“I know,” Tchazzar continued, “that we lost many fine warriors fighting among ourselves. But the dragonborn have committed outrages against Akanul as they have against us. I have the word of a spokesman for Queen Arathane-”
“Zan-akar Zeraez,” Gaedynn whispered.
“-that the genasi will aid us in our quest. We’ll crush this threat and plunder Tymanther to punish her for her treachery. After which you have my promise to divide the loot fairly. By summer’s end, no one will call Threskel a country of paupers anymore!”
Cheering erupted again, even louder.
Medrash and Balasar hurtled at the open space in the center of Djerad Thymar. Trying to overtake them on his own bat, Khouryn felt a pang of incredulity that they were really going to do this.
But they were. They were racing as Lance Defenders traditionally raced, and the course ran through the gaps in the outermost row of columns and on across the Market Floor. Where Khouryn discovered that Balasar’s airy reassurances were true. If a rider maneuvered properly-veering, swooping, and climbing-he could find enough clearance, vertically and horizontally, to avoid smashing into any of the massive pillars, permanent structures, temporary kiosks, or dragonborn who happened to cross his path.
Some of those folk reflexively ducked, or cursed and shook their fists. But more of them simply grinned their fanged grins and turned to watch, cheered Khouryn on, or shouted good-natured jeers because he was in last place.
He was too intent on guiding his mount to answer. Too tense as well. But he was also grinning.
He burst out into Selune’s silvery light. He cast around, then cursed. Because Medrash and Balasar had already turned their bats and climbed halfway up the truncated pyramid that was the City-Bastion.
By the time Khouryn flew his bat through the rectangular opening to the Lance Roost, his friends had already landed on one of the platforms. As Khouryn set his own animal down, Balasar said, “Did you see? I won. As usual.”
“And I came in third,” Khouryn said. “Also as usual.”
“But you’re riding well now,” Medrash said. “And your mount has learned to trust you.” He swung himself out of the saddle and scratched his own bat’s throat. It tilted its snub-nosed head back to facilitate the process.
Khouryn took a breath. “In that case, I suppose it’s time for me to leave.”
He’d do it flying. Tarhun had made him a gift of his bat. From what he understood, no one not a dragonborn had ever before received such an honor.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Medrash said. “We defeated the ash giants, but we took heavy losses doing it. We could use help putting the army back together.”
“Otherwise,” said Balasar, tossing the reins of his bat to the cadet waiting to take charge of it, “they’re liable to make me do it. The vanquisher is threatening to order us back into service with the Lance Defenders. What kind of reward is that for all my valor?”
Khouryn chuckled. “The world is full of injustice.”
“If you won’t stay,” Medrash said, “where will you go? East Rift?”
Khouryn sighed. “No. Our business here took too much time. I don’t regret a moment of it, but I can’t take any more. Not when I have no idea how the Brotherhood is faring in the campaign against Threskel.” In an effort to avert the melancholy suddenly threatening to take possession of him, he forced a grin. “Besides, I can’t go home to a kingdom of dwarves with my beard in this condition.”
“Give Aoth, Jhesrhi, and Gaedynn our regards,” Medrash said, “and travel with Torm’s blessing.” He raised his hand, and his steel gauntlet shimmered.
Khouryn felt a tingling surge of well-being. “Thanks,” he said, then shifted his gaze to Balasar. “Be careful of Biri’s feelings. She’s young, and she wants more than a dalliance.”
“Indeed she does,” Medrash said. “But she’d make a good wife for a notable warrior from a prominent clan. And I’ve heard the elders say it’s past time for Balasar to settle down.”
Balasar gaped at him, for once at a loss for words.
Khouryn laughed, tugged on the reins to turn his bat, and tapped it with his heels. The animal hopped off the edge of the balcony, plunged for an instant, then spread its wings. It fluttered back out into the balmy summer night.
Her bare body pressed against Aoth’s, Cera looked at her lover’s tattooed face, noted the pensive frown, and sighed.
Amaunator had answered her prayers by bringing him back from the war alive and well, give or take a few mostly healed burns and scrapes. They’d celebrated by having Jet fly them to one of her favorite places, a cool, clear pond where willows and purple and yellow wildflowers grew on the surrounding slopes. The griffon had then gone hunting while the two humans swam, started their lovemaking in the water, and finished on the soft, thick moss carpeting the shore.
It should have been a perfect moment. Except that Aoth was plainly brooding. Again.
Well, she supposed that except for the flawless order manifest in Amaunator, nothing was ever truly, completely perfect. But that was no reason not to chastise him. Glad that he didn’t shave all his hair, she twined her fingers in the most abundant growth he had left and tugged hard.
“Ouch!” he said. “What was that for?”
“The same as usual,” she said. “I just shared my womanly treasures with you. You’re supposed to be deliriously happy.”
He sighed. “I know I am. I mean, I am! Being with you makes me very happy! But I also mean, I know I’m supposed to be.”
“You’re babbling,” she said.
He smiled. “I am, aren’t I? I’ll try to speak more clearly. I shouldn’t care that Tchazzar is lying to provide an excuse for an unjust war. The Brotherhood would starve if we only fought for noble causes. I also shouldn’t care that I like Medrash and Balasar. Every sellsword knows that from time to time he’ll look across the battlefield and see friends standing on the other side. All that should matter is that our employer has another campaign in the offing, he stands an excellent chance of winning it, and we’ll earn a lot of gold helping him.”
“But you do care,” Cera said.
“As do you,” said Aoth. “Because we still don’t know how the puzzle fits together, do we? Wyrmkeepers disguising abishais as dragonborn. Games and Precepts. What does it all truly mean? By the Black Flame, spying on Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor just made me feel even more confused than I was before.”
“Have you thought of any way to sort it out?”
Aoth grunted. “Maybe. If I’m willing to commit still more treason, and my friends are too. I know Gaedynn would be. He hates Tchazzar. But Jhesrhi’s the really important one. And up to now, she’s done everything I’ve asked of her. But this-”
“She’ll help you,” Cera said.
“You sound pretty sure, considering you hardly know her.”
“A priestess learns to read people and recognize how they connect to one another. You’re Jhesrhi’s father, whether you and she realize it or not. Gaedynn is the man she’d choose if she could ever have one. The Brotherhood is her family and her home. I admit Tchazzar did a fair job of tempting her away with balm for hurts she’s carried since she was a child. But by now she knows him for the cruel, mad thing he truly is.”
“I hope so. If you’re mistaken, I suppose I’ll find out when I confide in her, she tattles to him, and he orders my arrest.”
“That won’t happen. Now, since the Keeper actually assigned the task of solving this mystery to me, and then I merely goaded you into helping, you’d better have a task for me as well.”
He scowled. “Yes. A hard one. And the fact that Tchazzar would view it as treason may not even be the bad part.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Don’t promise till I tell you what it is.”
Tchazzar pivoted before the full-length mirror, checking the lines of his scarlet, gold-trimmed doublet. He supposed that if any of his fellow gods were watching, they were amused. For how could a deity appear less than magnificent to mortal eyes? And even if he could, it was beneath his dignity to care.