Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  Farideh’s expression grew dark. “We can find some other way.”

  “Fari—”

  “Look, you already know how to call him for yourself,” Farideh said. “Just … leave me out of it, all right. Brin can help you.”

  The doors opened, and Dumuzi came in, carrying a tray of tea and small cakes crusted with nuts. “They’re worried you might be hungry again,” he said, sounding gruff. He eyed them as he set down the tray. “Am I interrupting?”

  “We’re just talking about whether Havilar’s feeling better,” Farideh said quickly.

  “Don’t lie to him,” Havilar said. “We’re going to summon Lorcan in my bedroom because there’s a demon in your catacombs that’s making me queasy and it’s probably what killed your friends. Do you know Lorcan?”

  Farideh cursed under her breath. Dumuzi blinked at her. “The devil?” he asked. “I’ve met him.” He looked to Farideh. “Have you already rolled the rugs up? Or do you need help?”

  9

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

  Fifth of the Fingerbone Towers, Malbolge The Nine Hells

  LORCAN PACED THE TREASURY IN THE DEEPEST LEVELS OF THE FINGERBONE tower, considering his mother’s spoils and twisting a thin braid of purplish-black hair over and around his hands. A gift, he’d decided, was a decent place to start. It had soothed Farideh before—a spell here, a rod there. But no matter how many times he circled the treasury, there seemed nothing in it that would repair the rift between him and his warlock.

  Jewels? He could picture her expression already, hard as the emerald glinting on the shelf. A new spell? No, it would have to be something more powerful than he wanted in her hands just yet. One of the many blades? And then she stabs you through the shitting heart, he thought. Again.

  Lorcan considered the shelf of rods and wands, collected off the bodies of spellcasters unfortunate enough to come face-to-face with the terrible erinyes known then as Exalted Invadiah, mother of the pradixikai.

  Bad idea, he thought. She might have appreciated the rod he’d given her, that first gift, but now it would only remind her of the second, the rod Dahl had given her, the rod Lorcan had let her think came from him.

  You ought to try making amends, Sairché had said. Admit you were wrong. That goes a lot further than it ought to.

  “Enjoying my prizes?” a voice called out, as beautiful as the nightingale’s song and terrible as a vulture’s rushing wings. Lorcan froze where he stood, calculated how quickly he could grab a blade or a bludgeon from the racks before him.

  “Mother,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I trust you’re well.”

  Her laughter came, too close behind him. “Well enough.”

  Invadiah—now called Fallen Invadiah, after her inability to secure the archduchess’s schemes in Neverwinter so long ago—sauntered toward her only son, considering the jewels, the poisons, the weapons. No longer a fierce and powerful erinyes, Invadiah had been demoted to the form of a succubus, her cruel hooves only dainty feet, her red skin moonlight-pale. Her sharp horns had been traded for mottled wings and her fangs for the ethereal face of a young woman. But there was still violence in her black eyes as she approached Lorcan.

  “What were you going to take?” she asked.

  “Only what His Majesty requires,” Lorcan said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” Invadiah said, staring at her son intently. It was enough to make him wish she were an erinyes again, and the worst he could expect was having his legs crushed. As a succubus, Invadiah had retained all her cleverness, all her cruelty, but had become more calculating still and more inclined to take the risky strike.

  “Does His Majesty require a gift for a certain of his Chosen?” Her skin shivered as if it were trying to crawl away. Lorcan blinked and found himself facing his own face, his own form. “Do you need some assistance with her?” his voice asked. “Because I have quite a knack for such things nowadays.”

  “No.” Lorcan turned away, forcing himself not to shudder. “Warlocks and such things are well beneath you—you’ve made that abundantly clear.” Remind her of his silly pastime, he thought, toying with a spiked chain hanging from a hook. Make her think this is about pride, about the things that had always disappointed her, when it came to Lorcan. Make her forget about Farideh. “Besides, if you manage to seduce my warlock, what does that possibly gain you?”

  Invadiah’s skin shivered, reformed into her normal face. There was still the shade of her erinyes-self there, the memory of her fierce visage. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m not interested in warlocks. I’m interested in the succubi.”

  The fine hairs on the back of Lorcan’s neck stood on end. “I’ll admit that’s a surprise I couldn’t have seen coming. Does this mean you’re planning to settle into your form?”

  Invadiah’s dark eyes seemed as though they might sear their way through him. “Never. I’m interested in ending them.”

  “And what,” Lorcan asked, plucking up a dagger shaped like a screaming pixie, “would that gain you?”

  “You and I both know that there’s more than what you see at first glance when it comes to the succubi and their loyalties,” Invadiah said. “You and I both know that the attack on Stygia … let’s say it obscures certain other facts. The Blood War’s never just been about grinding demons into the dirt. It’s as much about how our ‘betters’ try and trip each other up, try to advance up the hierarchy. A battle is a smokescreen to be used; a raid, a point to be won; an assassination, a sword to shove your enemy down on.” She smiled, her pearly teeth edged with blood from some earlier meal. “And I wonder … does Asmodeus know all of that as well?”

  “Does the god of sin know that his archdevils can’t be trusted?” Lorcan said flatly. “Yes, I suspect he might have an inkling.”

  “Does he know where the Scepter of Alzrius lies?” Invadiah sang. “Does he know where it came from?”

  Lorcan did not turn to consider the artifact, but he knew exactly where it was—a heavy, iron thing, more mace than ornament, lying in a case four shelves behind them, covered in cinnabar and gold leaf. “Why would he be interested in that?”

  Invadiah shrugged, as if there were nothing so pleasurable as her only son’s confusion. “The prize of a demon lord? There are plenty of reasons.”

  “Are you suggesting that Her Highness received the scepter from an unsavory source?”

  “I’m suggesting, dear boy, that while she might have many reasons for you to hold onto it, few of them are in your favor.” Invadiah smiled, like the crescent moon shining down on a deer in the field, showing the wolves the way to their prey. “Few of them seem to be in Her Highness’s favor come to that.”

  He blinked. “You want me to broker your promotion.”

  “You are a clever child. What a fortunate mother I am after all.”

  Clever enough to know she might expect him to turn back to Glasya with the information her once-beloved general was trying to maneuver around her. Clever enough to know he would know to expect that much.

  “I take it you mention the succubi for a reason.”

  “There were a lot of them in Stygia recently.”

  “In the attack on Prince Levistus’s treasury?” Lorcan asked. Invadiah only shrugged, but the fact that the Scepter of Alzrius clearly worked the kind of fiery magics that would be very useful in melting a certain archdevil’s glacier-prison lay clear in the words she didn’t say. Was there any other in all the planes who would prize such a trophy as dearly as Prince Levistus?

  “Those were Abyssal succubi, as I recall,” Lorcan said, almost pleaded.

  “Can we ever be sure of that?” Invadiah asked.

  “Come to that, can we be sure of you?”

  Invadiah’s dark eyes seemed to deepen, until they held the heart of the void within them. “I am no succubus,” she said, her sharp teeth bared. “Or do you need to be reminded, whelp?”

  Invadiah’s face seeme
d to shiver again, but the shivering extended to the rest of the treasury. Her words stretched away into a dull drone as the building dissolved around Lorcan into a deep darkness that stretched in every conceivable direction. He fell, farther than should have been possible, and an eternity later, his feet struck a stone floor. Impact shuddered up his frame, but he kept his feet, and he thanked his luck for that. He straightened—a bedroom, a stone-walled bedroom, with a balcony opening off the farther wall.

  Beyond the silvery circle of runes, Havilar kneeled beside Zoonie, the great shaggy beast watching him with eyes like burning coals. On its left, Brin stood, tensed as if there were a damned thing Lorcan could do from within the circle of runes, or a damned thing Brin might do if Lorcan got out.

  Farideh sat between them, behind the hellhound, her ritual book closed on her lap. Watching Lorcan with careful indifference. His gaze swept her face—the tight corners of her lovely mouth, the flare of her nostrils, the slight tension along her silvered eye. She was furious. She didn’t want him here. His pulse raced once more.

  “Well met, darling,” he said softly. She turned away.

  “We’ve agreed she’s not talking to you,” Havilar announced. “I’m the one who has a problem.”

  If she doesn’t want to be here, why is she still here? he nearly asked. He made himself consider Havilar instead—careful, careful. You’ve won nothing yet. “And you couldn’t send an imp again?”

  “Because it’s an emergency and I couldn’t risk you just swatting one,” Havilar said. “There’s another demon in the catacombs. It may or may not be because a war wizard summoned it.”

  There was nowhere on any plane Lorcan was less prepared to be—but he pressed that thought down. Farideh couldn’t know that. Everything would be worse if she knew that, and nothing would go back to the way it was supposed to be. Be clever, he told himself. Be everything your blood demands. “I told you to stay clear of the catacombs. That’s your wisest course of action.”

  “It’s killing people,” Havilar said. “So no. I need to track it. But it also makes me throw up a lot more than the dretch. I think it’s bigger.”

  “Not necessarily.” Lorcan turned to Brin, letting his gaze slide past Farideh as he did—she was watching him once more. “So you came along? What happened? Did your Forest Kingdom get razed to the ground? Scattering war wizards?”

  “She says you said it would get easier,” Brin replied. “That she could be inured to it.”

  Lorcan’s wings twitched. “I said it was possible. I said you could get used to most everything, given a chance.” Farideh looked at the ground again, and he made himself smile. “So what is it you want? A parade of dretches to practice on? I don’t think I’m the devil you want.”

  Farideh scoffed and rolled her eyes. Havilar glared back at her, and then at Lorcan. “Look,” she said to Lorcan, “don’t pretend that you don’t know a way to do this. Maybe you can get little demons, maybe not. Maybe you can get things that have the same effect. Maybe you know some spells that do the same thing. You’re in almost as much trouble as we are if we get eaten by a demon or something. So before you throw up your hands, think.”

  Lorcan didn’t have to think. The answer rose up in his thoughts as swiftly as his first protestations—the Scepter of Alzrius. Forged in the depths of the Abyss by the hands of powerful demons, it would certainly give off enough of their taint to trigger whatever gift Asmodeus had laid on Havilar.

  And then it wouldn’t be sitting in his treasury, a beacon of guilt.

  Nor would he need to be in Malbolge—the more time he could spend on Toril, the fewer opportunities would arise for Invadiah or Glasya or Asmodeus to make an easy sacrifice of him. Assuming, Lorcan thought as he considered Farideh, you spin this right.

  “What is it you’re planning on doing with such a solution?” he asked.

  Havilar made a face. “What do you think?”

  “I think if you’re going to go off hunting a demon, you’re asking for a lot more of my time than you might realize. I will be in a great deal of trouble if you get eaten by a demon after all. It might suit my needs, come to that, to simply reuse Sairché’s stasis cage.”

  Zoonie’s sudden growl thrummed through the stone-walled room. “Oh, try it,” Havilar said.

  “I didn’t say I was going to do that,” Lorcan said. “I said it fulfilled my needs better than handing you an endless sack of dretches and leaving.” He paused, ordered his thoughts. “I could help,” he allowed. “I have access to Abyssal artifacts. They’ll likely do what you’re asking. But it isn’t simply a matter of handing over a soul gem and seeing what happens—you wouldn’t have managed with the glaive if someone had just tossed you the weapon and left, would you?”

  Both twins stiffened and Farideh’s cheeks burned scarlet, even though she was still studying the floor. Lorcan tucked that away for another time.

  “This is what I do, isn’t it? Teach the needy how to manage strange magic?” He turned to Havilar before her sister could react. “And you will find a need for it, from the sound of things. Your wayward war wizard and his demon army.”

  Havilar shook her head. “Ilstan’s locked up. And he might not be the one who summoned it.”

  “I wouldn’t clear him too quickly,” Brin said. “Stlarning bastard.”

  Lorcan frowned. “Who is this person?”

  “The war wizard who wants me dead,” Farideh replied. “Keep up.”

  The casual cruelty in her response startled him, almost as much as the revelation of another enemy, another danger. It must have shown—her expression held, but two soft spots of color burned on her cheeks.

  “Well that,” he said, “appeals to my concerns much more strongly. If you want my help, it’s yours. For a price.”

  Havilar narrowed her eyes. “What price?”

  “I want a moment alone. With you,” Lorcan said to Farideh.

  Her eyes tightened. “No.”

  “Darling, you’re angry and that’s fair. But do you think you can postpone this forever? We have a pact, you’re going to have to talk to me at some juncture, I say it’s now. I’m still in the circle,” he pointed out. “You’re holding all the cards here—all you have to do is walk away when you’re through.” He smiled in that way that had always made her listen before.

  “Except, then you’ll claim it’s not enough to earn your help.” She bit her lip as if she were holding in a stream of curses. “Fine. Don’t go far,” she said to Havilar.

  “We’ll be right outside,” Havilar promised. She glared at Lorcan. “With my hellhound.”

  Careful, Lorcan told himself as Havilar, Brin, and the hellhound filed from the room. Careful—you only get one more shot at this. The wrong word, the wrong gesture, and everything would fall to pieces. He’d be left grasping at what he could salvage, not claiming what he wanted.

  Farideh didn’t look at him, and he found himself thinking of that first time he’d been called down into a circle for her, of the chilly barn in the mountains and the innocent, wide-eyed tiefling girl who couldn’t stop staring at him.

  She was a long way from being that girl. And being devilish again seemed the fastest way to dig his own grave. You don’t have to go about it that way, he thought.

  “You look well,” Lorcan said when the door closed. Farideh said nothing and his pulse started racing. “I suppose I owe you … an apology,” he went on, trying for contrite. It didn’t suit him. “I ought to have told you Asmodeus was pressuring me to keep you safe, that Glasya was watching too closely. That I was scared something would happen to you if you left Suzail. I shouldn’t have taken matters into my own hands, and I shouldn’t have given you shaking fever.”

  “Why?” Farideh said. “Because you got caught?”

  He didn’t speak for a long moment. Of course—but not just that. “Because you’re not just my warlock, and I can’t treat you like you are, whatever my reasons.” She looked up at him. Good—a step. A toehold.

  “
I won’t pretend I was entirely unhappy with the results,” he said. “I got to have you to myself.” She looked away again, and he wondered if she was remembering Suzail, and all those times he had her to himself.

  Or if she were following the thread right to the end—if he hadn’t infected her, Dahl would have remained an annoying fellow she crossed paths with occasionally.

  She blushed and met his eyes as if it was difficult. “I got to see who you really were.”

  “As if you didn’t know,” he said. Then, a gamble: “How is Dahl?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  He clucked his tongue. “Has the brightbird’s plumage dulled already?”

  “Don’t pretend that you don’t know exactly where he is and how much he’s talked to me.”

  “To be honest I have very little interest in Dahl. I only ask for your sake.” The tips of his wings flicked uneasily and he fought to still them. He might prefer Invadiah’s threats to this delicate battle. Careful, careful. “Did he figure out you were only using him? Is that it?”

  A deep blush burned up Farideh’s neck. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Lorcan shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. It didn’t—it couldn’t. It was only the most likely truth, its bones laid bare after much study. He told himself that over and over.

  “We fight and you suddenly find yourself unable to resist whatever Dahl has that passes for charm?” Lorcan said. “Immediately, you throw yourself into his arms. Let’s be precise: did you even wait a whole day before you’re whispering sweet nothings to each other and finding whatever horizontal surface is available? That’s rash. That’s the action of an incautious, desperate woman. Not you.

  “It seems far more likely that you were angry with me—angry enough to want to twist the knife, to make sure I hurt for wronging you. Maybe you’re a little fond of him. He’s not horribly malformed or anything—I’m sure it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. But if you’re asking me to believe you fell hopelessly in love with the man you once told me you’d rather been taken to the Nine Hells than be bound to, you’ll forgive me if I’m a little skeptical.”