Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  “What made your mind up?” he asked.

  She took his hand in hers and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. “It’s not very romantic. You didn’t tell me to stay back. It was a good reminder that you know me. You love me. And I love you.”

  He kissed her again and reminded her of many more things, giving Havilar plenty to think about until Farideh came back.

  FARIDEH STRAINED TO keep Lorcan upright as she hauled him into her bedroom, his wings drooping listlessly behind them. He seemed exhausted—but Lorcan didn’t get exhausted, Lorcan did not sleep—and maybe drunk—but Lorcan didn’t drink, couldn’t even get drunk the way mortals did.

  “What happened?” she asked again.

  “What happened,” he said, trying to stand on his own and falling back against her, “is that I made stupid deals. So many stupid deals. I managed it. I managed to save them. For the moment anyway.”

  She helped him sit down on the edge of the bed. His face was a mess—blackish blood streaked him from nose to chin, an ugly bruise growing on one cheekbone. She touched it gently, testing the swelling. “Have you got any other injuries?”

  He tilted his head toward her, not flinching at her fingers. “Bruises. Sairché got it worse.”

  “Did someone give you something?”

  “Your shitting brightbird,” he said. “I saved him—you’re welcome. I didn’t want to, obviously, but you wanted it, so I did it. And other reasons. And then he did this.”

  Dahl—her blood ran cold. “What did he give you?”

  Lorcan shook his head. “That wasn’t his magic. I know that. I think … I think … Do you feel sorry for him or something? Because this plane is filled with women. He could trip over another woman—that Zhentish … Zhentil … Zhen tarim …” He made a disgusted noise. “That Mira. She’s right there. And if that’s who I think it was, I will lay a balance of twenty souls that he absolutely bedded her while they were down there.”

  Farideh felt the powers of Asmodeus simmering through her. “I don’t care what you think—”

  “I know you care,” he said. “I know you do because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be angry at me. You only get angry when you think you can change something, and if you can’t, you don’t care.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” she said again. “He wouldn’t do that. Why were you and Sairché with Dahl?”

  Lorcan shook his head. “You don’t even know what he’d do. You hardly know him, and … is that it? He’s got such a shine, ’cause you haven’t seen the ugly parts. At least I’m up front about mine. I think you were up front about yours. That’s why he left after all.”

  Farideh held her tongue, burning with embarrassment at the memory of their awkward conversation in the garden. But then: It’s been 12 days & it feels like a lifetime & I am so sorry I ever suggested it. “He left because his family was in trouble,” she said.

  “Oh right. He left,” Lorcan slurred, “because some people he happens to share blood with might be in trouble—he abandoned you for them. I would never do that. I would cut the throats of all forty-eight of my remaining half sisters, and Invadiah and Sairché, once the deal’s done … Shit and ashes, that’s a lie—I’d kill her right now if you needed me to, damn the consequences. Do you realize that? How can you think I don’t love you?”

  Farideh’s throat grew tight. “You don’t love me.”

  “I do. I love you,” he said. “I just don’t love you the way you want, because I am who I am, but I’m not myself now, am I? So what do you do with that?”

  “Lie down,” she said. “Whatever happened to you, you need to rest.”

  “I don’t sleep.”

  “Well, you’re not yourself.” Farideh sat down beside him, unbuckling his studded armor with as much distance as she could muster. Trying to think like a healer and not about the myriad times she’d helped him out of this same armor in very different circumstances. Lorcan caught her hands in his, brought them to his mouth.

  “Stay,” he said, kissing her knuckles. “You could stay and I could stay, and isn’t that everything we both want?”

  Two months ago, in Suzail, she would have been elated at the offer. In Djerad Thymar, in the dark little room, she touched Lorcan’s cheek. “Lie down.”

  He pulled her close, a glimmer of that old, wicked smile on his features. Echoes of other nights stirred her thoughts, as Lorcan kissed her, once, twice. She wondered if he was right, if Dahl had slept with Mira, and a little part of her thought she would understand if he had—even if you didn’t mean for it to happen, there were ways to fall into old wants, old patterns, never knowing how dangerous it was.

  But there was no danger this time, even if she stumbled. Lorcan was falling asleep as soon as he lay down.

  “Tell me where Dahl is,” she whispered.

  “Somewhere safe,” he murmured. “Somewhere no one can get at his soul.”

  Farideh waited a few moments, until Lorcan’s breath had slowed and steadied into the rhythms of sleep. She closed her eyes, listening to him. This had been all she wanted once, this closeness, this safety. A part of her wanted it still, but that part felt weak and small and shriveled, trying to strengthen itself on the feeling of his arm around her.

  I love him, she thought, and it will kill me.

  When Lorcan’s breath had gained the rhythm of sleep, Farideh slipped from the bed. She took the last of Ilstan’s scrolls from her pack. The protective circle swept around the bed, not set to bind Lorcan in place but to keep out whatever had done this to him.

  Dahl—he’d said Dahl had done this. But with a spell that wasn’t his. And Lorcan hadn’t given her any explanation of what he and Sairché had been doing where Dahl was. For a moment she wished there were a way to cast the circle pointing both ways—keeping Lorcan in and keeping demons and other dangers out.

  At least you can solve this next problem from somewhere else, she thought, going back out into the sitting room. As she did, Brin and Havilar sprang apart, and Farideh blushed. “Sorry,” she said—so they were back to that.

  “It’s fine,” Havilar said. “How’s Lorcan?”

  Farideh’s heart squeezed. “I have no idea. Something’s definitely wrong with him, but I can’t figure out what. He’s sleeping for now.”

  “Sleeping?” Mot said. “Why?”

  “You must have seen wrong,” Olla said. “Devils don’t sleep.”

  Farideh sighed. “Let’s just go back up and get Mehen. Maybe one of the healers can figure out what’s wrong with Lorcan.”

  As she turned to go, the air ripped with a gust of brimstone-tainted wind. A flash and Sairché stood between them and the door, bloodied, battered, and looking more than a little wild. In one hand was a scroll, dangling tassels of fresh skin.

  “Good evening, my dear granddaughters,” she said, and a chill skittered up Farideh’s spine. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  26

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

  Djerad Thymar, Tymanther

  SIT DOWN,” BRYSEIS KAKISTOS SAID WITH SAIRCHÉ’S VOICE. “THERE’S A LOT to say, and as you can see, I’m a bit short of time.” Farideh felt for her rod, tucked into her sleeve. Her nerves were shot, stretched thin by the battle, but the strongest spells remained in reach.

  The blue-skinned imp launched off its perch. “That is not how you’re supposed to talk to us, cambion. This is the Chosen of Asmodeus you’re ordering around, you know, and we are her—”

  Bryseis Kakistos pulled a wand from her belt. “Loxiferi.” Bluish flames streamed from her wand, engulfing Olla completely. When the spell faded, nothing remained of the imp but a fine sifting of ashes drifting toward the floor. Mot let out a little squeak, ducking behind Havilar.

  “Sit down. We haven’t been introduced,” the woman said, lowering the wand. “At least, not properly.”

  Farideh kept the tips of her fingers on the rod. “You’re Bryseis Kakistos. The Brimstone Angel.”
/>
  “Possessing someone’s friends seems like introduction enough,” Havilar said. Zoonie slunk up beside her, growling low and dripping flames.

  Sairché’s bloody face twisted in a fond smile as she pointed the wand idly at the helhound. “Clever girls.”

  “What do you want?” Havilar asked, stepping in front of Zoonie.

  “The same thing you want, ultimately: the end of Asmodeus.” She tilted her head. “Unless you enjoy being a slave to his whims?”

  “We know about the Toril Thirteen,” Farideh said. “You made all of this happen.”

  “Then you know he played me for a fool? I’ll admit to it—you don’t know what it was like in those days. At least the devils offer structure, rules.”

  “And power?” Farideh said.

  Bryseis Kakistos smiled at her as if she were a stubborn child. “You don’t know anything about power. Sit down.”

  “What did he promise you?” Farideh asked, not moving.

  Sairché’s dark eyes suddenly grew unfocused, her expression softening as if she were suddenly daydreaming. Farideh and Havilar exchanged a glance—if ever there was a time to attack, it would be now, while she was distracted, while she wasn’t ready with a spell. Farideh shook her head—she might be ready, she might not.

  Sairché’s eyes blinked, suddenly clear again. “That’s where you come in,” the ghost went on, as if nothing had happened. “You see, you aren’t supposed to be here. You were meant to be my vessel, the body for my soul so that I could walk Toril again and bring the god of sin low. But something went wrong—I have my guesses—and there were two of you. In that moment, my soul was destroyed, scattered to the winds. It’s taken nearly twenty-seven years to pull myself back together, to come to something approaching my former strength, and without you I can go no further.

  “There are two pieces still trapped inside you from that moment of error, buried in the layers of your own souls. That’s what makes you interesting to the devils. That’s what makes you interesting to Asmodeus.”

  Farideh’s pulse pounded in her ears, full of the flames of Asmodeus. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to exist. She was only the tool of a long-dead maniac. She let the rod slide out of her sleeve another inch.

  “I thought we were Chosen because we were your heirs,” Havilar said. “Why would he do that if—”

  “You aren’t the Chosen of Asmodeus,” Bryseis Kakistos said. “I am.

  “That was the deal—I gather the coven, I perform the rites and the sacrifices, I deliver unto him an entire race to carry on his bloodline, to amplify his power, and in return, I would be seated at his right hand, given powers unlike any mortal …”

  She trailed off again, staring into space. Havilar cut her eyes to Farideh once more—now? Farideh shook her head again, even though she knew they should. She wanted to hear the rest. They weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to be Chosen. What else?

  This time, Bryseis Kakistos returned to herself with a wince, as if she’d noticed. “I’m sure you’ve discovered by now that devils always keep their word,” she said, “they just make a point of keeping it in the way that suits them best. I wasn’t endowed with power until after he killed me, after I’d escaped the Hells, after my soul was shattered, after …” Another moment of blankness crossed Sairché’s features, briefer but no less complete. “Those powers flow to all parts of the soul,” Bryseis Kakistos said. “And a great deal of them flowed straight to you two—to the fragments of me that are buried in you. That’s how I found you, despite whatever meddler laid that protection.”

  Who? Farideh wanted to ask. Who laid it?

  “I don’t know if you noticed,” Havilar said, “but these powers aren’t that impressive.”

  “No,” Bryseis Kakistos agreed. “They’re not. Not separately and not in you. I don’t care about your powers as Chosen. I care what they cling to. I knew how to defeat him and now one of you knows how to defeat him.”

  “We don’t,” Farideh said. “Don’t you think we would have done something if we had?”

  “You know. You just don’t know that you know. You need me. Sit still, let me cast my little spell, I’ll take back what’s mine and deal with this problem. The first step is nothing.”

  It sounded reasonable, benevolent even. A way to right the wrong. “What’s the second?” Farideh said, knowing nothing was so simple. The ghost hesitated.

  “I need a body. Just temporarily. I’ll give it back, perhaps in better shape than I found it.” Here, she smiled at Brin in a way Farideh found unsettling.

  “You have other heirs,” Farideh said. “You found someone to make you a vessel the first time. They must be willing.”

  Bryseis Kakistos shook her head. “It needs to be one of you. You were made for me. It won’t be so difficult to maintain control. It won’t damage you so badly. But you have that barrier on you. You have to be willing. You have to ask me in.”

  “If we say no?”

  “Then, my dears, I’m going to remind you of exactly how determined I am.” She smiled at Brin. “How’s your finger, your lordship?”

  Brin pulled the symbol of Torm out of his collar. “It’s working fine,” he said. “Back off.”

  Bryseis Kakistos clucked her tongue. “That didn’t help you last time. Willing to risk it?”

  “You’re injured,” Havilar said. “We’re no hatchlings. We won’t go down easily.”

  “I’m not injured,” Bryseis Kakistos pointed out. “Sairché is. And while I don’t wish to roam the world incorporeal again, I can and I will. It won’t take much time for me to, say, return to your dear Dahl. We’ve had several enlightening conversations. I think I’m getting through to him.” Farideh’s chest squeezed tight, the flames of Asmodeus yanking on her every nerve. Cast, she thought. Tear her apart.

  And let Asmodeus go free. Do you know what happens when the spark is stolen out of a god? The god is killed. Destroyed.

  “Though,” the ghost went on, “it needn’t come to that. We’re on the same side. And the longer we argue about these details, the greater Asmodeus’s predations become.”

  Burn her down, a little part of Farideh thought. But then, she’d only be freed—she had no magic to completely destroy the ghost. Then Dahl would be in terrible danger, everything she feared. She might possess Brin again, or Mehen, or Lorcan—and Asmodeus would keep haunting Farideh, and Azuth would still be in peril and—

  Karshoji gods, what was she supposed to do?

  “So,” Bryseis Kakistos said, “which of you is it to be?”

  The shadow-smoke poured off Farideh. She’d have time to think at least, she told herself. Although would she? Would she remember anything? Would it just be a wall of blankness, another empty gap in her life like when Sairché had yanked her and Havilar out of the world for seven years? You have to do this, she told herself. You have to remember and find a way to stop her.

  Do you know what happens when the king is stolen out of the Nine Hells?

  Havilar took hold of her arm. “Make sure someone takes Zoonie for runs, all right?”

  Farideh looked up at her, baffled. “What?”

  “I have to go,” Havilar said, with a firmness that didn’t match her trembling voice. “It should be me.”

  Farideh shook her head. “No. I can’t let you.”

  Havilar gave her a withering look. “Pothachi, you don’t let me do anything. It’s the only thing that makes sense. You know what’s going on better than I do. You’re the smart one—you’ll find a way to stop all of this. To fix it. And I’m the strong one. I can … I’ve done this before.” She squeezed her sister’s hand. “Just figure it out, all right?”

  “Havi,” Brin started. She turned and laid a hand against his chest, stopping him.

  “I love you,” she said. “I love you, Brin Crownsilver, and I will come back. But I think this time it has to be me.”

  He clung to her hands as if he could keep her right there. �
�You can’t trust her. Even if she says you’ll come back, what is there to be sure?”

  “Nothing,” Havilar agreed. “So you’ll figure it out, or you have to beg a miracle from Torm.” She kissed him. “Be careful, all right?”

  “You want to stand back, your lordship,” Bryseis Kakistos unrolled the scroll. “I can’t make guarantees for the radius of this spell.” She drew another scroll from her pocket, with a necklace wrapped around it—a chain with a fat blue-gray stone—and held it out to Mot, still flapping agitatedly beside Havilar. “Would you bring this to Havi?”

  “Piss off,” Mot said. “I don’t work for you.”

  “Not yet,” Bryseis Kakistos reminded the imp. He hesitated, glancing back at Havilar, then did as he was bade.

  “This is a bad idea,” he hissed at Havilar. “You should know that this is a very bad idea.”

  “Shut up,” Havilar said, taking the scroll and the pendant. “And thank you. For your help.” She looked over at Farideh and took her hand.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Farideh whispered.

  Havilar squeezed her hand. “My turn for a bad idea.”

  Bryseis Kakistos began to read the scroll, and the room’s air began to vibrate, as if it were suddenly filled with a thousand errant souls, all of them angry. Farideh’s skin crawled, as if it were trying to peel off of her, to escape the magic’s intrusion. She squeezed Havilar’s hand, and Havilar squeezed hers, their bones crushed against each other as the magic built and built.

  The spell snapped together with a high-pitched whine that rose into a scream, and Farideh realized the screaming was her. As the spell ripped the soul fragment out of her, the pain was so deep, so far beyond her own body that she couldn’t recognize it.

  She watched helpless as images flickered past her, the memories of the fragment—a younger version of Bryseis Kakistos, a crowd throwing stones, a man who looked terribly like Lorcan, a woman she’d glimpsed in the fountains of memory with a cloud of red hair. Asmodeus, incarnate and terrible. Yellow butterflies on a cairn.