5

29 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)
Djerad Thymar, Tymanther

FROM THE PEAK OF THE PYRAMID, DUMUZI LOOKS OUT OVER TYMANTHER, FARTHER than his eyes could ever see on their own. There on the shores of the Alamber Sea, Djerad Kethendi shines like a polished pearl. But there, flowing toward it like a swarm of ants over the land, the army of the King of Dust.

Enlil stands beside him, sets a hand upon his shoulder. Dumuzi blinks and the world shifts—the world as it once was. A city sprouts from the ground, whitewashed sandstone in neat blocky rows. Unthalass, Dumuzi thinks.

He will go there, Enlil’s voice comes, his Draconic without hesitation or stiffness. Mark it.

“It’s too close to Djerad Kethendi to be sure,” Dumuzi said.

He will come for Djerad Kethendi as well, Enlil agrees. But first he will claim what was stolen from him.

“Is there something there?”

His pride. Our past. Another time, another version of the world falls over this one like a curtain, the sea beyond, glittering in the sunlight. Boats move across its shimmering surface like dark-backed beetles. We came here when we defeated Imaskar, when we wrenched our stolen peoples from their grasp. We too came here from another world, our children stolen by another kind of tyrant, made to slave under an unfamiliar sun with no way to reach us.

Dumuzi watches the city of whitewashed clay rise up where the boats beach, years passing in the space of a heartbeat. “What happened?”

We found a way through, Enlil says darkly. And our children were slaves no more. The curtain of the past vanishes, and again they look upon the plains of Tymanther.

The army shifts and moves like a single being. Ten thousand people, swept from the old world and into this one, and Dumuzi imagines how different everything must seem to them, assuming the ancestor stories are true. Do they know what to eat? Do they know how to find water? When they look up at the sky stretching over them, blue and bright, does it warm them or terrify them in its strangeness?

Dumuzi folds his hands together. “These people—these humans from Untherthey’re your real children. Why aren’t you saving them instead?”

Enlil shakes his head. It doesn’t work that way. You’re as true as they were, as they may yet be.

“But they’re the ones you brought here, originally.”

Their descendants, Enlil corrected.

“They look like you did,” Dumuzi pointed out.

The black-scaled dragonborn only shakes his head. How I look means little. Do you understand what you did? Enlil asks. How you saved me? How you made this possible? Right now, those people wish to end you and yours. We have an agreement—and I would not forsake you. He considers the wide expanse of Tymanther’s plains, the sunset drowning the grasses in rubies and golds. But do not forget: Gilgeam is a tyrant. Not all who follow him do so willingly. There may be those among the army of the King of Dust who belong with us as well.

Dumuzi follows the line of Kuhri Ternhesh, winding toward Djerad Kethendi and the Vorelheching Kethendia. The River Alamber, Dumuzi translates. The Alamber Sea.

Unthalass, Enlil says. City of Gems. The ruins do not shift and become the city of whitewashed clay and stone, not this time. They remain a puzzle unassembled, a treasure buried in its own rubble. Across the water, Djerad Kethendi looks on, waiting for war.

Dumuzi startled awake, sitting in a chair in the Verthisathurgiesh enclave, a little nook with a bust of a long-dead ancestor overlooking it. He rubbed his eyes—that happened more and more, the sudden drop into a dreamworld, a place where he could speak to the god. It unnerved him—and yet he kept sitting down in quiet places, kept closing his eyes instead of fighting it.

This, he thought, standing and stretching, is why everyone is avoiding you.

He looked into the elder’s audience chamber, searching for Matriarch Anala but finding only the ancient dragon skull looking down on him with disapproval. He went to the guest quarters where Farideh and Mehen were staying and found only half-eaten farothai, cold and stiff and stale, and the door to what had been Brin’s room shut and locked, the wizard’s muffled, muttering voice the only thing to stir the silence. He went upstairs to his father Arjhani’s rooms at last, because this was something he ought to do, but found them blessedly empty as well. He blew out a breath in shameful relief.

“Dumuzi,” a voice near to him said. He turned and found his cousin, Lanitha, leading a broad-shouldered, copper-scaled man with steel antler piercings in his temples. Fenkenkabradon, Dumuzi thought. The clan of the Lance Defenders’ leader—and Arjhani’s superior—Fenkenkabradon Dokaan.

“Is Arjhani here?” Lanitha asked.

“Is Dokaan all right?” Dumuzi asked, almost in the same breath. The commander had been seriously wounded battling a demon not a few days before. Although he’d survived where others hadn’t, a wound like that could turn bad quickly.

The Fenkenkabradon regarded Dumuzi as though he’d just belched lightning all over himself. “I’ve come to speak with Verthisathurgiesh Arjhani,” he said. “If he’s not here, I’ll have to return another time.” Before either of the younger dragonborn could protest, he turned on his heel and left.

“What was that about?” Lanitha said. Then she turned swiftly to Dumuzi, teeth gapping. “Oh. Is it … I heard a rumor that you …”

“I called a god down in the Vanquisher’s Hall,” Dumuzi said. “It’s true.”

Lanitha’s green eyes widened. “Iskdara says she saw the lightning wall holding back the Blue Fire. You did that?”

The god’s presence pressed painfully upon Dumuzi’s eyes. “Enlil did it.”

Lanitha shook her head. “Who is that?”

“The god,” Dumuzi said. “He wants to join us.”

“Best of luck to him,” Lanitha said. “I can’t imagine the elders are going to be pleased with a god interloping.”

Karshoj to what the elders think,” Dumuzi said irritably. Lanitha gave a short nervous laugh. “Sorry,” Dumuzi amended. “I do care, but they’re being silly. Iskdara told you—the Blue Fire would have destroyed Djerad Thymar. Enlil saved us.”

“Suppose. Well … tell him thank you,” Lanitha said. “But, Dumuzi, I’ll tell you, when your qallim agreement comes up, you might want to have this settled.”

Dumuzi blinked—a god in his head, the planes reshuffling, an army heading for Djerad Kethendi, and Lanitha was reminding him to think about his marriage prospects. “I think I’ll worry about that when the Vayemniri in general are settled,” he said, a little bluntly. “Do you know why the Fenkenkabradon wanted to see Arjhani?”

Lanitha shrugged. “Lance Defenders’ business I assume. Maybe Dokaan’s faring poorly. Or maybe they’re thinking of having Dokaan stand for Vanquisher, and he needs a replacement.”

“They’re taking votes for Vanquisher?”

Lanitha cast her eyes back down the hall. “I heard Matriarch Anala pushing for it. She has the Churirajachi and the Yrjixtilex in line with her, at least. An ‘interim’ position, she says.”

Though who would say when the interim had ended? That would depend a great deal on the Vanquisher, the clans that elected them, and how badly things had changed because of the Blue Fire’s return.

It would depend, Dumuzi thought, descending a staircase, on what you manage to do before the King of Dust gets here. He went back to the audience chamber, to await Anala.

Dumuzi considered the polished red floor, shining with the reflections of weapons hung on the walls, wielded by past elders. The shadow of the red dragon skull behind him. Symbols of his father’s clan’s roots, their traditions. Not a sign of any god among them. Dumuzi knew of people who had thrown in with gods—adherents of the Platinum Cadre, worshipers of Bahamut; the rumor of a cousin’s friend’s clan-mate bewitched by the Dragon Queen; warriors who had taken the powers granted by Torm or the Red Knight, maunthreki gods who might accept a “scalie” paladin. No one in his family. No one whom he still knew. Not every chance at god-worship had a bad ending, not every clan abhorred it, but enough. Kepeshkmolik, for certain. He thought of the expression on his mother’s features, the distance. He thought of Lanitha’s warning he might not have any marriage prospects, no chance at a normal life, when this was through. Would anyone stand beside him when all this was done?

Would it ever be “done”?

Does it matter? he thought, resting his elbows on his knees. Both Vayemniri cities were in danger, the homesteads were largely lost—who cared if he had friends or a family or anything if it meant he could keep his people alive?

Those things are much of your life, the god’s voice said, a note of sadness to it.

Dumuzi scratched a loose scale from his knee—he’d forgotten Enlil. I’m not the sort of champion you need, he thought.

We are both learning, the god said. I have asked you to look at the world in a way you never have before. I spoke to many, and only you listened—I have never assumed this would be easy for you. Still, he added, time is of the essence.

Half of the enormous entry doors swung open, and Mehen entered, frowning when he saw Dumuzi. “Anala’s still gone?”

“I haven’t seen her,” Dumuzi said. “Did Farideh come back yet?”

“No.” Mehen came to stand in front of him. “How are you holding up?”

Dumuzi started laughing—he couldn’t help it. Mehen made a noise in the back of his throat as if he were annoyed, and sat down on the dais beside Dumuzi. “Your mother is worried about you.”

“She probably should be,” Dumuzi said. “I need worshipers for him. And soon.”

Mehen’s nostrils flared. “We’ve never needed a god before. We’ll manage.”

“We’ve never faced another god before,” Dumuzi pointed out.

“Pouring out of the cracks, they are. Centipedes and gods.” Mehen considered the carvings along the wall. “He give you any ideas about how you’re supposed to establish a church among unbelievers before that army gets near enough we need a pet god of our own?”

“I’m not pretending that it will be simple, but …”

Start with the truth, Enlil’s voice echoed. We have common ground. Dumuzi tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth, assuring himself Mehen wasn’t angry. “He … He feels you understand. He feels you might be open to the idea.”

Mehen stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why the karshoji Hells would he think that?”

Not only blood makes a clan, Enlil said. The strong shall not oppress the weak, and the land shall be enlightened.

Dumuzi felt the god’s presence press upon his mind. “I think … He’s a father—he sees himself as a father. A parent and a soldier. And so are you. Maybe you understand then. Maybe you can believe him when he says he’s come here to help us, to watch over us, to guide us and not yoke us.”

Mehen looked unconvinced. “I’ve seen a lot of sorts of fathers in my day. Doesn’t mean much. Same for soldiers. Is he the sort that whips a subordinate for having muddy boots? Who drapes himself in purple silk and brocade and doesn’t much care if his army is starving or badly trained? This Enlil, is he the kind of commander that makes an example? Beats a body out of ten just to scare the other nine?”

“No!” Dumuzi said indignantly—but then he caught himself. He didn’t really know. He felt sure—but then appearances could be deceptive. He thought of Arjhani, of the way he could charm everyone and then fail Dumuzi so utterly.

“Enlil saved us,” Dumuzi made himself point out.

Mehen folded his arms. “What’s he think about the fact you’re not his truest convert?”

Dumuzi sighed. “He’s not happy about it, but he understands.”

“Well that’s a start.”

“And it’s a problem,” Dumuzi said. “You’re right—I’m not his truest convert. I hear myself and I can’t believe this is my voice saying these things, trying to convince people to worship a god. But at the same time, I know I have to. Has Anala told you what they know? About the army heading for Djerad Kethendi?”

“It’s come up,” Mehen said. “We’ve beaten armies before.”

“Of gods and demons?” Dumuzi demanded. “We need this ally, and … and I’m asking everyone to stop being Vayemniri by accepting him.”

Mehen started to say something, then cursed and rubbed his hands over his face. “How practical is he?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how heartfelt does this worship need to be?” Mehen said. “We’re a practical people—can he be a practical god? Can he be an ally, not a master?”

Enlil seemed to press into reality, as if curious. “Maybe,” Dumuzi allowed.

“Lay it out that way,” Mehen said, sounding reluctant. “Lay it out like it’s a treaty or a qallim agreement or a mercenary contract. What do they have to give up to get this Enlil’s help? How many prayers buys a lightning wall? What happens if we refuse to prance around in pothach robes and hats? Things like that.” He scratched his jade piercings. “Put a time limit to it and I’ll wager you get some more interest.”

In Dumuzi’s thoughts, the god’s presence seemed to thicken, as if he wanted badly for Dumuzi to sleep again, to be able to hear his words clearest. Enlil didn’t like this idea—gods did not make contracts—and yet he did—he had been a god of law, of order, and what was a contract but order imposed upon the fleeting realities of life?

A frantic scrabbling sound came from the other side of the door. Two Verthisathurgiesh hatchlings, a white-scaled girl and a bronze-scaled boy, burst through, shoving past each other. “Matriarch Anala!” the girl shouted.

“She’s out,” Mehen said. The girl froze, fearful, and the boy scrambled to a stop beside her—Mehen resembled so closely his brutal father, the previous patriarch, that Dumuzi didn’t wonder if his voice sent the two of them spiraling back into the past. “What do you need?” Mehen said, when neither spoke. The boy gestured to the girl.

“There’s … there’s an army,” the girl panted.

“We’re aware,” Mehen said. “Has it reached Djerad Kethendi then?”

The girl shook her head. “No … another army. Not humans … giants. Giants … marching on Djerad Kethendi.”

Panic swelled through Dumuzi, but the presence of Enlil was only puzzled. “Ash giants?” Dumuzi asked. Ash giants had attacked Djerad Thymar in Dumuzi’s childhood.

“No. From the north. They’re something else. Something … The rider said they had marks all over. And they’re bigger than the ash giants.”

Mehen stood. “Just what we need. And you,” he said to the boy. “You have the same message?”

“No,” the lad said. “There’s a visitor to see you. Says it’s urgent. Says he fled the first army and he wants to see Farideh.” He tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Says she has his snake?”

• • •

ZOONIE DREAMS.

Hot sun. Wide plains. Grass is crunching—nice dry smell, like fire-to-be. Man in black smells like shadows, hiding in the grass, but not for long. Zoonie scents him. Tracks him. Fast-fast-fast.

Man pops up. Run, man, run. Doesn’t matter—Zoonie is faster. Zoonie is fastest. Run forever, Zoonie will catch.

“Zoonie!” Voice shouts. “Tarto!”

Zoonie stops. Zoonie listens. Where is Havilar? Where is best-favorite-love-master? She smells the Havilar-smell—oil and leather and sweat and Havilar. Sights her. In the grass. Forget the man. The man will wait. Havilar is here!

Zoonie runs-runs-runs. Smell is strongerrealer. True Havilar not Strange Havilar. Zoonie runs too far, knocks Havilar to the ground. So happy! So glad! Havilar is happy too! Pets and laughs and shouting! Zoonie shouts—big deep shouts!

Off!—Zoonie hears the words now. Zoonie scurries backbest-favorite-love-master says off, so off. Havilar scratches in Zoonie’s fur, smooths her ears back. Love, love, love! Obey. Obey, obey. Where has Havilar been, leaving her body behind smelling so wrong? Almost knocks her down again, so happy! More what-to-do? More orders?

“Good girl,” Havilar says. More pets, more scratches. Zoonie is happiest. She has obeyed and best-favorite-love-master is happy. More orders? But no, Havilar just wants pets and scratches. Easy done.

“Is she taking care of you?” Havilar says. Zoonie has no answers—Zoonie is, Zoonie obeys, Zoonie waits-waits-waits. Listens-smells-watches for better answer.

“You’re bored,” Havilar says. “I can tell.”

Yesbored. Zoonie shoves her head under Havilar’s arm. More chasing. More orders. More things-to-hunt.

“At least I know I can do this now,” she says, scratching ears. “Hopefully Farideh’s as happy to see me as you are.”

Shadow-smell—Zoonie turns toward it. Shadow-smell, so man in black is near. No, there, crunching grasses, running fast. None is fast as Zoonie, though. See the army in black? If they get in our way, you can eat any of them you like—orders, definitely orders. Happiest to obey. She takes off with all her feet. Fast-fast-fast, run-run-run. She hears Havilar shouting something, but there is nothing in her head but the man in black and the running fast and the way shadows taste when they burn.

• • •

THE CITY OF Gems lay in ruins, far older than the Spellplague. From a distance, it might have been anything—the remains of a landslide, the tailings of a quarry, the abandoned beginnings of a dragonborn fortress. But Dahl marched close enough to the Son of Victory’s sedan chair to see and hear the man’s growing excitement.

“Here is where we begin again,” he bellowed. “Here is the seat of our ancestors, the seed of our glory.”

Dahl eyed the slipping piles of sandstone and crumbled clay. Here is a nest for ankhegs, he thought.

He’d cast the ritual on himself that morning, but without the touch of a would-be god, there was no making it permanent like the ritual cast on the sikatis. He’d learned enough to make the use of components worth it: once they established a base at Unthalass, the priests and sikatis said, they would march on one of the cities. Djerad Kethendi—the white-walled pyramid on the other shore of the bay—or Djerad Thymar—the prize, the jewel, the heart of the monsters’ kingdom—no one could say for sure. Perhaps both together—after all, they had a god to lead them. Their scouts had the slightest of information, and though they’d seen the riders on giant bats passing overhead, no one knew whose they were. They were too far off to tell what manner of creature rode astride them.

It doesn’t matter, the murmurs said. All will bow before the Son of Victory as we reclaim our kingdom.

The heart of their kingdom—a hundred massive piles of rubble, pocked with sinkholes to the collapsed city below—now lay before them. For all Gilgeam’s flowery speeches, a current of doubt ran through the whispers.

“What are they saying?” the dragonborn woman beside him whispered. Shestandeliath Mazarka, violet-scaled and pierced with the silver chain, had sought Dahl out the night before. The dragonborn captured had been from a pair of villages to the northwest, both ripped apart in the sudden planar storm. Half the buildings Mazarka’s clan held had just disappeared, along with everyone in them. Their apple orchards had vanished too, replaced with a dry riverbed that ended a mile on. They’d met up with the other clan—Clethtinthtiallor—heading to Djerad Kethendi in hopes it still stood and they’d be safe there.

Dahl shook his head—no one needed to know he understood Untheric for the moment. The doubts grew louder as the shadows between the rubble piles flashed and flickered. A high-pitched keening echoed through the stones.

One of the sinuous demons lashed out, snatching a creature that seemed half-human, half-beast from the dark patches of shade. The creature screeched and howled and slashed at the demon with powerful claws and a snout full of teeth. For all the demon bled, it still managed to kill the jackalwere, tearing its belly out with its teeth. Other jackalweres howled a warning through the ruins.

“Holy stlarning Torm and Tyr,” Bodhar hissed beside Dahl.

“Call your master!” Gilgeam shouted. “Or we will hunt you, each by each.”

A chorus of yelps and barks echoed through the ruins, no language Dahl could ever pinpoint. A moment later, a woman scaled the heap of stone, the shift of her tanned shoulders as she came into view subtly but hideously wrong. Her face might have been human—handsome even—but there was something about her that made Dahl’s skin crawl. Her pale eyes surveyed the army with the sort of callousness with which Dahl might have considered a stack of parchment or a field of rye. We don’t matter, he thought. Why would we think we did? Even so, as she scanned the army, still marching toward the ruins, she seemed to calculate, consider the numbers. Consider the bull-headed demons, the sedan chair that held Gilgeam. The jackalweres snarled, holding their position.

“You’ll find their master is already well prepared for you.” The woman crested the pile of rubble, revealing the source of her odd movements—where she should have had legs, instead a body like a lion’s flowed out of her torso. A lamia, Dahl thought. “That said, everything we’ve seen and considered suggests that perhaps Zillah’s kingdom is not the place for you to stop, human.”

“I am no human!” Gilgeam snarled. Then calmer, colder, “I have come allied with your master, the Dark Lord Graz’zt. My army is his army—you may mark his favored among my troops—and you are trespassing in my sacred city.”

Zillah didn’t flinch at that pronouncement, but it seemed to give her pause. As though she were considering what use Gilgeam might be, as opposed to what threat. Then all at once the creature sketched a sort of bow, her demeanor changed. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said, her voice thick with such falseness that she would put a Cormyrean courtier to shame. “If you had been made known to me—”

“My plans have changed,” Gilgeam said. “I have brought my people to their true home rather than claim a borrowed one.”

“Of course,” the lamia said. “I have held this city for years, but I have always known its makers were elsewhere.”

“And they have returned,” Gilgeam said as if he were finishing Zillah’s sentence. He turned to the sikatis, the priests marching near him. “Make camp once more. On the morrow, we’ll begin remaking the city.”

“How fortunate,” Zillah said.

Dahl knew a brewing catastrophe when he saw it—the lamia watched the god-king with a calculating sort of coldness, a certainty that she would cut his legs out the first chance she got; meanwhile the god-king ignored Zillah as though she were no more than another demon granted him by Graz’zt.

That was another detail Dahl wasn’t sure what to do with—if Graz’zt had granted Gilgeam this army, it had to have been before the demon lord had been pulled down into the Underdark. Which meant the demon lord could reach Abeir, or maybe that Gilgeam was capable of reaching out to the Abyss.

It also meant the source of Gilgeam’s reinforcements wasn’t anywhere accessible, he realized. Assuming Graz’zt remained trapped in the Underdark. He cast his eyes over at the goristro lurking over the filigreed tent already rising beside the slope of rubble. Only one way to find out.

Mira stepped from the sedan chair, scanning the crowd until she spotted Dahl.

All right? He signaled.

Safe, she signed back. Then, Trouble.

“What’s she saying?” Thost whispered. Dahl bit back a curse.

“The three of you!” Namshita stood over them. “We need water. Pick up those buckets.”

Finally they had their chance to break for the River Alamber, and the sikati who listened too closely would be accompanying them. He shouldered clay pots, hanging on a yoke, beside Thost and Bodhar, waited as Namshita untied their shackles from the post. Four archers came with them, and a half-dozen soldiers who shouldered pots of their own.

Maybe, he thought, considering the numbers. If Bodhar and Thost could move fast. If he could get Namshita down.

If he could live with abandoning Mira.

Namshita fell into step beside him.

“I have trained with the sword since I could stand,” she murmured. “I have two abnu on you and a handspan. My word is iron among these people, and if you so much as cry out, I will make certain you die before a sound leaves your throat. Are you and I clear?”

Dahl kept his eyes on Thost’s back, calculating how honest Namshita’s threats were. Pretty damned honest, he thought, considering the shadow of her, the movement of the archers at their lead. “Perfectly clear,” he said.

“You are a soldier,” she said, and he didn’t correct her. “What are your resources in this world?”

“Exactly as I told the Son of Victory.”

“No,” Namshita said. “You lied, and it was good you lied.” She hesitated a moment, then dropped her voice. “He is mad and he is dangerous. In the other world, we listened because we believed the opposite choice meant being the chattel of the genasi. But then his lunacy began to uncover itself.”

Dahl risked a glance toward her. “I assume around the time he made a deal for Abyssal shock troops?”

The look of disgust on Namshita’s face would have quelled any ordinary person. “Before the storm came, two thousand of us intended to flee into the wilds and escape over the mountains. What are your resources?”

“You’re still planning on running?”

“Is the Son of Victory still mad?” Namshita asked. “The city on the harbor—my scouts say it’s heavily defended. That we might assail it, but it would be years before it broke. And yet he colludes with that creature as if they’re discussing a march to the next supply depot.”

Dahl couldn’t say how long Djerad Kethendi could hold out against the Untheran army—the city was among the newest in Faerûn, untested by war. But the Fortress of Gems had been built by the same hands in the same way as Djerad Thymar—and no matter how isolated and peculiar the dragonborn were, Dahl doubted you could find a military mind on Toril who’d say the pyramid city was an easy prize to take.

“I have contacts in the western city, Djerad Thymar,” he said quietly. “They might shelter you.”

“ ‘Might’ is a heavy risk to take.”

Dahl bit his lip and wished Mira were there. Cultures weren’t his specialty. He wasn’t the person to ask about dragonborn—

He thought back to Farideh, sitting in the alley behind the tavern called the Sweet Nymph, and him prodding her into telling him dragonborn ancestor stories while waiting for her disguise spell to wear off so that it didn’t surprise the Sharrans they were hunting.

“Are you related to all of these people?” he had asked. “I mean, not by blood, obviously, but … you know.”

She shrugged. “It’s … I don’t think it’s the same thing as when you say related. Clans aren’t just about bloodlines, it’s also about who was willing to fight beside you, share the risk, share the damage.”

He squinted at her through the drizzle of rain. “So you and I could be in the same clan by those requirements.”

Farideh had snorted. “If you want to be adopted by dragonborn.”

Walking beside Namshita, Dahl considered this, and the half-score other stories he’d coaxed out of Farideh. “You could tilt those odds,” he said. “They say they’re a welcoming people, but they’re just as martial as you lot. You show up, an army at their gates, they won’t be fools. If you surrender and give up your weapons, perhaps some intelligence about Gilgeam, they’ll see you’re sincere. And if you’re sincere, they’ll be welcoming, I wager.”

Namshita made a soft snort, as if this was asking more than could be born. “They’ll see we’re meant for their chains.”

“Well there I have no ‘mights’ or ‘maybes’: They don’t take slaves,” Dahl said. “They don’t take kindly to those who do.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Can you give that up?”

“Only Gilgeam has taken it up,” Namshita said as they reached the mouth of the river. “Two thousand of us, at least, know better.”

The tide had pulled the water from the river’s mouth, the rising sea levels dragging water out that had once been farther upriver. Great boulders made cataracts as the tide receded, a fall of spraying water that surely couldn’t last long.

Across the estuary, Djerad Kethendi sat, a trio of pyramids shining white in the midday sun. The air thrummed faintly with the sounds of drums, the dark shapes of circling bat riders against the clear sky. Along the wall that now ran right along the water’s edge, more warriors paced, the size of mites at this distance.

“Not an easy prize,” Namshita murmured. “But how will they fare against a mad god?” She nudged Dahl with her shoulder. “Water,” she reminded him. “Watch the rapids.”

Dahl made his way down to the silty, sandy bank and waded up to his ankles. If he could get the Untheran rebels to Djerad Thymar, could he even trust them to treat with the dragonborn as allies? Gilgeam’s hateful speech made clear he wasn’t going to pass their city by—would the rest of his people?

If you just hadn’t left Harrowdale, he thought, scooping buckets of water.

A flash of silver caught his eye, popping up behind the rocks. Dahl edged closer to the cataract—a fish, and then another and another, trying to leap up the steep rock. He registered a patch of pink, a hooked jaw. Salmon, running up the river toward the mountains to spawn.

Dahl’s heart started to pound.

It was late for salmon to be running, he thought, staring at the fish. The water should be too cold. But then as the world unwound, as magic returned, the sea levels had risen. The rivers had changed. And the salmon that ran up the Alamber found themselves trying to futilely leap up a stone wall that hadn’t been there the prior year, that would be impossible to pass until the tide came back in.

And after my priest speaks, the god’s words had read. Where the salmon demand the tide.

Dahl wasn’t supposed to be in Harrowdale. Dahl was only supposed to be right here.

At least until he figured out what priest he was waiting for.

• • •

FARIDEH KNOWS—SOMEHOW—SHE SHOULD be more afraid as she moves through the Lost Library of Tarchamus the Unyielding. The stone shelves make a maze, and she can’t find the exit, can’t find the others, can’t remember what’s in the library that she should be afraid of. Wisps of blue fog drift over the limestone floor. Farideh leaps out of their path, feeling sure she shouldn’t touch them.

She sees the old man ahead, the long robes of a war wizard dragging across the stones, and she sprints to catch up, but she no more than turns the corner but the library’s not there—this is the basement of the temple of Oghma in Neverwinter. She starts opening doors—a jumble of memories and nightmares and nonsense. One-eyed Oota from the internment camp and poor dead Pernika picking grapes off a vine. A trio of erinyes decking a room in torture equipment—whips and chains and shackles and irons. Dahl and Mira whispering over a book. The flames of Asmodeus race up over her, sudden and anguished and unstoppable—

Dahl looks up, his eyes more silver than gray, and he smiles. “I haven’t left,” he says.

“But you did.” And now she’s alone.

He shakes his head. “Never alone.”

“Fari!” Someone yanks her arm, pulls her back from the scene that’s turning her into a monster. Havilar, glaiveless and furious. “Karshoj, what in the Hells is this place? Is this what you dream about?”

“The temple of Oghma.” Farideh looks around—all the open doors reveal empty rooms. What was she looking for? “You came here with me.”

“No,” Havilar said. “Listen to me: You have to find Caisys the Vicelord.”

The warlock. The confederate Adastreia mentioned. She calls up the soul sight and searches the hall—where is he hiding?—and nearly blinds herself. She blinks. There is Asmodeus.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says. Flames flood her hands, her whole self. He clucks his tongue. “None of that. I have something you want.” He holds out a staff, shining white as a bolt of lightning, thrumming with the power of a thousand storms. “Assuming,” he says, “you’ll make a trade.”

“What do you want?” Farideh asks.

“Hey!” Havilar shouts. “Me! Listen to me! You have to find Caisys the Vicelord, because—”

“Havi! Not now,” Farideh says. She turns back to where Asmodeus had been standing, but he’s gone, and so is the staff. The blue fog is getting thicker, rising to their knees. If she doesn’t find the staff …

Maybe you don’t find the staff, Farideh thinks. Maybe you leave it all be.

Havilar yanked her back. “Look. At. Me. This isn’t real, but I’m real. You have to stop getting distracted. You have to remember that you need to find Caisys the Vicelord. Understand?”

Farideh searches her sister’s face. This is a dream. “Havi?” she says. “Are you … Are you all right?”

“Caisys the Vicelord,” Havilar repeats firmly. “Say it.”

“Caisys the Vicelord.” Grief overtakes her swiftly as a rising river. “Havi, why did you go? I’m so alone.”

Havilar sighs. She puts her arms around Farideh. “Me too. Well, I mean, I’m alone with Alyona, but gods above, it’s still lonely and—”

Farideh opened her eyes to the still-drawn drapery around the bed in Adastreia’s stronghold, despite the fact she felt certain she’d only just fallen asleep. Her head thundered with the echoes of her dream, particularly Havilar’s shouting, the strange feeling she had been right there beside Farideh. This is a dream. She thought of Asmodeus trying to hand her the staff. Was it a dream or was it another vision?

Caisys the Vicelord.

She curled around the knot of the coverlet made by her tossing and turning, hating the silence, feeling the truth in her gasped I’m so alone. How much of that is your fault? She thought. You left Mehen behind, and Ilstan too. You weren’t quick enough to stop Bryseis Kakistos, and so Havilar left, and Brin went with her because he loves her best. You’ve drawn your lines with Lorcan and Dahl …

She buried her face in the blankets, embarrassed beyond mention by the moment she’d dreamed of Dahl and Mira, the flood of furious, jealous magic. You should be alone, she thought. You’re acting like a madwoman. He’d be safer with her. He’d be happier.

I love you. I miss you. I am sure of that.

She climbed out of bed, not caring what the hour truly was, and dressed, before pushing into Lorcan’s room. Again, he slept, thrown across the bed as though somehow it had defeated him, and here he lay, an unwashed corpse. Farideh pulled the coverlet over him, and thought herself a fool once more. If she were smart, when she got back to Djerad Thymar, she would ask Sairché what had happened to him. She would look for ways to work around his weaknesses and build her spells up.

If she were smart.

You don’t have time for anything else, she told herself.

When Farideh went back out into the sitting room, Adastreia was waiting for her, sitting in one of the padded wooden chairs, before a table of breads. “Good morning,” she said.

Farideh looked away. “We’re leaving shortly.”

Adastreia nodded. “I’d assumed.” She fiddled with the beads of her necklace, still staring at Farideh, but saying nothing for so long. “You can’t paint us all monsters, you know,” she said finally. “Those of us who did the ritual.”

The ritual. “How many people were involved in making me?”

“We had the best of intentions.” Farideh said nothing, too many angry words crowding in her mouth. “If anything,” Adastreia went on, “we were too idealistic.”

“You were ready to sacrifice me twice over,” Farideh said. “Karshoj to your idealism.”

At that, at least, Adastreia had the decency to look wounded. “Fair enough.” Then, “I think I might come with you. If the offer stands.”

Absolutely not, Farideh wanted to say. She made herself think of Havilar and of Bryseis Kakistos, as she strapped her armor back on. “What about Kulaga?”

“Kulaga is convinced I might woo you away from the cambion,” Adastreia said. “And I … I think you might be right about Bryseis Kakistos. She isn’t someone to underestimate.” Farideh looked back to find Adastreia staring at her. “Are you underestimating her?”

“She has my sister,” Farideh said. “I can’t afford to underestimate her.”

“Whereas Kulaga can,” Adastreia said. “So. We’ll go to Djerad Thymar. But don’t mistake me: I’m not offering to help you. Whatever plans you have, you’re on your own. I’ll take the offered sanctuary and that’s all.”

Farideh bit her tongue—you don’t want anything else from her, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter if Adastreia was a coward or a blackguard or a saint. All she needed to be was near enough to protect and central enough to trap Bryseis Kakistos.

“You ought to wear a cloak,” she said, heading back into her room to gather the last of her things. One heir down, she thought. That’s all that matters.