Orgurth grunted. “However you feel, we won’t know how to get to your fortress until we figure out where we are now.”
“I was just about to work on that.”
Aoth studied the constellations with blue Karpri and green-brown Chandos wandering among the starry pictures. Then he reached out for Jet and felt that the griffon was asleep.
Aoth resisted the temptation to wake him and ask if Cera and Jhesrhi had turned up. The wounded familiar still needed his rest, and all his master truly required at the moment was a sense of direction.
“I think,” he said, “that if Tymora gave us even the hint of a smile, the gate tossed us in the right direction, just not far enough. If so, we may be in a part of Rashemen called the Running Rocks.”
“So what do we do, Captain?”
“We hike north.”
Tangled helmthorn shrouded the base of the dead tree, and Nyevarra touched her fingertip to one of the long black stickers that gave the shrub its name. Even though she hadn’t applied any pressure at all, a bead of blood welled forth, and she laughed. It was wonderful that the thorn could be so sharp!
The tiny wound healed instantly, and she wandered on toward a stand of shadowtop trees looming against the night sky. Their strength and wordless, inhuman wisdom made her lightheaded.
Simply seeing Immilmar had delighted her, but that joy was nothing compared to the rapture of walking in the Urlingwood again. She felt like she could drift on forever, deeper and deeper into the forest and the green heart of the sacred.
But that, of course, was nonsense. The spirits intended her for greater responsibilities and a more complicated existence than those of a common witch, and even had it been otherwise, vampirism came with its own perspective and imperatives.
To work, then. Shaking her head to rid it of the residue of the dreamlike state that had briefly overtaken her, she headed east.
She soon spied a clearing, a fire-built only of deadwood, she was certain-and the masked, robed women gathered around it. Such circles tended to attract the same celebrants ritual after ritual but generally welcomed any hathran who cared to take part.
This one proved to be no exception, and once the other witches had greeted a wandering sister, they returned to the business of minor blessings, consecrations, and offerings to the fey. Nyevarra, meanwhile, studied them.
Who commanded powerful magic, and who would be easy to overcome? Who could be enslaved, and who should be removed and impersonated? She mostly had it figured out when Yhelbruna walked out of the trees and into the firelight.
Nyevarra had to hold herself steady. She believed that even without the Stag King’s antler staff in her hand, she could defeat Yhelbruna in a fair fight. But that was scarcely what would ensue if the newcomer revealed an undead durthan’s true identity to all these other hathrans.
Fortunately, Nyevarra told herself, it wasn’t going to come to that. She’d hidden herself behind a new wooden mask, clean new garments, and charms of deception, and clever and powerful though Yhelbruna was, she had no reason to suspect the presence of an enemy here at the fire.
So Nyevarra joined the other witches as they gathered around their famous elder sister to welcome her. And, in fact, Yhelbruna treated Nyevarra like just another member of the coven.
When the amenities concluded, Yhelbruna pulled off her brown leather mask to reveal a youthful, heart-shaped face with a prominent nose. The apple cheeks and a general impish quality were at odds with her reputation for severity, but her frown was not.
“Sisters,” she said, “I’m sure you have your own purposes and your own workings to undertake tonight, and I apologize for diverting you. But I need your help.”
Two fools spoke at once to say that the circle would like nothing better than to aid her.
Yhelbruna smiled. “Thank you. I assume you’ve all heard what’s going on in Immilmar. There’s reason to doubt that the mercenary Mario Bez has truly ended the threat of the undead marauders as he claims, and Mangan Uruk asked me to determine the truth through divination.” She took a breath. “Unfortunately, so far, the signs have been ambiguous if not nonsensical.”
Yes, thought Nyevarra, because my allies and I have gone to considerable trouble to muddy the mystical waters.
“But until now,” Yhelbruna continued, “I’ve only tried in Immilmar. Tonight, I’m going to try here with your power and wisdom buttressing my own. I’m also going to approach my task by a different path. Together, we’ll summon one of the winds that sweep across the North Country and ask it what happened on the day when Bez claims to have taken the Fortress of the Half-Demon.”
Nyevarra’s fangs ached, trying to lengthen as they did in response to any threat. The Urlingwood was on its way to becoming a somewhat different place, but unfortunately, that process had just begun. Yhelbruna was quite correct that the sacred forest would still strengthen her magic, and in addition, questioning the proper spirit of the air might indeed garner information that straightforward augury had not. The durthans had no measures in place to protect against that.
And just to make the situation even worse, not one of the other witches in the circle was a disguised durthan or one of their mind-bound thralls. Nyevarra was going to have to subvert the ritual all by herself and do it without getting caught.
Well, so be it, then. As the witches took up positions around the crackling yellow fire, she made sure she placed herself between two of the youngest and least experienced. They were less likely to detect her exerting a corrupting influence.
Yhelbruna slipped her mask back on and then raised her staff. In response, the fire leaped higher. Spilling snow, a rustling ran through the branches overhead as small spirits and fey oriented on her. Even the towering oaks and shadowtops seemed to lean over slightly for a better view, although in a purely physical sense, that was an illusion.
“Hail Akadi!” Yhelbruna said.
“Hail Akadi!” the other witches echoed.
“Hail to the Queen of Sky Home, the Lady of the Winds!”
“Hail to the Queen of Sky Home, the Lady of the Winds!”
“In her name …”
Hastily considering tactics, Nyevarra decided the contrapuntal structure of the summoning could work to her advantage. If she wanted to maintain her masquerade, she had no choice but to give the responses. But when Yhelbruna was speaking, she could do the same, so long as she whispered softly enough that no one would overhear.
“Night winds,” she breathed. “Winter winds. Tempests and plague winds. All you restless wanderers who harry mortals for sport. Whichever of you can hear my words, in the names of the Destroyer and the Mistress of Disease, attend me!”
By the time she finished that much of her invocation, murmuring it a phrase at a time as the ceremony allowed, the forces everyone was raising for one purpose or another had set the air in the vicinity moaning, howling, and gusting crazily. The branches overhead rattled constantly, and cloaks and robes flapped and fluttered. The bonfire whipped back and forth, while flecks of snow blew off the ground.
With magic well and fully roused, this contest had now become a race, and even though Yhelbruna had all the other witches aiding her, Nyevarra thought she had a fair chance of winning it. The hathrans were trying to find one particular spirit and draw it miles to the south, whereas Nyevarra was willing to settle for any wind of a suitable temperament, and thanks to her and the other durthans, there were already more of such entities lurking in the forest than there used to be.