Lies of Light

by Philip Athans

  “Damn it all to the bottomless Abyss, Ivar,” she said, a keen edge of near-panic in her voice. “I told you this would happen. I knew this would happen. I dreaded this day so much I did my best to make it happen sooner just to be through with it once and for all, but now that it’s—”

  The look on Surero’s face made her stop. She couldn’t look at the alchemist. Instead her eyes settled on the spirit-form of the man with the scar on his face.

  It’s over for him now, the ghost said without moving his lips. Leave him behind you. He was destroying you anyway. He never loved you. Go back to Berrywilde.

  You belong with us, back at Berrywilde, the little girl whined. She stood, an inch off the wood floor, in the corner next to Devorast’s little cot.

  When she realized that Surero was trying to figure out what she was looking at, she closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Oh, gods of the Outer Planes, it is over,” she said, and pressed her hands to her face.

  “It looks that way,” said the alchemist, “for now.”

  Devorast said nothing. Instead, he slid big sheets of parchment into a leather portfolio with his usual calm, slow demeanor.

  Take us home, the little girl begged.

  The door opened, and Phyrea jumped, startled by the noise and the light.

  By the sound of his boots on the wood floor Phyrea would have guessed a stone giant had stepped in, but she knew before turning around that it was just Hrothgar.

  “Say the word, Ivar,” the dwarf grumbled, “and we’ll fight ’em.”

  “Hrothgar—” Phyrea started.

  “No,” Devorast said.

  The three of them waited for him to say more but he didn’t.

  “This is why …” Phyrea said.

  She held her breath, trying to think. She felt as though her brain was sunk in heavy, clinging mud.

  Don’t bother, the old woman, who she couldn’t see, told her. Just go, child.

  “This is why I’ve said the things I’ve said about you,” she said. Hrothgar stepped closer to her, but she kept her back to him and her eyes on Devorast. “This is what I’ve been telling you all this time would happen. I told you they would try to kill you, and if they couldn’t kill you that they’d find some way, some excuse to take this away from you.”

  “Wait a moment, there,” Surero said.

  “They can chase us off today, girl,” said the dwarf, “but not forever.”

  “Hrothgar’s right,” the alchemist concurred. “There’s enough support in—”

  “Oh, shut up, Surero,” Phyrea snapped. “There’s enough support to send gold, men, and goodwill, but not enough to go to war over. Who’s going to send footmen here to fight the ransar for a strip of land that is Innarlith’s whether you like it or not? Azoun? Will he go to war for your canal, Ivar?”

  Devorast didn’t look at her. He went about his packing.

  “I told you they’d take it away and they have,” Phyrea said. “But I hope you don’t think the worst is over.”

  “That’s about enough, girl,” said the dwarf.

  No, the man made of light said, get it off your chest, then take us all back to Berrywilde with you.

  “No,” Phyrea went on, “the worst is when they send someone here to finish it for you. And it’ll be either my father or Willem Korvan, or both, and what will become of all this then? What mess will they make of it in the name of their two-copper ransar?”

  Devorast looked at her, and the look on her face made gooseflesh ripple across the undersides of her arms.

  He hates you now, the little girl said.

  Yeah, said the little boy, and that means it’s all right to hate him back.

  He’s almost destroyed you, the old woman said. Phyrea could see her sitting on Devorast’s cot. You’re getting away just in time. He’s wanted to destroy you all along—and not kill you, but destroy you—and there’s a difference, believe me.

  Phyrea shook her head, turned, brushed past the dwarf who stared daggers at her, and burst out the door into sunlight that made her eyes close all on their own. She had to squint and stumble her way back to her horse.

  Berrywilde, the old woman whispered in her ear.

  She shook her head and whispered back, “No, I want to go back to Innarlith first.”

  40

  5 Uktar, the Year of the Staff (1366 DR)

  THIRD QUARTER, INNARLITH

  Phyrea had no idea what made her stop, but was sure that if she hadn’t, she’d have been killed.

  She had no ability to cast spells, had never been trained in the Art, and had no ring or wand to help her see magical auras, emanations, or dweomers. All she had was instinct, or luck, or whatever it was that told her to stop. She took a deep breath and held it as she drew so close to the door her nose almost touched the lacquered wood. The keyhole was big—as big as the first two knuckles of her little finger—and set into a polished brass plate above the handle. She tried to look through the keyhole but saw only black. Either it didn’t go all the way through the door, or the room beyond was unlit.

  She unfolded her kit—a soft leather folio in which were arrayed a series of picks and other fine implements—but wasn’t sure if she should even bother. Picking the lock would surely set off whatever trap it was she’d sensed on the door.

  Why don’t you just knock? the voice of the little girl echoed in her head.

  Phyrea closed her eyes and slowly exhaled.

  What is it? asked the sad woman, her thin voice on the edge of panic. What’s wrong?

  Phyrea let her exhale become a reedy hiss. Though she knew no one could hear the voices but her, she wanted them to be quiet anyway—she wanted them to let her think.

  Is fire going to shoot out? asked the little girl. If fire shoots out it will burn your face, and you won’t be pretty anymore.

  Phyrea turned her head and saw the little girl standing behind her. At first it appeared as though she leaned against a wall, but in fact she stood so close to the wall that her right arm had disappeared into the wood paneling. Phyrea could see the outline of the shop’s assortment of curios and decorative pottery through the wispy violet form of the spectral child.

  The little girl who could walk through walls.

  “Would you help me?” Phyrea asked, pitching her whispered words so low they barely registered in her own ears.

  The little girl looked her in the eyes, and Phyrea’s blood ran cold. Something about the way the girl looked at her made her want to scream.

  You don’t talk to us enough, the child whispered back, though her lips only moved once, parting just the slightest bit. You should talk to us more. All we ever wanted was to be your friend, and for you to stay with us.

  Phyrea had to force herself to whisper, “Help me.”

  The little girl reached out to touch Phyrea’s face—but she had been several steps away. The little girl had moved closer all at once, never stepping, not actually moving across the intervening space. Phyrea recoiled, lurching back away from those translucent fingertips, and bounced her head off the door. Squatting, she slid onto her backside.

  The little girl looked hurt, offended, then she faded away.

  Phyrea’s head hurt, but worse, the blow had made a sound. She stiffened, spun, and rose to her feet in one motion, and brought her hand to the hilt of the short sword in its scabbard at her belt.

  “Who’s there?” asked a muffled voice from the other side of the heavy door.

  Damn it all to the Nine bleeding Hells, Phyrea thought.

  She’d wanted to sneak in. She’d planned on waking Wenefir from a deep sleep, unsettling him, starting off with him unbalanced so that she would have the upper hand. That was over.

  “It’s me,” she said, her voice low but loud enough to carry through the door. “It’s Phyrea.”

  You don’t need to live like this anymore, the voice of the man with the scar on his face said. Go back to Berrywilde.

  “The hells do you want?” the voice
behind the door asked.

  “Open the gods bedamned door, Wenefir,” she demanded. “I need to talk.”

  “Have you come to kill me?” he asked.

  “Did I say I came to kill you?”

  “Yes or no.”

  Phyrea took a deep breath and let it all out at once to say the word, “No.”

  Wenefir paused, and Phyrea got the feeling he had some way of knowing whether or not she’d told the truth. The lock clanked open, and the hinge squeaked.

  Revealed in the open doorway, Wenefir looked old and tired, chubby and soft. He looked her up and down and from the look on his face she could tell he thought she looked bad too, but in what way she wasn’t entirely sure.

  “I thought you were out of the business,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

  “I am,” she said. “I didn’t come to fence something.”

  He stood there, staring at her, waiting, so she went on.

  “You know why I’m here,” she said.

  Wenefir sighed and said, “I don’t have time for this, Phyrea. What’s happened to you?”

  She shook her head, almost as though she were trying to shake off the look he gave her.

  “I’ve been hearing the things you’ve been saying about the young senator from Cormyr, selling him around town like some piece of pilfered jewelry,” he said. “I’ve also heard that you’ve been spending time with the other Cormyrean, the canal builder. Which is it, Phyrea? Which Cormyrean are you here to plead for?”

  “I’m not here to plead for anyone,” she lied. She was there to do exactly that.

  And Wenefir knew it.

  “You have friends in the senate,” she said.

  “So do you,” he replied.

  Phyrea shook her head.

  “So, it’s the canal builder,” Wenefir concluded.

  I don’t like him, the little girl whispered.

  Phyrea resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.

  Neither do I, said the ghost of the little boy. He doesn’t have his man parts.

  “Is there anything that can be done?” she asked.

  “Why?” Wenefir asked in return.

  “What do you—?”

  “What do I care about a canal, or about the Cormyrean nobody who’s building it?” he asked.

  “I could make it worth your while,” she ventured, having no idea how she could, really.

  He laughed.

  “A favor then?” she tried. “A personal favor … for an old friend.”

  He thought about it for a moment then said, “You steal things and bring them to me, and I give you gold. What makes you think, all of a sudden, that I can affect the whims and desires of the senate?”

  “I know who you work for,” she said, though she’d never wanted him to know she knew that, but he didn’t look surprised.

  “I’ve never meant to keep that a secret,” he said, though she didn’t believe him. “Anyone who mixes in your father’s circles will have seen me with him.”

  “Is there something that can be done?” she asked.

  Wenefir offered a weak smile and said, “Do you care that much? Really?”

  She didn’t answer, but looked him in the eye.

  “Never come here again like this, in the middle of the night,” he warned her. “Had you tried to pick that lock you would have been burned. You might have been killed.”

  Phyrea’s breath caught in her throat. She looked over her shoulder, and the ghost of the little girl was behind her. The glowing violet child smiled. Gooseflesh broke out along the undersides of Phyrea’s arms.

  “Are you well?” Wenefir asked.

  Phyrea nodded.

  “If I have anything to tell you,” he said even as he started to close the door, “I’ll find you.”

  41

  8 Alturiak, the Year of the Shield (1367 DR)

  THE CHAMBER OF LAW AND CIVILITY

  Willem Korvan wondered how long it had been.

  How long had it been since he’d sat in the same room as Ivar Devorast?

  His red hair as long and stringy, his simple peasant’s clothes as unkempt, his eyes as cold and unintimidated as ever, Devorast sat quietly in a hard ladderback chair in the middle of the semicircular hearing chamber. Off in the east wing of the Chamber of Law and Civility, it was the largest of the hearing rooms, it’s round outer wall lined with tall windows of cobalt blue glass. With the dull winter light coming in through the blue glass Willem thought everyone looked sick—worse than that, they looked dead. He felt as though he sat in a room full of ghosts.

  Even Devorast looked spectral and sick, and Willem had never seen him look like that. As the people who didn’t know him—didn’t know the least thing about him—railed against him or heaped him with praise he just sat there, showing not even a trace of interest.

  Willem sat in one of a row of chairs behind the senior senators who had called the hearing at the request of the ransar. At times, Meykhati’s back blocked his view of the assembly, but he could always see Devorast.

  Having found out only the night before that he would be part of the hearing, Willem had gone out and gotten drunk, then had gone home and gotten more drunk. In the morning he drank a little more, and drank on his way to the hearing.

  “Senator Korvan?” Salatis said, his voice booming, loud and angry.

  Willem winced. His throat was tight and his mouth dry. Everyone was looking at him. He didn’t try to stand.

  “I’ve known Ivar Devorast,” Willem said, “for a long, long, long, long, long time. A very long time longer than anyone else here.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands, which he kept on his knees so they wouldn’t shake so much. “That’s how long I’ve known him.”

  “And?” the ransar prompted, irritated, his face turning red.

  “And if that’s what he said then that’s what …” Not sure at all what he was trying to say, Willem stopped talking.

  “Senator,” Meykhati asked, “are you quite all right?”

  Willem shook his head and replied, “I’m fine.”

  “With all due respect,” someone Willem didn’t know said, “is this man intoxicated?”

  “Please, Ambassador,” Salatis scolded. He stood from where he sat atop a raised dais—always a dais, Willem thought—and banged a gavel on the little desk in front of him. The blue windows were behind him and the whole room had the strange effect of a reverse amphitheater. The senators were arrayed in a semicircle with various witnesses seated in straight rows on the other side of the room, and Devorast seated in the center as though he were a scrap of territory over which two armies had gathered to fight. “We have certain rules of order here that I hope you will respect.”

  The man stood, bowed to the ransar, and said, “And are there rules that concern whether or not a drunk can testify in a hearing like this?”

  “This isn’t Arrabar, Ambassador Verhenden,” Salatis grumbled. “Until I decide otherwise, we will hear Senator Korvan.”

  “Verhenden,” Willem said. “I’ve heard of you. Fael, right? Fael Verhenden, the ambassador from Arrabar. You’re right, your excellency. You’re entirely and completely and completely right about the fact that I’m completely drunk.”

  A disturbed murmur rattled through the room, and Willem laughed at them, the fools.

  Salatis called the meeting to order again, and Willem said, “He’ll build it if you let him, but he’ll build it for himself. I can tell you that. This bastard … this man doesn’t care about Innarlith any more than he cared about Cormyr, and he sure as Tymora flips a coin doesn’t give the south end of a northbound rat about the city of stinking Arrabar.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the ambassador huffed.

  “That’s enough, Willem!” Meykhati hissed at him.

  Willem shook his head and closed his eyes. The room spun. He couldn’t focus on anything, so he just listened instead.

  “Ransar,” Meykhati said, “please accept my apology for Senator Korvan, who has suffered s
ome at the careless hands of Ivar Devorast, apparently since they were both children.”

  Willem shook his head and asked in a loud voice, “Have I? I have suffered how at his hands? How did he suffer me? How …?”

  “This is telling, Ransar,” Meykhati went on. “Here is Devorast’s countryman and friend, and under his influence, what has become of a young man with an outstanding career and by all accounts a fine, sophisticated mind?”

  “Have you ever said the word ‘forgiveness’ and actually meant it, Ambassador?” Willem asked, his eyes still closed. “I drank when I knew I had to come here because he forgives me. I think he forgives me. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. I think you have to care about someone to forgive him, don’t you? Care just a little?”

  “I’m sure you’re quite right,” said the ambassador from Arrabar.

  Salatis banged his gavel in response.

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Willem said. “I’m afraid of what I am compared to him.”

  “Willem,” Meykhati barked, “be still.”

  “Let him speak,” a man who’s voice Willem didn’t recognize cut in.

  “Sit down, alchemist,” Salatis all but screamed. “You should still be in the dungeons, not out making these concoctions of yours that are perhaps the most dangerous part of this insane project.”

  “What I make is only dangerous when it’s used by assassins sent by—”

  “Silence!” Salatis screamed. “I will have order, or I will clear the room.”

  There was a moment of shifting chairs and scuffling feet, and Willem chuckled. His stomach turned, and his face flushed.

  “We have heard from Warden Truesilver of Cormyr, Ambassador Verhenden of Arrabar, and Mistress Ran Ai Yu of Shou Lung,” the ransar said. “The only other person here—the only one who was born and raised in Innarlith—who seems inclined to support Ivar Devorast is a failed alchemist and would-be assassin who should be marching this instant to the gallows but for the forgiveness of Master Rymüt. And then there was the testimony we’ve heard from our very own senators Meykhati, Nyla, and Djeserka; and Master Rymüt’s man the esteemed wizard Kurtsson. Who am I to believe?”