"That's fine," said Samas Kul, "but how do we know she isn't acting under coercion now? The blue fire didn't free all of the lich's puppets."

"Zola Sethrakt is the zulkir of Necromancy," Lauzoril said, "and I'm the realm's greatest enchanter. Even with our abilities diminished, we should be able to determine whether her spirit is free or not."

"But what," asked Iphegor Nath, "if she came to embrace her condition and her station during her years of service to the lich? It's plain from her stature and features that she was born Rashemi. Szass Tam gave her immortality, supernatural abilities, and high rank, and by some accounts, drinking blood is a carnal pleasure surpassing any the living can imagine. Perhaps she eventually decided she didn't have it so bad."

"Your Omniscience," Tammith gritted, "if you believe that, then, for all your wisdom, you comprehend very little of what it truly means to have your life stripped away from you, with only thirst and servitude left in its place."

"If Szass Tam doesn't have her spirit chained up tight," Zola said, "then it doesn't matter what she truly feels. I can bind her to serve me."

Tammith rose so swiftly that the eye could scarcely track the motion. "No, Mistress. With all respect, I'll never submit to another such shackle. If you try to impose it, you'll have to destroy me."

And me, Bareris realized. He'd stand with her, crazy and suicidal though it would be.

"I hope you realize," Dmitra said, "that even with our magic impaired, we can destroy you. If we all exert our powers against you, you won't last an instant."

"I understand," Tammith said. "But then you'll forfeit the chance to strike a crippling blow against your real enemy."

"Meaning what?" Nevron asked.

"I heard you discussing strategy before I sneaked in." Tammith smiled. "Vampires have keen ears. Your plan is good, but it could be better. Szass Tam lost many of his warriors to the blue fire. Now Xingax will labor to create replacements. But if we attack his manufactory, we can prevent it, and keep the northern armies weak."

"I take it," Dmitra said, "that you know where Xingax currently has his lair, and how we can get at it?"

Tammith inclined her head.

Bareris positioned himself beside a pale marble statue of a robed wizard and struck up a song about a starfish that decided it belonged in the sky. The ballad detailed its comical misadventures as it doggedly tried to clamber up into the heavens and take its place among the other luminaries. The sculpted wizard seemed to frown as if he disapproved of levity.

Bareris disapproved of it, too, or at least had long ago abandoned the habit, and the merry lyrics and rollicking tune felt strange coming out of his mouth. In fact, for some reason, they hurt.

But Tammith had always laughed at the song when the two of them were young, and at length, huge bats swooped out of the darkness. Bareris recoiled a step in spite of himself.

The bats swirled and melted together to become a woman. She'd removed her armor and wore a mannish leather jerkin and breeches. He wondered if she ever opted for skirts anymore.

"Of all the songs you ever wrote," she said, "I always liked that one the best."

He swallowed. "After the council of war, you just wandered off with Zola Sethrakt. You didn't even speak to me."

"And so you thought to flush me out with a tune. Here I am. What do you want?"

"For one thing, to say I'm sorry for what I did in the Keep of Thazar."

"I'm sorry it didn't take."

"Don't say that. You have your freedom now."

"But I'm still dead."

"No. Xingax laid a curse on you, but curses can be broken."

"By whom? Your zulkirs, whose magic is crippled, and to whom I'm more useful as a vampire?"

He shook his head. "I don't understand. You came here of your own volition, and yet you're so bitter and cold. You act as if you don't even want to see me."

"I didn't think I would. I didn't see it myself, but I heard reports that the blue fire burned most of the Griffon Legion out of the air."

"You're saying you hoped I was dead?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't hate you, and I don't blame you any longer for failing to rescue me. But I want my existence to be easy, and it's easier when I don't have to look at things that remind me of what I've lost."

"Perhaps you haven't lost as much as you think."

She laughed. "Oh, believe me, I have. And even if I were still capable of loving the boy I adored when I was a child, where is he? Long gone, I think, poisoned by hatred and regret."

"I thought so, too, until you appeared before me."

"It will be easier for you if you realize nothing has actually changed. Bareris and Tammith are dead. We're merely their ghosts."

He shook his head. "You can't avoid me. You're going after Xingax, and I am, too."

"We can hunt together. Just don't prattle of things that neither one of us is capable of feeling or being any longer."

"All right. If that's what you want."

"It is. Good night." She turned away.

"Wait."

She pivoted to look at him.

"I took care of your father and brother. I sent money. But they're both dead. Your father drank so much it poisoned him, and Ral caught a pox."

He didn't know why he told her so brusquely, as if he were trying to match her coldness. Perhaps he wanted to hurt her, or to force her to betray soft human emotion, but if so, she disappointed him. She merely shrugged.

chapter four

10-26 Mirtul, the Year of Blue Fire

Over the years, Aoth had all but covered himself in tattoos, repositories of minor enchantments that could be invoked when needed. So he was accustomed to the recurrent sting of the needle. Normally, it wouldn't even have bothered him to have the sharp point playing around his eyes, and over the eyelids themselves.

This time, however, he felt a flare of pain like the touch of a hot coal. He jerked back in his chair. "What in the name of the Black Hand was that?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the tattooist said. "My art has become difficult lately, just like any other form of sorcery."

"Then try being careful!"

"Yes, sir." The artist hesitated. "Do you want me to continue?"

Aoth realized it was a good question. Did he want the wretch to go on etching sigils of health and clear vision around his eyes, even though the magic might conceivably twist awry and create an entirely different effect?

"Yes," he said. Because the tattooist had reportedly restored sight to the blind on two previous occasions, and with the priests unable to cure him, Aoth didn't know what else to try.

The needle pricked his eyelid again, this time without creating searing heat. Then Brightwing screeched.

The griffon was just outside. Aoth reached out with his mind and looked through her eyes at a legionnaire. The fellow had Brightwing's saddle in his hands, and was holding it up in front of him as if he hoped to use it as a shield.

Aoth pushed the tattooist away, jumped up, strode across the room-he'd grown sufficiently familiar with the layout of his billet to avoid running into the furnishings-and threw open the front door. "What's going on?" he said.

"This idiot thinks he can take me away!" Brightwing snarled.

To the legionnaire, Brightwing's utterance was just a feral shriek, and he reacted by taking a step backward. "Sorry to disturb you, Captain," he said, "but there are orders to round up all the griffons whose riders are dead or disabled and give them to legionnaires who are fit but lost their mounts, or else take the animals along for spares. Do you see?"