Situated at a juncture of secondary roads, Zolum was a humdrum farmer's market of a town. As far as Dmitra could recall, she'd never visited the place before, and she felt none the poorer for it.
But at the moment, it possessed two attractions. Even for battle-weary legions, it was only a few days' march east of the Keep of Sorrows, and it was still standing. No wave of blue flame had obliterated it, nor had any earthquake knocked it down. So the council's army had crowded in, compelling the burghers to billet soldiers who ate their larders bare.
As Zolum was second-rate, so too was the hall of its autharch with its flickering oil lamps, plain oak floor, and simple cloth banners, devoid of gems or magical enhancements. In other circumstances, some of Dmitra's fellow dignitaries might have sneered at the chamber's provincial appointments, or groused about a lack of luxuries. Not now, though. Everyone had more important things to think about.
Which was not to suggest that everyone was frightened or downcast. His nimbus of flame burning brightly, Iphegor Nath looked excited, and Malark smiled as if life were merely a play staged for his diversion, and the plot had just taken an amusing turn.
A soldier led Aoth Fezim and helped him to a chair. The captain wore a dark bandage wrapped around his eyes.
It was a pity about his blinding. He was a good officer. Still, he couldn't command the Griffon Legion as he was.
The most interesting thing about him at that moment was that he was an anomaly. The blue fire had injured but not killed him, and since the zulkirs needed a better understanding of that enigmatic force, Dmitra had a mind to vivisect him and see what could be learned. Although it could wait until he was in one place and his legion in another. Supposedly, the men liked him, so why distress them and perhaps undermine their morale when a modicum of tact could avoid it?
The autharch kept a little brass gong beside his seat at the big round table, presumably to command everyone's attention and silence, and Dmitra clanged it. The assembly fell silent, and the others turned to look at her. "Your Omnipotences," she said, "Your Omniscience, Saers, and Captains. Not long ago, we believed ourselves on the brink of defeat. But fate intervened, and now we have another chance."
Samas Kul snorted. Although no one had set out food in the hall, he had grease on his full, ruddy lips and a half-eaten leg of duck in his blubbery hand. "Another chance. Is that what we're calling it?"
Dmitra smiled. "What would you call it?"
"Considering that we have reports of whole cities and fiefs burned or melted away, of the land itself tortured into new shapes, I'd call it a disaster."
"That," said Iphegor, "is because you don't understand what's happening." He raked the company with the gaze of his lambent orange eyes. "What you take to be a calamity is actually an occasion for great rejoicing and great resolve. Kossuth has always promised that one day the multiverse would catch fire, and that much of it would perish. It's our task to make sure it's the debased and polluted portions that burn, so that we'll dwell in a purer, nobler world thereafter."
"Nonsense," Dimon said. The tharchion of Tyraturos had even fairer skin than most Mulans, and blue veins snaked like rivers across his shaven crown. He was a priest of Bane, god of darkness, as well as a soldier, and wore the black gauntlet emblematic of his order.
Iphegor pivoted to glare at him. "What did you say?"
"I said you're talking nonsense. This blue stuff isn't really fire, and your god and his prophecies had nothing to do with its coming. It's here because Shar and Cyric killed Mystra. We know that much even if we know precious little more, so you might as well stop trying to convince us that the crisis means we ought to exalt your faith above all others."
"You see only the surface of things," Iphegor replied. "Look deeper."
"That's always good advice," Dmitra said, hoping to avert an argument between the two clerics, "whatever god one follows. We need to weigh our options and choose the one that will leave us in the strongest position when the disturbances end."
"Assuming they ever do," Lallara said.
"They will," Dmitra said, trying her best to sound certain of it. "The question is, what shall we do in the meantime?"
"Make peace," Lauzoril said.
"No!" someone exclaimed. Turning, Dmitra saw that it was Bareris Anskuld. She wondered briefly why he'd remained on the other end of the room from Aoth. They generally sat together if they both attended a council, and it seemed odd that he wouldn't be at his comrade's side in the moment of his misfortune.
Prim and clerkish though he was, Lauzoril was also a zulkir, and unaccustomed to being interrupted by his inferiors. He gave Bareris a flinty stare. "Another such outburst and I'll feed you to your own damn griffons."
With a visible effort, Bareris clamped down on his emotions. "Master, I apologize."
"As is proper," Lallara said. "But I might have produced an outburst myself, if you hadn't beaten me to it."
"I hate Szass Tam as much as any of you," Lauzoril said. "But the truth is, we've all been fighting for ten years, with neither side able to gain and keep the upper hand. As a result, Thay was on its way to ruin even before the blue fires came. Now the realm truly stands on the verge of annihilation. All of us who possess true power should work together to salvage what we can. Otherwise, there may be nothing left for anyone to rule."
"Are you talking about reestablishing the council as it once was?" Zola Sethrakt asked, her voice cracking. She was a youthful-looking woman, comely in an affected, angular sort of way, who never went anywhere without a profusion of bone and jet ornaments swinging from her neck and sliding on her arms. As a result, she could scarcely breathe without clattering. "I'm the zulkir of Necromancy now!"
"Rest assured," Lauzoril said, "you will always enjoy a place of high honor."
"Every order has the right to elect its own zulkir, and mine chose me!" Zola screeched.
"The dregs of your order elected you," Lallara snapped, "after the lich led all the competent necromancers into the north. So I suggest you pay careful heed to whatever your seniors on the council advise, and graciously accept any decision this body may happen to reach. Otherwise, if we do invite Szass Tam back, and he resents you spending the last ten years in his chair, you can contend with his displeasure without any support from the rest of us."
Nevron scowled. It made his face almost as forbidding as the tattooed demonic visages visible on his neck and the backs of his hands. "Then you agree with Lauzoril?"
"No," Lallara said, "at least, not yet. But I concede that for once, his idea is worth discussing."
"So do I," Samas said.
"I would, too," Dmitra said, "if-"
"If you didn't know Szass Tam better than the rest of us," Lallara said. "By all the fiends in all the Hells, will we ever have a conversation without you harping on that same observation?"
"I apologize if it's become tiresome," Dmitra said, "but I repeat it because it's both pertinent and true. I don't claim I truly understand Szass Tam. None of us do. But I have some sense of the way his thoughts run, and I assure you, it's a waste of time even to consider making peace. Having begun this war, he'll see it through to the end, no matter the cost. If he indicated otherwise, it would be a ruse."