Farideh hesitated. “What do you mean ‘a favor’?”
“Just some little thing I can’t do for myself,” Sairché said. “But it won’t be your soul or your sister. Or Lorcan, since you’ve laid those out.”
“But it’s anything else.” Farideh pursed her lips a moment. “I won’t get you another soul.”
Sairché chuckled to herself. “Any soul you could get me was already half in the basket.”
“I won’t kill anyone,” Farideh said.
“My, you’re squeamish all of the sudden,” Sairché said. “Sure you won’t kill anyone?”
“You won’t trick me like that,” Farideh said. If she said yes, Sairché could easily turn her against someone good or dear or important. “The favor can’t be killing someone.”
“No killing,” Sairché agreed. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have wasted it on something like that. It’s not as if I don’t have erinyes for that sort of thing. Let’s agree that the favor will end up harming a common enemy.” She smiled at Farideh again, much like Temerity had. “You can’t argue with that.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Well, I’d like for us to be friends. Or at least for you to trust me a little— how else will I get anything worthwhile out of you? Even Lorcan knows better than to lead with a Pact Certain.” She smiled at Farideh as if the tiefling were being impish. “Honestly.”
Farideh swallowed. A common enemy—the favor would be an act against another devil, another wicked soul. Dangerous, but not, if she made the deal right, an evil act. Not something she couldn’t do.
Maybe it would even be best for the world, she thought. Maybe by helping Sairché she could rid the world of something worse.
You can’t trust her, Farideh thought. But did she have time not to, with collector devils at her heels and Sairché threatening Havilar and Lorcan?
“What about Lorcan?”
“I think his own rivals will sort him out,” Sairché said. “He doesn’t even realize how worn that spell has gotten—it was never meant to protect the both of you. And he’s made an awful lot of devils angry.”
“Protect him too,” Farideh said. “That’s what I want.”
Sairché chuckled. “Oh, he won’t like that.”
Once Sairché had held her brother prisoner in the Hells. The nightmares that had plagued Farideh during that time flashed through her thoughts: Lorcan screaming, bleeding; eyeless, tongueless, pinned to the wall. If another devil wanted Lorcan out of the way, the same thing would happen. “Protect Lorcan, Havi, and me for all those years. I’ll give you the favor—but no souls and no killing. And I don’t want to hurt anyone . . . anyone who’s innocent. Even if it’s to stop someone I call an enemy.”
Sairché raised her silver eyebrows. “That’s quite a lot of caveats. I may need more for my efforts. Two favors.”
“The same sort of favors,” Farideh said.
Sairché seemed to weigh this. “Fine,” she said, extending a hand. “Not my first choice, but I do love a favor.”
“When does it start?” Farideh asked.
Sairché smiled and took hold of Farideh’s hand. “Right now.”
All in an instant the spells holding Lorcan and Havilar dissolved and both were shouting. Sairché spread her other hand wide, and tendrils of magic shot out, glowing red as hot steel to wrap around Lorcan and Havilar both. Brin kicked the door in, looking around wildly, and Farideh tried to shout, to tell him to get back, out of Sairché’s reach.
A wind whipped out of the still, hot air, blew up from the floorboards and swirled around Farideh, around Sairché, around Lorcan and Havilar as the magic pulled them close. It caught her warning and tossed it away. It caught Brin’s cry of protest and ground it into a wordless howl, as he grabbed Havilar and tried to pull her free of Sairché’s spell.
Sairché released Farideh’s hand. With a small, wicked smile she spread her fingers, sending out another set of glowing lines that plunged into Farideh, wrapping around her sternum, her heart, burning her from the inside out. She might have screamed. She might have tried to tell Sairché this wasn’t what she wanted. She couldn’t hear her own voice. There was only the whirlwind and the fire and the blackness that grew out of Sairché’s spread hands to swallow them all up and smother any more words she might have spoken.
Chapter Two
In the frozen woods beneath a crashing earthmote, Farideh remembered. Sairché smiled—the same sort of smile Sairché had given her as the blackness surrounded them—and horror bloomed in Farideh.
“What have you done?” she breathed. “ Karshoji tiamash, what have you done?”
“I gave you what you wanted,” Sairché said.
“When did I want to wake up in a forest?” Farideh demanded. “When did I ask you to lose my friends? Where’s Lorcan? Where’s Brin?”
Sairché pursed her lips briefly. “The forest,” she said, “is immaterial. Lorcan is on his own. Whoever Brin is, I assume he’s handling himself. I’ve held up my end. I’ve made you safe.”
“You’ve made us lost,” Farideh said. The powers of the Hells scaled Farideh’s frame, wrapping around her nerves and pulling her bones down with heavy magic. “Where are we?” She looked around the chilly grove, the fog snaking eerily over the ground. “This isn’t the Hells is it?”
“Please. You’d know it if you woke up in the Nine Hells.” Sairché looked up at the earthmote and glared at it a moment, before taking a scroll from one of the cases on her hips. She opened it wide to display a map of Faerûn, shivering with faint magic. She muttered something vicious sounding under her breath, then sighed, as if it couldn’t be helped.
“Here,” she said, laying the map on the ground and pointing to a block of forest just outside of Waterdeep where a silver mote pulsed. “That’s where we stand.”
Farideh’s blood stilled as she studied the twining lines of roads and rivers, the dots of cities, the swell of mountains. The distance between the little cluster of towers marked Waterdeep and the little cluster marked Proskur.
Havilar’s arm threaded through hers, as she leaned over the map. “That’s not right. That spot is leagues from Proskur.”
Sairché gave her a cold look. “Clearly,” she drawled, “there is a problem with my portal, many thanks for pointing it out. Yes, you are quite a ways from where you started.” She rolled the map back up and stood, giving them both a wicked smile. “It’s not as if you can’t walk back there again. It hasn’t moved.”
“A portal?” Farideh said. “You weren’t supposed to take us through any portal.”
Even as she said it, Farideh realized while Sairché had not said anything about a portal, she hadn’t said anything about not using a portal.
Sairché narrowed her eyes at Farideh. “Perhaps Lorcan was in the habit of explaining the finer details of his spells to you. I will not. You’ll have to trust me.”
Farideh swallowed. “ ‘Was’?”
That made Sairché’s wicked smile return. “Do you really think you’re still his warlock now?”
“You said . . .” Farideh’s voice failed her. “You said you’d protect him, too.” But there was no sign of Lorcan, no pull on the spell of protection they’d shared.
“I did,” Sairché agreed. “And I have. But if you think he’s pleased you came looking for my help . . . well, I would prefer a clever warlock, but it’s not a necessity.”
“I didn’t pact with you.”
“Not yet.” She took one of the rings strung along a chain around her neck and slipped it onto her finger. Sairché rubbed the sapphire in the center with her thumb until a patch of the ground shimmered and a pile of gear appeared beside one of the leaning trees. Sairché gathered up a sword and belt, a glaive with an enameled haft, and a small case.
“Rod,” she said handing it to Farideh. “Sword. And glaive.” She pulled out a pair of daggers next and new haversacks, new cloaks, new rations.
The sword was not Farideh’s—it was far newer, fa
r lighter, and the blade was sharp and freshly oiled. She opened the case and found a similarly unfamiliar rod: ivory shaft carved over in Infernal runes, rubies at the tips instead of the cracked and cloudy amethysts her last implement had borne. She took hold of it, and her powers surged forth as if the rod had cleared some impediment. It made her dizzy.
“The weight’s wrong,” Havilar said, pushing the unfamiliar glaive back at Sairché. “And the length.”
“You’ll adjust,” Sairché assured her.
Havilar shoved the glaive into the ferns. “Give me back my glaive.”
Sairché looked as if she were reconsidering the deal they’d made. As if she were deciding if it were worth the trouble to call up her erinyes and have them both killed. “You can certainly see about replacing them in Waterdeep but take these for the moment. It’s several hours’ walk to the city, and heavens know what you might find. I’m sure you’re well acquainted with the sort of things one encounters in the wood.”
Out of the litterfall, she picked up the last two items: a bottle and a small velvet bag.
Sairché handed the bottle to Havilar. “A restorative. The spell tends to sap your strength a bit. And I know you need it.”
Havilar pried out the lead stopper and knocked back the amber liquid. “Havi, don’t!” Farideh cried.
Havilar gagged. “Pah!” She swallowed and a shudder went through her. “It tastes,” she said, “like old burnt meat and spoiled cream.” She wiped her mouth. “And cinnamon. As if that would help.”
“There is a reason one does not source cordials from the Hells,” Sairché said. “Nevertheless, it works.” She pushed the bag at Farideh. “This is for you—from Lorcan.”
The velvet was thick and dark as night. Whatever was in it was surprisingly heavy.
“I thought you said he was done with me.”
“Perhaps it’s a parting gift? Perhaps it’s something he felt he still owed you?” She pressed a finger to her lips. “Perhaps,” she said. “It’s a trap.”
Farideh nudged the velvet open. At its heart lay a coiled necklace of rubies. The largest gem was the size of her eye, and it seemed to glow even in the pale light. Farideh stared at it, too stunned to say anything.
Havilar leaned over her shoulder, her breath still smelling of the foul potion. “Karshoj. How come you get that?”
Sairché frowned. “Excellent question.” She held out her hand. “Let me see it.”
Farideh folded the velvet over the gems. “No.” Lorcan’s gifts had always been spells or items for casting—the necklace was something different. Did it mean Sairché was right and he’d put her pact in Sairché’s hands—a parting gift then? Or was it a reassurance, a promise?
“It might be a trap,” Sairché said again.
Whatever it was, whatever it meant, if Sairché wanted it, Farideh wasn’t about to give it to her. “You had plenty of time to look at it before.” She slipped the bag into her pocket.
“Well,” Sairché said, dropping her hand. “If you’re going to be difficult.” She pointed away from the falling earthmote. “Waterdeep is that way. Do try and make it alive.”
With that she selected one of the rings she wore on a chain around her neck, held it up, and blew through the center. A whirlwind seemed to spin out of the silver circle, then gusted back and enveloped Sairché. The cambion blurred as the wind threw her through the fog and out of the plane of entirely.
“Brin will be wondering what happened to us.” Havilar blew out a breath full of nervous energy. “Do you think he’s still waiting at the inn?”
Farideh shook her head. “I don’t know.” Why had a portal been necessary? Why had it dropped them in the middle of nowhere?
And Lorcan—gods, Lorcan. Her deal with Sairché looked terrible, on the face of it. Especially when they’d been fighting. If he’d just give her a chance to explain, that there hadn’t been time . . .
“We might never find him again,” Havilar said, of Brin. “He might just go on to Suzail without us, and then what?”
Farideh looked at the bag in her hand. Lorcan gone, and Brin lost. And Havi—she didn’t understand. She wouldn’t understand until they’d figured out what to do about Brin, Farideh knew that much.
“We’ll go to Waterdeep,” she said. “Find Tam. Or Dahl. They can do that sending ritual and find out where Brin is. We can use the portal Mehen took. I’ll sell the necklace to pay for it. We’ll find him.”
Havilar wrapped her arms around her chest. “I cannot believe you made a deal with another devil. What karshoji demon possessed you?”
A very good question, a part of Farideh thought. They were miles from where they’d started, missing gear, missing allies. And her breath kept freezing on the air—how high up the mountains were they?
“I did it to protect you,” Farideh said. “Protect us.”
“From what?” Havilar demanded. She picked up her own cloak and haversack, fastening the garment shut with shaking fingers. “Proskur? Brin?”
“Devils,” Farideh said. She picked up the strange rod—the ivory that wasn’t ivory—and her nausea surged again. “They wanted my pact.”
“Well if you hadn’t made a karshoji pact,” Havilar said, “neither of us would need protecting and neither of us would be waking up on the other end of the karshoji continent!”
“No, it would have been worse!” Farideh drew a deep breath, trying to quell the sense of unease that she couldn’t seem to push past. “I didn’t tell you,” she admitted. “I should have. But there’s a reason Lorcan wanted me for a warlock.”
Havilar bent to grab the inferior glaive. “I don’t care how special he says you—”
“You and I are descended from one of the first Hellish warlocks,” Farideh went on. “The worst of them, I think. She helped Asmodeus become a god. She . . . she did horrible things to make tieflings what they are. There aren’t many people descended from her—just three, and me. And you.”
Farideh had held the secret for so many months, but now it was no good to hide it. “You have the same spell of protection as me. They can’t scry us, but then Sairché found you anyway. Found us. There are devils out there who would do almost anything to have an heir of Bryseis Kakistos. Sairché’s going to protect us—it was that or let her have you. She said she would protect us until we turn twenty-seven, and I thought maybe . . . maybe I could find some way—”
“Stop,” Havilar said, looking angrier than Farideh had ever seen. “You knew all that and you didn’t tell me?”
Farideh looked away. “I was scared.”
“Scared of what? Scared I’d do the same stupid thing and take a pact? Because you’re the only one who can handle it? Because you think I’m scared of some bugaboo old tiefling? Karshoj and tiamash, who cares who our greatwhatever-grandmother was? I’m not scared of nightmares!”
Farideh shook her head. “You should be. You need to be. Trust me, Havi, Lorcan is good for a devil. If you don’t—”
“I’m not going to make a pact!” she snapped. “Besides, how safe is it if now we have her chasing us around?”
“She can’t hurt us,” Farideh said. “That was the deal; that was the most important part.” She reached for her sister, but Havilar moved away. “She would have killed Lorcan back there. She would have taken you. I traded with her so she has to protect us instead. It was the only way I could stop her, I promise.”
Havilar brushed her hair back behind one ear. “I just want to get out of this pothac forest, figure out where we are, and find Brin.” She started tramping in the direction Sairché had indicated. “I cannot believe you got a necklace out of this, and I only got a disgusting potion.”
Dahl Peredur lingered over the last swallow of ale in his flagon, dreading returning to the offices above the Harper-run tavern. He had been sitting scribe for status meetings since daybreak, bent over a scroll and keeping his thoughts to himself. He would be there until sunset, no doubt, the Harper spymaster Tam Zawad asking him periodically
if he had anything to add, the other Harpers giving him the sort of looks that clearly said “You’d better not” or “Go ahead, try—you’ll be wrong again” or “What are you even doing here?” Looks he didn’t dare point out to Tam.
A petite Tuigan woman with a shock of short black hair and large eyes dropped into the chair across from him. “I have been sitting over there,” she said, “well within sight, for the last three-quarters of a bell, and I know you noticed. So why are you sulking over here?”
Dahl swallowed a sigh. “Well met, Khochen. You had company.” He nodded at the woman sitting at the table, wearing a carefully unremarkable dress, her blonde hair caught up in a scarf. Lady Hedare, the agent who carried messages for the Masked Lords of Waterdeep these days.
“Yes, I know. That’s half the reason you should join us.”
Dahl glanced at the noblewoman, who was very deliberately not looking at Khochen or him, and made a face. “I’m fine here.”
“She hasn’t got a brightbird,” Khochen sang.
“One,” he said, “I’m not interested in Lady Hedare, and I don’t know why you’d think I was. Two, she does so have a brightbird. That bodyguard is doing more than guarding her body—you’re the one who told me that.”
“Did I?” Khochen looked back at Lady Hedare and waved her over. “Well you have to assume if it’s secret, it can’t be that serious.” The noblewoman smiled at Khochen, but took one look at Dahl and declined with a polite gesture.
“Three,” Dahl said, “she doesn’t like me.”
Khochen glared at him. “Well, if you’re going to be sour at her.”
Dahl tilted his glass, considering the dregs. “I’ve never been sour at her.”
“Liar. She said something you didn’t like, I’ll wager. What was it?”
Dahl hesitated. “After Lord Nantar died and she came up . . . there was a misunderstanding. She thought I was Tam’s secretary, for Oghma’s sake.” He folded his arms. “I may have snapped at her. Now she acts as though I need to be coddled.”
The Adversary Page 5
