"Don't worry," Szass Tam said. "We simply haven't finished. Unlock the fetters and push the corpses off the altars."
The Red Wizards did as instructed, and when they were done, he concentrated fiercely, focusing every iota of his willpower. "Now, shackle yourselves to the stones and lie quietly. I'll come around to lock down the hand you can't secure for yourselves."
He'd long ago laid enchantments of obedience on these particular followers. Yet the disorder arising from Mystra's death could conceivably break those bonds, and if even one of the necromancers tried to fight or flee, his exertions would spoil the ritual.
Fortunately, it didn't come to that. Some of the mages made choking sounds or flailed, others shuddered as if in the throes of a seizure as they tried to resist. But in the end, they all shackled themselves to the gory stones. Szass Tam completed the task of restraining them, then drew an athame into his hand and commenced butchering them.
By the time he finished, he had blood all over the front of his robe. He turned to Pyras, who looked on with goggling eyes.
"Come into the circle," Szass Tam said.
Pyras stood and advanced, trembling and stumbling. He too was mind-bound, and had no choice.
Szass Tam met him halfway, took his arm, and conducted him to the center of the circle. "We won't bother with fetters," he said, because Pyras was no Red Wizard, just a weak-willed wretch who had no hope of squirming free of his master's psychic grip.
"Please," Pyras whispered, tears sliding from his eyes, "I'm loyal. I always have been."
"I know," Szass Tam said. "I'm grateful for your fidelity, and I apologize. If it's any consolation, your sacrifice will serve the best of causes, and I'll make it go as quickly as I can." He slit open Pyras's gold-buttoned velvet doublet and silk shirt.
Szass Tam sensed it when the tharchion's heart stopped beating, and felt the man's anguished spirit fleeing his ruined body. The magic he'd worked so assiduously to create finally discharged an instant later.
A sudden sense of overwhelming wrongness and malice impressed itself on his mystical awareness and bashed his mind into momentary confusion.
Then the moon and stars disappeared, and Pyras's castle, too. Darkness sealed the pentacle away from the rest of the world like a black fist closing around it.
And then Bane appeared. His form was murky, but Szass Tam could make out dark armor, the infamous jeweled gauntlet, and the glint of eyes.
On first inspection, the Lord of Darkness appeared no more terrible than some of the spectres Szass Tam had commanded in his time. Yet an aura of vast power and cruel intelligence emanated from him, and the lich felt a sudden urge to abase himself.
Annoyed, he quashed the impulse. Bane is simply a spirit, he told himself. I've trafficked with hundreds and this is just one more.
"How dare you summon me?" said the god. His bass voice was soft and mellifluous, but some hidden undertone pained the ears.
"I invited you," Szass Tam replied, "by sacrificing twenty men and women in the prime of their lives, twenty accomplished necromancers I can ill spare, and one of Thay's wealthiest and most powerful nobles."
Bane sneered, although how Szass Tam knew that, he couldn't say, for he couldn't make out a twist of lip in the smudge of shadow that was the deity's face. "Say, rather, twenty slaves, twenty charlatans whose magic had largely forsaken them, and a half-witted, cowardly toady."
"That is another way of looking at it, but my perspective is as valid as yours. I tendered the gift at a moment when I had every reason to fear the magic would wriggle out of my grip and destroy me. I hoped that even a god would appreciate such a compliment."
"I might," said Bane, "if it came from one of my worshipers, but that you have never been."
"Yet I've always supported the church of the Black Hand."
"But no more than you've supported the churches of Kossuth, Mask, Umberlee, and even Cyric. You played each against the other, making sure that none ever achieved preeminence in Thay, and thus, that none will ever undermine the rule of the Red Wizards."
"I concede the point. That is how it used to be. But now Thay is a different place, and I have more urgent concerns."
"As do I. Far more urgent than chatting with an impudent magus with no claim on my consideration. With Mystra slain, the higher worlds are in turmoil. My place is there. Open the door to the Barrens."
"As soon as we finish our talk."
Bane didn't lift his fist in its shell of gems and dark metal, nor did he grow any bigger than Szass Tam himself. Yet suddenly the Black Hand gave off a sense of profound and immediate menace, even as, in some indefinable but unmistakable fashion, he loomed taller than a giant. "Do you imagine," he asked, "that your puny summoning can hold me here?"
"For a while."
"Then die a true death," said Bane. "Die and be nothing."
Darkness seethed around Szass Tam and took the form of shadowy hands with long claws. Some gripped him, seeking to immobilize him, some pummeled him, and the rest hooked their talons in his body and ripped strips of flesh away.
The pain was excruciating. He forced himself to focus past it and speak the words of command to activate the talismans of protection concealed around his person.
The grip of the dark hands grew feeble. He wrenched himself away from them, and they faded into nothingness.
His now-tattered robe flapping around him, Szass Tam brandished his staff. Tendrils of gleaming ice coiled around Bane like vines climbing a tree. Spikes sprouted from them to push against the shadowstuff that was his body.
For a moment, the god seemed surprised, perhaps even slightly disconcerted, as a grown man might be if a child slapped him. Then he jerked the hand with the gauntlet over his head, shattering his bonds.
"You see how it is," Szass Tam said. "Yes, you can break free, and quite possibly destroy me in the process. But you'll have to work at it, and I might even bloody your nose before you finish. It will be less trouble and take less of your time to grant me the parley I seek."
The Black Lord snorted. "What is it you want, dead man?"
"Help winning my war. My rivals currently hold the upper hand. I have a new aide who's doing a brilliant job of keeping them from making the most of their opportunities, but he can't turn the conflict around by himself."
"I won't lend you an army of devils. I wouldn't even give them to the Zhentarim, or any of the other folk who have already rendered me their service. With the old order shattered, I'll have my own wars to win."
"I understand. That's not what I'm asking for."
"What, then?"
"First, teach me everything you can about the nature of magic as it exists today."
"I'm not the god of wizardry, and the nature of the arcane has yet to stabilize. It continues to alter even as we speak."
"But you are a god, and I'm sure you understand things I don't. I'll take whatever you can give me."
"What else do you want?"
"I've emptied the tombs and graveyards of the north. I've slaughtered many of its slaves and peasants and even some of my own living soldiers. Which is to say, I'm running short of raw material on which my necromancers can practice their art."
"What a shame."
"Isn't it? Yet it needn't be a disaster. This ancient land is still full of dead bodies. It's just that they've decayed so utterly as to be indistinguishable from the soil in which they lie. But a highly skilled necromancer could still call something forth-if he were capable of recognizing the exact patch of ground containing the remains."
"And so you want me to give you that ability as well."
"Yes, and I fear there's more."
Bane laughed. Though musical, the sound was even more hurtful than his speech, and Szass Tam stiffened. "You don't lack for gall, necromancer."
"So people often told me. When I was climbing up the hierarchy of my order, I mean. Once you become a zulkir, people stop critiquing your character to your face. Anyway, you're probably aware that I share a psyc
hic bond with many of the sorcerers under my command, and that I have a limited ability to be in multiple places simultaneously."
"Yes."
"I need my powers augmented, so I can direct my wizards more efficiently. Otherwise, I won't be able to turn a fresh supply of corpse dust into warriors fast enough to do me any good."
"Anything else?"
"Just one thing, the obvious. Currently the Church of Bane supports my fellow zulkirs. It would help if you instructed your priests to back me instead."
"Dead man, just for amusement's sake, let's imagine I might be willing to grant you all these extravagant favors. What could you possibly offer of comparable worth?"
"Thay. When I'm its sole sovereign, you'll be the only god worshiped within its borders."
"I've explained. With the higher worlds entering an era of strife and chaos, Faerыn, let alone this little piece of it, is of little concern to me."
Szass Tam stared at the sheen of eyes in Bane's murky face. "I don't believe you. We inhabitants of the physical plane may seem like grubs and ants to the gods, but you need us. Our worship gives you strength."
"Yet I reject your terms."
Szass Tam sighed. "Then how about this? After I make myself master of Thay, give me one thousand years to enjoy the fruits of my victory, and then you can take my soul. I'll be your bondsman forever after, in this world or wherever you decide to have me labor on your behalf."
Bane laughed. "Do you think so highly of yourself as to imagine that appreciably sweetens the bargain? The addition of one tiny soul, due a millennium hence?"
"It's not a prodigiously long time in the context of your eternal existence, and I am Szass Tam. Jeer and scoff at me all you like, but I know you're wise enough to understand what that means. You could scour your 'higher worlds' from one end to the other without finding a vassal who will further your schemes half as well."
Bane laughed again. "I'm tempted to accept this bargain. Then, in days to come, to make you the lowliest of my slaves, performing the most painful and degrading duties, just to punish your arrogance as it deserves."
"If you want to waste my talents, that will be your prerogative. Now, will you make a pact with me or not?"
"Do you know… I believe I will, but the terms must change in one respect. My priests and other worshipers will continue to aid the council."
"Because that way, no matter who wins, you and your creed will enjoy the favor of the victors. Very shrewd. All right, it's a bargain. Give me knowledge and power and I'll make do without your clerics."
"I warn you, you're asking for more than you were ever meant to hold, and jamming it inside you all at once will exacerbate the stress. Your mind may break apart."
"That I doubt."
"We'll see." His arm a blur of motion, Bane whipped the back of his jeweled gauntlet against Szass Tam's face.
Bone cracked, but the initial numbing shock of impact didn't give way to pain. That was because a sensation like a discordant scream stabbed into Szass Tam's mind, and it was so intense as to eclipse mere physical distress.
It howled on and on until he began to fear that, as Bane had warned, he might not be able to bear it. Then it resolved from a grating shriek into harmony. His inner self seemed to vibrate to it, but no longer felt as if it might tear apart. Rather, the sensation was exhilarating.
He realized he'd fallen, and picked himself up off the ground. He looked around for Bane, but the Black Hand had taken his leave. The dark barrier had dissolved, and the stars shined overhead.
Szass Tam's face gave him a belated twinge. Now confident of his ability to perform the delicate manipulations, he mended the bone, regenerated flesh and skin, and even regrew his beard. He started to heal the rest of his wounds as well, realized he could now rid his hands of any trace of blemish, but then, on a whim, left the fingers withered. He was used to them that way.
He could feel that, while the new knowledge was his to keep, the prodigious mystical strength Bane had lent him would gradually fade. He needed to exploit it immediately if it was to carry him to victory. Yet as he sent his thoughts soaring to link with the minds of his followers, he had time to grin at the reflection that even a so-called god with all his alleged omniscience could be gulled into making a disastrously bad bargain.
Perched on Brightwing's back, Aoth surveyed an expanse of sky, and his preternaturally keen vision discerned all sorts of things. Subtle variations in the grayness of the clouds. Sparrows. Vultures circling. A white gull that had strayed too far north of the seashore. But no ravens.
A cold drizzle started falling, further souring his mood. "Will ravens fly in this?" he asked.
"They might," Brightwing said, "if it doesn't get any harder."
"Wonderful." That meant he and the griffon had to keep flying in it, too.
Proving Malark's treachery, if in fact he was a traitor, seemed simple enough in principle. One need only show a discrepancy between the intelligence the spymaster received and the information he supplied to the zulkirs or the commanders in the field. Or between the orders the council gave him to transmit and those he actually sent along.
The trick was identifying those contradictions. Aoth was a high-ranking officer, and Bareris likewise occupied a position of trust, but even so, they had no right or apparent reason to review every secret message that found its way to Malark, or that he sent in turn. Nor were they informed of the outcome every time the zulkirs conferred, or when one of the archmages acted unilaterally.
Since they doubted their ability to spy on Malark and remain undetected while he waited on his superiors and read and prepared his scrolls, that left Aoth and his fellow conspirators to hunt messenger birds on the wing, but not near the Central Citadel or anywhere over Bezantur, where they might have had some reasonable hope of finding them. They had to seek them in the vastness of the countryside, and hope that if they did manage to kill one, its message would prove duplicitous, and they'd know enough to recognize the treason when they saw it.
"Curse it, anyway," Aoth growled. "I'm working with the false friend who betrayed me to trip up the true one who saved my life, and I'm doing it to serve the masters who wanted to cut me to pieces. What in Kossuth's name is wrong with me?"
"I've been wondering that for years," Brightwing said. "We can still desert if you'd rather."
Aoth sighed. "No, I've lost the inclination. Walking away from a long, slow grind of a stalemate is one thing, because what does it matter if you're there or not? But for a little while, after the blue fires came, it seemed the south might actually win, and now it looks as if Szass Tam might defeat us for good and all. Either way, the war feels different, and running off would seem more cowardly."
"Is that supposed to be an example of human reason at work? Because to a griffon, it makes no sense."
Aoth tried to frame a retort, then sat up straight in the saddle when he spotted a fleck of black in the distance. Before the blue flame infected his eyes, he wouldn't have been able to see it at all. Now he thought he could discern a brown wrapping bound to a yellow foot.
"There," he said.
"Where?" Brightwing asked.
He married his mind to hers, sharing his vision. "To the right, above the abandoned vineyard."
"Got it." She raised one wing, dipped the other, turned, and hurtled in the proper direction.
The raven saw them coming and fled. Perhaps, in its animal way, it wondered why they were troubling it, for such a small bird should have been beneath the notice of such a large predator.
A war mage would have no trouble bringing a raven down, but Aoth had to make sure he did it in a way that wouldn't destroy the message it carried. He recited a spell, brandished his spear, and a cloud of greenish vapor materialized around the bird. It convulsed, fell, and smashed against the ground.
Brightwing landed beside it. Aoth dismounted and picked up the broken carcass. For a moment, he felt like a bully, using powerful sorcery to kill such a fragile, defenseless creature.
He opened the tiny scroll case and it swelled to its full size. He shook out the document inside, unfurled it, and read it. A chill oozed up his spine.
"Is it anything?" Brightwing asked.
"Yes." He rolled up the parchment again. "We need to get back to the city."
Dmitra Flass kept a garden in the heart of the grim black fortress that was the Central Citadel, and the rosebuds blazed in voluptuous shades of crimson and gold despite the droughts, tainted rains, and plant-killing pests of the past ten years. Perhaps, Malark thought, it was illusion that kept the flowers bright and the grass thick and verdant at all times.
Whatever the truth of the matter, when his schedule allowed, as it did that evening, he liked to stroll and meditate here. He headed for a favorite bower, and then Aoth stepped onto the path ahead of him.
Aoth was carrying his spear, had his falchion strapped across his back, and wore mail, but none of that was unusual. It was the deliberate way he moved and the grim set of his square, tattooed face that betrayed his intentions.
A pity. Malark had known someone would discover his treason eventually, but he'd hoped for more time.
Had Aoth come alone? It was possible, but Malark doubted it. It seemed more likely that someone else was sneaking through the trees and bushes to strike him down from behind if he resisted arrest. He listened, trying to pinpoint the location of that hypothetical threat, meanwhile giving the war mage a smile. "Good evening. How are your eyes?"
"I know about your treason," Aoth said. "I got my hands on one of the scrolls you wrote."
"This is some sort of misunderstanding."
"Don't insult my intelligence."
"You're right. I should know better, and I apologize." Malark had never had any reason to doubt the acuity of his hearing, but he still couldn't detect anyone creeping up on him. Maybe no one was. On the other hand, if Aoth had enlisted Mirror's aid, the ghost wouldn't make any noise unless he wanted to. "Can I appeal to friendship and gratitude instead?"
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