"The Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir awaits you in the smaller audience chamber," he said, tall and stiff and going out of his way not to touch her.
The spy master swallowed hard. Her mouth was pasty and sour. She wished she had something to drink, something potent. Failing that, she calmed herself with the knowledge that Deaizul was alive. His essence egg was secure in her bolt-hole cabinet, safe beside her own.
Her calm melted when she entered the small audience chamber where the zulkir sat, in robes of darkest crimson, behind a table and an opened box identical in every way to the one in which she kept the essence eggs. Nearly a score of the padded compartments were empty, dusted with glass shards and rust-colored powder. But the worst was in the upper right corner. Where her box had two completely empty compartments, corresponding to the places where her own egg and Deaizul's had once rested, Aznar Thrul's held two glowing, fragile essence eggs.
"I see you recognize this," the zulkir said. His words were winter ice, stinging the spy master's flesh.
"My lord, it is remarkably similar to a box Deaizul once showed me."
"Do not imagine you can deceive me any longer with misdirection and half-truths, woman. It is the twin-the precise double-of the box you keep in your private chamber behind the Sahuagin Tavern, in a locked cabinet. The doors are painted red."
"I meant only that Deaizul once showed me a second box, my lord."
"More lies! Deaizul thought there was but one box, and so did you! So careful, weren't you, collecting just enough flesh and blood to decoct a few drops of mortal essence to mix with the dragon wing and blood pearl? And buying your own reagents with plain coins. Oh so careful, and oh so clever. Do you think I became zulkir because I am a mooncalf fool, woman? I knew where you traded! You bargain so hard for my dragon wing, my blood pearl, and-for good measure-a few grains of red iron and cinnabar mixed with the dragon wing and mustard oil smeared ever-so-lightly over the pearls. Can you guess what I did?"
She could. The iron could attract another spell, the cinnabar-converted to minute quantities of quicksilver by the mustard oil-would reflect the essence to another location: the inside of Aznar Thrul's duplicate eggs. She felt ill. It wouldn't last. The dead didn't vomit.
"You sent two teams into the Yuirwood. Two. You only mentioned one. You said the other one was from Mythrell'aa. What were you thinking of?"
"One team failed in the village, my lord." Her doom sat in the open box. Even so, she wouldn't concede, wouldn't beg for mercy that wouldn't be forthcoming, not from Aznar Thrul. "I sent a second, to be certain mistakes were not repeated. I didn't want you to worry-"
"Worry? No, indeed, I'm not worried. Certain mistakes will never be repeated."
Thrul picked up a glowing egg: hers, unless he'd switched them. The eggs were identical. The essences they contained were indistinguishable, hence the carefully labeled compartments.
"Where is your lover, Deaizul?" the zulkir asked.
"I have not seen him in over a year."
"Then you do not know that he's in the Yuirwood? You do not know that his body was destroyed when he possessed a certain half-breed who-it turned out-was not quite the innocent he'd seemed."
"My lord, Deaizul often possessed those he spied upon. He lived their lives and served Thay until the Salamander Wars. His nerves broke."
Thrul took the second egg from the upper right corner. He juggled them from one hand to the other, he feigned clumsiness, but never lost control. It was however, impossible to guess which was which. "And you, woman, how are your nerves today?"
"My nerves are as they always have been. I have nothing to hide, my lord."
"Nothing but a plan hatched between you, your lover, and Mythrell'aa to lure me out of Bezantur with illusions of Aglarondan treasure. No, woman-mistakes will not be repeated."
He smashed the eggs together. The spy master's last thought, as her essence escaped, was that Aznar Thrul was a greater fool than she'd imagined possible.
Rizcarn had been stumbling and walking erratically for the last leg of the trek to the Sunglade. Behind him, Alassra and Halaern had exchanged more than a few worried glances. Nothing more than that was possible with the circlet resting on the queen's brow rather the forester's. In addition to watching Rizcarn, Alassra kept an eye on the Yuirwood itself. Centuries of experience dealing with corrupt wizards argued that Mythrell'aa wouldn't move again until they were in the Sunglade and the full moon was directly overhead. But centuries of experience wouldn't accurately predict the future.
The sun was an orange blaze sinking through rose and amber clouds when they cleared the ridge that girdled the Sunglade like a mother's open arms. It had been years-decades-since Alassra's one and only visit to the Yuirwood's best known, most mysterious stone circle. She'd forgotten how small it was. The inner circle wasn't more than five paces across-scarcely enough for eleven Cha'Tel'Quessir, a goddess and a dancing horse.
The Sunglade grew as they descended the ridge, a natural phenomenon of perspective and light from the setting sun. Rays struck mica crystals in the black granite stones and transformed them into giant jewels. Seeing the stones at sunset made it easy to understand why they were collectively called the Sunglade. Age and power hung in the air, not malicious, merely watching, waiting, as they had for centuries or millennia.
Alassra was awed, as she hadn't been during her other visit. Then the Sunglade had been a relic from another time, irrelevant to the Aglarond the Simbul ruled from Velprintalar. Now, looking out through Chayan SilverBranch's eyes, she felt the sad yearning of forgotten gods.
"I am not so certain I should go closer," she said, for Halaern's ears alone. "This is a Cha'Tel'Quessir place. It belongs to the Cha'Tel'Quessir alone." Alassra heard her own words: she had missed a turning point somewhere in her own mind. The Cha'Tel'Quessir weren't half-anything; they were fully themselves with a unique heritage and a destiny that could not be assumed by either humans or the Tel'Quessir.
Halaern studied her, a ghost of a smile playing with the corners of his mouth. "I am very glad you came back to the Yuirwood, cousin."
Other words would have been unnecessary and unwise. The Cha'Tel'Quessir around them had accepted the forester's sudden appearance, but their opinions of Chayan SilverBranch hadn't changed since she'd said that Zandilar the Dancer had healed Rizcarn's son. They accepted her as they might not accept Aglarond's queen.
They were fifty paces short of the Sunglade's outer ring, with Rizcarn some ten paces ahead of them, when Rizcarn stumbled again and, this time, fell to the ground.
"The Yuirwood expressing its opinion?" Alassra asked, breaking into a run.
Halaern remained behind, using his position as forester and elder of a most respected tree-family to keep the other eight Cha'Tel'Quessir from crowding his queen as she looked for signs of Red Wizardry. The Simbul was grateful, but she wanted his opinion.
"Cousin?"
He knelt beside her. "What is it?"
"A man asleep, as near as I can tell. That gash on his face wants mending and I haven't wanted to touch it for fear of tipping my hand, as it were."
"You wish me to try?"
Alassra nodded. The forester's healing talents were enhanced by the circlet she'd given him, but not derived from it. All the foresters practiced a form of simple druidry unique to the Yuirwood and effective within its bounds. Halaern laid his hands on either side of the gash, near Rizcarn's temples. He closed his eyes a moment, then sat back on his heels, frowning.
"This is Rizcarn," he whispered. "Once dead and crazy as a magpie in spring, but Rizcarn all the same. We've suspected him wrongly, my lady."