The Captive Flame

SEVEN

GREENGRASS-7 MIRTUL THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

The scent of flowers filled the air. The prayers of druids and sunlords made it possible to grow them in time for the spring festival. Usually they went to decorate public places, or to worshipers to use as offerings, but Cera had diverted two bouquets to fill the vases in her bedroom.

At present, she lay on her stomach with the tangled covers concealing her from the small of her bare back down. Aoth studied her, and she reassured him that she truly was asleep by giving a soft buzz of a snore.

Moving carefully, he stood up, put on the clothes he’d left strewn on the floor, and picked up his spear where it leaned against a chair. She kept snoring.

So far, so good. Now what?

He could rummage through her personal effects, but it would be unfortunate if she woke and caught him. And it seemed likely that if what he was looking for was there at all, he could find some sign of it elsewhere.

He prowled through the rest of her apartments and peeked out into the corridor beyond. It pleased him that some thrifty soul had extinguished the oil lamp. The gloom would obscure him without hindering his own vision.

He skulked on past the chambers of Cera’s subordinates. Moans sounded from one and a rhythmic slap-slap-slap from another. For a moment he smiled. When he was young, the priests of Lathander had been a famously amorous lot, and although Amaunator was supposed to be a more staid and dignified god, perhaps their successors had inherited the same proclivity.

Or maybe it was just Greengrass sparking carnal urges in one and all.

He slipped from the cloister into the sanctuary, where it wasn’t quite as dark. Votive flames burned in one place and another, and the moon and stars shone through the skylights. He didn’t know a great deal about Amaunatori customs, and-concerned that he might encounter a priest performing some late-night ritual, or perhaps a ceremonial guard-he crept even more warily. But there didn’t appear to be anyone else around.

He trusted his fire-touched eyes to reveal the presence of concealed doors and the like, but there didn’t seem to be any of those either. Just stone stairs in plain sight descending into the floor. He headed down and came to a door in the form of a wrought-iron grille. He tried it, and it was locked.

He scowled. Jhesrhi could likely have opened the lock without breaking it. Gaedynn might have found a way as well. Both were better suited to spying than their commander, which was why Aoth had sent them into Threskel. But he regretted their absence now.

Well, he’d just have to proceed as best he could. He slipped the point of his spear into the crack above the latch, then pried, releasing a bit of the power stored inside the weapon to make the action more forceful. The grille lurched open with a snap.

He swung it shut again behind him. With luck, no one would notice the damage before morning at the earliest. He climbed down the remaining steps.

Which put him in a musty-smelling room with brick walls and a few old boxes scattered around. He stalked through an arch into a second rectangular space like the first.

Another grille separated the second room from a third. On the other side were coffers, jars, urns, and icons, some of the latter depictions of the Morninglord and thus no longer suitable for veneration. The wealth of the temple, locked away for safekeeping.

Aoth broke open the new barrier and explored the repository. No matter how intently he peered at the contents, and at the ceiling, walls, and floor, he still couldn’t find any trace of what he sought. And there was nowhere else to look, not down here anyway.

Warm golden light bloomed at his back. As he pivoted toward the doorway, it brightened. By the time he faced it, it was like looking directly at the sun.

Unfortunately, glare was one thing that could still impair his vision. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he leveled the spear with the other. “Stop what you’re doing. I don’t have to see you to hurt you.”

“I vouched for you,” Cera said, from inside the dazzling light or beyond it. “I told everyone you were honorable and came here to protect us. And you get up out of my bed and slink down here to steal Amaunator’s treasure!”

He wondered if she truly believed that. “You’re wrong. That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then drop your spear and surrender, and afterward we’ll sort it out.”

“I can’t do that.” She might kill him once she had him disarmed.

“Then this is your own fault.”

The blaze in the doorway seemed to leap at him, engulf him, and pain seared him. He willed a tattoo to life, and its enchantment dulled the agony. Maybe it even kept him from bursting into flame.

He growled a word of power, and a thunderclap boomed through the cellar. Hoping it had at least staggered Cera, he charged the doorway. And slammed into the grille. He’d left it open, so the priestess must have closed it and the glare kept him from noticing.

He rebounded and fell on his rump. The grille squeaked on its hinges and clanked against the wall. Footsteps pattered in his direction.

Cera evidently hoped the impact had left him dazed or disoriented, but though his head throbbed, it hadn’t. He could judge where she was, and he raised the spear to spit her. Then he flung himself to the side instead. Something, likely her golden mace, banged against the floor.

He scrambled, turned, and then he was facing her with his back to the glare. He was still half blind with floating smears of afterimage, but at least he could make out her silhouette and see that she had indeed armed herself with her mace and targe.

As he sprang to his feet, he feinted at her face with the spear. The round shield jerked up to block in a way that more or less blinded her. She was resourceful and commanded potent magic, but she was no expert at hand-to-hand combat.

He reversed the spear and swept her feet out from under her with the blunt end. She thumped down on the floor. He spun the weapon again and touched the point to her throat.

“Let go of the mace and shield,” he said.

She did.

“Now push them away.”

The articles scraped along the floor.

“Now put out the light in the doorway.”

She blinked. “I won’t be able to see.”

“That’s all right. I will.”

The glare went out.

“This isn’t over,” she said.

“It is if I kill you and nobody finds out who did it.”

Her voice quavered, but only a little. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

He sighed and rubbed the sore spot on his forehead. “I don’t know yet. I’m poking around down here because I don’t know much of anything. And at first that was fine with me. I figured, let the nobles have their secrets and conspiracies. Let them plunge the whole East into war, for any stupid reason or none at all. From a sellsword’s perspective, nothing could be better.”

“But after two attempts on your life, you changed your mind.”

“Basically. Like I told you, assassination is just a move in the game we soldiers play. But dragonborn assassins, in a town where there have never been any dragonborn? And a special kind of dragonborn at that? It’s just too odd. Even leaving my own safety out of it, it shows there’s too much going on that I don’t understand. And that could lead to problems on the battlefield.”

She frowned, evidently mulling over what he’d said, then asked, “Given the magic they use, couldn’t the dragonborn have sneaked into the city from outside?”

“Maybe,” said Aoth, “but from where outside? Threskel? As far as we know, there aren’t any there either. All the way from Tymanther? And why are the damn reptiles targeting me anyway? I’m a good soldier, but not all that important. By the Hells, if you heard how I broke my contract with Aglarond, marched into Thay, took heavy losses, and retreated without seeming to accomplish anything-and then suffered another defeat in Impiltur-you might not even realize I am good.”

“It’s a puzzle,” she said, “but what prompted you to look for answers in my temple’s cellars?”

“I’m working on the assumption that unlikely as it sounds, someone in Soolabax is hiding the dragonborn and aiding them in general. Now, who was surprisingly friendly and flirtatious with me from the start?”

“I was, but not to deflect suspicion or trick you into lowering your guard. Because you intrigued me. I grew up in Luthcheq, not a sleepy farm town. I’ve come to like the people who live here, but to be honest, they often bore me too. And you were an exotic stranger who’d consorted with kings and archmages and fought his way across the world.”

“When you took me for that stroll on the battlements, it gave the first assassin a chance to weaken the steps. And when I stopped short, you bumped me from behind. It almost pitched me forward and made me fall.”

“But only almost, because I wasn’t trying. And as for the other, well, it wasn’t the first time you’d climbed to the top of the gate to look out over the countryside. The dragonborn just lurked nearby and waited for his chance.”

“Well, he and his friends got a second chance when you hosted the feast and then drew me out into the garden. You even held me down so I wouldn’t see them coming. And then, after I sent you for help, you and the other sunlords didn’t make it back till the fight was over.”

“Because Jet arrived to help you, and then the two of you finished it quickly. And as for the rest, I swear by the Yellow Sun it was only coincidence or the reptiles watching and waiting for their chance. The banquet was no more a secret than your visits to the gate.”

“No matter what you say, it doesn’t change the fact that the dragonborn have come at me twice, and you’ve been there both times.”

“And if I’d used my magic against you, they would have killed you for certain.”

“Not for certain. And if I survived, I would have known you for my enemy.”

She scowled. “Listen, idiot. I’m a priestess of the lord of Eternal Sun. One of the supreme powers of righteousness. I wouldn’t do something treacherous and evil.”

“You might if you thought it served a greater good. Like your superior believes it’s his duty to persecute wizards and lay curses on marchers in the street.”

“Earlier tonight, couldn’t you feel how much I truly liked you?”

She must have been running out of arguments, because that was the weakest one yet. No man could live a hundred years without learning how many women could feign affection convincingly.

Yet taken altogether, her arguments carried more weight, especially considering that his search hadn’t turned up anything. And who knew, maybe he had felt something genuine between them. Just not strongly enough to negate what seemed abundant reason for suspicion.

“All right.” He lifted the spear away from her throat and roused the power in it to make the point glow and give her light. “I guess that whoever’s out to get me, it isn’t you.” He extended his hand to help her up.

She swatted it away and stood up on her own.

He frowned. “I thought you ‘truly liked’ me.”

“I did. Before you seduced me to create an opportunity to ransack Amaunator’s house.”

“I seduced you?”

Her mouth twitched. Like a smile had momentarily tried to replace the glower? “I suppose that isn’t fair. Still, you tricked me!”

Aoth sighed. “For what it’s worth, I honestly liked you too, before I started to worry about you. If you want revenge, you can complain to Hasos and write to Nicos, Daelric, and the war hero.”

“And if it got you and your cutthroats kicked out of Soolabax, or out of Chessenta entirely, how would that help us when Threskel comes in force?”

“Well, there’s that.”

She brushed some of her tousled blonde curls away from her eyes. “You have your own little army. Instead of sneaking around looking for dragonborn by yourself, why not use it to search the whole town house to house?”

“The enemy might see us coming and get away. Or they may not really be here in the first place. And if I didn’t turn up anything, it would anger people who already didn’t trust me to begin with.”

“Hm. I see your point.”

“Also, when my comrades and I tracked down the Green Hand Killers in Luthcheq, the bastards burned their papers and mystical insignia. I don’t want the dragonborn in Soolabax to have the same opportunity.”

“I already said I see your point, and I’ll help you. It’s my duty as a sunlady and one of the town’s protectors.”

“I appreciate the offer. But if you mean you’ll help me with some sort of divination, we tried that in Luthcheq and it didn’t work.”

“With the Keeper’s help, we’ll think of something. Just don’t imagine it means I want you back in my arms. You spoiled that for good and all.”

“I understand.”

Her scowl deepened. Turning on her heel, she willed a flood of golden light into being as if to spurn even the glow he’d conjured for her convenience.

The mare’s eyes rolled. Gaedynn whispered reassurance, clung to the animal’s halter with one hand, and stroked her neck with the other.

He and Jhesrhi had ridden their stolen mounts past the point of exhaustion. She’d laid charms of calmness and obedience on them. By rights they should have been stolid as a pair of stones, but they weren’t. Not under the circumstances. And if they made too much noise, or bolted out from under the oak that shielded them from the sky, Jaxanaedegor would surely spot them.

He might do it anyway. Dragons had keen senses, and Gaedynn suspected those of a vampiric dragon were sharper still. Conceivably sharp enough to pierce Jhesrhi’s spell of concealment.

Gaedynn abruptly realized the wyrm was overhead again. Perhaps, peering through the tangled branches, he saw a star vanish as the undead hunter glided in front of it. But mostly he felt the proximity of a malice profound enough to turn his mouth dry and make him shudder.

His horse trembled too. She tried to toss her head, and then whickered. He wondered if he should kill her, or if that would make even more noise.

Then, up in the sky, leathery wings cracked like a whip. The overpowering sense of vileness faded. Either Jaxanaedegor was a little deaf by dragon standards, or else Jhesrhi’s magic had kept him from hearing the whinny. In any case, he was flying away.

The sellswords kept silent. If the wyrm was still looking for them, he might swing close again, depending on the search pattern. But that didn’t happen, and Gaedynn finally decided it wasn’t going to.

“I have to admit,” he said, “there are moments when it looks like you’re starting to get the hang of sorcery.”

Jhesrhi grunted. “We were lucky. Can you find us something to eat?”

“If you’ll take charge of my horse, I’ll be happy to try.”

“Do you want light?”

“Let’s not lean too hard on that luck you mentioned.” Wishing it were later in the year, alternately standing straight and stooping low, he started examining the tree limbs, shrubs, and roots in their vicinity.

“So what now?” Jhesrhi asked abruptly.

He glanced back at her. “I thought you just requested a late supper.”

“I mean tomorrow.”

“We flee back to Soolabax, I suppose.”

“What about our mission?”

He thought he glimpsed the round pale caps of mushrooms, took a step closer, and saw they were actually toadstools. Damn it. “Our mission is considerably more dangerous now that Jaxanaedegor knows about it.”

“He didn’t seem to think it likely that the dragon in the Sky Riders really is Tchazzar. And he may not think we’re reckless enough to still go there.”

Gaedynn smiled, not because of anything she’d said, but because he spotted helmthorn vines. He took another pace and, as he’d hoped, saw berries. They were still in the process of ripening from green to indigo, but in a pinch a person could eat the tart fruit anyway.

Trying not to prick himself on the long black thorns-he already had one gash on his hand!-he started picking them and putting them in the pouch on the orc guard’s sword belt. “Then our former host is right on both counts. The dragon, if there even is one, isn’t Tchazzar, and I’m not foolhardy enough to keep looking for it.”

“Let’s assume the worst.”

“By all means, since it’s what keeps happening.”

As usual, the interruption annoyed her-he could hear it in her voice. “Jaxanaedegor will go look for the dragon or send someone to do it. But he never got around to asking us exactly where in the Sky Riders it is. That means we can find out the truth and get away before anyone else shows up.”

As he finished picking the berries, he spotted something else interesting and headed for it. “That’s insanely optimistic, but let’s continue in the same spirit and see where it leads us. Say we do find Tchazzar. Say he is still interested in protecting Chessenta. Do you really think Lord Nicos or anyone else will be able to free an ancient wyrm from whatever it is that’s strong enough to hold him?”

“I don’t know. I just know Aoth entrusted us with a task.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just bent on testing yourself against Threskel? On proving you’re a courageous, capable person here or anywhere? Because you already did that, in Mourktar and again inside the volcano.”

Jhesrhi kept silent for several heartbeats. When she spoke again, her voice was ice. “That has nothing to do with it.”

He sighed. “Of course it doesn’t. And we’ll go to the Sky Riders if you think it best.” He straightened up and, keeping one hand behind him, walked back to her. “I’ve got helmthorn berries. And these.” He bowed and held out the violets he’d found. “I’m not entirely sure how long we were chained up in the dark, but I think it may be Greengrass night.”

Making sure her hand didn’t come into contact with his, she took the flowers. “You never stop striking poses.”

Gaedynn grinned. “Well, as you pointed out yourself, it serves me better than sincerity.”

The giants had raided deep into Tymanther, burning villages and fields to raise the smoke Khouryn and his companions had noticed on their way to Djerad Thymar. But-so far at least-the marauders kept retreating back to the Black Ash Plain, and so the vanquisher’s warriors had gone to seek them there.

Which was to say, to a gray wasteland where only sparse grass and twisted shrubs grew and smoke rose from cracks in the ground. The air stank of combustion, and drifting flecks of ash stung the eye. To either side towered freestanding columns of solidified ash. Though as a dwarf, Khouryn had a reasonable knowledge of earth, stone, and fire, he couldn’t imagine what natural process created the things. Or set a couple of the more distant ones sliding like tokens on a game board without toppling over or breaking apart. It couldn’t be the wind. They were moving in opposite directions.

Riding on Khouryn’s left, Balasar turned his head and smiled. “Like the scenery?”

“I’ve seen it before,” Khouryn answered, and that was more or less true. He’d traveled the Dustroad. But it had become clear that if a person kept to the highway, he never quite found out just how strange and unwelcoming these particular badlands actually were.

The Lance Defenders were on the road or near it, where they hoped to engage the largest horde of ash giants. Like most of the companies fielded by one clan or another, the thirty Daardendrien warriors and their one dwarf ally were ranging through the heart of the barrens to intercept smaller bands of enemy raiders before they reached the dragonborn lands beyond.

Riding on the other side of Balasar, his black surcoat marked with the six white circles of Daardendrien but his heater shield bearing the right-hand gauntlet emblem of Torm, Medrash asked, “Are you sorry you came?”

Khouryn assumed some note of glumness or sourness in his voice had prompted the question. “I won’t be if our side defeats the giants fast enough for me to pay a visit home.”

But he suspected that was unlikely. And as for the notion that he might penetrate sinister secrets opaque to everyone else, well, that had seemed a little plausible back in Djerad Thymar, when he was a little drunk. But now that he’d sobered up it seemed ridiculous, and not just because a fellow wasn’t apt to learn much about schemes and conspiracies while stuck in the middle of a godscursed wasteland.

Khouryn knew he was far from stupid. He understood warfare and siegecraft better than almost anyone he’d ever met. And he could concoct a clever battlefield ruse when the situation called for it. But in the main, he thought in a straightforward manner ill suited to unraveling intrigues.

To the Abyss with it, he thought. I’ll stick with Medrash and Balasar for the length of this patrol. But then, unless I’ve found a better reason to stay, I’m heading back to Chessenta.

Balasar pointed. “Look.”

A speck moved across the hazy sky. Khouryn squinted and could just make out that it was a Lance Defender riding one of the giant bats. A scout or messenger, he assumed. The sight gave him a fresh pang of sadness for the loss of his own winged mount.

The Lance Defender plunged earthward.

“Is he diving?” Balasar asked

“No,” Khouryn said. A bat didn’t fly exactly the same as a griffon, but he was still sure he knew how to interpret what he was seeing. “His mount is hurt. Shot from below, I imagine. It isn’t dead, at least not yet, but it can’t stay in the air. He’s trying to put it on the ground before its strength gives out.”

And maybe the rider succeeded. It appeared to Khouryn that the bat wasn’t quite plummeting when it vanished behind a low rise.

“We have to get to him.” Medrash kicked his horse into a canter, and everyone else followed his lead.

They rode most of the way to the rise, then dismounted. Leaving a couple of warriors behind to guard the horses, they stalked up the slope on foot. Khouryn had learned that given a choice, dragonborn rarely fought on horseback, and maybe his companions hoped a quieter approach would catch any enemies by surprise.

Whatever they were thinking, he was glad to be on his own two feet again. He could manage his enormous mare under normal circumstances, but if he tried to do so in the midst of battle, he might well get the both of them killed.

He peered over the top of the rise. The bat lay crumpled a stone’s throw beyond the base of the shallow descent on the other side. An arrow the size of a javelin protruded from the animal’s flank. Neither it nor the dragonborn slumped on its back were moving. Nor were the three pillars of ash looming in a semicircle behind them.

“Is he alive?” Balasar whispered.

Medrash whispered a prayer. For a moment, power warmed the air. “Yes. I feel his thoughts. But I think he’s badly injured.”

“Where’s the tail-waggling son of a toad that shot him?”

“That I can’t tell.”

“Even a giant could hide behind one of those spires,” Khouryn said. “But that’s just a guess. The enemy could be anywhere, and there may be more than just a lone archer.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Medrash said. “I have to get down there if the Lance Defender is to have any chance of living.” He stood up straight and headed down the hillside.

“What about my chances of living?” said Balasar to his clan brother’s back. But he followed without hesitation. So did Khouryn and everyone else.

Peering one way and another, weapons at the ready, they prowled halfway down the slope. Then the column of ash to their right shuddered. Grit broke off and showered down the sides. Then it slid forward.

“We’ve got an adept!” Medrash shouted. He meant a giant shaman capable of magically pushing the spires around to serve as ponderous but powerful weapons.

Though few dragonborn possessed a knack for spellcasting, the Daardendriens had brought along one of the exceptions, an old fellow with a scarred snout and bronze scales who wore six wands sheathed on his belt like a collection of daggers. He drew one carved of alexandrite, greenish in the light here, pointed and spiral-cut to resemble a unicorn’s horn. He stabbed it at the advancing column and snarled words of power.

The spire kept coming. As Khouryn tried to predict its course and poised himself to dodge as need be, he thought, I’ll bet Jhesrhi could stop it.

At which point it did stop, and he decided he hadn’t given the dragonborn sorcerer enough credit. Then the pillar shredded apart, the demolition proceeding from top to bottom as quickly as a sword stroke.

It filled the air with much more ash than before. Khouryn felt like he was choking on the stuff, and his smarting eyes were so filled with tears that he could barely see.

Balasar coughed. “The giants have learned a new trick.”

It hurt, but Khouryn forced himself to take a deep breath anyway. So he could shout. “They’re coming! Be ready!”

A dragonborn started to curse, and then the obscenity warped into a scream. If not for the warning, Khouryn might never have noticed another spire gliding in on his left.

Fortunately, it wasn’t too hard to dodge if you did see it coming and had somewhere to go. But he winced to imagine such a weapon plowing and crushing its way through a close formation of infantry.

He jabbed it with his spear as it shuddered past. He didn’t really expect the attack to accomplish anything, and as far as he could tell it didn’t. The pillar didn’t fall over or anything like that.

The dragonborn wizard began another incantation. Peering through the murk of floating ash, Khouryn saw that the magus had swapped out the alexandrite wand for one made of rose red phenalope. He jabbed it insistently at the ground as he recited, in a manner that reminded Khouryn of someone ordering a dog off a piece of furniture.

The spire crumbled. That had the unfortunate consequence of setting even more ash adrift in the air, but the wizard wasn’t done. He recited a final rhyming couplet, and all the gray-black flakes and particles fell to the ground like they’d become as heavy as lead.

The sorcerer smiled a fierce reptilian smile of satisfaction. Then an arrow as big as the one that had felled the bat punched into the center of his chest. He collapsed, the red wand tumbling from his hand.

Khouryn spun around and saw his first ash giants.

Technically speaking. About twice as tall as the dragonborn, with gray, hairless flesh, cadaverous faces, and deep-set black eyes, they appeared to be an offshoot of the race known as stone giants in other parts of Faerun. It was hard to credit that so many big creatures-six at least-had hidden themselves so well and sneaked so near before being detected. But their natural coloration no doubt helped, and they’d smeared their bodies with ash to camouflage themselves even better. And the limited visibility aided them too.

Balasar half roared, half hissed a battle cry and rushed the nearest. Sword glowing, encircled by floating phosphorescent runes, Medrash charged just a stride behind him. Their clan brothers spread out to flank other foes.

Khouryn doubted that either the adept or the archer had advanced to fight hand-to-hand, so he held back and tried to spot them. He located the bowman first, peeking out from behind a boulder and, by the looks of him, waiting for a clear shot at Medrash.

Khouryn charged. A giant sweeping a greatclub back and forth drove three dragonborn into his path, and he veered around them.

The archer didn’t notice him coming until he’d nearly closed the distance. But then the hulking creature turned, drew his arrow back to his shoulder, and let it fly.

Khouryn covered up with his shield. It was well made and enchanted as well, and even an oversized arrow streaking from an enormously powerful bow failed to penetrate it. But the impact jolted it back against his body.

He couldn’t let the shock make him falter. The giant was already reaching for another of the arrows stuck in the ground. Khouryn hefted his spear and threw it.

It wasn’t meant to be used that way. It was too long and heavy. But he was strong even for a dwarf, and he’d practiced when none of his men were around to watch and decide that if an officer thought casting one’s spear away was a sensible tactic, they should consider using it too.

The giant tried to dodge, but the spear still pierced his thigh. Blood flowed, looking redder than red on his gray skin in that gray place.

The archer yanked the weapon out. That made the wound bleed more copiously, but it would keep him from tripping over the spear as he moved around. Meanwhile, Khouryn dropped his shield, pulled the urgrosh from his back, and pounded on.

The ash giant resumed reaching for an arrow. Then he registered just how close Khouryn had gotten and snatched up the greatclub leaning against the boulder instead.

The club was a length of wood as tall as a man, with sharp chunks of flint jutting from the top. The giant swung it in a low arc. Khouryn hopped backward, and the end of the weapon whizzed by a finger length in front of him.

It was time to rush in close, where the larger combatant’s reach became a handicap and the smaller one found it easier to strike. But unfortunately, the archer seemed to understand that as well as Khouryn did, and the wound in his leg wasn’t doing much to impair his mobility. He retreated, and that gave him the time and room to shift the greatclub back into a threatening position. Khouryn had to stop short to keep from running onto the jagged flint sticking out of the top.

The giant advanced and attacked with short, vicious strikes that kept the club between Khouryn and himself. As Khouryn gave ground, he waited for the archer to overcommit, to open his guard or throw himself off balance. It didn’t happen.

To the Abyss with it, then. Khouryn stopped retreating and so invited an attack. The greatclub whipped at his head. He ducked beneath the blow, jumped back up, pivoted, and chopped at the weapon at the end of its stroke, in that precious instant before the giant could put it in motion again.

The axe blade cut the rock-studded crown off the club. It also broke the giant’s grip on what remained, and he fumbled to regain a firm hold on it.

Now! Khouryn charged up to the giant’s legs and cut repeatedly. Blood gushed, and the archer fell forward.

He wasn’t done, though. He tried to heave himself around, presumably to jab at his foe with the stub of his broken weapon or simply seize him in his enormous gray hands.

But Khouryn found a vital spot before the ash giant located him. He reversed the urgrosh, stepped in, and thrust the spike between two ribs. It punched deep enough to reach the heart. The giant made a croaking sound, shuddered, and then slumped motionless.

Panting, wiping giant blood off his face, Khouryn turned to see how the rest of the battle was going.

Not too badly, he decided. A few of the dragonborn had fallen, but two of the giants’ frontline fighters had too. At the moment, the adept looked like the most serious problem. Either he’d emerged from hiding on his own, or Medrash and Balasar had finished their first opponent and flushed him out. Then they’d charged him.

They hadn’t reached him though, because he’d turned the solid ground beneath them into loose ash and cinders, and they were floundering in it like it was quicksand. Meanwhile, the adept stood with his arm stretched out to the remaining spire. Moving slowly for now, but accelerating as it started to come out of its turn, the column was looping around to make a run at the two dragonborn.

Fortunately, the adept was fairly close. Khouryn charged.

The giant heard or glimpsed him coming. He turned, growled words of power, and lashed his arm like he was throwing a stone.

In reality, he was throwing several. Appearing in midair, the conjured barrage hurtled at Khouryn, who threw up an arm to shield his face.

Some rocks missed. One bounced off his helmet with a clank. Two others cracked against his mail, stinging him but doing no actual harm. He ran on.

The shaman backpedaled and slashed his hand through the opening zigzag pass of another spell. But he was so focused on self-defense that he lost control of the spire. As Khouryn understood it, the peculiar landforms rarely fell over when they wandered around on their own, but that wasn’t the case here. The pillar was moving as the giant wanted it to move, and deprived of his psychic guidance, it toppled.

Happily, it wasn’t yet close enough to land on Medrash and Balasar as it crashed to pieces, and a moment later they succeeded in dragging themselves out of the soft ash. Both were now covered in the stuff, and the filth made an odd contrast to the pearly radiance of Medrash’s sword and the glyphs of light still hovering around his body.

The two dragonborn and Khouryn advanced on the adept. We’ve got this, Khouryn thought. It’s been a hard fight, but we’re going to win.

Backing away, the shaman reached inside his horsehair tunic and brought out a gray, gleaming egg-shaped object. He raised it over his head and chanted. Power groaned through the air. But that was all that happened, and Balasar laughed a short, derisive laugh.

As if in response, something bellowed. Khouryn looked over his shoulder.

Big gray creatures were bursting out of the pocket of ash the shaman had created, and the piles and drifts the fallen spires left behind. The things were as big as ogres, and lizardlike, but something about their shapes made Khouryn think of bears as well. Diseased bears, for sores and pustules dotted their scaly hides.

One of the lizard things charged Balasar. Khouryn took a stride toward his friend, then saw from the corner of his eye that a second creature was racing at him. He pivoted to face it.

It lunged, jaws open wide to reveal a mouth full of blisters and slime. It snapped, he sidestepped, and its fangs clashed shut on empty air.

But drops of its slaver spattered his exposed skin and, smoking and popping, burned him. Snarling at the pain, grateful that none of the viscous stuff had landed in his eyes, he cut at the creature’s head.

The urgrosh split hide and flesh and cracked the skull beneath. But it wasn’t enough to kill the lizard-bear. It turned and sprang at him, and he dodged and chopped at it again.

It still wouldn’t go down, and then the ground crumbled beneath his feet. As he plunged down into the powder, he realized that the adept had played the same trick on him that he’d used on Medrash and Balasar. He also realized he couldn’t defend himself while half drowning in the dry, hot quagmire. All the lizard thing had to do was lean down and nip his head off.

It started to. Then Medrash rushed in on its flank and cut its neck. His luminous blade bit deep, and the beast collapsed.

Then Medrash stuck his sword in the ground. He had to grab Balasar to heave Khouryn out of the ash, because Medrash’s off hand was useless. A different lizard thing had torn away his shield and shredded the arm that supported it. The wounds fumed and made a sickening sizzling sound as acid continued to eat its way into his flesh.

“Heal yourself!” Khouryn said.

Medrash swayed. “The others…”

“You can’t help anybody if you pass out!”

“You’re right.” Medrash pressed his good hand to the injuries and recited a prayer. Light shone between his fingers.

Meanwhile, Khouryn surveyed the battlefield, then cursed. The advent of the lizard creatures had shifted the balance of power disastrously. He and the dragonborn likely could have handled either them or the ash giants, but not both together. Half the Daardendrien warriors had fallen already, and the rest were hard pressed.

“We have to make a run for it,” he said.

Medrash gave a curt nod, and then he bellowed, “Retreat!”

Retreating was particularly difficult for him and Khouryn with most of the enemy between them and where they wanted to go. But, miraculously still unscathed, Balasar came to fight alongside them, and that helped. Together they killed one lizard-bear, lamed another, and scrambled away faster than it could follow. The adept filled the air around them with embers, but the sparks only singed them a little before they sprinted clear. Maybe Medrash’s circle of runes protected them.

Then Khouryn felt the slant of the ground beneath his feet. He and his friends had reached the slope, anyway.

Eventually, they reached the top too, and at that point Medrash stopped running and glared back at the pursuing giants and lizard things. Balasar and Khouryn stopped to stand to either side of him.

The paladin shouted, “I’m right here! Kill me if you can!” Khouryn could tell the declaration carried a charge of divine power. Even though he wasn’t the target, the words echoed inside his head. They certainly set hooks in several of the enemy, who left off chasing other dragonborn to veer toward Medrash. And his two companions.

“Now how is this a good thing?” Balasar asked. Then an ash giant pounded up to him, and he caught the first chop of a stone axe on his shield.

He probably riposted too, but Khouryn didn’t see it. He had to turn and contend with a giant of his own.

The next few moments were a frenzy of bashing, hacking giant weapons and the blades that leaped and darted in reply. Chanting a prayer, Medrash began to shine like his sword. Lacking any comparable mystical resources of his own, Khouryn simply kept in constant motion and used every skill and trick he’d mastered in training yards and battles across the East.

Somehow it kept him alive until Balasar yelled, “Everyone’s gone past us!”

Medrash thrust the point of his sword into the ground. “Torm!” he bellowed. Brighter light flared from the weapon. Khouryn didn’t feel a thing as it washed over him, but it slammed giants and lizard-bears reeling backward.

Which enabled the three defenders to break away. As they turned and ran, the glow in Medrash’s sword, the radiance shining from his body, and his ring of floating runes all winked out together. Which likely meant that for the moment, he’d exhausted his ability to channel his deity’s power.

Below them, one of the guards they’d left with the horses was still waiting, still holding a string of the animals ready. Balasar, who’d evidently noticed that it took a dwarf a bit of time to clamber up into the saddle, picked Khouryn up and dumped him there before springing onto his own mount.

Medrash swung himself onto his horse. The guard started to do the same. Then something cracked, and he collapsed, his head abruptly misshapen inside his dented helm. Blood gushed from under the rim. Khouryn realized one of the giants had thrown a stone with lethal force and aim.

The guard appeared beyond help, and the riders spurred their steeds and left him sprawled in the dirt. They had to. Because giants and lizard things were charging down the slope like a wave rushing at the shore.

For the next several heartbeats, Khouryn wondered if reaching the horses was actually going to be enough. It was possible that the giants with their long legs could run just as fast, or the lizard creatures for that matter. Or one of the rocks whizzing through the air could kill or lame a horse.

But he and his comrades gradually pulled ahead, and one by one the giants gave up the chase and shouted after them. Khouryn didn’t speak their language, but the mockery in their tone was unmistakable.

And maybe they deserved to feel superior. Because when Khouryn and his companions caught up with the dragonborn who’d ridden away before them-the warriors whose lives they’d bought with their seemingly suicidal rearguard action-they saw there were only three of them. That meant Clan Daardendrien had lost twenty-five of its finest.

Balasar looked around at what little was left of their war band, then made a spitting sound. “And we never even got to the scout on the bat!”

Hasos glared at Aoth. “A man is dead!” the noble said.

“I regret that,” Aoth replied. “But war really is coming. Threskel is moving more and more of its strength to the border. You’d better get used to the idea that before this is over, a lot of men will be dead.”

“The other farmers are afraid to work the fields.”

“All the more reason to help me stop the raiders in their own territory before they slip into yours and hurt people.”

Hasos’s mouth twisted. “We’ve been though this, Captain. I won’t provoke the Threskelans into attacking any more aggressively than they are already. I won’t risk men I may need later.”

Aoth studied Hasos. Please, he thought, show me a sign that this whoreson sent the killers after me. Do it and I’ll arrest him, take sole command of all the soldiers hereabouts, and worry about justifying my actions to the war hero later.

But the scene before him didn’t change. He could depend on his fire-kissed eyes to see through darkness or mirages, but providing some intimation of a man’s secret thoughts was a more difficult trick.

Of course, it was entirely possible he was staring at the wrong man anyway. He wanted Hasos to be guilty. It would make life simpler, and he didn’t like the aristocrat any better than Hasos liked him. But that didn’t mean the Chessentan really was sheltering dragonborn assassins.

“All right,” said Aoth, “you keep your men patrolling your own lands, I’ll keep sending mine into Threskel, and maybe together we can keep any more peasants from catching arrows. Now, if we’ve talked about everything you wanted to discuss, I have something too.”

Hasos scowled like he wasn’t done witlessly trying to blame the plowman’s death on the sellswords’ incursions into enemy territory. But then he evidently decided to let it go. “What’s that?”

“I need to walk this keep from top to bottom.”

“Why?”

“Obviously, my lord, if the Threskelans lay siege to Soolabax and succeed in getting inside the walls, your residence will become crucial to our defense. So I need to be familiar with it. I should have looked it over before this, but I had even more urgent things to do.”

“I suppose I can have someone show you around. Or do it myself, if you think that would be better.”

And then, if there was something Aoth wasn’t meant to see, his guide would steer him away from it. “No need. I can find my way around a fortress. I just wanted your permission.”

“Very well. You have it.”

Aoth left Hasos’s study and proceeded to explore the smallish castle from battlements to cellars. He took inventory of its strengths and weaknesses, just as he’d said he would. But he also looked for signs of secret passages and hidden chambers.

Which evidently didn’t exist.

He finished in the wine cellar. Exasperated by his failure, he found a dusty old bottle and picked at the cork with his dagger. He got some of it out and pushed the rest down the neck into the red liquid inside. Hoping he was pilfering something expensive, he took a swig.

Not bad, in a sour sort of way.

When he’d drunk his fill, he left the bottle on the floor, departed the keep, and walked to the temple of Amaunator. He had to wait while Cera completed a ceremony, but then she received him in a study considerably brighter and cheerier than the one where Hasos conducted business. The costly glass windows and skylights let in the warm afternoon sunlight.

Cera lifted off a round golden mask and set it on a table. “You look awful.” She sounded slightly hoarse from her praying and chanting.

Aoth snorted. “Thanks so much. Lack of sleep will do that to a person. The war is starting. I have to spend most of my time in the field. Then when I do make it back to town, instead of resting I walk the streets or fly over them, looking for some sign of the dragonborn.”

“From your manner, I take it you still haven’t found one.”

“No.”

She removed the topaz-studded cloth-of-gold stole hanging around her neck. “I guess ‘true sight’ doesn’t live up to its reputation.”

“It doesn’t make me omniscient, if that’s what you mean. You jeer at me. Have you had any better luck?”

She poured water from a pitcher into a goblet and took a sip. “Not yet. There’s a ritual that enables me to tell if another person’s speaking the truth. When I have the chance, I perform it before I talk to someone we decided was a likely suspect.” She smirked. “By the way, you’re reimbursing the temple for the incense I have to burn.”

“Even though you’re telling me I won’t be getting much for my coin.”

“I’m afraid not. Even if a person is guilty, the trick is steering the conversation in such a way that he needs to lie. I can’t just say, by the way, are you hiding dragonborn in your house? Or, how’s the plan to murder that ugly little sellsword commander going? What’s that all about, anyway?”

“And who’s to say you’re even talking to the right people? Or that anyone is sheltering the reptiles? Maybe they’ve taken refuge in an empty building.”

“Now that I doubt. To say the least, Soolabax is no metropolis, but it’s grown since Hasos’s ancestors built the walls. It’s crowded now, especially since we locals had to find space for you sellswords. There just aren’t that many vacant houses.”

“I suppose not.” He felt a yawn coming on and smothered it. He considered using a tattoo to stave off fatigue and decided not to bother. “It sounds like I just have to keep looking over my shoulder.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh?”

“I assume that even a devil-worshiping Thayan is aware that among his other attributes, Amaunator is a god of time.”

“You mean Bane. It’s Bane my countrymen all worship since Szass Tam drove the other zulkirs out. But yes, I know that.”

“Then it may not astonish you that under certain circumstances, the Keeper gives his clerics a measure of power over time. Not enough to visit the past in the flesh-there are excellent reasons why no one can ever be allowed to do that-but to travel there in spirit and watch what unfolds.”

He frowned. “You’re saying our souls could lurk outside your garden and see where the dragonborn came from. Get a direction, anyway.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. It sounds like a form of divination, and I told you what happened when the wizards tried that in Luthcheq.”

“It’s not divination in a technical sense. It is a unique way of directing divine power, one that most people outside my order have never even heard of. That gives us reason to hope that we could do it without triggering the assassins’ mystical defenses.”

“All right, let’s try.”

“Don’t make up your mind quite yet.” She took another sip. “The sacred texts warn that the ritual is dangerous and should only be attempted to achieve something of extreme importance.”

Aoth smiled a crooked smile. “More important than saving the hide of one devil-worshiping Thayan, you mean.”

“Yes. But if your survival or learning the truth about the dragonborn is necessary to keep Chessenta from falling to the armies of an undead dragon, then perhaps I would be justified. I’ve prayed and meditated, and I don’t feel Amaunator telling me no.”

“How reassuring.”

“If it’s not good enough for you, you may also want to consider that I’ve never tried this before, or even watched anyone else do it.”

He shrugged. “You understand Amaunatori mysteries better than I ever could. If your instincts say go forward, then I’m game.”

She smiled, and it struck him again just how much he liked her round, impish face. “Then shall we do it now, before we come to our senses?”

“Right now?”

“The sun is bright and high in the sky. I just came from worship. I’m about as powerful as I’m going to get.” She picked up an old book bound in crumbling yellow leather, then waved her hand at a wooden chest. “You carry that.”

It turned out to be heavier than he expected, enough that it was awkward to manage it and his spear too. He had a feeling she was waiting for him to grunt and stagger, and he did his best to hide the fact that he was straining.

Cera led him through the temple to the door that opened on the garden. She instructed an acolyte to stand watch and make sure no one disturbed them, and then they stepped out amid the winding paths, green grass, and fresh red and yellow blossoms.

Aoth set the chest on the bench he and Cera had used on the night of the attack. She opened the box, and when she unpacked the four items inside and removed their velvet wrappings, he saw what had made it so heavy. About as tall as his forearm was long, each of the objects was a golden statue of Amaunator standing with an hourglass, a calendar stone, or some other device emblematic of time. The sculptor had fashioned the figures in an elongated style that made the god look skinny.

“I trust you can find the cardinal points,” Cera said.

“My men and I would have spent a lot of time wandering around lost if I couldn’t.”

“Then set the icons out on the ground to define a circle. It doesn’t matter how big, as long as we can both fit inside comfortably.”

He did as she’d directed. “Now what?”

“Now I stand at the center of the circle, you stand toward the edge, and you don’t speak or move till I say you can.”

They took their places.

Cera stood up straight and took a breath. Up until then, despite the fact that she and Aoth were engaged in serious business, there’d been an edge to her that might have signified playful teasing, lingering anger, or a mixture of the two. Now, even though she’d stopped talking, he somehow felt that quality fall away. Suddenly she almost seemed like a holy image herself, her whole being focused on drawing down the power of her god.

She opened the old yellow book and started to read aloud. At first Aoth only heard the words. Then, though a kind of synesthesia, he also perceived them as pulses of warmth and light.

Even he shouldn’t have been able to see the latter in a garden already awash in spring sunlight. Nor should he have seen the arcs of radiance that flared into existence to delineate the sacred circle, and the lines that stabbed outward through the grass. But, as if they were more real than anything around them, the magical phenomena possessed a transcendent vividness that would have made them visible in any circumstances whatsoever.

The icon to the east shimmered and faded away. Then the ones to the north and south disappeared, and lastly the figure in the west. The ritual had consumed them like fire ate wood.

Suddenly, Aoth felt light as air and sensed his essence trying to rise. For a moment something held him like sticky strands of spiderweb, but then the adhesion broke and he floated clear of his body. Which stood like a statue beneath him-except with the heart and lungs still working, he assumed.

Cera flowed up out of her body. Her spirit wore a semblance of her vestments and carried an analogue to the yellow book just as he still appeared to possess his mail and spear. “Do you feel disoriented?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’ve experienced astral travel before.” At the Dread Ring in Lapendrar-he hoped this venture would prove less dangerous and more productive than that one had.

“Then let’s get outside the walls.” She soared over the one on the east and disappeared behind it.

He willed himself after her, and simple intent was enough to launch him like an arrow from a bow. The sensation of effortless, weightless flight was as exhilarating as he remembered, for the instant before he touched down in the street.

Several boys were playing catch in the center of the thoroughfare while a black dog scampered around their feet. A man-a potter, judging from the clay stains on his hands and clothing-scowled, apparently at the momentary inconvenience of having to detour around the game.

Nobody reacted to Cera and Aoth’s arrival. Because no one had the magic or spellscarred eyes that would have allowed him to perceive disembodied spirits.

“What now?” asked Aoth.

“If I performed the ritual properly,” Cera replied, “it should work more or less on its own from here.”

The leather ball halted in midair, then flew back into the hand that had thrown it. Putting his feet exactly where he had before, the potter backed up.

At first, even though everything was regressing, it didn’t move any faster than it normally would. Aoth wondered if he and Cera would have to wait for what would feel like actual days before they reached the dragonborn attack.

But then the world sped up until all he could see was flickers and blurs in the street. Occasionally he felt a cool tingle as something streaked through his insubstantial body.

The sun dropped toward the eastern horizon, and dawn gave way to night. The darkness only lasted a few moments, and when the sun rose in the west it was racing even faster. Daylight and star-dappled blackness alternated as quickly as the beat of clapping hands.

Until he felt the rapid regression come to a sudden halt. It left them in the dark, which was a good sign. Still, he asked, “Are we where-or rather when-we need to be?”

Cera smiled. “Listen.”

He did. He could just make out the rippling music of the harpist she’d hired to play at the feast.

“When the dragonborn appear,” she continued, “I think I can back up time a little more, at its normal speed. Then we can follow the assassins back to their lair.”

“This is… impressive.”

“I certainly am. I’ll bet you’re sorry you trampled on my maidenly feelings now, aren’t you?”

He was still trying to figure out how to respond to that when his eyes throbbed. He grunted and raised a hand to them.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not in pain. But I have a strange sensation.”

“Let me see.” She came closer and peered up into his face.

“It doesn’t hurt. It’s not interfering with my vision either. It’s just-”

The sky resumed flickering from night to day and back again. Then Cera and Aoth hurtled upward like leaves in a tornado. He instinctively tried to resist, but the force that gripped them was far stronger than his ability to move or stay by force of will.

In fact, he was afraid it would rip Cera and him apart. She plainly had the same concern, for she reached out at the same instant he did. He grabbed her hand, pulled her close, and wrapped his arm around her. Caught between them, the sacred book pressed into his chest.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“In that case, maybe I’m not as impressed as I thought.”

He had a sense they were streaking along fast as lightning, and that combined with the flashing madness that was the sky made it impossible for him to judge where they were headed or how much farther in the past their destination lay. But the journey only took a moment or two, and then they were at rest again. It seemed like a relief until he took in their surroundings.

They stood on a ledge midway up one side of a sort of bowl in the ground. Crags rose all around the low place like the points of a crown. They looked natural, but not entirely so. Someone had dug and carved to make sure that the balconies were spacious and plentiful enough for all the enormous creatures that perched here under the stars, and that the openings in the rock were sufficiently high and broad to admit them to what must be a warren of tunnels within the spires.

Everything was silent. An animal odor hung in the chilly air.

“That smell,” Cera said. “Is something here?”

“Dragons,” said Aoth.

She stiffened. “What?”

“Dozens of them, perched all around. They must have some spell of concealment in place. That’s why you can’t see them.”

“What are they doing?”

“Not much. Talking, I think.”

“About what?”

“The enchantment that hides them makes them quiet too. And the Blue Fire changed my eyes, not my ears.”

“I don’t understand any of this!”

“I don’t either. But since we’re here, let me watch for a while.”

“If I call on Amaunator, maybe I can see them too.”

“Or maybe they’ll sense the use of power. I’m sure it’s frustrating, but leave the spying to me.”

For all the good it was likely to do when he couldn’t hear anything. He noted a preponderance of blues, greens, reds, and the other dragons collectively called chromatics, fewer gem wyrms, and only a couple metallics. Then all the behemoths in front of him raised their crested, wedge-shaped heads, and he turned to look where they were peering.

When he did, he felt a stab of fear, as well as incredulity that he’d only now noticed what perched on a balcony to his right. The entity was at least as huge as any of the other dragons, but made of nothing but bare bones, the sparks that danced on them, and the spectral blue light in its eye sockets. A horn jutted from its snout and bobbed a little as its jaws worked. Aoth could feel its malice and cruelty as plainly as he could see its scythelike talons, or the naked armature of its wings.

“By the Flame,” he whispered, “it’s Alasklerbanbastos.”

Up until then, he’d imagined he and Cera had a good chance of going undetected. But suddenly it seemed all too likely that an undead wyrm would notice the presence of discarnate spirits, and probably sooner rather than later.

It made Aoth glad that like every other ledge, the one he and Cera occupied had an opening to the tunnels. “We’re retreating into the caves,” he said. “And as soon as all the dragons are out of sight, you’re going to pray us back where we belong.”

She nodded. “If I can.”

They backed up. Given their status as living ghosts, they shouldn’t have needed to tiptoe or creep slowly, but they did anyway. With dragons and a dracolich only a stone’s throw away, Aoth found it impossible to do otherwise.

But even if his attempt at stealth made sense, it wasn’t good enough. On the other side of the bowl, on a shelf near the jagged top of the rim, a dragon sat up abruptly. A dull, mottled red with a black ridge on its spine-Aoth wondered exactly what sort of wyrm it was-peered at them with eyes like burning coals. Then it exhaled a cloud of vapor and cinders with a care that reminded him of a pipe smoker blowing a smoke ring.

The exhalation writhed and billowed, forming legs, batlike wings, and a serpentine head, neck, and tail. Becoming a vague, semitransparent parody of its creator. Then the smokelike image hurtled straight at Aoth and Cera. Startled, puzzled, other dragons and even the Great Bone Wyrm himself twisted to follow its flight.

Aoth had no doubt that the wyrm with the rust-colored scales realized the intruders were spirits, give or take, and had unleashed a magic capable of harming them. Kossuth grant that meant a living phantom could hurt it in return. “Run!” he rapped. He leveled his spear and spoke a word of power.

Wind howled out across the bowl. It didn’t disturb so much as a particle of dust existing solely in the material world, but it hurled the smoke-thing backward, frayed its limbs, and stretched them out of shape.

Still, the blast of air didn’t tear it apart as Aoth had hoped it would. The creature, if that was the right word for it, pulled itself more or less back into shape and kept coming.

As it set down on the ledge, he threw a pearly blast of frost at it. Seemingly unaffected, it sprang forward and lifted a forefoot to claw at him.

Then warm golden light shone from behind him. To him it felt pleasant, bracing, but the smoke-wyrm flinched.

“Its maker is undead,” Cera said, “so sunlight burns it as well.”

“I don’t care!” snapped Aoth. “I’ll hold it off. You concentrate on getting us back where we belong.”

The breath-entity plunged forward. Aoth sidestepped a silent snap of its hazy jaws, charged the point of his spear with destructive force, and thrust it into his adversary’s neck.

But had the attack actually hurt it? He couldn’t tell.

The smoke-thing clawed at him. He thought he jumped back far enough to avoid the raking stroke-although with the limits of the entity’s body so poorly defined, it was hard to be sure about that either. In any case, a chill stabbed through his body, weakening and numbing him. Tiny red droplets burst from his pores to drift up and merge with the swirl of sparks and vapor.

He drew strength from a tattoo to stave off feebleness, shouted words of evocation, and hurled a bright, twisting bolt of lightning into his foe. It faltered and shuddered, but only for an instant. Then it snapped at him again.

Aoth dodged. As, visible through the swirling vapor that was the breath-entity’s substance, Alasklerbanbastos crawled into the cave. Aoth looked into the seething blue light that was the dracolich’s gaze. Suddenly he couldn’t move, absolutely could not move, while the smoke-wyrm lunged-

Aoth shot upward through the solid rock above him and high into a sky flashing from dark to light and back again. He looked for Cera and found her to his right, just beyond arm’s reach. It occurred to him he ought to try to take his bearings, but it was too late. They were already hurtling through time and space.

He returned to his physical form with a sort of mental jolt, like he’d jumped out of a tree. For an instant, solid flesh and bone felt heavy as lead. He stumbled to the bench, shoved the box off onto the grass, and flopped down.

Looking as exhausted as he felt, Cera sank down beside him. “Are you all right?” she panted.

He realized he was winded too, even though his body hadn’t done anything. He pulled off his gauntlets and saw his hands looked the same as always. At least, unlike his spirit form, the physical Aoth hadn’t bled.

“The breath-thing hurt me a little,” he said, “but now that we’re back, I imagine I’ll shake it off. I’m just glad it didn’t take you any longer to end the spell.”

“So am I.” She closed her eyes, whispered something, and kissed the flaking yellow cover of her book.

“Do you have any idea where we were, or when?”

“No.”

“I didn’t recognize anything either. Well, nothing but the Great Bone Wyrm. I mean, I assumed it was him. Damn it! Why didn’t we stay where we wanted to be?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe the dragonborn’s defenses did interfere. Maybe I didn’t perform the magic properly. Or…”

“Go on.”

“Maybe I really had no business trying it at all. Perhaps the circumstances didn’t warrant it. One thing’s certain-I broke the rules of my order by doing it without asking Daelric’s permission.”

“Because you knew he wouldn’t give it.”

“Well… yes. And I believed my judgment in the matter was better than his. Perhaps what we just experienced was the Keeper rebuking my arrogance.”

“It seems like an odd sort of punishment. Why not just send an angel to give you a spanking?”

That tugged a slight smile out of her. “I don’t know.”

“Is it possible that Amaunator, or whichever of his exarchs took control of the magic, meant to help you? That he showed us what he thought we ought to see, as opposed to what we believed was important?”

Cera frowned. “I suppose it’s conceivable. But if so, why was that more important?”

“I don’t know. Finding the reptiles who want to murder me strikes me as extremely important. But come to think of it, there’s even another possibility.”

“What?”

“You were trying to cast what’s essentially an enchantment of seeing. My eyes already carry a magic of seeing that, even a century after the Spellplague, no one truly understands. Perhaps the two powers combined in a way we couldn’t anticipate.”

She shrugged. “I guess it’s possible.”

“There’s doubt in your voice. But either of my ideas is more plausible than the notion that your god is angry with you.”

“I hope you’re right. More than once I’ve heard it whispered that I’m nowhere near as solemn and dignified as a sunlady ought to be. But I do love Amaunator and try to walk in his light.”

“Of course you do. I feel the strength of the bond you share every time you invoke his power.”

She smiled. “As if a devil-worshiping Thayan would recognize holiness when he saw it.”

He grinned back. “Well, you’ve got me there. Do you think we dare try that particular magic a second time?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. We don’t have a second set of statues.”

“Next you’re going to tell me they were worth thousands and thousands of trade bars, and you expect me to pay for them too.”

“Maybe I can think of a way for you to work off the debt.” Using her fingertip, she traced the shape of the tattoo on the back of his hand.