You presume, said the witch in her makeshift mask. You re here because I had a use for the affinity in your blood. I don t yet know who s meant to claim the griffons. We ll all have to wait for the Three to speak.

As he and his companions flew in from the south, Aoth Fezim studied the snow-shrouded town ahead: a collection of sturdy lodges with steep, crested roofs. A massive castle of stone and iron rose in their center, towering over every other structure and looking far more well to use an unkind word civilized. Aoth supposed there was a reason for that. Although the Iron Lords had occupied the pile for as long as they d been the warlords of Rashemen, it had started out as a Nar keep, and maybe the architectural style was still more Nar than otherwise.

It felt a little strange to behold Immilmar, the capital of Rashemen, or most any part of the northern lands. Thoughts of the place had often occupied him since his youth. Commoners of Thay, such as Aoth, were of Rashemi stock. Although he d been born into the pale, lanky Mulan aristocracy, mischievous nature had given him the darker skin and short, burly frame of a member of the lower orders. As a result, he d endured childhood taunts and brawls, and the Red Wizards had never seen fit to induct him into one of their arcane orders.

Later, as a war mage in Thay s legions, Aoth had fought the true Rashemi along his country s northern border. But until his journey to Immilmar, he d never seen more than the southern edge of Rashemen not before the War of the Zulkirs, and not in all the decades since.

You still aren t seeing it, said Jet, speaking mind to mind. You re too busy picking at your memories. Pull your head out of your arse and look where I m looking.

Considering that they shared a psychic link, and that the familiar was actually using his master s eyes at the moment, that wasn t difficult. Jet often availed himself of Aoth s sight, because the same magical storm that had extended the human s life had granted him vision even keener than a griffon s.

That sight enabled him to make out the skaters and ice fishermen on the frozen surface of Lake Ashane, though at that distance they were only tiny specks. More to the point, Aoth could see that the broad-beamed ship sitting beside the water was no mere canoe, raft, or felucca, but rather a three-masted vessel with a pair of odd-looking panels on each side of her hull. She belonged on the high seas, not in such an inland waterway. The ship s figurehead was a horned, bare-breasted she-demon, and the flag atop the central mast bore a leering red skull with crossed yellow thunderbolts beneath.

Aoth drew breath to curse, and Cera Eurthos asked, What s wrong? Seated behind him with her arms around his waist, the priestess had felt his body shift.

That ship beside the lake is the Storm of Vengeance, he replied.

The sellsword ship? she asked.

Yes, and by all accounts, Mario Bez had a profitable year fighting along the Dragon Coast.

And you think he s come to buy the griffons, too.

I do. The Storm of Vengeance is a skyship, so fielding a company of riders on flying steeds would suit his style of warfare. I can t imagine what else would bring him here. Even if the Rashemi were in the habit of hiring mercenaries, winter s the wrong season for it.

Well, don t worry about it. You had a good year, too. You saved Chessenta from ruin, and Shala Karanok rewarded you accordingly. I m sure you can outbid Captain Bez.

I hope so. He needed those animals.

The Brotherhood of the Griffon, his own sellsword company, had endured a hard couple of years. What the world at large viewed as a failed invasion of Thay had left its reputation tarnished and its ranks depleted. A defeat of sorts in Impiltur had aggravated the damage.

But as Cera had said, he and his comrades had turned things around that summer, in Chessenta and Threskel. They d won notable victories. And, as a result, new recruits and offers of employment had come flooding in.

But one problem remained. They had lost too many griffons in their battles against Szass Tam, Alasklerbanbastos, and ultimately Tchazzar. If the Brotherhood were to continue practicing its own highly effective style of warfare, they had to obtain new mounts. So the news that the Iron Lord had dozens to sell brought Aoth hurrying north with only three companions: Jet, Cera, and Jhesrhi Coldcreek, currently riding the giant hawk she d shaped from the wind. A larger group might have slowed the journey down, and some of his officers needed to stay behind to supervise the men in their winter quarters.

Aoth supposed he should have realized he wouldn t be the only prospective buyer rushing to Immilmar. There truly was no time to lose. Discerning the tenor of his master s thoughts, Jet swooped down toward the courtyard behind the citadel s primary gate.

Jhesrhi s golden hair streamed out behind her as she sent her conjured hawk plunging after Jet and his riders. Her patched, stained war cloak and mage s robe fluttered around her willowy form.

Touching down, she swung herself off her mount, thanked it in one of the tongues of Sky Home, the realm of the air elementals, and permitted it to dissolve back into pure wind. Before it departed, the wind howled and blew particles of snow from the shoveled heaps shoveled into the cleared sections of the courtyard.

Jhesrhi was glad that her recent accident, if that was the proper term for it, hadn t cost her the ability to command elements other than flame. To a degree, she could contain the heat inside her. She could wear clothing or sit on a chair without it catching fire. But if she were to ride a mount of flesh and bone for very long, the contact with her would pain and blister the poor beast.

Which meant she herself would never fly on griffonback again. That saddened her, but it was the only part of her transformation she regretted. At first the change had been a shock, but ultimately, it had brought her a kind of peace.

Aoth, however, didn t seem to believe that. Though he hadn t said so, she knew he d brought her along partly because he suspected she was in despair and needed tending a solicitude that irked and touched her in equal measure.

At any rate, she was glad to escape Chessenta. She d hated the place as a child, and with the reinstitution of the Green Hand laws designed to constrain and marginalize those with arcane talents, she hated it again. Perhaps, despite its barbaric reputation, Rashemen would prove more congenial.

On first inspection, however, there was little that was cheerful or welcoming about that particular fortress. It was all gray stone and black iron surely enchanted to stave off rust with long icicles hanging from the undersides of the battlements. Across the courtyard, the sentries and servants eyed the newcomers warily.

Aoth s appearance might be partly to blame, Jhesrhi thought. He had the frame and coloring of a Rashemi, but his shaved scalp and the tattooing that crawled up his neck and even made a mask of sorts around his luminous blue eyes were characteristically Thayan.

Plump and pretty, with a head of blonde, wind-tousled curls, and clad in yellow vestments, Cera gave the onlookers the kind of lavish, ingratiating smile that Jhesrhi could never have managed on her happiest day.

The Keeper s blessing upon you all, the priestess said, and swung her hand in an arc that suggested her deity s passage across the heavens. For a moment, the afternoon sunlight brightened, and warmth banished winter s chill. The Rashemi onlookers visibly relaxed.

We re peaceful travelers from Chessenta, Cera continued. I m Cera Eurthos, sunlady of Soolabax. My friends are Aoth Fezim, the sellsword captain; and Jhesrhi Coldcreek, one of his chief lieutenants.