Scream of Stone w-3

by Philip Athans

  And that was the thought that finally worked its way in.

  His name came to her first: Ivar Devorast. Then the touch of his rough, calloused hands, the smell of his musk, the sound of his voice.

  If Pristoleph sensed that another had, in some way beyond the physical, come into their wedding bed, he gave no sign. Phyrea touched him and moved with him still, was warmed by him and warmed him both, but her mind began to soar from her body, her desires splitting into physical and spiritual.

  Ivar Devorast had gone away. She didn’t know where. Even Surero had lost touch with him. Phyrea had made inquiries at once subtle and overt, public and private, desperate and resigned. He was gone as though he never existed. His great undertaking had been ripped from him and gifted to the loudest-squealing toadies of the ransar. Tendays or longer had passed since she’d even thought of it.

  And as she made love to her husband on their wedding night, as cursed as it may have been, she even let herself, for the briefest of moments, forget there was an Ivar Devorast. But that brief moment had passed.

  A shrill scream tore through her as though she was being sawed in half. Though the sound came from inside her head, still her eardrums trembled against its onslaught. Her body tensed and every instinct in her made her fling Pristoleph from her. She scrambled away from him, but only a few inches, before her legs curled up, her knees knocked her chin, and her eyes pressed so tightly closed her temples began to throb.

  Pristoleph’s voice came to her as if from the bottom of a deep well. He called her name, confused at first, then insistent. She didn’t want to hear any real emotion in his voice, not just then, so her own mind masked the fear and desperation, the uncertainty that poured over her. His hand wrapped around her arm and she trembled but didn’t push him away. Tears burned her eyes, hotter even than his touch.

  “I can make them go away,” he all but shouted into her ear. His breath scalded her. “Let me help you.”

  She shook her head and was only barely conscious of telling him no.

  The little girl screamed again, and Phyrea sobbed and stiffened. When the apparition began to break things-a vase, a mirror, a windowpane-Pristoleph leaped from the bed, his hair dancing on his scalp like flames.

  “Go away!” he roared at the room itself.

  She screamed the word “No,” over and over and over again until the little girl stopped screaming and started laughing.

  Never let him say that again, the man with the scar warned her.

  We will kill you both if you let him say that again, the old woman threatened.

  And it will hurt, said the little boy.

  Then they went silent all at once. Nothing more was broken, and the feeling of them fled her. Phyrea let a convulsing sob vibrate through her sweat-soaked flesh then wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Pristoleph stood naked before her, heat radiating from his body, and she could tell that if he touched her then she would be burned. She felt herself smile when she thought of the pain-the pain that would make it go away-and she reached out for him.

  Pristoleph took a step back away from her.

  Embarrassed, she drew the satin sheet up to her shoulders to cover her nakedness, then turned her face away from him to cover her shame.

  7

  2 Alturiak, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

  TEMPLE OF THE DELICATE CHAOS, INNARLITH

  You seem very certain of Senator Pristoleph’s desires,” Wenefir said, his eyebrows crunched together in thought. “Has he said as much to you?”

  “Does he have to?” Marek Rymut asked. He smiled at the Cyricist who sat across from him. Wenefir’s bloated, too-soft body reeked of stale perfume and sweat. The gold and silver goblet in his hand had been drained and refilled eight times by an emaciated boy in a clean white tunic. The boy’s face was as soft and as clean as his clothing, but his eyes appeared almost dead. Even Marek didn’t want to imagine what so youthful a servant must have been put through to burn so much of him away. “What else is there for him?”

  “I assure you, Master Rymut, the subject of the Palace of Many Spires has come up between the senator and myself on numerous occasions. Not only has he never expressed an interest in the position, but he has repeatedly criticized those who covet it.”

  “They say it is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” said the Thayan, “and we both know the same holds true for men-but for genasi, who knows?”

  Wenefir bristled at the word genasi, and Marek returned the look with a smile.

  “I am no fool, Priest of Cyric,” the wizard said. “Our friend’s … father, was it? … was a native of the Elemental Plane of Fire.”

  “Careful, Master Rymut,” Wenefir warned, then once again emptied his goblet.

  The boy stepped up with the ewer, but the Cyricist waved him away.

  “Ever careful, thank you, Master Wenefir,” Marek replied with a wink. “I have friends and close associates among the planetouched, as among other races. I hold no prejudices in that regard.”

  “But some in this city do,” Wenefir said.

  “As a foreigner myself, I can assure you that you are indeed correct. Should Pristoleph wish to continue to keep his secret, as open as it might be among those with more than the most rudimentary education, so be it. I have kept and will continue to keep secrets aplenty on his behalf and others’.”

  Wenefir nodded and waved that train of thought away. They both had secrets, they all had secrets, and both he and Wenefir knew that their secrets would be kept as long as-and only just as long as-it was in the keeper’s best interest to hold them.

  “If it’s true what you say of his ambitions,” Wenefir said, “and I am not saying it is true, then this marriage is even more disastrous. Is it not?”

  Marek shrugged and smiled broader. “Phyrea is a delightful girl, just the type that Pristoleph and-dare I utter his cursed name-Ivar Devorast are most drawn to. Or so I’m told.” He winked at Wenefir, who grimaced. “I think she’ll add an air of refinement and culture, not to mention her father’s numerous contacts, to our friend’s social arsenal, don’t you?”

  “No,” Wenefir replied, not bothering to mask his surprise-even outrage at Marek’s sudden change of opinion. “No, I most certainly do not. First of all, her father’s contacts fled him the second his life was beaten out of him with his own leg.”

  Marek searched the priest’s mien for any hint that he knew it was Marek who had arranged that ignoble death, but if he did know, he didn’t betray himself.

  “Secondly, it is well known throughout the city-state that Phyrea is mad, and I don’t mean that garden variety madness that strikes all the scions of the aristocracy in their youth, but well and truly insane. If anything, an association with her will do him damage-considerable damage. I was certain you agreed with me on that, at least, and not long ago.”

  Marek shrugged in a theatrical way he hoped wouldn’t too deeply wound the Cyricist.

  “Well,” said the Thayan, “I suppose I’ll have to summon that prerogative we touched on earlier.”

  “‘Cyric smiles on those who change their minds,’” Wenefir recited, but it was plain he didn’t believe it-at least not just then. “But still….”

  “But still,” Marek said, “it seems to you as though my stated loyalty to Senator Pristoleph is in question.”

  “No more in question than your stated loyalty to Ransar Salatis.”

  Marek took that opportunity to lift his too-heavy goblet and sip the cloying, sweet wine. Wenefir swallowed, too, doing his best to mask the trepidation he obviously felt at having challenged the Red Wizard. Even in the safety of his secret, monster-infested temple, Wenefir had to know how powerful an enemy Marek Rymut would be-the same way Marek knew that Wenefir was hardly a man to be trifled with.

  “Here we sit,” the Thayan said, “in a temple dedicated to the Mad God. I know that your own loyalty is to that master. I think it goes without saying that when al
l is said and done my loyalty is to a certain tharchion far, far away in my beloved homeland. But alas, all has not been said or done, so here we are. You threw your lot in with Pristoleph early, I hear, and have maintained that even after you found a new, much more powerful and compelling master to serve. I have remained loyal to the highest bidder, while nurturing a loyalty to the next highest.”

  “And Pristoleph is the next highest?”

  “Pristoleph,” Marek said with a grin, “may well be the highest of all.”

  Wenefir swallowed again and looked off into the gloom of the subterranean chamber. He held up his goblet and the dead-eyed boy stepped to him and filled it again. He brought the cup to his lips but stopped before he drank and looked up at Marek, his eyes cold and hard. Marek returned the glare with a smile and Wenefir took a small sip of wine.

  “So you will make a ransar of Pristoleph,” the Cyricist said. “And he’ll be a ransar with more coins than friends.”

  “Only the poorest of the Fourth Quarter wretches have more friends than coins, my friend,” Marek relied. “And between the two of us, I should think, we could muster sufficient support.”

  “A process, I can guess, that you’ve already begun.”

  “In earnest,” Marek replied with a wink. “Senator Sitre has made his intentions known.”

  Wenefir’s eyes briefly crossed and he shook his head.

  “I know, I know,” Marek said, holding out a hand as though to steady the priest from across the space between them. “Sitre has long been a close associate of Salatis’s, but the Palace of Many Spires does tend to inspire as much jealousy as it does awe, especially in the unimaginative.”

  “Indeed,” said the priest.

  “I wonder,” Marek said, making a show of looking up at the ceiling, “what two men with the proper imagination could muster in a place like Innarlith?”

  He looked back at Wenefir, who gazed off into the gloom again, imagining.

  8

  12 Alturiak, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

  THE GRAND CANAL OF THE SECOND EMPEROR, SHOU LUNG

  Ivar Devorast sat on a hill a hundred and thirty miles west along the Grand Canal of the Second Emperor from the city of Wuhu, a hundred and fifty miles northwest of Ch’ungkung. Ran Ai Yu stopped, the bowls of rice beginning to burn her hands, and stared at him. She had seen westerners in Shou Lung before, had seen the faraway, lost looks in their eyes, the confusion and fear in their halting speech, the insecurity that came from being in a place at once familiar and so alien. She knew she’d felt the same the first time she’d ventured west into Faerun, and she still felt that way most of the time, even after having spent so much time in Innarlith, Calimport, and surrounding cities.

  But Ivar Devorast showed none of that discomfort. His eyes darted from the unfamiliar to the exotic without ever betraying a sense of the difference between one and the other. He’d picked up a few words of Kao te Shou already, even though they had been in her home country for but a few days.

  The voyage had lasted a month-fast even for her-and Devorast had seemed equally at home aboard the vessel he’d built for her, the wondrous Jie Zuo, as he was passing through the occasional magical portal they’d used to shave time from the voyage. She had been concerned about his reaction to that, but he’d had none. He seemed either to trust her to convey him safely to Shou Lung, or he simply didn’t care. She hoped it was the former, but feared it was the latter.

  And so there he sat, on a high hilltop overlooking the Grand Canal of the Second Emperor, stretched out far below them, a ribbon of blue-black water no different from any river. On the other side, following the canal’s lazily-winding course between the moundlike hills ran the Kaifeng Highway, a band of dusty brown punctuated here and there by the clouds of dust kicked up by a passing caravan. Ships and barges alike plied the waters of the canal, square sails making the most of the cool, strong breeze that tore through the hills. He sat facing north into Hungtse Province, though where he sat was the northern frontier of Wang Kuo. Ran Ai Yu knew that Ivar Devorast cared little for that distinction, or for any of the names people had given anything. She spared a glance at her own ship, which sat tied to the edge of the canal three hundred feet below. The ceramic tiles sparkled in the sunlight, and the sight of it filled her with awe, even though it had been hers for more than six years.

  “Rice?” Devorast asked, not turning his head.

  Ran Ai Yu smiled and stepped forward, not speaking until she had come to his side and he looked up at her.

  “Yours will be no less impressive,” she said.

  He glanced at the bowl of rice she held out to him and cracked just the tiniest of smiles. Ran Ai Yu felt her heart expand in her chest, but she fought down the feeling. She couldn’t keep herself from blushing, though, but Devorast didn’t seem to notice.

  He took the bowl from her hand and said, “Thank you. For the rice.”

  “May I sit?” she asked, and he nodded.

  She sank into a lotus position next to him, close but not so close that anything could be implied. She took a deep breath and settled her own rice bowl in the folds of her robe.

  They sat for a long time in silence, neither of them eating, just staring off into the distance at the bald hills on the other side of the canal, at the wakes of the boats running along the water, and the clouds drifting lazily across the azure sky.

  “You will have to go back,” she said, and her jaw started to tremble so she closed her mouth.

  “I have only been here a few days.”

  “And what have you learned?”

  He didn’t answer for a long time, so Ran Ai Yu waited.

  “Did I come here to learn something?” he asked her finally, the sound of a challenge in his voice.

  “Didn’t you?” she asked. “You came here to see the Grand Canal of the Second Emperor, and here it is. Will it help you build your own?”

  He nodded but seemed determined to leave it at that.

  “They will finish it without you,” she said. “They will try, at least.”

  Again, he failed to respond.

  “You can stay here as long as you like,” she said. “It would be my honor should you decide to accompany me to my home in Tsingtao. There you can stay for as long as you wish.”

  She didn’t expect an answer from him, and got none.

  “Should you decide to stay in self-imposed exile”-at that he looked at her, startling her-“then nothing would make me happier than to be your host for as long as you wish. But you should not choose that. You should not go to Tsingtao with me, or stay here upon this hill. You should return to finish what you have begun, and finish it in your own way, and in your own time.”

  He sighed-a rare sound indeed from Ivar Devorast.

  “I will take you back, if you wish,” she said, “aboard Jie Zuo.”

  Another long stretch of silence passed while she watched two clouds slowly collide and merge over the far hills of Hungtse.

  “How long was that?” Ivar Devorast asked.

  Ran Ai Yu looked at him, but he continued to stare out at the horizon.

  “How long did we just go without speaking?” he asked.

  Ran Ai Yu shook her head.

  “I am curious about things like that,” he said. “We measure distance. We break it up into inches, feet, and miles. But time passes only at the whim of greater forces: the sun, the moon, the stars, and the tides.”

  Ran Ai Yu narrowed her eyes, and try as she might, she could not understand what Ivar Devorast meant to tell her.

  “You should go back,” she said, unable to keep the regret from her voice.

  He looked out into the far reaches of the farthest east.

  9

  20 Alturiak, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

  FIRESTEAP CITADEL

  They stepped out of the coach and into a cacophony of taps and cracks. Hundreds of men milled about, seemingly at random, groups surrounding pairs fighting each other with wooden swords. Ot
her rings of men encircled half a dozen men fighting another half a dozen men with long, blunt-ended poles. Orders and encouragement-and more than a few insults and jibes-burst free of the general din.

  Pristoleph nodded to a lieutenant who saluted him and helped Phyrea down from the coach. Not paying attention to the lieutenant’s status report, Pristoleph watched his young bride take in the scene. She squinted in the winter overcast from under a wide-brimmed hat.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Pristoleph said, cutting off the officer’s report.

  The soldier bowed and scurried away into the general confusion.

  “You’re sure you’re well?” Pristoleph said, allowing every bit of the doubt he held to show in both his voice and his face.

  Phyrea didn’t look at him. She held a small black parasol under one arm, which she fiddled with. He couldn’t help thinking she wanted to open it, as though the dull gray light was too bright for her. He’d been noticing that she was growing more and more sensitive to light, as though she was becoming a creature of the Underdark, and he didn’t like that.

  As he continued to watch her, her tight squint began to relax a little and she almost began to smile.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “This is yours now?” she asked, and he could tell she was impressed. Just then Pristoleph thought he’d somehow done the impossible. “You bought this?”

  “The citadel?” he replied, taking her by the arm and leading her along the winding dirt track that led through the drilling grounds toward the tall stone fortress. “Firesteap Citadel belongs to the ransar-or, well, let’s say, the people of Innarlith. I bought the castellan.”