Nazra's mind worked at a furious pace. Every secret she uncovered implied a dozen more, but the crux of it was unavoidable, if Aundra was right. She was not dealing with a rival or a madman or even a fellow mortal. Trying to divine a dragon's intentions, the truth or lie in his promise, was futile.
"Jorik, send someone to the Watch and see if you can't convince them to give us that young woman. I'm… I'm going to lie down." Before anyone could try to stop her, she swept out of the room and went downstairs.
She did not lie down, but instead went into a little-used room off to the side of her salon-a library and gallery of artwork and precious objects. That it was little used was no accident-there were no windows, and an enchantment made the room smell perpetually of mildew and decaying ink. She lit the candles by the door, casting everything in a sullen light.
Nazra had not been in this room for well over a year, not since Dagult and Samark the Blackstaff had brought her the dragon-staff for safekeeping. They knew, and she agreed, that while there were rumors aplenty that she was one of the Masked Lords, few presumed she was anyone of consequence within that august body. She was too lighthearted, too keen to make a joke. Who would trust Old Lady Loudbuckles with the dragonstaff?
"Who indeed?" Nazra said quietly.
In the corner of the library, behind an ornate bookshelf, was a shadow so deep it might have been a portal to that plane of endless night, the Shadowfell. The candles' glow did not touch it.
Nazra plunged her hand into the darkness and whispered the phrase Samark had taught her. A trill of magic, and her fingers wrapped around the wooden haft of Ahghairon's dragonstaff.
She took it from its hiding place, the crystal held in the carved claws as clear and dustless as the day she'd hidden it.
"Why me?" she'd asked.
"Because of every fellow I know who wears the mask," Dagult had said grudgingly, "you are the right mix of clever and incorruptible."
"I did all my corrupting in my youth, you mean."
"I mean if I cannot hold the blasted thing, then I want it with someone who's not going to use it to his own gain."
She set the staff back into its magical hiding place and left the library. Three days, she thought. She hadn't betrayed Dagult's trust in her yet, and she still had Nazra stopped. As she passed through the salon, she could see out onto the portico that crossed through the garden. The air shimmered there with a strange, gray light.
The man in green velvet appeared.
He was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his clothes had been rent and scuffed in a score of places. Two young guardsmen who had been placed near the doorway rushed at him and fell to dark flashes of magic before they could come within sword range.
His dark eyes turned to Nazra.
"You're early," she said, flippant because she couldn't bear to be otherwise.
"My plans have changed. And I see you didn't listen to me. I want the dragonstaff now."
Off in the distance, she heard the rush of footsteps. The office overlooked the garden, and Jorik and Agnea had seen the guardsmen die. A few moments passed and they came down the stairs. Nazra held up a hand to ward them back, but Jorik came into the salon.
"I know what you are," she said. "And what you wear."
"That is immaterial," he said.
"On the contrary," Nazra said. "Your proposition takes on an entirely different dimension if you plan to use the staff on yourself."
That seemed to annoy him. "This is your only chance," the man said. "Give me the dragonstaff or the boy dies."
"You didn't bring Antoum," Nazra said. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. "How do I know he's still alive?"
The man's eyes seemed to glow green briefly, and a terrible fear washed over her. It was all she could do to keep standing there in front of him. A quick glance at Jorik standing in the brush nearby made it evident she wasn't alone-his olive skin had gone sickly gray.
The man strode toward her. "Give me the dragonstaff or he's dead for certain."
Nazra couldn't move, but somewhere in the pit of her heart she became certain that no matter what she did, he was going to kill Antoum. Or worse. He had found her only weakness-the only weakness in Dagult's plans-and he had attacked it without mercy, aiming to drive her to a desperate act.
"There are two things I care about more than anything in the world, saer dragon," she said in tones as cold and cultured as she could make them while her voice shook with anger and fear. "My son and my city. You ask me to make a choice, but as far as I can see, that choice may have already been made for me."
Fury contorted the man's face. "Then I have a new offer: the dragonstaff, or you die."
Clinging to Veron's back, Antoum directed them through the still-dark streets of northern Waterdeep. Nestrix's feet screamed and a headache threatened to bloom across her temples, but she ran anyway, too full of burgeoning rage to take notice of her body's complaints.
"There!" Antoum cried. "Over there!" He pointed at a house as large as a hill, spangled all over with everburning lamps. A large stone fence with a gate of black iron surrounded the manor.
As they approached, the gate formed into an iron face. "Welcome to the House of the-"
Antoum grabbed the iron lips in both hands. "It's me! It's me!" Veron lowered him to the ground as the gate creaked open. Beyond, the front garden was all shadow and threat.
"Welcome home," the gate said.
"Slowly now," Veron said, drawing his crossbow. "And all around Antoum."
Nestrix went first onto the unlit garden path. The summer storms were beginning to roll in and a soft, faraway rumble of thunder made every hair on her arms stand out. The rising wind shook the blades of grass and the leaves on the trees.
It was a good night to die.
Behind her the boy's footsteps padded up the path, Tennora's almost soundless steps beside him. Veron was just a heartbeat behind.
And he was there, somewhere. Too arrogant to run, too foolish to know the score. Dareun would be dangerous.
For so long she'd thought it bizarre to hear the dokaal ask the gods for things. The mere idea of the Dragon Queen granting wishes was too much to bear with a straight face. But as she walked toward the manor of Nazra Mrays, toward their final attempt to defeat Dareun, a prayer rose up in her heart. Don't let these young ones die.
The first motes of the poison gas tickled her nostrils like the tip of a blade as she stepped through the front door. She quickened her steps, following the scent and the traces of magic peculiar to the dragonfear. He was in the house.
She passed through a hallway, without noticing any of its details, and into a long room where a trio of people stood frozen. Nestrix growled low in her throat. He was close, very close.
The thiefs memories surged up-the image of Nestrix crouched over her, a roar building in her chest, an animal hunger in her eyes. Yes, Nestrix thought, a little of that.
The nearest person, a woman in gray, broke free of it and turned to run when she spotted them. Her eyes widened a little at the sight of Nestrix, but then they dropped to Antoum, peeking out from behind Tennora.
"Gods," she said. "Nazra!"
Beyond her-beyond the tall, muscular half-orc-the woman from the boot store looked back and saw her son. With a great wordless cry, she broke free of Dareun's fear and started toward Antoum.