Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  Sessaca considered her grandsons. Thost nodded once. Bodhar’s eyes darted to Meri’s, and she sighed, and though she looked worried, she nodded too. Shit, Dahl thought. Shit, shit, shit.

  “You get me some potions,” Sessaca said. “They’ll keep me moving, and Thost can take up the slack. I get you into the Master’s Library, and you’ll let all of us walk away. Deal?”

  “You have my word, Goodwoman Peredur,” Xulfaril said.

  “ ‘Swordcaptain,’ if you please,” Sessaca said. “Now you have supplies to gather, a boat to charter, and my grandsons and I need to pack. If you’re going to leave some behind, I’d appreciate—”

  “Yes, yes,” Xulfaril said. “Where shall we tell the captain we’re sailing?”

  Sessaca smiled. “Make for Raven’s Bluff.”

  TWO HOURS LATER, as the sun set, Dahl stood on the deck of a ship, New Velar’s lights glowing on the edge of the horizon as they sailed eastward, and the whole of his life a jumble. On the forecastle, the halfling man, Volibar, freed the winged serpent hidden beneath that high collar and tied a note to its back. The creature looped around the ship once, its body flattening as it slithered over the air, its batlike wings catching the currents.

  “What if they don’t let them go?” Dahl murmured to his grandmother. “Do you have a plan for that?” She folded her shawl more tightly around her thin shoulders. The potion Xulfaril had acquired for her had straightened her back and let her move more easily as the ship rocked beneath them.

  “They will. For all they got greedy back there, they aren’t idiots. They’ve left three guards on ten people, five of whom will absolutely put up a fight. They didn’t leave their best, and none of them were spellcasters. Even if you set the little ones aside, that’s not enough to be sure of so many in such a small space. They have what they want, and so they’ll leave. Or they’ll get themselves beaten bloody and shitless by farmers for the trouble and have to answer for it.” Sessaca gave him a disapproving look. “They’re none of them mincing delicates.”

  “You made very sure of that, didn’t you?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It grated at Dahl how smoothly everything fit together—how had he missed this? You miss everything, he thought. You’ve lost what edge you had.

  Be fair—Farideh’s voice echoed in his thoughts, and he sighed. No one thinks their grandmother is secretly a retired Zhentarim swordcaptain. He found himself wishing Farideh were here. She would have kept him steady.

  Sessaca eyed him a moment. “Is this what you’ve been mixed up in? Are you an agent of theirs?”

  “No stranger than my grandmother being one,” Dahl said, dancing around the answer.

  “So, no,” Sessaca said. “Pity. They ought to have grabbed you before you got all starry-eyed about serving Oghma. Could have put some sense into you and them, and made you some extra coin to send your mother.” She sighed. “Whatever you are, have you any idea what this is really about?”

  Dahl shook his head. “Not a one.”

  “Don’t let on,” Sessaca advised. “Never give them the upper hand.” She pulled her shawl tighter again, eyes on New Velar. “The dark girl, the one waiting upstairs. Mira. You know her.”

  “I did,” Dahl said. He knew that tone. “Old acquaintance.”

  “She’s pretty enough,” Sessaca said. “Calm in a crisis.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And steady. You’d do well with steady. Better than the girl you’ve taken up with,” Sessaca added. “And here besides.”

  “You have no idea what kind of girl I’ve taken up with.” Dahl turned on her. “Perhaps you’re out of practice, but you might have deduced I’m not interested in talking about my love life.”

  “Of course not,” Sessaca said. “Farideh. It’s a dragonborn name. You thought I wouldn’t know that?”

  Dahl frowned. “I did. Although I don’t see how … Oh Gods’ books,” he swore. “You think she’s a dragonborn?”

  “You’re going to break your mother’s heart.”

  Dahl gave a short, bitter laugh. “Well now she has worse things to worry about than whether I’m in love with someone who lays eggs. Well done, us.” He left her on the deck and headed down into the ship’s belly.

  Eurdila had not taken their plan well—frail Sessaca and all three of her sons, hostages for these horrible people? Dahl had told her it would be fine, but he couldn’t imagine how. She’d wept, and he’d held her tightly and promised he knew what he was doing, even if he couldn’t tell her why. It was Sessaca’s fault, but it was his too—or would he have ever come to the Harpers if his grandmother had not instilled the things she had in his heart and mind?

  While Sessaca had garnered an officer’s bunk, the Zhentarim had left Dahl and his brothers a trio of hammocks right in the middle of the lower decks. As Dahl approached the hatch, he heard Thost and Bodhar talking down below.

  “Course it does!” Thost rumbled. “He shows up, sudden as you please and trailing trouble. What else do you call it?”

  “I’m just saying let him talk,” Bodhar said. “You know there’s got to be more here.”

  “Oh aye, that he’s no rich man’s scribe?” Thost said. “That’s plain enough.”

  Dahl cursed. Suddenly there was nothing more refreshing than the sea breeze and his grandmother’s opinions on what women would suit him. Or he could sit here, on the steps between both, him and a half-filled flask of whiskey.

  He made a fist of his hand and went down anyway, fighting the sensation of being ten again, amid his grown brothers, everything he said and did ripe for correction or teasing.

  Thost and Bodhar sat on a pair of hammocks strung opposite each other. The Zhentarim sailors gave them a wide berth, yet still on guard. Still listening.

  “I didn’t tell him everything that happened,” Bodhar said, as Dahl approached. “But you should.”

  Dahl sighed, eyeing the sailors. He crouched down between the hammocks and spoke in a low voice. “Mira came looking for me first. I know her.”

  “Gathered that,” Thost said, even terser than usual. “How?”

  The sailor mending a rope by the bulkhead a little too deliberately. The fellow counting water barrels slower than a student. There would be nowhere on the ship they could safely speak. “Secretary work,” he settled on. Bodhar looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Thost sniffed.

  “I’m not slow,” he said. “Granny made it very clear who these folks are. But not who you are.”

  “They said you were feeding her information,” Bodhar pointed out. “That Mira.” When Dahl didn’t answer, he went on. “You’re not working with the Zhentarim, are you?”

  Dahl hesitated—assuming Mira hadn’t slipped, the Zhentarim didn’t know he was a Harper. Once they did—if they did—everything would become a great deal more urgent. “It’s complicated.”

  Thost stood. “Complicated just got us hauled off to gods-know-where with a bunch of wolves nipping our heels and sitting guard on our families. You’re working for the stlarning Black Network? Gods above, Dahl, and you’re meant to be the smart one.”

  He started toward the deck, and Dahl cursed. “Thost!” He sprinted after. “Thost, damn it.” He caught his brother’s arm—too many eyes, too many ears, and Thost was furious. He wet his mouth. “Do you remember,” he said, quietly, “the stories you and Bodhar used to tell me? Like … Like ‘The Unfaithful Servant’?” He gave Thost a significant look. “Or ‘The Shepherd and the Giants’? About Oehmur Laskaling, and the Bard of Shadowdale and Those Who Harp.” He held Thost’s gaze, willing him to pick out the references—secret identities and fighting from the inside, loyalty disguised as disloyalty and Harpers besides. “I’m still your little brother,” he added. “Still the boy you told stories to.

  “I listened,” he added, mouthing the words.

  Thost frowned, searching Dahl’s face. “Don’t you claim blood, not now.”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry,” Dahl
said. “Be angry. But you want to know who I am. I’m your brother. That’s what’s important.”

  Thost shook his head. “It’s not what’s going to keep us safe.” He turned and climbed the stairs to the deck. Dahl swallowed a curse and turned back to Bodhar, who was watching him now with interest.

  “You always liked those stories,” he said conversationally, as Dahl sat on the empty hammock. “Though I thought you went in for the noble hero slays the monster more than the ones full of lessons.”

  “It’s funny what stays with you.”

  “Thost never told you ‘The Unfaithful Servant,’ ” he said. “That was Da.”

  “I forgot,” Dahl lied.

  “Right,” Bodhar said, studying Dahl. “I don’t think you’ve earned the right to secrets. Not now. Not when it’s plain they’re there. Not when it’s cost us our family’s safety.”

  “Are you mad at Granny too?”

  “For all the good it will do.” Bodhar shook his head. “Have to tell you, this isn’t the adventure I was hoping for.”

  “I’ll fix it. Somehow I’ll get us out of this.”

  Bodhar sighed. “Well, you’re not going to get us off this ship until it’s across the Reach.” He grinned at Dahl. “Plenty of time for old stories. Or new ones—you still owe me three things.”

  Ilstan Nyaril watched his reflection waver in the sunlit ripples of the River Alamber, dizzying himself as he looked through his own face into the murky depths.

  Who you are and who you were and who you will be, the rambling voice of a not-dead god said in his thoughts. Magic accounts for all of these and none of these … We are and we were and we will be and so shall it.

  “Is that better than the water skins?” the slim dragonborn man said as he squatted down beside Ilstan. Ilstan looked up at him, forgetting where he’d come from.

  “The water of the rivers is alive with the breath of Mystra,” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth as though they were liquid themselves. “It’s more than a body can bear.”

  The dragonborn smiled kindly at him. “Bend down to the surface and make a cup of your hand. Do you want me to get Wick? We’ve got another day or two of traveling, and it’s been a while since you … you know … sorted yourself out.”

  Ilstan stared at the dragonborn, as if he could see through the layers of scale and muscle and bone and into his soul. He trusted the fellow, he found, as much as Ilstan trusted anyone, but he couldn’t remember his name. And he couldn’t remember Wick.

  … The wizard is but the channel that magic flows through, but the vessel for the goddess’s blessings, but the parchment the spell is written upon …

  The dragonborn man reached over and flipped Ilstan’s cloak back over his sleeve. Crude embroidery picked out a series of runes there: Give the magic to another caster.

  Ilstan covered the message he’d written to himself with the cloak again, clutching his arm to his chest. Wick was the caster, he remembered, a gnome woman with hair the color of the sunset on the walls of Suzail. He’d hired her and the dragonborn when he’d left Proskur, heading after …

  Farideh.

  The seal is weakened … the key is found … the Lady of Black Magic is searching, searching … how is a devil like a wizard?… both bleed until they don’t …

  Ilstan’s whole brain turned electric at the memory of the tiefling, the Chosen of Asmodeus, god of sin and murderer of Ilstan’s true master. “I have to find the Lady of Black Magic,” he said. “It’s imperative.”

  The dragonborn frowned. “I’ll get Wick.”

  Djerad Thymar, he thought. Djerad Thymar is where she’s heading. She’ll be there, she has to. And then …

  And then, my man, what will you do? Crush the breath from her lungs? Boil the blood from her veins?

  Ilstan startled. The voice of the god … it was seldom so specific. So melodic. So merciless.

  There are spells, he thought, tracing the pattern of their casting on the cool air. Would it come to that? Would he be ready for such action?

  “All right, saer. You ready?” The gnome woman stood on the stony bank beside him, coming just to his shoulder where he sat. Her eyes, blue as broken magic, seemed to take up half her face as Ilstan peered into their depths.

  “The Lord of Spells has made me ready,” Ilstan said. “To find the key, to break the prison. To end the Knight of the Devil.”

  Wick sighed and took hold of his hand, setting it on her shoulder. She rummaged through her pockets for a small brown bean. She dropped it, and her own hands flitted before her, separate creatures marking their own separate paths through the air, a dance to lure that power along the Weave. She spoke a word of benediction, a word of strength, a word of pure magic, and Ilstan’s mind stilled.

  The blessings of Azuth flowed through him in the same heartbeat that Wick’s spell completed. What should have been a stiff gust of wind became a squall that whipped the River Alamber’s waters back upstream. Ilstan watched the river grow shallower and shallower, as if the wind would blow it all away—

  He woke at the top of the riverbank, a score of steps from the road. The god’s voice was a gentle murmur. Magic eased through his body, slow and rolling as the River Alamber. He remembered who he was, where he was, where he needed to be.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Without you two, I don’t know what I would do.” The dragonborn clasped his forearm and pulled him to his feet. “Thank you,” Ilstan said again.

  “Thank you,” Wick said, a little wild. Her big blue eyes seemed to spark and crackle, her grin wide enough to crack her skull. She flexed her hands, in an agitated way. “How’s the road between here and the City-Bastion? Monsters? Brigands?”

  “More caravans,” the dragonborn said with a chuckle. “We’re past the worst of it all. Gonna have to wear yourself out with the boring sort of spell. Maybe teach yourself Draconic for a bit before we get there?”

  Wick made a face. “You’re no fun.”

  “Yrjixtilex Kallan,” Ilstan said. The dragonborn sellsword turned. “That’s your name,” the wizard explained. “I’ve just remembered.”

  Kallan smiled in a friendly way. “That’s right. You remember yours?”

  “I’m no one,” Ilstan lied. It was better that way. He already knew that the servants of the Raging Fiend could hide behind even the kindest smiles.

  5

  18 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)

  Djerad Thymar, Verthisathurgiesh Enclave

  INSTEAD OF THE INN HAVILAR HAD BEEN EXPECTING, ANALA SET THEM UP IN a cluster of rooms, deep in the Verthisathurgiesh enclave. One for her, one for Mehen, one for Farideh, and one for Brin—all centered around a sitting room with a little fire pit that vented out the ceiling. Havilar considered her room, annoyed at its expanse and its emptiness.

  “Do you think I could bring my puppy in here?” she asked Anala. “She’s in the stables right now.”

  “I don’t see a problem with that,” Anala said.

  “She’s … big,” Farideh said from behind them. “And she’s not a regular dog.”

  Havilar shot Farideh a look. “She’s a hellhound. But she’s obedient and she wears a muzzle all the time. The worst you’d have to worry about is her drool burning the rug, and I’ll roll it up.”

  Anala’s brow ridges rose. “How big?”

  “She rides it,” Farideh said.

  “She’ll fit in the room,” Havilar said quickly. “I won’t let her in the bed.”

  Anala considered Havilar for such long moments that she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d revealed the wrong thing. She didn’t break her gaze—it was stupid to try and hide. Especially something the size of Zoonie.

  “The muzzle stays on,” Anala said cautiously.

  “Always,” Havilar said. Which was a lie, but not a big one. She wouldn’t take the muzzle off for anything short of an emergency, but there was no planning for an emergency, after all. “Also,” Havilar added, “who would I talk to ab
out riding a bat?”

  A small smile curved Anala’s mouth. “My, you’re an adventurous one. The giant bats are for Lance Defenders and—occasionally—their guests. I could arrange something.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Farideh said quickly. To Havilar she said, “Do you want to go get Zoonie?”

  Havilar scowled at her. “What is your problem?” she demanded once they were out of earshot. “I could ride a bat! Maybe I could spar with some Lance Defenders even. Not that you and Brin aren’t good … You’re just …”

  “Have you considered who is likely to be in the Lance Defender barracks?” Farideh whispered.

  Havilar felt herself blush hot. “Is that why you’re acting like this? Karshoj to Arjhani.”

  “I just think it’s better if we keep our distance. Like a truce.”

  “I don’t care about Arjhani. I don’t need a truce because he doesn’t matter.”

  Farideh looked at her as though Havilar had denied anything hurt with a torn-off leg and staved-in ribs. “It was a long time ago,” Havilar said hotly. Not that anyone would let her forget it. Not that anyone would think she’d moved past it.

  They’d been eleven, nearly twelve, when Arjhani had come to Arush Vayem. The summer right when she’d started to notice the future, possibilities and adventures and adulthood there on the edge of her life. The summer she’d started daydreaming about who she would be and how. Even still, the smell of alfalfa left to blossom sent her back to that time and place as if it cast a spell on her.

  And into that summer of possibility, her father’s long-lost love had come, full of apologies and promises, stories and more possibilities. He had come carrying his glaive, and Havilar had chosen the first path of her future. She loved Arjhani like a second father, and maybe more. Her future started shaping itself around him as he claimed Arush Vayem for a new home, and their family as his. For a summer, everything had been as happy and nearly perfect as Havilar could remember.

  But winter came eventually.