She shook her head. Son-liin murmured to the drake, stroked its head with one hand, and drew her hunting knife across its throat with the other.
As they were rising, Gaedynn sauntered over. Sidestepping a pool of blood, he said, “If you’re done, some of the fellows want to talk.”
“What about?” Cera asked.
“Oh, to congratulate this lass on her skill as a pathfinder, I imagine.”
Son-liin’s face twisted. Cera frowned at Gaedynn, and he gave her a shrug as a reply.
Then he led them toward a relatively broad patch of sand, where everyone could take his ease without having to sit in water. And “everyone” was pretty much the way of it. Most of the firestormers were headed for the spot as well. Perhaps, given that they were all volunteers, they all felt entitled to participate in a council of war. Meanwhile, Jet kept watch, soaring high overhead.
When everybody had flopped down where it suited him, Aoth, who’d found a mossy piece of log to perch on, said, “First let’s take note of our victory. This was no easy fight, and we only lost four men winning it. I’ll be honest with you. When we set out from Airspur, I wasn’t sure you fellows had what it takes to kill dragons. Now I am.”
His words had the desired effect on some of the firestormers. One earthsoul sat up straighter, another smiled and touched the stock of his crossbow, and a watersoul elbowed his firesoul friend in the side.
But not everyone basked in their new leader’s words of commendation. Some still looked sick and shaky from the desperate action they’d just fought, while others scowled.
Yemere was one of the latter. Glimmers flowing along the blue lines etching his silvery skin, he stood up and said, “That’s all very well, Captain, but we shouldn’t have been exposed to that particular danger in the first place. We consulted the maps back in the Motherhouse. We weighed all factors and chose the best route. We should have stuck to it, not deviated on a whim.”
“It was one of your own who suggested the deviation,” Gaedynn drawled. Perhaps to avoid dirtying his garments in the sand, he’d ordered Eider to lie down, then sprawled atop her as if she were a divan. His fingers scratched in the bronze-colored feathers at the base of her neck, and her eyes closed in bliss.
“But it was Captain Fezim who ordered it,” Yemere replied.
“Yes,” said Aoth, “it was. So if you think anyone can fairly be blamed for not knowing about something that only happens occasionally on a patch of earth in the middle of the wilderness, blame me. But let me ask you this: Did you believe we could travel this region without running into anything dangerous? Isn’t that why your Cabal formed in the first place? Because the outlying parts of Akanul are dangerous?”
“Yes,” said Mardiz-sul. “That’s exactly why.”
“But it isn’t the point,” Yemere said. “The point is whether this outlander is the right man to lead our expedition. People say he won some notable victories in his day. But not lately. Not in Thay and Impiltur.”
Aoth took a long breath that, to Cera’s eye, conveyed as eloquently as any words just how sick he was of having his supposed failures in those two campaigns thrown in his face.
“I learned to fight in the legions of old Thay,” he said, “one of the finest armies Faerun has ever seen. I’ve spent the past hundred years sharpening my skills in wars throughout the East. What are your qualifications to lead, Sir Yemere?”
“I don’t want to lead,” the windsoul noble said. “But in light of what just happened, I do wonder why we aren’t following Mardiz-sul.”
Some of the assembly muttered in agreement.
Mardiz-sul held up his hand. “Please. I’m honored that my comrades trust me. But if you really do, then trust my judgment. I agreed that Captain Fezim should command because I’m convinced it’s the best way to accomplish our purpose.”
Son-liin stood up. “If there’s anybody here who’s lost any claim on your trust, it’s me.”
“How true,” Gaedynn said.
“So hate me if you want to,” she continued, “for the sake of those who died. But don’t let it turn you against our leaders or our mission. I came upon one of the slaughtered villages not long after the raiders struck. I saw all the bodies, even children and babies, hacked to pieces. If this Vairshekellabex is responsible, then the firestormers need to kill him.”
“Like I said before,” said Aoth, “if there’s any blame to assign, it belongs to me, who made the decision to ride through this gorge. But the rest of what Son-liin said is on the mark. We came out here to do a job, and it’s just as important now as it was before.”
Cera rose. “It’s more than important,” she said. “It’s a holy quest, and Amaunator will support us as we fight to accomplish it. Surely you realize that it was his power that kept the blue mist from transforming every drake. Or us, for that matter.”
“We believe you,” said an earthsoul. “It’s just… those things. I mean, if dragons are anything like that…”
“They are,” said Aoth, “but I swear by the Black Flame that Gaedynn and I have killed them before. And when we kill Vairshekellabex, you fellows will be heroes. The girls in Airspur will fight over you like magpies.”
That made some of the firestormers grin, and Yemere, apparently recognizing that he’d failed to convince them, withdrew into sullen silence. By the time the assembly broke up, Cera judged that morale was about as high as anyone could reasonably expect. Yet the fact remained that most of the genasi weren’t hard men like Aoth, accustomed to sudden mayhem and horror, and she wondered if their spirits would hold in the face of more ill fortune. She prayed they wouldn’t have to find out.
Then the misery manifest in Son-liin’s expression recalled her to more immediate concerns. Wishing she could infuse her hand with some of the Keeper’s comforting warmth, she put it on the genasi’s shoulder. “Aoth was right,” she said. “There was no way for you to know, and so you have no reason to feel guilty.”
“Maybe I do,” Son-liin said. “I… I think my father told me to beware of traveling the canyon in high summer. But I didn’t remember! Not until after the blue fog rose!”
Oraxes raised the leather dice cup to his mouth and blew magic into it. But his intention was not to cheat, not anymore, profitable though it might have been. He considered himself an officer of sorts, especially with Aoth currently in the west and Jhesrhi in the south, and petty swindles were beneath his newly acquired dignity.
As he threw the eight carved ivory cubes, he spoke a monosyllabic word of power and reached after them with his mind. For a moment he fumbled the contact-a little too much beer dulling his edge-but then his power locked on to them.
First, he made them jump like maddened crickets, clattering and bouncing. Then he forbade them to fall back onto the dice table. Instead, his will floated them higher and higher, whirling them around one another all the while.
He raised them almost to the smoke-blackened oak beams supporting the ceiling before letting them drop, and even then, he kept control of them. They bounced around a little more then stacked themselves into a tower where they finally came to rest.
His audience, a mixture of hunters, sailors, soldiers, and whores, whooped and applauded. Someone slapped him on the back. He glanced around and gave Meralaine a wink, and she smiled back. He’d learned early on that she wasn’t as fond of raucous taverns as he was, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. And why not? They’d come a long way from the bad old days in Luthcheq, when just the green tattoos on their hands, let alone an actual demonstration of arcane power, could have earned them a beating or worse.