With what was surely the last of his strength, Balasar repeatedly stabbed the man he’d hamstrung. Khouryn sucked in a deep breath, made a hiccupping sound as he kept himself from coughing it right out again, and charged back into the fumes-where he smashed the skull of the remaining Green Hand.

Medrash hoped that by now perhaps he’d taken enough breaths of relatively clean air to do something comparable. He’d better have, for he was sure Balasar couldn’t wait. He ran up the stairs, grabbed his clan brother’s arm-he hadn’t yet regained sufficient strength to lift him-and dragged him down and out of the cloud.

Then they all flopped down on the floor, coughed, and watched for other threats, although at first it was questionable whether they could do much about any that might appear. Gradually, though, the ache in Medrash’s chest subsided, and his strength started trickling back.

“You banged my head on every one of those steps,” Balasar wheezed.

“Sorry,” Medrash said. “Next time I’ll leave you swimming in poison.”

Three thunderclaps, or something that sounded like them, boomed somewhere overhead.

“I know that sound,” Khouryn said. “Aoth or Jhesrhi conjured lightning.”

Medrash looked at the staircase. The cloud was dissipating. “We should find out why. And I think I can cast a blessing to strengthen us so we’re fit to help them if they need it.”

“Good,” said Khouryn. “Do that. But before we move on…” He rose, reached for the hood on one of the corpses, and hesitated. Medrash peered at the body and realized what about it had surprised him.

Khouryn pulled off the hood to reveal the dragonborn head underneath. “By the Watchful Eye!” he growled, astonished. He unmasked another Green Hand. That one was a dragonborn as well.

The dwarf turned to his companions. “What does this mean?”

Medrash shook his head. “We have no idea. Let’s worry about it after we find our comrades.” He gripped his amulet and recited a prayer.

An exhilarating coolness tingled through his body and soothed the hot rawness in his throat and chest. He lifted the medallion and it shed a soft white light over his companions. A tautness went out of their faces as the healing eased them too.

“Thanks,” Khouryn said. “Now let’s go.”

Medrash retrieved his sword as they prowled up the staircase. At the top was the communal room that likely took up most of the second floor of the human habitation. And it was on fire, albeit burning in the leisurely way of damp, rotten wood. Flames licked across a portion of the floor and up one wall, devouring the designs and symbols painted there. Papers charred in the hearth. Smoke drifted through the hot air, irritating Medrash’s nose and almost making him cough again.

Aoth, Gaedynn, and Jhesrhi came through a doorway. Each had suffered what looked like blisters and burns, and for some reason each was dripping wet. But none looked seriously hurt.

Medrash was glad to see them. But the feeling turned to dismay when the humans aimed their weapons and spread out to flank their allies.

“Move away from them, Khouryn!” rapped Aoth. The head of his spear glowed crimson.

“It’s all right,” said the dwarf. “We know-the Green Hands are dragonborn. But these two dragonborn aren’t Green Hands. They fought the ones we met downstairs.”

“You’re sure?” The point of the spear shone brighter, and Medrash could have sworn that the strange blue light in Aoth’s eyes did the same. “It couldn’t have been some sort of trick?”

“No,” Khouryn said. “They saved my life and came close to dying themselves.”

Aoth mulled that over for a heartbeat, then gave a nod. “All right. Medrash, Balasar, my apologies. Jhesrhi, can you put out these fires?”

“Yes.” Her voice rising and falling, the wizard chanted. The quick, soft words resembled the whisper of dancing flames. As she recited the last one, the fires guttered out.

Arrow still resting on his bow, Gaedynn turned and peered around. “We seem to have cleared the house.”

“Yes,” Khouryn said. He turned to Aoth. “Dragon, dragonborn… Now we understand your vision.”

“I suppose,” said Aoth. “Unfortunately, we understand too late to give our friends from Clan Daardendrien advance warning of what’s to come.”

7-18 TARSAKH THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Jhesrhi looked at Aoth, whose tattooed face was shiny with the pungent ointment he’d rubbed on to help heal his burns, and thought, Look at us. Not one but two evil mages, veritable demons in mortal guise, in the war hero’s audience chamber. I imagine it’s been awhile since that’s happened.

Unless, of course, the mages in question were facing execution or something like that.

Hatred welled up in her, and she struggled to quash it. She’d managed to serve the zulkirs, despicable tyrants though they were. No reason she couldn’t fight for Chessenta too. And fortunately, her resentful fancies to the contrary, she and Aoth weren’t the ones in trouble today, even if the hostile stares of some of the courtiers might have led one to imagine otherwise.

But Zan-akar didn’t look hostile, even though, from what Jhesrhi understood, Aoth had undermined him when they met before. In fact, the stormsoul approached with a warm smile on the dark, narrow face so intricately etched with silver lines that it put Aoth’s tattooed mask to shame.

“Captain.” Zan-akar shifted his gaze to Jhesrhi, Gaedynn, and Khouryn. “Lady and sirs. Heartfelt congratulations on your achievement.”

“Thank you,” said Aoth.

“I want you to understand, we genasi cherish the Chessentan people like our own kin. And so, by aiding them, you’ve likewise earned the gratitude of Akanul.”

“That’s good to know.”

As they chatted on, Jhesrhi noticed Medrash, Balasar, and Perra staring. She could hardly blame them for their concern. It was a bad sign that Shala Karanok had even invited an enemy of Tymanther to attend the council. It no doubt seemed a worse one that said enemy was talking to the witnesses to whom the dragonborn looked for help.

But it would have been stupid for Aoth to be anything less than cordial. The Brotherhood might want to work for Akanul someday. It didn’t mean he or his lieutenants would slant their testimony. She wished she could reassure the dragonborn, but just then, horns blew a brassy fanfare and Shala entered through a door in the back of the hall.

Men bowed, and held the pose while the war hero mounted her throne. Women had to curtsey. As usual, this particular ladylike gesture of respect made Jhesrhi feel awkward and ridiculous.

“Rise,” Shala said. She surveyed the crowd arrayed before her dais. “First, let’s rejoice in our good fortune. The Green Hand-or rather the Green Hands-are dead, and for that we thank Captain Fezim and his soldiers.”

Aoth bowed again.

“How did you find the killers?” Shala asked.

“We just searched-on griffonback, mainly-until we got lucky,” Aoth replied. It was safer than admitting they’d convened an illegal conclave of the local arcanists and laid a temporary curse on a portion of the town.

“Well, I’m certain it took skill and valor as well as luck,” the war hero said. “Which is to say, you promised you’d earn my trust, and you have. I’ll gladly send you to defend the border. Provided, of course, that Lord Nicos is still willing.”

“Completely, Majesty,” said the nobleman with the broken nose. Since he employed the Brotherhood, their triumph reflected well on him. But to Jhesrhi’s surprise, he seemed less delighted by it than Zan-akar.

“Excellent!” Shala said. “Now, however, we must deal with the troubling aspect of last night’s events. It turns out the murderers were dragonborn.”

“As I warned you, Majesty,” Zan-akar said, “Tymanther is High Imaskar’s friend, not Chessenta’s.”

“That’s a lie!” Perra snapped. “Majesty, I swear, the vanquisher’s government had nothing to do with this.”