Whisper of Venom: Brotherhood of the Griffon, Book II

by Richard Lee Byers

  “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 th
at 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.
/>   TWELVE

  28 KYTHORN–5 FLAMERULE

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Summer had come, and, as Khouryn had observed on the march southwest, Tymanther was blooming. Trees were full of green leaves and singing birds; pastures of grass and the sheep, goats, and cattle grazing there; and fields of oats and barley. In contrast, Black Ash Plain had simply gotten nastier. The hot air was smokier, and some of the cinders adrift on it were stinging hot.

  I don’t blame the giants for wanting to steal somebody else’s country, he thought. I wouldn’t want to live here either.

  He wondered how they even managed to live in the midst of such desolation, then dismissed the question as irrelevant. His concern was to make sure that a goodly number of them didn’t live much longer. To that end, he took another look at the ash drifts and cracked, rocky soil to either side of the column.

  Towers of ash glided in the distance, somewhat like ships under sail except that they moved independently of the wind. Then suddenly a gray-black bump bobbed up and then back down out of sight behind one of the true cinder dunes, if that was the right term for them. They were drifts big as hills, and a fellow could climb them like hills until he set his foot wrong. Then the ash would swallow him like quicksand.

  Despite the haze in the air, and the smarting blur in his eyes, Khouryn knew he’d just seen a giant skirmisher. He drew breath to shout an alert, but one of the dragonborn marching under the banners of the Platinum Cadre did it first.

  So instead Khouryn shouted, “Form up! Protect yourselves!” He was sure there were only a few giants lurking on their flank, or somebody would have spotted one before then. Since they were too few to pose a serious threat, their purpose was to slow the advance, giving the bulk of Skuthosiin’s army more time to prepare. By halting and covering up with their shields, the Tymantherans were essentially giving them what they wanted. But they had to do something to keep the barbarians from picking them off one and two at a time.