“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,” Jh
esrhi 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.”
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