“I need more Ashmadai,” Sylora dared to remark, and to her surprise, Szass Tam nodded once more.
Sylora breathed easier, her mind already concocting the lies she would feed through Arunika, already thinking of new ways to wound the settlers, to turn them against the Netherese.
But her relief proved short lived.
“You took from the Dread Ring,” Szass Tam stated.
Sylora looked up at him with surprise.
“I feel its power diminished, stolen by you.”
The sorceress shook her head, trying to make sense of it, for Szass Tam’s tone had taken a darker turn—and that usually meant someone was going to die, horribly.
“I didn’t …”
“Into a scepter, perhaps?” Szass Tam remarked, and Sylora understood then.
“J-Jestry’s weapon … yes,” she stammered.
“You took from the Dread Ring.”
“I asked the Dread Ring for strength,” Sylora protested.
“Strength it provided, to its own detriment.”
“Master, I …” Sylora started, but stuttered and shook her head, trying to figure a way out of this.
“Jestry’s weapon, you say?” Szass Tam prompted her, and she jumped on that sliver of hope.
“My champion, yes! He is being prepared to—”
“Your champion?” the archlich remarked.
“Our champion,” Sylora corrected. “Your champion. Jestry of the Ashmadai. I’ve strengthened him. With the help of the aboleth ambassador, I’ve molded him into a warrior above all other Ashmadai, a warrior worthy of Szass Tam.”
“You stole from the Dread Ring.”
“I strengthened his scepter, creating a weapon truly fitting a champion of Szass Tam,” Sylora explained. “He will face Dahlia.”
“Dahlia?”
“She returns, and brings with her a powerful ally.” Sylora swallowed hard and considered whether or not she should complete her tale, as the spirit of Dor’crae had relayed it through Valindra Shadowmantle. But she realized by Szass Tam’s posture that she had no choice but to reveal it all.
“Hadencourt is gone,” she explained. “Dahlia and her drow companion destroyed him and his devil bodyguards. She knew he was Ashmadai. She knew he was allied with me. She’s fully a traitor now, and intends to defeat me and our mission here, and so, yes, Master, I dipped Jestry’s weapon in the Dread Ring and prayed for it to lend the weapon some of its power. If Dahlia is successful, the Dread Ring will be imperiled, and that we cannot have.”
Szass Tam let her words hang in the air for a few moments before finally replying, “You chose well. Dahlia must be destroyed. Do not fail me in this.”
“More warriors?” Sylora dared to remind him. “That Ashenglade will be fully garrisoned?”
Szass Tam nodded. “Presently,” he said. “Prove to me that your … that my champion is suitable.” For dramatic effect, he raised his skinny, almost skeletal arms up high, the voluminous sleeves of his great robes sliding back from his dark skin. “Finish this unpleasantness with Dahlia. Oh, my disappointment in that one! I will have her before me—dead or alive, it does not matter!”
He ended with a flourish and the ash lifted up around him, obscuring his increasingly insubstantial form as he melted into thin air, returning to Thay.
Then Sylora did breathe easier. She hated those moments with Szass Tam. Even when she had nothing but good news to deliver, as when she’d revealed Ashenglade to him, she could never be quite sure what his reaction might be. Many claimed he was unstable, insane, and perhaps that was true, but Sylora equally suspected that Szass Tam used his unpredictability to his advantage. She was never balanced when speaking with him, never prepared for what might come her way, never certain he wouldn’t kill her for some reason or another, for some excuse she hadn’t even considered.
Yes, she realized, he really was her master.
DAHLIA WATCHED THE COLD WATER BREAKING LEFT AND RIGHT as she dipped the cloth into the stream. Beside her, Drizzt picked at one of the wounds where a broken piece of barbed quill had stubbornly stuck. His entire right arm was covered in blood again. He flexed his hand and clenched his fist, pushing even more blood forth from the many wounds.
Dahlia rubbed the soaked cloth over the drow’s arm, washing away the majority of the blood and revealing his wounds to be a series of punctures rather than one long cut.
Drizzt held his arm up, turning it in the sunlight. He motioned to Dahlia, who moved the wet cloth near enough for him to bite it. He pushed the small knife into his forearm. He grimaced and twisted, then retracted the blade, dropped it, and reached back to his arm to remove the stubborn quill.