Mehen returned then in a fouler temper than he’d left. After showing his leaflet to as many of the former refugees as would listen, he’d discovered that none of them had seen Constancia. Or at least, none would admit to it. And a fair number of them went out of their way not to talk to him at all.
“Brin says we should go to Luskan,” Havilar said.
Mehen scowled at Brin. “Did he? Which are you, boy, a thug or a hunter?”
“N-Neither?”
“Then I suppose I won’t be taking your advice,” he said. “Luskan can wait until we run out of options. Nobody’s going to help us in Luskan. It’s a Hellhole.”
See? Havilar mouthed to Brin.
Mehen looked up at her, then over her head, back at the caravan. “Farideh! Get back here! What in the Hells is wrong with you?”
Farideh was hurrying back from the lead cart, her cheeks scarlet. Brin hadn’t even seen her leave. The lead cart had been hit hard—the driver lay splayed across the seat with an arrow protruding from his ribs while his sister pressed a hand to the wound. Fortunately, she was also pouring a healing draft into his mouth.
Brin frowned.
The healing draft was in the same metal vial Farideh had been trying to press on him.
“Are you all right?” Mehen demanded.
“I’m fine,” she said. She turned rather deliberately away, to fuss with her haversack.
On the cart, the woman wrenched the arrow from her brother’s chest and he gasped. He sat up, wiping at the blood that slicked his skin, and breathing heavily—but breathing.
“Time to go,” Mehen said with a pointed look at Brin. He herded both twins ahead of him and down the road, without so much as a farewell. Both sisters glanced back once—Havilar with a jaunty wave, Farideh with a more solemn look—and it was only moments before they were down the road, and out of sight.
Brin went back to the cart. The cart owner was still alive—though nursing a wounded arm—and so were his daughters, and Brin said a little prayer of thanks.
“Monsters,” the man said, watching as the tieflings and the dragonborn headed down the road. “As if anyone with any sense would hand someone over to a pair of devil-children. One’s a curiosity, two’s a conspiracy. That and a dragonborn. Never know what those types are thinking.”
“Yes,” Brin said, shame in his chest. “Well.”
He realized hadn’t apologized for thinking they were devils. What had seemed like an honest mistake turned cruel and thoughtless when he heard the cart owner saying the same. He hadn’t thanked them for saving him either, or for saving the rest of the caravan. Brin turned to help Tam with another man, a farmer with a broken arm, wishing for all the world he was traveling with a pair of devil-children and a dragonborn.
THE HOUSE OF KNOWLEDGE, NEVERWINTER
10 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE DARK CIRCLE (1478 DR)
PATCHES OF BLUE LIGHT SCINTILLATED ALONG THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE sleeping man. The four acolytes arrayed around his cot could not seem to take their eyes off them, nor would they come closer than a few steps from the spellplague-touched man. Rohini pursed her lips.
“Come on,” she coaxed, holding out the cotton bandages. “He doesn’t bite.”
“But …” one of the acolytes, a fair-haired human girl ventured. “Isn’t he contagious?”
“If you are going to care for the victims of the Chasm,” Rohini said, “you are going to have to firm up.” She set the bandages on the table beside her and took up shears to cut the previous dressing loose. “You can’t take on the guardsmen who fall in the river or take a tumble down a pile of rubble and leave all the interesting patients to your colleagues. Now, make certain you don’t bind the dressing too tightly. He needs his blood still.”
The acolytes eyed each other uneasily, still wary of the spellscar. Even in the sunlight streaming down from the many broken windows, the blue light was unmistakable. Rohini risked a glance through the archway and across the corridor. The door was still shut.
“Couldn’t we just cast a healing on him?” a dark-skinned young man asked. “Isn’t that why we’re here? Because we have Oghma’s blessing?”
“You are here,” Rohini said, a little more sternly, “to serve Oghma by assisting Brother Vartan’s studies of the Chasm. And to serve Neverwinter by taking care of her guardsmen.” She wound the clean bandage around the man’s arm. “Neither of which you do by wasting your god-given magic on a flesh wound.”
“But the spellplague—”
Rohini cut him off with a sharp look that held more than the promise of punishment, though she knew from experience that was all the human boy would see. “I trust, Josse, that you don’t believe you can heal the spellscarred when not even the god of knowledge has managed it?” The boy dropped his eyes.
Rohini’s eyes flicked back to the door. Still shut, but there was most definitely a stirring behind it, quiet and easy to dismiss … but more than she’d heard all morning.
“You are all very blessed,” she said, her voice light and sweet again. They all lifted their heads. They wanted to please her. “But you must learn these simpler skills and save your prayers for when they are needed. You will see wounds far more traumatic than this. Far more deadly. Infection. Disease. Poisons. If you have already worn yourself out casting healing magic on a scrape, then where shall you be?”
Definitely a stirring. Vartan’s guest was preparing to leave. She tied the dressing neatly closed, imagining for the barest moment what would happen to the wound if she had bound it good and tight—the sickening of the blood, the putrifying wound—and then locked that part of her mind away again. That wasn’t who Rohini was any longer.
“There,” she said. “Now the four of you take care of the rest. The bandages are here, and be certain your hands are clean.”
No sooner had she set them to their task but the door opened and two men came out. Brother Vartan—the head of the researchers and of the makeshift hospital the ancient temple to the god of knowledge housed—waved the shorter human through the door ahead of him. Rohini moved closer to the archway, making certain she did not seem obtrusive.
“I beg you to only consider—” Vartan began.
“We have considered,” the other man said. He met the half-elf priest’s impassioned expression with an equally dispassionate one, not bothering to wipe away the sweat that streamed down his temples and beaded his brow. His suit was damp with it. “We have no interest in what you offer. Anyone can study the Chasm. It brings my patrons no gain.”
“You were happy with Brother Anthus’s work,” Vartan said.
Very bad, Rohini thought. That was not a path to test. If Vartan pushed the representative of the Sovereignty too far, everything would be in jeopardy. She stepped into the corridor.
“Brother Vartan?” she said. The priest turned to her, as did the other man. Well dressed and haughty, Rohini thought, but he carried with him an odor not unlike a dockside at dusk—cold and wet and dank and vaguely fishy. A necessary evil, she thought, remembering her orders.
“Ah,” Vartan said, “Rohini. This is my second-in-command—as it were—Rohini. She was Brother Anthus’s assistant before his untimely death. Rohini this is—”
“That is not necessary,” the man said. His pale eyes bored into Rohini for a moment. She fought the urge to stare him down and made a polite curtsey.
“Well, nevertheless, I wish you good health,” she said, as if she did not notice the man’s consideration. “I must steal Vartan away from you, I’m afraid. I do hope your talks went well?” She toyed with a frizzy curl of her hair.
The man did not answer. Not for the first time, Rohini cursed that she did not quite know what she was dealing with in Vartan’s nameless, would-be patron. He might look like any other mortal, but looks could be deceiving. Tempting as it was to test his boundaries, she had been warned not to.
“Another time perhaps,” she said.
The man looked at Vartan. “Perhaps.”
“Yes,�
�� Vartan said, giving Rohini a hard stare. “Another day. Farewell, sir.”
The sweating man turned and walked away down the corridor without responding.
“Things were improving,” Vartan said. “Why did you chase him off that way?”
“Because you were losing him,” Rohini answered. “What did you say? What did you promise him?”
“That isn’t your concern.”
“Your concerns are my concerns. What did you promise him?”
Vartan’s dark eyes flicked over her face, as if he were trying to remember why he felt the need to tell her. “Access to my findings,” he said. “Access to Anthus’s findings—the ones we know about.”
Rohini shut her eyes. Whatever secrets Anthus had recorded, the Sovereignty not only knew about them now—they knew he had recorded them.
“He ought to see the merit in my goals,” Vartan said, frowning in the direction the Sovereignty’s agent had taken. “In our goals,” he amended. “Who wouldn’t see the virtue in curing the effects of spellplague? In resurrecting the dead gods?”
“Oh, Vartan,” she said. She looked up at him, making sure her eyes were brown and soft. He always paid attention when they were brown and soft. She reached out and laid a hand on his forearm, where he’d rolled his sleeve up from the heat. The muscles beneath her hand twitched, but Vartan didn’t break his gaze.
“It’s important,” she said, “that you convince our friend there that you are worth his time. You are not going to do so unless you give him something that he wants.”
“Something that he wants?” Vartan said.
“Yes. And he isn’t going to tell you outright what that is, so you are going to have to tease it out of him.”
“Tease it out of him.”
“I’m well aware it’s not your strong suit,” Rohini continued. “But you want to do it. You want to find a way into the Sovereignty’s good graces. And soon. We both know that.”
“We do,” Vartan agreed.
Rohini stood and stepped in close. She pressed her mouth to the half-elf’s cheek, and with that kiss, wrapped his every thought with a trust for her so complete he would not realize she’d planted every word in his head.
He blinked, glanced around at the hallway, and blinked a few times more. “What … what were we …”
“Those sound like very clever plans,” Rohini said. “I only wish Brother Anthus were still with us, that he could assure us of their brilliance.”
Brother Anthus, Vartan’s predecessor, had been well ensconced in the Sovereignty’s good graces when Rohini first came to Neverwinter. Anthus never pressed Sovereignty’s proxy past his limits. Unfortunately, he’d made the mistake of pushing Rohini past her limits, which wasn’t a mistake anyone made twice.
She smiled sweetly at Brother Vartan. “I have to return to the acolytes.”
“Oh, of course,” he said. “But … we must have evenfeast later to discuss things. I shall be in the chapel in contemplation. Would you meet me there?”
Rohini smiled because she could not shudder. It might have been old and without a dedicated cleric, but the chapel was still hallowed ground. It would still be colder than a sword in a snowdrift in the heart of the Fifth Layer. It would still force her away.
“Certainly,” she said. “Until then.”
She watched Vartan walk away. She would simply have to find some task to engross herself in—caught up laboring over some poor spellscarred fool, perhaps. Or listening to an acolyte’s private heartbreak. She would pin her curls up, soft and loose, and find someplace where the sun’s low light would paint her in heartbreaking colors. That was the sort of follower Vartan wanted in her, romantic and feminine, traipsing after him with doting eyes and all the right, breathy questions. He would never think to ask why she hadn’t come to the chapel.
Rohini was so distracted by her planning that she walked into the wardroom without noticing the acolytes, and the succubus had only a moment to register that the young man who’d spoken earlier was disregarding her instructions and casting a healing spell.
Before she could stop him, his prayer was answered and traces of divine magic burst out in a scattered wind that bit into the succubus’s flesh like tiny icy needles.
The succubus flinched. Broken planes, but she hated acolytes.
The day had dragged on for so long, and the waybread Havilar had eaten a few hours before was nothing but a memory and an unpleasant taste in her mouth, but as the caravansary edged into sight, Havilar perked right up. A bed would be nice, dinner would be excellent, but most of all, Havilar was craving company. They were close enough now to hear the shouts of a wagon master and the whinny of horses. The sharp laughter of a woman rose above it and for a moment, Havilar imagined herself that woman—wild and carefree and striking to any eye—
“Havi!” Mehen barked. She looked over her shoulder to see Mehen watching her pointedly, and Farideh shaking out a wrinkled, hooded cloak. Havilar stopped cold.
“Tell me you’re joking,” she said.
“Put on your cloak,” Mehen said.
“It’s hotter than a campfire!”
“Put. On. Your. Cloak. You can take it off when we know what we’re dealing with.”
Farideh was wrestling her hood over her horns. Havilar gave her a pointed look. Mehen worried too much.
Farideh returned the look with a stern, wordless glare of her own, as if telling Havilar to put her damned cloak on.
Havilar scowled. Farideh worried too much too. At least between those two, Havilar figured, she didn’t need to worry much at all. But she knew if she didn’t follow suit, they’d never get to the caravansary—the two worrywarts would insist they sleep in the woods for “safety’s sake.” Away from anyone interesting.
“I think,” Havilar said as they crossed the mostly empty courtyard, “we should spend some of the bounty on new cloaks. Pretty cloaks. Ones that don’t look like tents. Or itch.”
“Havi, put your hood up,” Farideh said, “please?”
“No one’s here,” Havilar said. “They make them with ribbons and things, you know?”
Her sister’s frown twitched into a smile. “Which would go so well with your glaive.”
“It would if I put a ribbon on Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers.”
Farideh laughed, and Mehen scowled back at them as they reached the inn. “Havi, put your hood up.”
The taproom of the inn wasn’t terribly crowded, but it was early yet, hardly sundown. Havilar surveyed the occupants—a handful of men, each sitting alone and wrapped around their ales; a raucous group playing cards and not paying attention to anyone else; a couple old wagon masters leaning against the bar. More than a few were staring at the trio. None of them looked remotely worth talking to.
“M’henish,” Havilar muttered. Farideh squeezed her arm, and despite herself, Havilar’s tail flicked nervously.
Mehen surveyed the room as well, looking for the bounty, no doubt. Havilar didn’t bother to look—she was sure Farideh was right. They had passed the dark-haired woman.
Mehen steered them to an empty table in the corner of the room and then went to the bar to pay for supper and lodging. Perhaps half those staring found something else to look at, until Havilar pulled her hood back a little—and a dozen pairs of eyes honed in on her.
“Havi—”
Havilar waved her off. “It’s too hot for that nonsense.”
In the shadow of her hood, Farideh flushed, but she said nothing. Good, Havilar thought. Maybe she was calming herself a little bit. Maybe she was worrying less about what a lot of boring old men thought. Havilar was sure Farideh would crave some company, too, if only she stopped worrying so much. Being driven out of Arush Vayem was the best thing that had ever happened to them—or it would be if she and Farideh would start taking advantage of it.
Mehen came back with two full bowls of greasy dumplings and a thin stew of greens and gravy. “Havi, put your hood up.”
“She’s right,” Faride
h said. “It’s ungodly hot.” She looked down at the steaming bowls. “Especially if that’s supper.”
Mehen glowered down his snout at both of them. “The innkeeper says no food in the rooms. You have to eat down here, and that means you keep your cloaks on.”
“No one cares,” Havilar said, even though they were still getting a few curious looks.
“Stay here,” Mehen said. “Finish your suppers and go up to the room. Second room left of the stairwell. Then you may take off the cloaks.”
“Where are you going?” Farideh asked.
“To ask after our missing bounty,” he said as he walked away.
“Karshoj,” Farideh spat once Mehen was out of hearing. Havilar giggled—Farideh almost never swore—and got a dark look for it. “He’s being impossible lately,” Farideh said.
Havilar shrugged. “He’s being Mehen.” The doors opened and more people came in—more than a few caught sight of Havilar and stared. “I thought you two liked worrying together.”
Farideh picked up her spoon. “There’s a difference between being careful and not listening to reason.”
The dumplings were oily and heavily seasoned with onions, but they were hot and worlds better than old bread and dried meat. Havilar ate with one eye on the door and the people trickling in. These were a broader mix of sorts—younger, not-so-armed, looking around the taproom as if it were a novelty and not a fact of life.
Havilar elbowed Farideh. “Look. It’s that fellow you saved.”
The dark-haired boy lingered near the door, letting families and wagoneers go ahead. He looked tired, Havilar thought. Maybe that was why he didn’t look around or notice her and Farideh.
Farideh looked up and made a noncommittal noise. Havilar frowned at her, wondering not for the first time if there were something fundamentally wrong with her twin.
“What was his name again?” Havilar asked.
“Brin.”
Havilar nudged Farideh again with her elbow. “Go see if he wants to say thank you by eating with us.”
Farideh turned completely scarlet. “No.”
Brimstone Angels Page 6
