"To what do we owe the honor of your presence?" Nevron asked.
"I'm tired of your sad little war," the Black Hand said. "It drags on battle after battle, year after year, ruining a realm we gods of shadow raised up to dominate the east."
Lauzoril rose from his seat. When it splashed, the advespa's inky gore had spattered his scarlet robes. "Great Lord, we're doing our best to bring the conflict to a conclusion."
"Then your best is pathetic," said Bane. "Seven archmages against one, seven orders of wizardry against one, the rich and populous south against the poor and empty north, and still, Szass Tam holds you in check for a decade."
"It isn't that simple," Lauzoril said. "At the moment, we don't have a zulkir of Divination, and over time, wizards of every order have defected…" His voice trailed off as he realized that it might not be an ideal moment for his usual practice of fussy, argumentative nitpicking.
Dmitra rose. "Great One, we accept your rebuke. Will you instruct us how we might do better?"
Bane smiled. Nevron couldn't see the expression, but he could feel it, and although it conveyed no threat in any immediate sense, something about it was disquieting even to a man accustomed to trafficking with the most hideous denizens of the higher worlds.
"You already know the answer," said the god, "for you proposed it yourself. Fight Szass Tam when he descends from High Thay, and that will settle the war. All the northern tharchs will lay down their arms if you slay their overlord."
Nevron felt a strange mix of disgust and hope. Ever since Dmitra's ascension to the rank of zulkir, he'd chafed under her pretensions to leadership. The revelation of Malark Springhill's treason had called her judgment into question, and he'd exploited the situation to pull her off her pedestal and claim the chieftain's role for himself.
But only for a tantalizing moment, because this meddling god had lifted her up again. Nevron could see it in the expressions of the other zulkirs. Arrogant though they were, when a deity invaded their council chamber to recommend they reverse a decision, it made an impression.
And there was no point swimming against the tide, especially if it would carry them all to victory. "Lord Bane," Nevron said, "I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say we'll do as you direct. We pray you'll give us your blessing and your aid."
"Wherever men shed one another's blood," and Bane, "there will you find me."
The darkness suffusing the Black Hand's form drained away, and then he was merely Dimon once again. The wounds the advespa had given him hadn't bled while he was possessed, but they gushed blood now, and he pitched forward. His head cracked against the edge of the table, then he crumpled to the floor.
Her black and white ornaments clinking, Zola Sethrakt shifted her chair to take a better look at the fallen priest. "He's dead," she said, and Nevron supposed that, worthless as she often proved to be, she was necromancer enough to be right about that, anyway.
After scouting throughout the morning, surveying the way ahead for the troops on the ground, Aoth, Bareris, and Mirror lit on a floating island to rest. The griffon riders dismounted, and Aoth peered over the edge of the floating chunk of soil and rock at a landscape of chasms, ridges, and twisting, leaning spires of stone stretched out far below. The earthbound portion of the council's legions struggled over the difficult terrain like a column of ants. Even with his fire-touched eyes, he couldn't see anything else moving.
He'd imagined that over the course of the past decade, he'd seen his homeland reduced to a wasteland, but he'd been mistaken. This was a wasteland, viewed through a lens of nightmare.
"It looks as if we already fought the war to a bitter end," he murmured, "or the gods waged a final, world-killing war of their own. Like we're an army of ghosts, damned to march through an empty land forever."
Strands of his blond hair stirring in the wind, Bareris smiled. "You should leave morbid flights of fancy to us bards."
Aoth grunted. "I'm just getting over being insane. I'm entitled to be a little moody."
"Fair enough. Still, the war isn't over, but it soon will be. According to you, Bane said so himself."
"That's right, but he never came right out and promised we were going to win it, or that he was going to do anything out of the ordinary to help us. What he did was let his own priest drop dead when he was through wearing him like a festival mask. I felt awe when he manifested among us-how could you not? But even so, I don't know that I trust him."
Bareris shook his head. "I wish I'd seen him. I'm sure it would have given me inspiration for a dozen songs. But if you don't trust the Black Hand, put your faith in Kossuth, or our own prowess."
"Because we're so mighty? That army marching down there is big, but not as big as it was last summer."
"If we're mightier than Szass Tam's legions, that's all that matters. And despite your grumbling, I guess we both believe the south can win, because otherwise, why stay and risk our necks? You've considered running, and I confess, now that I have Tammith back, I have, too."
"Since I recovered my sight, I've thought of many reasons to stay, but I'm not sure that any of them make sense, or is the real reason. Maybe I'm still here simply because it's my fate."
"Or perhaps those magical eyes of yours peeked into the future and saw Aoth the tharchion, lounging on a golden couch with concubines feeding him apricots."
Aoth's lips twitched into a smile. "Maybe." It seemed unlikely, but he appreciated his friend attempting to brighten his mood.
And he supposed Bareris truly was his friend. He'd agreed to allow him to remain in the Griffon Legion to stop everyone blathering at him, but he hadn't believed he could ever feel as easy with the bard as he had before. Yet it hadn't taken him long to slip back into old habits of camaraderie.
Perhaps it was because, since Tammith's return, Bareris truly seemed a changed man. Or maybe Aoth simply lacked the knack for clinging to old hatreds and grudges, because he hadn't come to resent serving under Nymia, either. He didn't actually trust her, but then, he never had.
He chuckled. "Maybe it's true, what folk have told me all my life. Maybe I'm really not much of a Mulan. I'm definitely not made of the same stuff as Nevron or Lallara."
Bareris cocked his head. "What are you talking about?"
"It's not important. Ready to go?"
They flew onward. A line of blue fire glimmered far to the east.
Bareris woke from the foulest of nightmares, the one in which, as he had in real life, he beheaded Tammith and hacked her skull to pieces.
For a moment, he was the man he'd been until recently, anguished and bereft. Then he remembered that Tammith was back. He stopped gasping, his heartbeat slowed, and he rolled over in bed to face her.
She was gone.
The army had reached Tyraturos at midday. Part of the city lay in ruins, its once-teeming barracoons, markets, and caravanserais largely empty. Hunger and disease marked the faces of the people in the streets. But even so, it had been a relief just to see that the place was still here. No tide of blue flame had melted it away, nor had any earthquake knocked it flat.
Bareris had secured lodging at an inn, where the proprietor's obsequious desire to please masked a dogged determination to sell travelers every conceivable amenity at inflated prices. Since that was just as it would have been in better times, Bareris found it heartening as well. As he drifted off to sleep, he decided he'd told Aoth the truth: Their homeland was wounded but still lived. They could still save it.