“I know,” she said.
“Do you really?” Aoth asked. “Because there’s no in between. You’re either with us or you’re not.”
“I said, I know!” Jhesrhi snapped. Responding to her anger, the campfire roared and leaped higher. “I’ve been spying for you and pushing him in the right direction all along, haven’t I? I’ll just be glad when it’s over; that’s all. Gladder than you can imagine.”
“Fair enough,” said Aoth. “And it’s good you’re still with us because there’s work for you too. I need you to keep Tchazzar in Luthcheq as long as possible, so Cera, Gaedynn, and I have time to convince the Akanulans to pull out of the alliance.”
Jhesrhi flicked her bit of flame back into the campfire. “I can try stalling him with false auguries. But that’s a dangerous game when I haven’t really mastered such arts, and he has mystical abilities himself.”
“Just do what you can,” said Aoth, “and don’t overlook the fact that three armies-Chessenta’s, Threskel’s, and Akanul’s-are going to be trying to combine into one. It’ll be chaos. Such musters always are. Maybe you’ll have a chance to heighten the confusion.”
“I’d have a better chance,” she said, “if I were in camp instead of the War College. If Tchazzar still thought of me as primarily a soldier. As opposed to his minister of magic, or whatever it is I’m supposed to be.”
Concubine in training, Gaedynn thought, but for once managed to keep the gibe to himself.
Instead, he said, “Shala’s just about had her fill of Tchazzar.”
Cera nodded. “And Daelric and the other high priests are sick to death of Halonya. Still, if Jhesrhi asks someone for help and that person, for whatever reason, turns around and informs on her-”
“That will be it for me,” said Jhesrhi. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
“Good,” said Aoth. He looked around the circle. “Any other thoughts?”
Gaedynn snorted. “Just that it’s still hard to see how we come out of all this scheming and double-dealing any better off than when we started.”
TWO
3-6 E LEASIS, THE Y EAR OF THE A GELESS ONE
Khouryn couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to be a warrior, or when his elders hadn’t unanimously agreed that that was his proper path. Thus, his education had centered on the battle-axe and the warhammer, on the shield wall and the charge.
Still, he was a dwarf, and so, at least to some degree, stone-craft and metalworking were in his blood, which made it all the more frustrating that he couldn’t remove the heavy, ironbound door from its hinges or take it apart until there was a Khouryn-sized hole to squeeze through.
The darkness in the bare, little cell was no hindrance to a member of the race the Soul Forger had created to thrive underground. Nor had hunger yet stolen all his strength. But he needed tools, as his raw fingertips attested.
They gave him a twinge at the mere thought of picking at the bolts and screws again. He stood up from the cold, hard, concrete floor and moved to the door anyway then started humming a song he’d once heard a master smith sing, as best he could recall the tune. There might be magic in it to bend iron and steel to the singer’s will, although if so, he certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of it so far.
At least it pushed back the silence. But then something else did too. Something clanked on the other side of the door. Someone was coming.
Probably to push another cup of water and maybe even a crust of moldy bread through the narrow slot at the bottom of the door. Up until that point, the guard entrusted with the chore had been careful to keep his hand beyond Khouryn’s reach. But maybe he wouldn’t be the next time. Then Khouryn could grab it, jerk the human’s arm through the hole, and twist and bend it viciously, threaten to cripple him for life unless he surrendered the key to the cell.
Even if it didn’t get him out of there-and Khouryn was realist enough to recognize it probably wouldn’t-a little taste of revenge would do him good.
He kneeled beside the slot and poised his hands to grab. Then, to his surprise, the lock clicked.
He stood back up, and the door creaked open. There were four guards clad in mail and crimson jupons outside, not just one, and three of them had their short swords leveled. Without a weapon of his own, Khouryn had no hope of taking them on.
The fourth carried a pair of manacles. “Turn around, dwarf,” he said, “and put your hands behind your back.”
Khouryn obeyed. Heavy rings snapped shut on one wrist, then the other. The chain between them clinked.
“Now come on,” said the fourth guard, retrieving a lantern from a niche in the corridor wall. Its glow stretched all of their shadows out behind them as they climbed from the dungeons back into the palace above.
“Who are you taking me to see?” Khouryn asked. If it was someone besides the crazy woman who’d ordered him imprisoned, then maybe he could convince that person of his innocence.
“Shut up,” answered one of the guards, who then gave him a shove.
That suggested the sad likelihood that it was the madwoman who’d ordered Khouryn hauled forth. So he was pleasantly surprised when his escort ushered him into a hall decorated with tapestries and marble statues depicting the legendary Tchazzar’s martial exploits. The crazy woman actually was there, looking as outlandish as before in layers of garish vestments. But so were Jhesrhi, Shala, Zan-akar Zeraez, and-
Khouryn faltered in astonishment when it registered that it wasn’t Shala sitting on the war hero’s raised, golden throne. It was a man, whose pointed ears and long face subtly suggested the shape of a dragon’s head without detracting from a flawless masculine beauty, a man who very much resembled the woven and sculpted portraits of Tchazzar on every side.
Recovering his wits, Khouryn started to bow. Then the madwoman shrilled, “Kneel before the living god!” And before he could even consider doing so, one of the guards grabbed him from behind and threw him down on his belly.
Khouryn floundered to his knees as best he could with his hands still shackled behind him. Meanwhile, her golden eyes ablaze with anger, Jhesrhi said, “There was no need for that! Nor any need to arrest him in the first place!”
“He’s a friend to the dragonborn,” the madwoman said, “and so an enemy to Chessenta and Your Majesty. Why else did he go slinking off to Tymanther with Ambassador Perra and her household?”
Although Tchazzar-if that was really who he was-hadn’t given him permission to rise, Khouryn decided he’d be damned if he’d stay down like a prisoner already judged guilty of some heinous offense. He clambered to his feet, and to his relief, nobody moved to shove him down again.
“Majesty,” he said, “you and I haven’t met. But if you know Jhesrhi, and Aoth Fezim, you know what you need to know about me. I’m loyal to the Brotherhood of the Griffon and to whoever’s paying us to fight. I escorted Perra and her people home because Shala Karanok wanted them to have an escort.”
Shala’s mouth tightened as though she didn’t especially appreciate being involved in his defense. But she spoke up without hesitation. “That’s true, Your Majesty.”
The scrawny woman rounded on her in a swirl of red. The voluminous folds of her garments kept swinging and flapping for another moment after her bony body had stopped moving. “And why was it true? Why would you let them escape Chessenta when it had just been proved that dragonborn were behind the Green Hand murders?”
Shala scowled. “Because, Lady Halonya, it hadn’t been proved that all dragonborn, up to and including Tarhun’s own emissaries, were guilty. I hoped not, and wanted to preserve the alliance if, in fact, it was genuine.”