Lies of Light

by Philip Athans

  “He is, I suppose,” Willem replied, “an ambassador of sorts.”

  Phyrea sighed, and the coachman opened the door and stepped aside. She stepped out onto the street not quite as if she were being marched to the gallows, but close. Willem shared that feeling when his boots touched the cobblestones.

  Marek Rymüt appeared at the gate, a huge grin plastered on his round face. The tattoos on his head looked even stranger, uglier than normal with the rain spattering off them. He waved them both toward the gate, and Phyrea hesitated for just a fraction of a heartbeat, so Willem did too. Marek only grinned wider.

  Willem followed Phyrea through the gate. He avoided looking the Thayan in the eye. Marek looked at him with undisguised lust that made Willem squirm. He wanted to reach out and hold Phyrea’s hand, but he didn’t. He wondered, though, as they walked across the rain-drenched grounds to the main house, what he would have done if he had taken her hand. Would he have pulled her back into the coach, away from there and whatever was going to happen? Or would he just have felt better knowing she was pulling him toward that unknown, unavoidable fate?

  “Ah,” Marek said from behind him, “young love….”

  They went into the house and paused, dripping wet. Marek stepped in front of them, and still smiling ear to ear, said, “Ah, what a wonderful afternoon this is. Welcome to the Thayan Enclave, and let me say how pleased I am that you have chosen our—”

  “Please, Master Rymüt,” Phyrea interrupted. “Can we get on with it?”

  Marek seemed disappointed, but didn’t argue, he bowed and motioned to a velvet curtain the color or rich red wine. Without hesitating, Phyrea stepped through the curtain. Willem looked at Marek, who leered at him. If for no other reason than to get away from the Thayan, he followed her through the curtain, and what he saw in there stopped him cold.

  A freezing cold sweat broke out on the back of Willem’s neck, and he stopped breathing. He looked around at what was once a comfortable, ordinary sitting room. But it had been transformed into what could only be described as a temple. Candles burned on virtually every surface. The walls were draped in black velvet. An apothecary’s cabinet had been made into an altar, and the floors were covered by canvas tarps. Behind the altar stood a man Willem recognized, but in his current state, he couldn’t recall the man’s name. He was as rotund as Marek, but softer, more feminine somehow, clad in a hooded black robe of some homespun, rough fabric.

  Phyrea took his hand, and Willem jumped. Marek giggled from behind them.

  “Step forward,” the man in the robe said.

  Phyrea did as she was told, dragging Willem forward by the hand.

  “Good afternoon, Wenefir,” Phyrea said with a coy smile that didn’t suffice to cover the dread that quivered in her eyes.

  Willem remembered: Pristoleph’s man.

  “In the name of the Dark Sun, I bless this union,” Wenefir said. “For the glory of the Prince of Lies, I bind you.”

  Cyric, Willem thought. Cyric?

  “Willem Korvan,” said Wenefir, “you must state your intentions.”

  “My in—?”

  “Say you want to marry the girl,” Marek explained.

  “I want to marry her,” he said before he could think it through, then he closed his eyes.

  He didn’t want to see the rest of it. He heard Phyrea tell Wenefir that she wanted to join her life to his. When Wenefir gave him a metal cup he drank from it and tried to pretend that it wasn’t blood he was drinking. When the Cyricist tied his wrist to Phyrea’s with a length of silk cord Willem didn’t pull away. When he was told to repeat one bit of disconnected madness after another, he repeated it. He did all of it, said all of it, with his eyes closed.

  Finally, Wenefir cut their wrists loose and stepped very close, so close that Willem could smell his sour breath. Still, Willem didn’t open his eyes.

  “You are man and wife, now,” Wenefir said. “Seal it with a kiss, or not, as you wish.”

  Willem heard footsteps and opened his eyes. Wenefir and Marek left the room. He looked down at Phyrea. Her whole body shook. He’d never seen her so pale. She seemed on the verge of bursting, or shaking apart. She turned on him and looked at him with the wild eyes of a panicked animal.

  “Phyrea,” he said, and reached out for her.

  “No,” she shrieked, her voice loud and out of control.

  Willem didn’t know what to say. She glanced at him one more time, then ran from the room. He followed her, but only saw her disappear through the door. Marek stepped up next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Willem tried to pull away, but the Thayan held on tight.

  “Might not be a proper wedding night tonight, my boy,” Marek said with a toothy grin, “but she’ll be back.”

  Willem blinked, fighting back the tears that came to his eyes. He looked down at Marek, who grinned at him as if he knew something Willem didn’t.

  But then that was always the case with Marek Rymüt. He always knew more than anyone else, and Willem always knew less. All Willem knew at that moment was that he had betrayed Halina, betrayed his own spirit, perhaps, in taking part in a ceremonial vow to the mad god Cyric. And his only prize was Phyrea, who had done what he should have done the second she’d appeared in his bedchamber: run.

  He pushed away from the laughing Thayan and walked out of the house, and he had no idea where to go.

  48

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

  THIRD QUARTER, INNARLITH

  Phyrea ran up the stairs to her flat, making for the door as though she were being chased. And in a way, she was.

  Don’t go in there, the man with the scar on his face insisted. She could feel his anger building. He’ll destroy you.

  She stumbled and had to stop to keep from falling. She leaned against the wall and did her best to dry her eyes with the palm of her hand.

  Please, please listen to us, Phyrea, the woman with the quiver in her voice begged. I don’t understand what you’re doing. Why would you go to this man, who hates you? He will kill you, and if he kills you here in this stinking hovel, you’ll be destroyed. He really will destroy you. Don’t lose yourself. Don’t make me lose you. I can’t lose you, Phyrea. Not you too.

  “Shut up,” she said. “Just shut up.”

  Take us back, and stay with us, the little girl moaned. I want to go home.

  Phyrea climbed the last few stairs and all but fell through the door into her dismal flat.

  Run! the little boy screamed into her mind so loudly she couldn’t help but clasp her hands over her ears.

  “What’s wrong?” Devorast asked.

  She took her hands away from her ears and closed the door behind her.

  We’re trying to help you, the man with the scar said. Phyrea could feel his searing disappointment.

  “Phyrea?”

  She leaned against the wall and tried to wipe the tears away again, but couldn’t. She blinked at Devorast, who stood on the other side of the room. Knowing she wasn’t going to need it, that at least for a short time she would have to stay with Willem, she’d told him he could stay there. With the canal site deserted, the workers gone home, he had nowhere to go.

  “Touch me,” she whispered. Then louder: “Hold me.”

  He walked to her, and she met him in the middle of the room, collapsing into his arms. He started out holding her, but within a few heartbeats, he was holding her up.

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “I gave myself to Willem Korvan,” she sobbed.

  “Why?” he asked, and in only that one word she could detect no trace of how he actually felt about what she’d said.

  “Because you wouldn’t let me give myself to you,” she said. He stepped away from her, and she almost fell to the floor. “I love you.”

  “And I love you,” he said.

  She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but she could tell he was thinking. “Tell me,” she pleaded.

  He can’t, the
old woman told her. He can’t tell you, because he doesn’t know.

  He can’t give you what you want, the sad woman added.

  “There’s nothing more to tell,” he said. “I’m happier when you are with me than when you aren’t. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

  She went to him, and he took her in his arms again. She kissed his neck.

  “What do you want from me, Lady Korvan?” he said.

  She stepped back and slapped him across the face so hard it stung her fingers and left her numb up to her elbow. A welt raised on his cheek, and a brief flash of rage crossed his face, but in an instant he was back to his normal emotionless mask.

  You see? the old woman’s voiced echoed in her head. All you’ll ever get from him is a passing rage, then nothing. He’ll give you nothing.

  And we can offer you eternity, the man with the scar said.

  “What’s keeping you in Innarlith now?” she asked Devorast. He shrugged and shook his head. “Can’t we go away, then? Can we just get on a ship and go? The Shou woman, your friend, if she’s in port can she take us to Shou Lung? Can we go to Calimport or Marsember? Raven’s Bluff, maybe, or even Waterdeep?”

  She went to the door and threw it open.

  Go, the man in her head told her, but not with him.

  “Walk through this door with me,” she said. “Come away with me, and we’ll never smell this rotten city again.”

  He shook his head and replied, “I’ve started something here.”

  “And they won’t let you finish it.”

  Can we go home now? the little girl asked.

  “You know I’ll finish it anyway,” he said, “eventually.”

  “Eventually?” Phyrea almost screamed. “What does that mean? I have no idea what that means. Eventually?”

  “What of your husband?” he asked.

  She had to look away from him for a moment and she said, “To the Nine Hells with him. To the Abyss with him.”

  Damn it, just go! the little boy screamed in her head.

  “If we could just go, we could be happy,” she said.

  Devorast shook his head, and the gesture made Phyrea feel as though she was going to pass out.

  “I’m exhausted,” she whispered. “I’m just so tired.”

  Go back to Berrywilde, the sad woman whimpered. Go back there and rest, with us. We’ll let you rest.

  “Stay here,” Devorast said. “Sleep here tonight, and in the morning, do whatever you want to do, and go wherever you want to go.”

  “But not with you.”

  He didn’t answer, but she shut the door anyway. He can never give you what you want, Phyrea, the old woman told her.

  “I know,” she whispered, and still she stayed the night.

  49

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

  SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH

  The office of the master builder had acquired a smell to it that made Willem’s stomach turn. The first time he’d been there, he’d been impressed with its opulence, drawn to the power of the position that could command such a space. In time, though, it had come to smell like decay, it had withered like the old man who inhabited it. The space itself seemed to have shrunk.

  “It’s extraordinary,” the master builder said, shuffling through a huge stack of parchment sheets. “With a little work, this could actually be done.”

  “A little work?” Willem couldn’t help but say.

  The parchment sheets held Devorast’s designs for the canal, seized by Salatis’s men. Willem didn’t even want to look at them. He knew what the pages contained. And he knew that no work on the part of Inthelph could possibly improve on them.

  The master builder nodded and pushed the sheets aside. He sighed, and his teeth began to chatter, though the room was warm. He stared down at the floor, at nothing.

  “I’ve news,” Willem said.

  The master builder didn’t seem to have heard him. He just stared down, his teeth clicking. “It concerns Phyrea,” said Willem.

  Inthelph looked up at that, the beginnings of a smile on his face. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with weak hands.

  “She and I have been married,” Willem said. “It all happened very fast. I can’t begin to apologize for your not being there, not having the opportunity to send her off with a proper ceremony, and so on, but …”

  Inthelph grinned from ear to ear and stood on legs that seemed to creak under his meager weight. He stepped to Willem, reached up, and put his dry hands on either side of the younger man’s face.

  “My boy,” the old man said. “My dear, dear son. I could not possibly be happier to hear this news. This is the sort of thing I’ve been waiting for, you see.”

  Willem took a step back and Inthelph flinched away. A look of passing terror showed in his eyes and something about that petty weakness made Willem angry. The anger must have showed on his face because Inthelph stepped even farther away, moving into the corner of the room like a caged animal.

  “What have you been waiting for?” Willem asked.

  Inthelph swallowed and said, “For you.”

  “For me?”

  The master builder nodded and said, “You have no idea how much I worried about Phyrea. She’s my only child, my only heir. Bad enough she was a girl, but then she insisted on rejecting everything I tried to give her. She would steal things, break things … she had no respect for me, for her betters, or for herself. Until you came along, that is.”

  Willem shook his head, speechless at how wrong the master builder was.

  “I knew you were the one, Willem. I knew you would be the steadying influence that both my daughter and my city needed.”

  Willem closed his eyes, amazed at the master builder’s upside down interpretation of everything. Willem wasn’t even a steadying influence on himself.

  “I’ve felt like a father to you, my boy,” Inthelph went on. “I hope you’ve felt like a son to me. And now that’s true under the law and not just in the way we see each other. You are my son now.”

  Willem sighed, no longer caring that the master builder would mistake it as—what? Willem being overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment? How could a man so old be so crushingly naïve?

  “I am prepared to step aside,” Inthelph said. “I am old, and have worked hard for too many years. I have an interest in wine, you see, and well …”

  “Master Builder, I—”

  Inthelph waved him off, smiled, and said, “Please don’t refuse me, Willem, I won’t know what else to do. I can’t bear the thought that you might turn your back on me the way Phyrea has. I wanted you in her life to bring her back into mine, not so that she could take you with her.”

  Willem sighed again and cast about for a chair. He found one and sat, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He couldn’t help thinking of Devorast and his perfect, calm self-assurance. And Willem had surrounded himself with just the opposite. Phyrea seemed to be an entirely different person every time he saw her. The master builder was a scared, insecure fool.

  Maybe I belong in this family after all, Willem thought.

  50

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

  SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH

  Of course,” his fat mother said, “in Cormyr, it’s all but impossible for anyone to rise above his station the way my Willem has. To think, he’s been here only—oh, my stars, has it been nine years?—nine years, and he’s a member of the ruling body.”

  Phyrea smiled and tipped her head graciously to one side while the ghost of the old woman said, And all he had to do was sell himself on the cheap to a bunch of crusty old men who’ve raised him like a pig.

  “You must be very proud,” Phyrea said.

  Thurene grinned so that Phyrea thought her head would split in two and everything above her upper lip would fall to the floor behind her. She put her teacup down on the saucer in front of her with a faint click. Something about the sound made Phyrea’s skin crawl.<
br />
  Why are you wasting your time? the man’s voice said.

  He stood directly behind Willem’s fat mother, staring down at her as though he was about to strangle her. Phyrea, startled by the ghost’s sudden appearance, almost dropped her own teacup. The hot brown liquid sloshed over the side and burned her hand, leaving it red and sore.

  “Oh, my,” Thurene gasped.

  “It’s all right,” Phyrea said, and placed her cup on her own saucer. She wiped the still-hot tea off her hand with her other palm, ignoring the linen napkin that sat on her lap. She saw Thurene eye the movement, and the old woman’s gaze lingered on the hem of her dress, which Phyrea was sure she found too short—scandalously so. “I’ve had worse injuries.”

  “I can’t imagine,” the old woman said, confused. She didn’t believe her. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Of course not,” Phyrea answered.

  The ghost continued to stare down at her. Phyrea looked him in the eye. He smiled back at her, his face as cold as stone. She could see the painting on the wall behind him: a badly-rendered portrait of Thurene herself. The artist didn’t add the blotchy liver spots and the wispy patches of hair at her temples that made her look more like a man than a woman. He was kind to her chins as well. The translucent violet apparition glanced over his shoulder at what Phyrea was looking at, and his smile became an annoyed scowl.

  Thurene turned, stiff and slow, in her chair, also curious as to what Phyrea was looking at. She didn’t see the ghost standing behind her, and when she turned back to Phyrea she was smiling.

  “Willem commissioned that, of course,” she said, brimming with pride in her son.

  Phyrea had to swallow the bile that rose in her throat.

  “And you’re quite certain you’re well,” Thurene said.

  “No,” Phyrea replied, all falseness gone from her tone. “I’m not the slightest bit certain of that. I’m not. You know what I used to do, before I met a certain man?”

  Thurene shook her head, nervous, scared even, but drawn to Phyrea’s intensity as much as her words.