All I want is your happiness, Farideh, Asmodeus’s nightmare promise echoed through her like a thunderclap, and she shuddered. If you don’t touch this puzzle, she thought, he’ll leave you be. He’ll give you whatever you want. He’ll rescue Dahl. Everything will be safe.
And you might be responsible for something unspeakably evil, she thought. Leaving aside Dahl is much safer away from you. She thought of the image Lorcan had conjured in the basin—much safer. And happy.
She kept her eyes on the mottled granite beneath her feet.
“Look, I’m sorry about back there,” Kallan said as they left the Adjudicators’ enclave. The light of Djerad Thymar glowed low, the pale of early evening. So close to the city’s peak, the stairs were uncrowded, only a handful of Lance Defenders climbing toward home. “Jumping after you. I’m not your keeper. You’re not a hatchling.”
“It’s all right,” Farideh said. “You were worried about Mehen.”
“I was worried about you. That wizard’s completely mad—do you realize that?”
“I’ve dealt with madder,” Farideh said. Truthfully, it had been a risk—a risk she didn’t relish telling Mehen about, but worth it if she’d managed, even a little, to break down Ilstan’s fear of her. Which she wasn’t quite certain she had. “Thank you for coming with me. Getting me in.”
“Don’t mention it.” Kallan nodded at a dragonborn man staring at them as they passed. “What’s your father going to say if I tell him?”
It shot a bolt of panic through her, but it dissipated quickly. “If you do,” she had said, “he’ll be upset, but he’ll get over it. You’re not my keeper, and I’m not a hatchling.”
Kallan chuckled. “Too true.”
They crossed the walkways before Farideh spoke again. “I don’t think you’re wasting your time.”
“How’s that?” Kallan asked.
“With Mehen. I don’t think you’re wasting your time.” Farideh blew out a breath, the shadow-smoke unfurling off her sleeves in little curls like sprouting seeds. “But you should know he’s … kept mostly to himself for … well, for a long time. I think. He hasn’t carried on with anyone seriously for …” She fumbled at the count of years—there were seven and a half missing from her thoughts, after all. And you don’t know what he did while you were lost, Farideh thought. “We were twelve. He’s not used to it. And sometimes … Sometimes he forgets …”
“He forgets you’re not twelve still?” Kallan said. “My granny has the same trouble. And none of her kin chase down mad war wizards or run with hellhounds.”
Farideh blushed. “I just mean his reasons might not be firm enough to completely count him out. Unless you want to, I mean.”
Kallan gave her a gentle smile and patted her shoulder. “I’m no hatchling either, but I appreciate the advice. What’s your plan with the wizard?”
“Try again,” she said. The shadows dissipated—the man who thought a god wanted her dead was less nerve-wracking than her father’s romances. “He might be mad, but I think he knows more than I do at this point. He just doesn’t realize it.”
Kallan started to answer but stopped dead, thirty feet from the entrance to the Verthisathurgiesh enclave. The same two dragonborn girls were standing guard beside the massive doors, but they held their weapons more like they could do some harm and less like they were merely supports. A tall tiefling man with pale skin, blackened horns like a ram’s, and brown hair stood a little too close to them, speaking a little too loudly. He wore a dark coat with a high collar that he kept pressing a hand to.
“The message goes in her hands or it doesn’t leave mine,” the tiefling man was saying. “So you can tell me where to look or you can go and fetch her.”
The dragonborn guard started to reply, but she looked over his shoulder and spotted Farideh. “There,” she said. “That’s who you’re looking for.”
The man turned. His pale eyes, blue as a summer sky, fell on Kallan first, puzzled. But then he found Farideh and he laughed once. “Well,” he said as she approached, the shadow-smoke leaking off her skin. “You’re no dragonborn. Farideh, is it?”
She’d seen him before—the first day they’d come to Djerad Thymar. “Who are you?”
“The name is Brume,” he said, with a florid little bow. He straightened, eyeing Kallan. “Might we talk in private?”
“Depends on what you want to talk about,” Farideh said.
His smile twitched. “Cagey, aren’t we? I have a message for you. It seems you know someone who knows my friends.”
Farideh studied him. Devils. Harpers. Dragonborn clans. Cormyrean nobles. There was hardly any telling who he meant or what sort of a message he’d mean. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
Brume pressed a hand to his collar once more, and plucked a tiny roll of parchment from his sleeve. With one hand he unrolled it an inch or two. “Someone called Dahl.”
For a moment, Farideh’s legs felt as though they’d vanished, as if she’d plunged through the granite floors of Djerad Thymar, nothing but a ghost. “Give it to me!” Brume closed his hand around the scroll and smiled again. “Might,” he said, “we talk in private?”
Farideh felt the powers of Asmodeus creeping up her bones. “Kallan, you know the way back to the rooms, right?”
“Fari, I don’t know—”
“I’ll meet you in a moment.” She beckoned to Brume, passing through the doors and winding her way to a little sitting room whose latticework screen overlooked the city below. Brume shut the door behind him, and handed over the note.
“Compliments of the Black Network.”
Farideh said nothing. There was only the tiny sharp green lettering, a hand she knew better than most, and the faint scent of rosemary hanging over the letter. Dizzy, dreamlike, she skimmed the words twice, afraid to sink into it, afraid it would crumble to dust or figment.
I don’t have space to tell you everything I want to: I wish you were here—not a day’s gone by that I haven’t wished you were here. How could I have possibly been so stupid as to think we would’ve been fine apart? It’s been 12 days & it feels like a lifetime & I am so sorry I ever suggested it. I realized that in Suzail—I swear—& I was coming back to tell you so when I was interrupted. Now my brothers & I are hostages of the Zhentarim & we’re heading to the Vast. I’m hoping I can find a way to you soon, through them & end this. I love you. I miss you. I am sure of that. Please tell me you’re all right & that you haven’t given up? Yours always, Dahl
He was fine. He wasn’t running. He was safe.
For now, a little part added, because he’s looking for you and now you know where he is, so will Asmodeus. She read the note again and was glad for it anyway. Farideh looked up at Brume. “How did you get this? Is he near here?”
Brume reached up and unhooked the fastener at the collar of his coat. As the fabric parted, something slithered out, separating and flapping into the air above them. Farideh startled and the Zhent chuckled as she watched the dark shadows course over the ceiling like eels through water.
“Winged snakes,” Brume said. “Haslam and Keetley won’t bite, never you mind. Sweet as kittens. They’ll even bring back a reply if you ask nice.”
Farideh narrowed her eyes. “What’s the price?”
Brume settled in one of the chairs. “My superiors are very interested in how the elections for Vanquisher are going to fall together. It happens that you’re the foundling daughter of the Verthisathurgiesh clan’s most infamous exile. You seem like someone who might know a thing or two about who the Crippled Mountain is going to have stand for them.”
“I don’t know why you’d think that,” Farideh said. “I don’t know the first thing about electing the Vanquisher.”
“But you have ears, don’t you? You have eyes?” The snakes spiraled down to his outstretched arm, slithered one after the other into the sleeve of his coat. “You promise to find out who the matriarch is pushing for Vanquisher, I’ll let Haslam ferry back your lov
e notes. Deal?”
“What if I can’t find anything out?”
“Then we’ll have to renegotiate,” Brume said, handing her another tiny scroll, then ink and a stylus. “But to begin with, there’s a lot of murmuring about this returned scion. That doesn’t happen much.”
Farideh’s hand shook as she dipped the stylus, her thoughts a rambling mess. What did she say? What could she say? Why did you leave? Why aren’t you here? Why didn’t you mention Mira? You have to stay away for your own safety. She shut her eyes.
You only get a handful of sentences, she thought, setting pen to page. Don’t waste them on what might not matter.
She scribbled her message as quickly as she could and handed it back to Brume. “How long?”
He shrugged. “Wind’s good. A day or two to get there.”
She nodded and took a silver coin from her pocket. “Here. My thanks.”
“You’ve already agreed to pay in talk.”
“But not for bringing me the note,” she said, thinking of Kallan’s way with the Shestandeliath commander. “So here. My thanks.”
Brume grinned as he pocketed the coin. “Any time. I’ll tell you if you get an answer back.” His eyes flicked over her. “Ask around if you get bored with the scalies. I’d be happy to show you the city.”
She walked him back to the entrance, clutching Dahl’s note. He’d written the letter before she’d made the sending, before he’d been unable to respond. What if something had changed? What if he was in danger? What if she’d unmasked him with that sending or called attention to him in the wrong moment? What if—
Stop, she told herself. Imagining every horrible possibility wasn’t going to keep Dahl safe. What would keep him safe were his wits and his skills. She blew out a breath. You have to trust him, she told herself. You have to remember he can take care of himself.
Besides, there was plenty to worry about right in front of her—demons and murderers and Ilstan and all the Vayemniri politics. She read the note over several times as she walked back to their rooms, dwelling instead on the warm, fluttery feeling in the base of her chest. I love you. I miss you. I am sure of that.
Zoonie scratched feverishly at the door to Havilar’s room. Farideh rolled her eyes and went to let her out. It wasn’t until the hellhound had pushed past her into the common area that Farideh noticed Lorcan, stretched out on one of the low sofas and staring at the ceiling. He wore his human guise and an irritated expression that he turned on her as she stopped.
“Have you been sitting here since this morning?” she asked.
“No, I found another problem to bang my head against,” he drawled. “And you still haven’t figured out how to make time run properly on this plane.”
Farideh chuckled and tucked the note into her sleeve. “Sorry, I didn’t have time. Did Kallan come in here?”
“No one’s come in here.” Lorcan propped himself up, eyeing her. “How was your terribly private outing with the sellsword?”
Farideh blew out a breath. “Useful in some ways and confusing in others.” She sat down on the couch beside his. “Do you know of demons that … stick people in coffins or something similar?”
Lorcan tilted his head. “Not personally.”
“I mean, specific types. Before we go running around after it, it seems like it would be a good idea to figure out what else it might do. So is that something a kind of demon does?”
“Possibly,” Lorcan said. “What I know about demons comes from my sisters—what does an erinyes need to know on the battlefields of the Blood War? No one stuffs living bodies in coffins in the Blood War. Or at least they didn’t. No one ever said the Abyss was known for its consistency.”
Farideh bit her lip. “If you were going to trap someone in a stone sarcophagus, why would you do it?”
“I’m not a demon,” Lorcan returned.
“I know, I’m just looking for answers. Why would I do it? To stop them from doing damage and keep them where they are so I could bring the guard—the Adjudicators,” she corrected. “So why would you?”
Lorcan tilted his head again and was silent for a long moment. “I would do that if I couldn’t kill someone, but I needed them to die.”
“That’s gruesome.”
“I didn’t say I’d done it,” Lorcan pointed out. “But assuming you’re talking about the same stone box that Zoonie found the dretch in, you’re taking quite a risk stashing a person inside. Bad air, no water. People panic in a situation like that. Unless you somehow put them to sleep.”
“Then I suppose we wait for Havi.” Farideh sighed. “What’s your problem? The head-banging one.”
Lorcan sat up, repositioned himself to lounge against the sofa with a kind of preternatural ease that made Farideh’s stomach tighten in a very different way. His dark eyes swept over her. “You’re in a good mood. Did the sellsword help you shake your bad dreams?”
She thought of the note in her sleeve and felt a peculiar, giddy mix of gladness and guilt. “I guess it’s good to have some direction. Even if it’s making you frustrated.”
He laughed once. “As if you’ve ever let a problem stymie you, darling.”
It was almost easy. It was almost normal—as if he’d never betrayed her, never tricked her, never broken her heart. As if he meant his apology were true and everything might be all right. She couldn’t deny a part of her still felt fond of him, still mourned what they’d had in Suzail. That a part of her still looked at his lean body, stretched artfully across the couch and felt hungry and possessive.
A slow smile curved Lorcan’s mouth as though he sensed the tide of her blood, the shift of her thoughts, and she ran her thumb over the edge of the note, protruding just beyond her shirt cuff.
Then someone entered the common room and a voice she never wanted to hear again sliced through Farideh’s thoughts.
“Havilar, I know you don’t want to talk to me …”
Farideh stood and turned, slowly, slowly—wanting to see for herself, not wanting to see at all. Not wanting to be noticed and wanting to demand to be noticed. The powers of Asmodeus twined up her nerves, building with rage. Arjhani fell silent as she looked on him—and it was Arjhani, looking every bit as he had sixteen years ago, sleek and bronze and self-assured. A thousand words rose up in her mouth, but she could speak none of them. Her feet felt glued to the mats. All of a sudden, she was eleven again and powerless, completely powerless.
“Farideh.” He fell back on his rear foot. “So you’re here too.”
Too—he’d seen Havilar, spoken to her maybe, and she wasn’t back yet. Old fears, old furies scrabbled up through her thoughts, trying to gain hold, trying to steer her. “Where is she?” Farideh demanded.
Arjhani looked to Lorcan, back to Farideh. “I have no idea. I came looking for her.”
“Don’t you karshoji look for her,” Farideh said. “Don’t talk to her. You need to leave before Mehen gets back.”
Arjhani snorted, as if there were nothing more absurd than Farideh ordering him around. As if the very possibility of Mehen wanting him gone was a joke. The powers of Asmodeus surged up inside Farideh, and she was not eleven, not powerless. But neither was she calm.
“What?” she said. “Did you think he’d just wait for you to change your mind again? If he comes back and finds you …”
Arjhani looked at her as if she were small and telling tales, his smile returning. “Don’t be dramatic,” he chided. “He’d never hurt me.”
From behind the couch, Zoonie’s growl sent a trembling through the air and made the powers filling Farideh shiver. If she stayed, if she spoke another word, she wouldn’t be able to hold onto the powers. Her dreams would come true. There is nothing you want to say to him. There is nothing he can say to you, she told herself. And still she felt as if she were burning from the inside out. If she ran, where would she run? Where could she hide in this city where everyone was on top of each other?
Lorcan stood swiftly and slipped past her. “
Darling, I’ll handle it. Arjhani, was it?” Lorcan put an arm around the dragonborn. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Arjhani’s nostrils flared. “Who in every broken plane are you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lorcan said, guiding the other man toward the exit. “You’re going to leave. Because you don’t want to find out the answer to that question. I don’t like when people upset Farideh. I don’t like when people get in my way. You’re managing both. So you’re going to leave, and we’re going to go on being polite strangers, Arjhani. It’s really for the best.”
Farideh squeezed her eyes shut as they left the room, focused on her shuddery breath. He was no one. He was nothing. If he hated her, it didn’t matter—she had nothing left for him.
Lies, the blessings of the Raging Fiend trilled. You owe him vengeance. Zoonie’s growl deepened.
“Darling? Are you all right?”
Farideh shook her head—there was no way she was going to tell him, no way she was going to put that ammunition in his hands. Lorcan’s hands on her shoulders. Lorcan’s hands guiding her away from the furnishings.
“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s fine.”
“It will be,” he said. “You’re on stone. I won’t burn. Let it go.”
She shook her head. “It’s not worth—”
Lorcan folded his arms around her, holding her close. And for all a part of her knew it was dangerous, Farideh put her arms around the cambion, laid her head against his chest, and the flames rolled out of her, burning over her skin. She felt Lorcan tense as if he wanted to run, and she clung to him more tightly.
Farideh burned until her nerves began to soften, to quiet. The fire guttered out, and she felt nothing but foolish. What an idiot. What a child.
Lorcan’s hand glided down to the small of her back, and in the absence of Asmodeus’s blessings, lust rushed through her like a sudden wind. Her face tilted toward his, her hips easing toward him, before her thoughts could grab hold of the rest of her.
Farideh pushed away from Lorcan. “This is a bad idea.”
Ashes of the Tyrant Page 29
