Dag captured one of her roving hands. He reached for her wine goblet and closed her fingers around it. “Why these questions, this sudden passion for ‘truth?’ I never noticed that it held much interest for you before.”
Suddenly the elf’s golden eyes turned hard. She took a step back and impatiently flung the goblet aside. “Let us speak plainly. You have intelligence, talent, ambition, and the good will of those who rule in Zhentil Keep. Why do you insist upon besieging a fortress? What have you to prove?”
So that was it. Somehow, she had heard of his plans, and was puzzled by them. “You ascribe too many complications to my thinking. My motives are simple,” he informed her. “I merely wish to command my own stronghold. The fortress I desire is, regrettably, not currently under Zhentish control. Correcting this problem is a small matter.” He paused and slid one hand through the silken curtain of her hair to cup the nape of her neck, then tightened his grip just to the point of pain. “But truly, your concern for my well-being is most touching.”
She arched back to lean into his grasp, and her lips curved in a feline smile. “Why would I not be concerned? After all, you are the father of my only child.”
Dag’s heart quickened at this second reference to the child that, to his way of thinking, was his alone. Ashemmi had been happy enough to turn over the babe eight years earlier, fearing that her climb to power might be hampered by a half-breed brat clinging to her silken skirts. All she had asked from Dag—no, demanded of him—was a vow of absolute secrecy. This was the first they had spoken of the child, or of much else, in eight years.
He smoothed his hand down her back and made an effort to steer the conversation onto a safer path. “Your concern is noted, but the reward is worth the risk. The fortress will be a good acquisition for the Zhentanm. It is strategically located on a major trade route.”
“And it is far from Darkhold. Let us not forget that. You could have your precious child at your side and not concern yourself with any need to share her—or the power she carries.”
The priest felt the blood drain from his face. This seemed to amuse Ashemini. Again she cocked her head and studied him. “Now I understand the whispers of the common soldiers,” she purred. “Do you know what they say of you, when they feel certain that they will not be heard? You are so pale and austere, so light of step and delicate of frame that you seldom make a sound, barely cast a shadow. You unnerve them. They say that you resemble a vampire in all things but the fangs!”
Beneath the obvious insult in her words lay several layers more, reminders that Dag Zoreth was a small man, a physical weakling in a fortress of warriors. But he smiled nonetheless. His hand dipped lower, his fingers dug into firm and yielding flesh. “If you desired to do so, you could inform them that my teeth are sharp.”
Her laughter bubbled over again. “It is so much more amusing to let them learn at their own peril.” She sobered quickly, and moved beyond reach of his punishing caress. “We were speaking of your plan for an assault on a mountain fortress. Surely you know of the difficulties inherent in a siege! It is a long and costly process. The fortress you desire is but a few days’ march from cities unfriendly to our cause, which greatly lowers your chances of success. Do you think Waterdeep would allow a Zhentish army to lay a lengthy siege, when in five days they could muster enough fighters to engage you in open warfare?”
Dag had considered all of this and prepared for it. He captured a lock of her pale gold hair, let it slide between his fingers, and skimmed his hand down the slender length of her. “Set your mind at ease. I do not intend to lay siege to the fortress.”
“No? What, then? You cannot believe you can conquer it outright. There are not enough warriors in the whole of Darkhold to accomplish such a feat. Nor could you move a force of the needed size without drawing attention. The alarm would be sounded before you left the Greycloak Hills! What then?” she demanded again.
His eyes grazed the feminine form that Ashemmi’s crimson gown did little to hide. “It is dangerous to reveal too much to an enemy. Or have you not heard?”
She smiled again, darkly, and her arms lifted to twine around his neck. “If enemies are well matched, battle can be a pleasant diversion. Tell me, and then we need talk no more.”
Dag reminded himself of his vow to have nothing more to do with this viper in elf form. “I have been preparing this attack for a long time. Arrangements have been made to ensure a successful, if unorthodox, escalade.”
“You can do better. I remember well,” she breathed in his ear.
He stepped back while he still could. “Content yourself with this: the capture of this fortress will not deplete Dark-hold’s military strength. I do not plan to shatter the Pereghost and his commanders against the fortress walls,” he said, naming Ashemmi’s chief rival for the position of second-in-command. He inclined his head in a brief, ironic bow. “I apologize for any inconvenience this might cause you.”
They studied each other in silence. Dag Zoreth had no intention of telling Ashemmi that he would gain much more from the assault than the possession of a fortress. She already knew too much, as her presence here demonstrated.
“You have been forthright. Now it is my turn,” she said, as if she followed the path his thoughts were taking. “You are planning to bring the child to your new command.”
Dag’s heated blood suddenly cooled. “Why should you care? You gave her into my hands willingly enough. I have kept my pledge. Few know I have a daughter, and no one knows who gave birth to her. No one need ever know, least of all Sememmon.”
Ashemmi’s smile was that of a cream-sated cat. “Ah, but perhaps I want him to know. Why should he care whom I bedded some ten years ago? It is of no consequence—unless, of course, the child that resulted is of the bloodline of Samular....”
Dag had been dreading this revelation since Ashemmi’s first mention of their child, but even so the implications staggered him. Why should Ashemmi want his daughter, unless she knew of the power the little girl could command? He fervently hoped that if Ashemmi had received this information from Malchior, it was by theft or magical spying. The thought of these two conspiring together was more chilling than a ghost’s embrace. If Malchior learned of the child’s existence, there would be no safety for her. But surely Ashemmi would not give up such valuable information, not when she could hoard the girl’s power for herself! Unfortunately, with a subtle, treacherous creature such as Ashemmi, there was no knowing for certain.
He decided to bluff. He closed the distance between them and his hands skimmed down her back, cupping her intimately and drawing her close. “Samular, indeed,” he murmured into her hair. His voice revealed nothing more than mild, derisive amusement. “What is some long-dead paladin to you and Sememmon? Perhaps you two are thinking of changing your occupation and allegiance?”
Ashemmi sniffed, but apparently did not deign that comment worthy of rejoinder. “There is power in the bloodline of Samular, even more than you realize.”
His hands stilled. Her bald claim stunned him, intrigued him. Given what he already knew—and his suspicion that Malchior had not told him all—he did not doubt the possibility that Ashemmi’s words held truth. He drew back a little and met her probing gaze. “What precisely do you want from me?” he asked bluntly.
An expression of distaste darkened Ashemmi’s golden eyes. “Must we spell out our terms? Haggle our way to agreement like vulgar merchants?”
“Indulge me.”
The elf smoldered, then shrugged. “Very well, then. I want the child brought here. I wish to explore her potential. Then we will see between us what use might be made of it, and her.”