Valindra’s mental instability seemed fast fading. The ambassador had been working on Valindra quite extensively, helping her as the drow psionicist had aided her in the early days of her affliction. Only more effectively, Sylora knew. She was thinking in leaps now, instead of merely reacting to the situation in front of her, and more importantly, she sold her advice with more than mere words but with emotion and even cleverness, like the dramatic effect in her response to Dahlia.
“Don’t underestimate her.”
“As Hadencourt did?” Valindra asked. She’d been at Sylora’s side when they received the news of the malebranche’s defeat. “He’s a devil, Sylora, and so thought himself so elevated above the mere mortals he could act foolishly. So he did, and so he’s paid for his mistake.”
“As you do now,” Sylora warned.
“Not at all,” Valindra replied with confidence. “I’ve witnessed Dahlia’s martial prowess and know it to be considerable. I also know I can defeat her. Magic is stronger than the blade … or than that stick she spins with such abandon. I would think Sylora Salm would know that.”
“She has an ally, a ranger of great reputation.”
“And you have me.”
“She has another ally,” Sylora went on, again turning to the imp. “The Netherese champion has joined with her. Those three, at least, are coming for us, and we must expect that Barrabus the Gray will bring along Shadovar reinforcements.”
“I do not fear them,” Valindra announced.
“But nor will I ignore them,” said Sylora. “They are coming. They are likely nearing our position even now. And so we’ll prepare for them. Keep the Ashmadai close—double the guards at the walls and let the zombies roam the forest near to Ashenglade. You watch them, Valindra. You see through their eyes. We’ll know when these would-be assassins come into our fortress, and we will destroy them. How much weaker will the Netherese be when their champion’s head is returned to them?”
“Or when their champion is raised by the power of the Dread Ring and turns to fight against them?” Valindra replied, and that brought a grin to Sylora’s face.
Valindra turned back to the stairwell and lifted her hand and beckoned, silently calling. “As you requested,” she said when the crinkled ashen zombie crept in through the door.
Sylora had indeed asked Valindra to bring along one of their undead pets, and she suppressed her revulsion at having the diminutive thing in her private room. With every step, the wretched little creature left ashen footprints, and the smell of burned flesh was a perpetual condition for these monsters. A decade had passed since the cataclysm, and still the zombie legions reeked with the foul aroma.
Behind the sorceress, the imp snorted and let out a little shriek.
Sylora ignored the tiny devil, focusing on the zombie and the sensation in her wand because of the proximity of the creature. She’d felt this before, but from afar, and now with Ashenglade’s first round of construction completed, the wand, the Dread Ring, had compelled her to further investigate.
She reached out to the zombie and closed her eyes.
Soon she was seeing through the undead creature’s eyes.
Sylora could inhabit it at will, could see through it, could hear through it, could control its every movement. She almost unleashed the creature’s continual fury, then, for in looking back at herself, in looking past her meditating form, she noted the imp, its face a mask of disgust, its long and pointed tongue hanging out and flicking with distaste. Through the zombie’s ears, Sylora heard the curses muttered under impish breath.
Sylora moved back fully into her own consciousness, and slowly turned to face the impudent little imp. “You don’t approve of my pet?”
“Wretched disgusts me, it does,” the imp whined.
“This is a child of the Dread Ring,” Sylora explained.
“Let it fall dead and bury it deep!” said the imp.
“You try my patience,” Sylora warned. “Only because of Arunika’s favor do I not punish you for such words.”
“Arunika! Arunika is not my mistress! I’m indebted to her, but I’m free when done with you!”
A wry smile widened on Sylora’s face, telling the imp that perhaps it should not have admitted such a thing. “You insult the zombie, you insult the Dread Ring,” she said.
“Wretched disgusts me!”
“And if I allow the zombie to act on your insults?” asked Sylora. She felt the wand thrumming in her hand, the power building with her intent and her understanding now that she didn’t have to put up with the impudent little beast.