your snakes, goodman.” The creature wrapped around Mehen’s arm slithered off, dropping down into Volibar’s lap.
“Hey, boy,” Volibar crooned to the snake as it slipped inside his collar. “Someone’s been feeding you all right.” He frowned at the other snake as Dumuzi approached. “That’s not mine.”
“Your friend didn’t bring it to the Fugue Plane with him,” Mehen said. “Brume.”
Volibar made a face, but held out his hands for the other serpent. “Pity,” he said. “I didn’t like Brume particularly, mind. But you know … I didn’t want him dead.” He gave two sharp whistles. “Come here, Keetly. I can make a little room.”
“I think it’s clear,” Anala said, “that we can no longer delay the Vanquisher elections. Even an interim leader is better than trying to jockey for position while wyrms and wolves surround us. If the army of the King of Dust wants to bring his might against the Vayemniri, then we must be ready for this tyrant as we have been for all others.”
“Is this really the time?” Geshthax demanded, gesturing at the halfling with his one arm and oh-so-subtly encompassing Dumuzi with the sweep. Again the boy didn’t flinch. Moreover, he spoke.
“You need a Vanquisher,” he agreed. “We need a Vanquisher. But they’re not wolves and wyrms. Not necessarily.”
Narghon started to retort, but bit down on his reply, as if he realized Dumuzi was making his argument for him, despite speaking out of turn. Still Uadjit stepped in beside Dumuzi. “Hold your tongue at the moment, please,” she said, almost too softly to hear. “And sit down.”
“I won’t,” Dumuzi said, though he said it just as softly.
“Shestandeliath puts forth Narhanna,” Geshthax said. Mehen glanced over at Anala, whose pleasure was unmaskable. Narhanna was Mehen’s age, more her uncle’s lackey than anything approaching a leader—she wasn’t even there. An unprepared answer, a panicking elder.
“Kepeshkmolik puts forth Uadjit,” Narghon said, pulling his daughter away from her wayward child. Whispers chased the announcement. Scandal—nothing but scandal—especially given Dumuzi’s sudden disobedience, his lack of anything approaching decorum.
They have seen nothing yet, Mehen thought, as Anala cleared her throat.
“Verthisathurgiesh puts forth Yrjixtilex Kallan,” Anala announced.
“What?” Kallan’s cry broke over the rising voices. He looked to Mehen, shocked.
“Calm down, noachi,” Vardhira, the stout Yrjixtilex matriarch, said, holding up a hand. “Anala, why nominate someone outside of your clan? That isn’t done.”
Mehen’s stomach dropped. Such a weak protest—and yet unassailable in the strictest sense: Vardhira was in on Anala’s mad plan to keep Kepeshkmolik off the Vanquisher’s throne.
“Karshoji right it isn’t done!” Narghon sputtered. “What about your nephew there?”
“My nephew is not the best choice for Vanquisher,” Anala said. “The laws of the city say only that each clan head nominate the best candidate and they may not vote for their own clan. I nominate Yrjixtilex Kallan, the man who hunted the maurezhi. He is clever, resourceful, arguably incorruptible”—here she glanced sidelong at Uadjit, an unfair slice to her credibility—“and very brave. We could use fresh blood. He is my nominee.”
“In that case,” Vardhira said, “Yrjixtilex will simply have to second.”
Kallan looked at Mehen, horrified. It was only the standing, Mehen wanted to say. There were still the votes to cast, and even then it was only interim, a position for hardly more than a year. And to be fair, Anala wasn’t wrong.
None of it, he thought, looking at Kallan, was going to convince the sellsword.
“Since this is an interim vote,” Ophinshtalajiir Kaijia said, “and since some of us have lost our favored scions to the demon, there’s no need for every clan to make an offering. Ophinshtalajiir stands with Yrjixtilex Kallan.”
“We’re not voting!” Narghon burst out.
“Well we’ve hardly time to waste,” Anala said, not a little smugly. “If we voted now, we could certainly start things moving.”
“Fenkenkabradon puts forth Verthisathurgiesh Arjhani.”
Anala turned toward the booming voice—everyone turned. Fenkenkabradon Ishkhanak, the elder brother of Dokaan, stood at the edge of the circle. Dull silver scales showed a myriad of scars from his days hunting dragons in the Smoking Mountains, the most prominent a bright line that bisected the left side of his snout. He smiled at Anala.
“Churirajachi stands with Arjhani.”
“Prexijandilin stands with Kallan.”
“Linxakasendalor stands with Uadjit.”
“Stop voting!” Narghon bellowed. “Are you hatchlings who cannot wait to unsheathe your first sword? Not everyone is here. Not every one of these
would-be candidates even knows they’ve been asked to stand. Narhanna, Arjhani, Kallan, Uadjit. Make a date to reconvene and vote. Tomorrow.”
“In the meantime,” Uadjit said, “we should send word to Chessenta and Deep Imaskar. Even if we suspect they cannot spare reinforcements, we should ask.”
“For all the good it does us,” Fenkenkabradon Ishkhanak said.
“Better to be sure,” Uadjit said. She turned away, her gaze lingering a moment on Patriarch Narghon, before she returned to Dumuzi’s side, beckoning him to come with her. The elders and their scions broke apart, most heading back to their enclaves. Mehen looked for Kallan, but he was lost in the crowd as Matriarch Vardhira steered him away.
“That was stlarning dramatic,” Volibar said. “For, you know, a lot of posturing and procedure.” He looked up at Mehen. “You got anywhere I can stay?”
“City’s full of inns.”
“Now, now,” Anala said, sweeping toward him, her diaphanous wraps trailing behind like wings. “Verthisathurgiesh would happily extend our invitation to you, goodman. From the sounds of things, you might have more information we could use.”
Volibar eyed her, then Mehen. “Is that a threat?”
“Why would we threaten a guest?” Anala said. She turned to Mehen. “Show him the way back to the enclave and then go and find Kallan, if you please. I’d like things to go easily tomorrow.”
“You shouldn’t have thrown him in like that,” Mehen said.
“I gave you the chance to warn him. You want me to set Verthisathurgiesh behind Dumuzi, you will go and speak with him. Meanwhile, I shall go spread the good word of Enlil and the merits of Yrjixtilex Kallan together to the Churirajachi, and find out just what he’s karshoji playing at backing Ishkhanak’s blasted idea.”
Volibar watched her walk away. “What’s she got over you?”
“Nothing,” Mehen said.
The halfling snorted. “That’s not what she thinks.” He eased off the divan, following Mehen back down the pyramid with the stiff steps of a man whose legs were still wooden from several days of running. “Who’s Dumuzi?”