FARIDEH WOKE TO SOMNI LOOKING DOWN ON HER, DAHL STILL SLEEPING tucked against her. She sat up quickly, dislodging Dahl, and pressed one hand to her cheek. A dream, a dream—but the powers of the Nine Hells thundered up her nerves as though she’d been casting all night long. Was that how it had always felt? She looked up at Somni and couldn’t remember.
“I have concerns,” Somni said. “Come.” She straightened and headed off for the opposite side of the camp.
“Hrast,” Dahl said, rubbing his eyes. “Did she …” He caught himself, turned away. “Whose dreams would make her say that, I wonder?”
At the center of the giants’ encampment, Somni regarded all of them pensively. Farideh kept her eyes on the giant, avoiding the others’ gazes, and especially Lorcan.
“What you’ve shown me suggests you have not been entirely forthcoming,” Somni said finally. “Your dreams have great power, but you seem not to understand it, as if you’re wading into a whirlpool.” She looked directly at Farideh. “You didn’t mention all the god-things involved here before. You didn’t mention the one called Asmodeus.”
“The gods are secondary to my goals,” Farideh said carefully, keeping her eyes on Somni.
“And are you secondary to theirs?”
I think I hardly register in their goals, Farideh thought, but didn’t say. I’m no one, nothing.
Help her. Stop her.
If you’re no one, a little voice in her thoughts seemed to say, then why do we bother? It would be beyond easy to ignore you. A shiver ran down her spine, right to the tip of her tail. It didn’t sound like herself speaking.
“Whatever you intended to achieve, your dreams make it evident that the god-things will press their own wants and goals forward, demanding a solution to a problem that seems impossible at a glance. Who are you to fight this battle?” Somni asked, “To right this wrong?”
“I’m … stubborn,” she allowed. “You could say. And I’m the one standing in the right place at the right moment, hearing the right things. That’s all.”
“You’re impossibly stubborn,” Lorcan interjected. His dark eyes were oddly soft as he regarded her. “And loyal. Even to an ally who doesn’t deserve it.”
“She sees things that another wouldn’t,” Ilstan added. “The good in that which seems irredeemable. The right in what seems broken.”
“She’s the right person,” Dahl said. He slipped his hand into hers. “She doesn’t give up. She’s true to a fault. She’s frequently the one who manages to spot what the rest of us are missing. She’s kind and she’s stalwart and … clearly she’s not secondary.”
“If there is a soul on this plane or any other who can find a way to rescue the Lord of Spells and forestall the Nine Hells collapsing into chaos, it’s her,” Lorcan said.
Farideh’s cheeks burned, everyone’s words more than she could accept. Accept them, the strange voice in her said. For once, just accept them. “It isn’t just me,” Farideh added. “I can’t do this alone. I wouldn’t dare try.”
Somni tilted her head. “Am I to hear a recitation of all your companions’ strengths?”
“No,” Dahl said firmly. “You need to give us the map. We gave you the dreams.”
The giant nodded to herself. “I cannot claim to understand your relationship to these god-things,” Somni said. “But we understand how precious the balance is, what the ramifications are if you do not address your dreaming intruding on your waking world. I will give you the map, Farideh.” She spoke to the giant man standing to her left, an order in her mother tongue. Dahl squeezed Farideh’s shoulder. She reached up and covered his hand with hers, all too aware of Lorcan’s eyes on them.
“I need to talk to Lorcan about something,” she whispered to Dahl. He frowned, but she took his hand and kissed it. “I’ll be right back.”
She crossed the circle to Lorcan’s side, ignoring his sullen expression for the moment. “Good morning, darling,” he said. “Sleep well?”
“What’s different?” she asked him. “What’s changed about me?”
Lorcan peered at her. “Should something have changed?”
“I had a dream that wasn’t a dream,” she said. “I’m fairly sure your master did something, gave me something. What is it? What do I have to expect?”
Lorcan took a step nearer, searching her face, her whole self. It stirred something unwelcome in her and she pressed those thoughts, those feelings back. She is true to a fault—what would Dahl say if he knew that Lorcan still flustered her like this?
The cambion leaned close enough she felt his hot breath brush her skin. “Nothing. Nothing I can see.”
Farideh drew back. “Are you sure?”
“Bearing in mind that there are limits to what changes in you I can perceive, yes, I’m sure.” Lorcan folded his arms over his chest. “What were you expecting me to see?”
Farideh shook her head. The voice in her thoughts didn’t feel like her own, but surely if she were carrying some fraction of a god, it would be apparent. Lorcan had known she was Chosen after all.
We cannot spare a Chosen’s spark …
“The Weave,” Ilstan said. He stood beside Lorcan, eyes slightly too wide. “It wraps itself close to you. Have you a spellbook?”
“No,” Farideh said. “My pact doesn’t work that way.”
“You have a wizard’s spells in your grasp,” he said. “Spellbook or no. The pattern, the threads of magic—this is the shape of a wizard’s gift.” He tilted his head. “I wonder what you know.”
It was nothing near to what Farideh was expecting. “Can you … Can I cast them? Can you tell what they are?”
Ilstan was silent a moment too long. Farideh’s tail began to lash. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps if you let me grow a little madder …”
The giant returned with a long piece of wood, a limb with all its branches smoothed off. With the end of it, Somni scratched the map in the dust, the peaks of mountains, the edge of a lake, the line of a river cutting through a plain. Farideh frowned.
“This is Tymanther,” she said.
For once, Somni seemed surprised. “No, its twin.” She considered her handiwork, adding a few more strokes to sketch out a second lake—a twin to the Ash Lake south of Djerad Thymar—another vast plain beyond. Then she set three stones atop the map: one at where the Greenfields lay, one near the center of Tymanther’s open plain, and one high in the mountains. She tapped the last of them.
“Each of these mark the place of a relic that is not of Abeir. This is the ruins of a stone tower, which none dare breach”—she tapped the stone amid the plains, then the stone nestled in the Greenfields—“This is a pit that drops down into the heart of the plane, from which a song that never ceases echoes. But this”—she laid a finger on the stone in the mountains—“is the relic I suspect you seek. Down in the caves of crystal. I don’t know how you will reach it. I don’t know how you will return. But if you truly believe that what you need lies in Abeir, this, I can tell you, is the most likely source.”
“Well,” Lorcan said. “That’s comforting.”
“No,” Farideh said, staring at the last stone. “That’s Arush Vayem.”
• • •
MEHEN KNEW NOT enough time had passed to deck Kallan in a Vanquisher’s finery, or to wrestle him down and decorate his cheekbones with the gold studs that marked the ruler. But still the sight of him in his scarred and cobbled-together armor surprised Mehen, as if the title alone would change Kallan. Adjudicators swarmed around him, bearing scrolls and the frantic looks that said there were days’ worth of work to be done and they could finally do it. A table had been brought up and a map of Tymanther spread across it. Anala and Vardhira, the Yrjixtilex matriarch, hovered near, the only elders still allowed in the Vanquisher’s Hall for the moment.
Kallan looked up, a wild gleam in his eye, and he beckoned them nearer. “This is how it’s gonna be from now on, isn’t it?” Kallan said, as Mehen came close. “You get to get your hands dirty and I get to hear reports.”
“Remember how Tarhun died,” Mehen said.
“You’ll be leading an army soon enough,” Uadjit said. “Plenty of action.”
Kallan snapped his teeth. “Karshoj. Gonna give me a broadsword to handle, aren’t they?”
“Greatsword,” she corrected. “For ceremony.”
“This should be you,” Kallan told her.
“Well it’s not,” she said. “If you spend the next eighteen months saying that, we’ll all get sick of it. Namshita and the Untherans are prepared to give us intelligence about the army. She says given what she’s seen and what she knows about Gilgeam, he’s absolutely going to hit Djerad Thymar with the intention of toppling it. He needs a symbolic victory, proof he’s what he says.”
“And has anybody figured out if he is what he says?” Kallan looked around. “Where’s Dumuzi?”
“Went off on his own for a bit,” Mehen said. “He’ll be along shortly.”
Kallan shook his head. “Has anybody gotten that boy a damned shrine yet?”
“No,” Mehen said. He turned to Anala. “Have you found a place?”
She smiled, unconcerned. “The perfect spot. The catacombs—”
“Verthisathurgiesh, forgive me, but you know that’d be wasted,” Kallan said. “Enlil’s a sky god—can’t bury that in the ground. We’ll get broken miracles.” He turned to the Adjudicator beside the throne. “What’s your name?”
The young man straightened. “Sithra, Your Majesty.”
Kallan made a face. “Save that for a proper Vanquisher. Let’s scrounge up some land in the exterior city for … I don’t know, I guess a temple is what we’re talking about. In the meantime, makes sense to set something little up on the pyramid’s peak, wouldn’t you say?”
“I … I suppose so?”
“Find Dumuzi. Or find that skinny girl he’s convinced already. Saitha. Give her a project. Maybe the Verthisathurgiesh could go with you.” He smiled at Anala, and you would almost think he meant it. “If you can’t get him the ground he needs, I’m sure he and Enlil will appreciate you using your considerable influence to get it.”
Anala’s own smile didn’t waver. “How clever. Your Majesty. Vardhira, be a dear and keep me company?” The two matriarchs left, following Adjudicator Sithra from the hall.
“Well, I suppose that’s what I get.” Kallan turned back to Mehen and Uadjit, gave them a stiff smile. “You two are going to have to step in if I say something foolish, because I am guessing, every word.”
“You’re doing fine,” Uadjit said.
Kallan looked unconvinced. “These folks say word is that the army encamped opposite Djerad Kethendi has split. Maybe a third to a quarter of the force remains at the ruins—which they are definitely rebuilding—and the rest have started our way. So Namshita’s right about that much. What else can she give us?”
“Demon types,” Mehen said. “Numbers. She thinks he’ll have a hard time breaking the city. We’re in for a siege.”
Kallan snorted. “Well, got practice at that. Scouts are estimating four days. They’re moving quick, but there are a lot of them. Probably get some forward detachments in the near term.”
“Another thing,” Uadjit said.
Mehen glanced down at the map, at the metal markers that indicated the Untheran army. The charcoal Xs that marked the areas of the wider country that had been searched. “Lot of empty land up north,” he said.
Kallan shot him a dark look. “I’ll have to worry about that later.”
Found a clue to staff, Farideh’s voice spoke from the empty air. Heading to Arush Vayem, and then … we need a path to Abeir, I think. She was quiet a moment, as Mehen gripped the stone. If anything happens, I love you.
“Karshoj!” Mehen spat without thinking. The spell picked up the word and flung it back to Farideh—godsbedamned magic, Mehen thought. Twenty-four more words—but panic and guilt sank their claws into his mind and he couldn’t slow his tongue enough to think. “Be careful. Don’t take Lorcan into the … Fari, don’t … Don’t do anything rash. Don’t leave this plane—I shouldn’t have to tell you not to leave the karshoji plane!”
It was too many words, Mehen realized too late. And none of them were an apology. None of them were to tell her he loved her too. What if something did happen? He’d made a terrible mistake. “Chaubask vur kepeshk!” he shouted, and would have thrown the stone across the room, had Kallan not caught his wrist.
“That’s not gonna help,” he said.
Nothing is, Mehen thought. You’re in over your head. You were in over your head the moment you claimed those babies, and now you’re failing them both.
“You know where she is, noachi,” Kallan said gently. “You know she’s on the right path. Go help her.”
Mehen swallowed, acutely aware of all the eyes on them. “She’s days away,” he said quietly, lowering his arm. “She has … Those giants will get them up the mountains faster than I can ride. Arush Vayem … They won’t be happy she came back.”
Why was she going back? Mehen wondered. What in the world did she think was there?
Kallan ignored the audience and patted his uninjured arm. “Look, get a bat from the stables—you can absolutely get there ahead of them if you go now.” He looked over at one of the Adjudicators. “I can do that right? Commandeer a bat?”
Mehen tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “What happened to not being selfish? Thirty thousand lives against one?”
Kallan looked down his snout at Mehen. “I’m giving you a bat, not a karshoji army. Go help her, then get yourself back here before our four days are up, because I might need to ask you to ride that karshoji bat into battle. Fair?”
“More than fair,” Mehen said reluctantly. He felt every eye on him, and it made him want to curse and spit. “I don’t want to leave you here, you know?”
“That’s sweet,” Kallan said. “But you got me this damned job I have to do.”
Mehen held out the sending stone. “You keep this. If Farideh sends another message, tell her I’m on my way. I’ll … I’ll let you know when I get there.”
Kallan smiled as he took it. “Go. Be quick. Be safe.”
“You too.” Mehen started out the door, then turned back. Karshoj to audiences. “I’ll miss you,” he said.
“Oh, you’d best,” Kallan said, with a cheeky grin that made Mehen hope Kallan would keep the Vanquisher’s piercings away. It would be a shame to mar that pretty face.
• • •
THE CAMBION SAT, straight-backed against the niche of her wings, with her hands folded neatly in her lap, for all the world an emissary awaiting guests, despite the mess of the sheets around her. Lachs sat in the chair beside the door, leaning on his cane, an unlikely guard. These mock trappings made Dumuzi nervous, despite the fact that the cambion had no power to speak of.
“Well met,” she said, flicking her golden eyes over him. “I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction.”
“We haven’t needed one,” Dumuzi said. The powers of the god seethed all around him, disliking this fiend in his midst.
“Too true,” she said. “So I’m Sairché, and you’re the boy with the dead god in your head.”
Enlil flooded Dumuzi’s nerves, lightning crackling all down his arms at the presence of this, another fiend in his city. “What do you want?” Dumuzi asked.
She pursed her mouth. “Straight to the point. I like that. As you can see,” she said, “I’m a rather unwilling guest of your city. Which, from the sound of things, is soon to have more guests it’s unwilling to host. The one you call the King of Dust and his demon army. I cannot leave this circle, you understand. If they siege the city, if it falls—”
“It won’t fall,” Dumuzi said. “We are Vayemniri.”
Sairché chuckled. “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that refrain. Let’s just consider it—think of it as an exercise if you will. If the city falls, then I will be sitting here when demons tear it down. I don’t want that, and while I suspect you don’t care overmuch about my particular circumstances, I suspect the part about the city being torn down does in fact resonate with you. So you see, we are both invested in the success of … What is it you call this place again?”
“Djerad Thymar.”
“Yes, that.” Sairché smiled at him once more. “It so happens, I have a very valuable connection to offer to your leaders. A mercenary army, of sorts.”
“You want to flood Djerad Thymar with devils,” Dumuzi said flatly.
“ ‘Flood’ sounds terribly dramatic,” Sairché said. “No, no, you choose the right devils, and you’ll send a signal. Tell the demons that you mean business. After all, there’s no one in the multiverse that can fight demons like we can. Practice,” she added. “Does your god have that?”
Dumuzi didn’t answer. “We have a lamia imprisoned who’s made us a similar offer. Why should—”
Sairché’s snort interrupted him. “A lamia? A lamia can’t promise you anything. They’re useless boot suckers. You shouldn’t listen to her anyway. She’ll kick you under the cart, the first chance she gets. They always do.”
“And a devil?”
“A devil,” she said, “will adhere to her word.” Her bravado flickered. “The consequences of doing otherwise can be most unpleasant. You deal with the lamia, all you’ll get is heartache. You deal with me, and I’ll gain you and your god the sort of army that can crush the demons.”
“And everything else in their way?”
“My half sisters are very disciplined,” Sairché said. “If all you want are demons dispatched, they will take the field and never touch a mortal head. They will remain until the Abyssal threat is vanquished and then leave. We’ll never have to speak of this again. No one ever need find out whether your god is strong enough to cut through their forces.”
“Just like that?” Dumuzi asked. “Here and gone?”
“Happily,” she said. “Whatever stories they tell on this plane, it isn’t meant for us. You have … things we need, but … well, you may fish, but you don’t linger in the depths of the sea, now do you? Once the deal is complete, we will go.”
As horrifying as that sounded, Farideh trusted them—that thought cut through the unhappy rumblings of the god beyond. Farideh trusted them, used them. They used each other, he thought. “And what do you want in return?” Dumuzi asked.
Sairché fluttered her silver eyelashes, a gesture he found disquieting. She nodded at the runes shimmering around the bed. “You’ve noticed, no doubt, the magic circle. Unlike your lamia, I’m not imprisoned—I’m protected. I’ve been cursed, and should I step outside this circle, the very devils I could gain for you would kill me. What I need is someone to wipe the curse from me. Do that, and I can call my sisters here safely.” She smiled. “So, Boy with the Dead God in His Head, have we got a deal?”
Dumuzi imagined himself standing on the pyramid, watching all manner of fiends battling for Tymanther, for Unther. Let them cut each other’s throats—he tested the thought. If Gilgeam would bring demons, couldn’t he bring devils? Assuming he could muster the power to clear her curse. Assuming he could convince Enlil. But if Farideh trusted them …
In a wary sort of way—he thought of how cautious she’d been about Lorcan, even when it had clearly not been about assignations and private things. How she kept things from him, for safety, it seemed. How she didn’t like to sleep. How she’d come to Cormyr—
Dumuzi frowned. “Sairché? You’re Lorcan’s sister.”
The cambion hesitated. “Yes.”
“The sister who bound my father’s clan-kin to the Nine Hells.”
“I don’t think so,” Sairché said with a little laugh. “You’re the first dragonborn I’ve dealt with.”
“Farideh,” Dumuzi supplied. “And Havilar.”
Sairché paled. For a moment she didn’t speak. “You have to understand,” she said, “a deal is a deal—”
“And you have to understand I owe you nothing,” Dumuzi said, feeling the lightning itch in his teeth, the god heavy on his thoughts. “Less than nothing—you’ve harmed my clan-kin, and more importantly, my friends. By rights I ought to break your circle and claim vengeance for Verthisathurgiesh.”
Sairché rose to her knees, her smile frozen. “Don’t be hasty!”
“I won’t be,” Dumuzi said. “If Farideh has you here, it’s clearly for a reason. I assume you have a purpose. At least for now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sairché said in a small voice.
Dumuzi shook his head. “I don’t know. But if I were you, I would hope she is kinder than she has any right to be. Don’t call for me again, please.” He left the room, trailed by Lachs.
“Showed her, huh?” the old tiefling said, slowing as they reached the middle of the sitting room. “Do you know where the brother and the warlock are?”
“No,” Dumuzi said. He paused. “Do you need me to find you someone who can send you back home? I can’t promise anything, but I know people who are clan-kin to decent wizards.”
Lachs shrugged, then shook his head. “Don’t bother yet. Not as if I’m needed elsewhere.” He settled himself on the couch before the spread of maps. “But I’ll certainly take some more of that salty mutton, if you don’t mind.”
Dumuzi left, arms folded close. Wondering if everything Sairché had said about the demons in Gilgeam’s army were true. Wondering if he ought to have listened to her offer.
You’re not the Vanquisher, he reminded himself. It’s not your place.
It will keep happening—he thought or Enlil said. Let it be Enlil, he told himself. The more powerful the god became, the less it felt as if he had a friend standing just behind his shoulder. The less mortal it all seemed.
It will keep happening—because he was the first, the speaker of the god, the one who would always seem to have Enlil’s ear. First Zillah, then Sairché, next who? Would Bahamut’s notice fall upon him, the Platinum Cadre making overtures? Would he have to speak to other priests, other gods?
Dumuzi stopped, studying the frieze that ran along the top of the hallway, a depiction of the building of Djerad Thymar. He wouldn’t mind talking to another priest or two, he thought, eyes on the small carnelian figure of Shestandeliath Maruzith, the great-granduncle of Geshthax, and former patriarch. He bore the clan’s most precious artifact, a strange branching flute called the Breath of Petron. With it, the powers of the dead titan were turned against the earth and stone on Toril, helping to pull the pyramid together and seal the granite in place.
The closest thing to priests or wizards in Abeir, he thought. Grave robbers of the fallen titans.
As he neared the entrance, Dumuzi peered into the rooms that lined the entryway, looking for one of the younger Verthisathurgiesh to send to the kitchens to bring Lachs something to eat. In the third of these, a little sitting room overlooked by a bust of his great-grandmother, Verthisathurgiesh Gharizani, he found not dawdling hatchlings, but a human man and woman.
The woman perched on the edge of the seat closest to the entrance, as if she hadn’t noticed it was built for someone much larger, and she’d rather sit there anyway. She looked up at Dumuzi, her dark eyes searching his face for a moment, before she gave him an easy smile. “Well met,” she said. “Dumuzi, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he answered. Mira, he remembered. The other Harper who traveled with Dahl. “Well met. Are you waiting for—”
“Anyone, really,” Mira said. “But Dahl in particular.”
The man had looked up when she started speaking. His skin was the same sort of brown as the Untherans, but his hair and beard were silver as the scales of Sepideh, his dead tactics teacher … or the Vayemniri woman the moon had become.
It means he’s older, Dumuzi recalled. He wore plain, gray robes and a silver necklace with a medallion impressed with a crescent moon. He looked up at Dumuzi and a shiver ran down his scales. The man closed his book, his dark eyes studying the Kepeshkmolik piercings across Dumuzi’s brow ridges.
“My father,” Mira said, though she didn’t name him.
“Well met,” he said, sounding curious. “You’re not Verthisathurgiesh, are you?”
“My father is,” Dumuzi said. When Mira didn’t make introductions, he went on, “I’m Kepeshkmolik Dumuzi, son of Uadjit, of the line of Shasphur. And you are?”
The man’s eyes traced the moons once more. Dumuzi found his own gaze drawn to the medallion. “Apologies, my name is Tam Zawad. I’m a friend of Dahl’s. Mira tells me he could use some assistance. Is he here?”
“No,” Dumuzi said. “Dahl went with Farideh and the others to speak with the giants.” He nodded at the medallion. “Are you a priest of the moon?”
Tam smiled in a way that Dumuzi didn’t quite believe. “I am. Though not to worry, I’m a bit beyond the days of fiery proselytizing.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Dumuzi said. He hesitated. “I saw her in a dream.”
Tam’s eyebrows rose. “You … sorry, what?”
“The moon. However you call her.” Dumuzi considered the medallion again. “Are you in a hurry to find Dahl, or can I ask for your help with something?”