In time, Tchazzar dismissed everyone but Halonya and Jhesrhi. Perhaps he hoped to mend the quarrel between them. In any case, Aoth would have to wait for a private consultation with his lieutenant.

But there was someone else to talk to. When they were clear of the Green Hall, Nicos murmured, “I stood by you in there, even when Tchazzar’s pet priestess cried for your blood.”

“I know,” Aoth replied. “We’re in this together, and I’ll look after your interests as you looked after mine.”

“See that you do. And see that you acquit yourself well in the field.” Nicos gave him a brusque nod and took his leave. Glowering, Luthen and Halonya’s subordinates departed in a different direction even though, like Aoth’s patron, they were presumably bound for the War College’s primary exit.

Still a resident of the fortress, albeit in less exalted circumstances than before, Shala Karanok strode off in yet another direction with purpose in her gaze and, despite the hour, a spring in her stride. Her clerk had to scurry to keep up. Aoth inferred that she’d been impatient to march to war and meant to begin her preparations immediately.

With everyone else departing, that left him to watch the end of Cera’s palaver with Daelric. Finally, looking about as glum as Nicos had, the high priest bade her farewell and tramped off with his underlings.

Aoth gave Cera a crooked smile. “Have you been properly scolded?” he asked.

She gave him a wry smile of his own. “I suppose.”

“Well, one down, one to go.”

“Is that why you rescued me? Couldn’t you spank me instead?”

Flirting and banter generally came naturally to her. But now he saw that she had to make an effort, and no wonder. The wyrmkeepers had terrorized and tortured her. She said Amaunator’s healing light had eased her body and mind alike, but she still needed time to recover.

“I rescued you for as debauched a reward as you’re capable of giving,” he said. “But later, when I’m not too tired to enjoy it. I’ll stay with you for what’s left of tonight though, if you want. I imagine we can prevail on one of the servants to find us a spare bedroom.”

In fact, it turned out to be a nice one placed near the top of the fortress, with casements overlooking the city. Fire-kissed eyes could even make out the glimmering black thread of the River Adder some distance beyond. In bed, they lay on their sides, her back nestled against his chest. She’d only had the chance to clean up a little before the audience with Tchazzar, and her hair and skin still smelled of sweat. But it didn’t bother him. He actually found he rather liked it, as he liked everything about her physical presence.

“I’m grateful that you came for me,” she murmured, “and sorry Tchazzar was angry with you because of it.”

He grunted. “Thanks to Jhesrhi, it worked out all right. And I know you only did what you thought Amaunator wanted. Black Flame, you pretty much warned me you meant to do it. I just didn’t want to hear. Or maybe I didn’t realize you’d go about it so crazily.”

“It wasn’t that crazy. You would have done the same thing in my place.”

“But I would have known how to do it without coming to grief.”

“Like when you sneaked into the wyrmkeeper’s lair in Soolabax, about a hundred abishais tried to eat you, and I had to exorcise them?”

He tried to hold in a chuckle and was only partly successful. When his chest swelled, it gave her a tiny bump. “That was different.”

“You know,” she said, “nothing’s changed. I still have to do this. Even Daelric … It’s easy to think of him as more of a courtier and minister than a holy man. But he has his own connection to the Keeper. He wouldn’t be the supreme sunlord of Chessenta if he didn’t. And, annoyed as he was at me for stirring up trouble, when I explained why, he didn’t order me to stop.”

“Because he liked seeing somebody stick a finger in Halonya’s eye.”

“No. Or at least there’s more to it than that. He senses that I truly am doing the god’s bidding.”

“And I suppose you still want me to help.”

She hesitated. “You explained why you don’t want to.”

“That hasn’t changed either. But curse it, I keep getting dragged into the thick of mysteries no matter how hard I try to stay clear. And they just keep getting murkier. Maybe I do have to figure them out to fulfill my contract and look after my men.”

She rolled over and smiled. “You are going to help.”

“Mainly, I’m going to defeat Threskel. That’s still what’s most important. But if I have time, if a chance presents itself, and if you promise not to do any more poking around on your own without my approval, then yes. I’ll help you.”

As if that highly conditional pledge settled everything, she kissed him.

There was a technique to breaking a grip on one’s wrist. Balasar had learned it early and used it countless times against those who rightly doubted their ability to best him in a contest of weapons, but wrongly imagined they could out-wrestle or out-brawl a dragonborn smaller than the average.

Though startled by his new foe’s assault, he automatically made the move. He twisted against the weak point where thumb and fingers met. His sword snagged on something in the dark-his adversary’s body, presumably. But only for an instant. Then the blade jerked free, and so did his arm.

That left the grip that was crushing his throat and denying him air. It was awkward to use his sword at such close quarters, particularly when he couldn’t see. But he thrust repeatedly. The weapon plunged into something mushy, then rasped on what he assumed to be bone.

Still the stranglehold persisted, and then his foe’s other hand-the one that had more oozing flesh still clinging to the bones-locked on his neck. Though somewhat encumbered by the sword, he tried to break the hold by swinging his arm up, down, and across. It didn’t work.

Knowing he had only moments left before his strength failed, he stepped in close, into the worst of his unseen foe’s stench, and hammered at its head with the pommel of his sword.

Bone crunched. The clawed, clutching fingers dropped away from his neck. As he sucked in air, his foe’s body thumped on the floor.

The winged creature hissed, and Balasar somehow sensed it swooping at him. He spat frost into the blackness. The thing screeched. And veered off, seemingly, because no fangs or claws ripped at him.

Not then. But he imagined the creature would take another run at him soon enough. Or something would. And no one would give a scrap of molt for his chances as long as he kept fighting blind.

So it was just as well he wouldn’t have to.

Anticipating that his investigations might take him back into the Catacombs, or into some dark place, he’d brought a source of light. Events just hadn’t given him a chance to take it out. But now, he hoped, he had the moment he needed.

He ripped open his belt pouch, snatched out a piece of black velvet, and dumped the silver ring inside it into the palm of his hand. The silvery glow of the moonstone in the setting leaped forth to illuminate the interior of a tomb with carved stone sarcophagi on low, stepped pedestals. He’d plainly lost his balance and fallen on one set of risers when he arrived.

The decaying occupants of the sarcophagi had shoved the heavy lids of their coffins partway open when necromancy or some other dark power called them forth. The zombie he’d stabbed and battered sprawled on the floor, fully dead once more. The other three were advancing on him. The smallest-the corpse of a dragonborn child, its eye sockets and the lesions in its face squirming with worms-was already close enough to strike.

It swiped at his arm. He tried to jerk the limb out of the way but was a split second too slow. The blow landed, jolting his hand. The ring flew from his palm to bounce and roll clinking across the floor.