Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

Finally she tired of this ploy and set the goblet aside. “You are patient, my poppet. You were always so. Once, I found it rather … charming.”

“Times have changed,” he observed in a bland tone that nonetheless managed to convey a dozen shades of meaning.

A brief, appreciative smile flitted across the elf’s face. Next to power and beauty, Ashemmi appreciated subtlety above all else. She came closer, close enough to envelope him in the scent of her perfume—an enticing and incongruous mixture of night-blooming flowers, musk, and brimstone. “Times have changed,” she agreed. “I have lately come from another visit to Zhentil Keep. The signs of its destruction are almost vanished.”

“Gratifying,” Dag commented, then took a casual sip of his wine.

“Very.” She reached out and took the goblet from him, turned it and slid the tip of her tongue over the place on the rim his lips had touched. “It is a time to rebuild what once we had, and to seek new … heights.”

“You were always ambitious,” he said, deliberately taking her words only at face value.

This amused her. She set the goblet down and began to walk in a slow circle around him. “Opportunities are great for those who have the strength and wit to take them. You could do very well. Your devotion to the Zhentarim is beyond question, and your spells are stronger than those of any other cleric in the fortress. Indeed, you rival the spell power of all Darkhold’s wizards but two!” She paused when she came around to face him, closer than she had been before. So close that he could feel the heat of her, and the ice. He sternly banished the awareness of her from his eyes, even when she reached up to unleash the clasp of his cloak. The dark garment fell unnoticed to the floor.

He cleared his throat before he could think better of it. “You flatter me.”

“Not at all. I say nothing more than truth.” Ashemmi toyed with his medallion, tracing her finger over the engraved sunburst pattern.

Instinctively Dag clutched the medallion, and the secret hidden behind it. He could not risk her or anyone else discovering the ring. On the morrow, he would have it sent to his daughter for safekeeping. To distract a suddenly interested Ashemmi from the source of his concern, he lifted the medallion over his head and dropped it in a silver vase that stood on the table.

A flicker of triumph lit the sorceress’s eyes. Her hands dropped to his belt, to which were affixed his weapons and his bag of potions and prayer scrolls. From another woman, this would be nothing more than a logical next step. Not Ashemmi. Dag had set aside one sign of power: she sought to strip him of another. Trust Ashemmi, with her passion for irony, to seek to geld him thus.

Dag captured one of her roving hands. He reached for her wine goblet and closed her fingers around it. “Why these questions, this sudden passion for ‘truth?’ I never noticed that it held much interest for you before.”

Suddenly the elf’s golden eyes turned hard. She took a step back and impatiently flung the goblet aside. “Let us speak plainly. You have intelligence, talent, ambition, and the good will of those who rule in Zhentil Keep. Why do you insist upon besieging a fortress? What have you to prove?”

So that was it. Somehow, she had heard of his plans, and was puzzled by them. “You ascribe too many complications to my thinking. My motives are simple,” he informed her. “I merely wish to command my own stronghold. The fortress I desire is, regrettably, not currently under Zhentish control. Correcting this problem is a small matter.” He paused and slid one hand through the silken curtain of her hair to cup the nape of her neck, then tightened his grip just to the point of pain. “But truly, your concern for my well-being is most touching.”

She arched back to lean into his grasp, and her lips curved in a feline smile. “Why would I not be concerned? After all, you are the father of my only child.”

Dag’s heart quickened at this second reference to the child that, to his way of thinking, was his alone. Ashemmi had been happy enough to turn over the babe eight years earlier, fearing that her climb to power might be hampered by a half-breed brat clinging to her silken skirts. All she had asked from Dag—no, demanded of him—was a vow of absolute secrecy. This was the first they had spoken of the child, or of much else, in eight years.

He smoothed his hand down her back and made an effort to steer the conversation onto a safer path. “Your concern is noted, but the reward is worth the risk. The fortress will be a good acquisition for the Zhentarim. It is strategically located on a major trade route.”

“And it is far from Darkhold. Let us not forget that. You could have your precious child at your side and not concern yourself with any need to share her—or the power she carries.”

The priest felt the blood drain from his face. This seemed to amuse Ashemmi. Again she cocked her head and studied him. “Now I understand the whispers of the common soldiers,” she purred. “Do you know what they say of you, when they feel certain that they will not be heard? You are so pale and austere, so light of step and delicate of frame that you seldom make a sound, barely cast a shadow. You unnerve them. They say that you resemble a vampire in all things but the fangs!”

Beneath the obvious insult in her words lay several layers more, reminders that Dag Zoreth was a small man, a physical weakling in a fortress of warriors. But he smiled nonetheless. His hand dipped lower, his fingers dug into firm and yielding flesh. “If you desired to do so, you could inform them that my teeth are sharp.”

Her laughter bubbled over again. “It is so much more amusing to let them learn at their own peril.” She sobered quickly, and moved beyond reach of his punishing caress. “We were speaking of your plan for an assault on a mountain fortress. Surely you know of the difficulties inherent in a siege! It is a long and costly process. The fortress you desire is but a few days’ march from cities unfriendly to our cause, which greatly lowers your chances of success. Do you think Waterdeep would allow a Zhentish army to lay a lengthy siege, when in five days they could muster enough fighters to engage you in open warfare?”

Dag had considered all of this and prepared for it. He captured a lock of her pale gold hair, let it slide between his fingers, and skimmed his hand down the slender length of her. “Set your mind at ease. I do not intend to lay siege to the fortress.”

“No? What, then? You cannot believe you can conquer it outright. There are not enough warriors in the whole of Darkhold to accomplish such a feat. Nor could you move a force of the needed size without drawing attention. The alarm would be sounded before you left the Greycloak Hills! What then?” she demanded again.

His eyes grazed the feminine form that Ashemmi’s crimson gown did little to hide. “It is dangerous to reveal too much to an enemy. Or have you not heard?”

She smiled again, darkly, and her arms lifted to twine around his neck. “If enemies are well matched, battle can be a pleasant diversion. Tell me, and then we need talk no more.”

Dag reminded himself of his vow to have nothing more to do with this viper in elf form. “I have been preparing this attack for a long time. Arrangements have been made to ensure a successful, if unorthodox, escalade.”

“You can do better. I remember well,” she breathed in his ear.

He stepped back while he still could. “Content yourself with this: the capture of this fortress will not deplete Darkhold’s military strength. I do not plan to shatter the Pereghost and his commanders against the fortress walls,” he said, naming Ashemmi’s chief rival for the position of second-in-command. He inclined his head in a brief, ironic bow. “I apologize for any inconvenience this might cause you.”