“Yes,” the dragonborn said. “Havilar’s glaive is as good as her right hand. She’s quick and she moves with the battle—difficult to hit. She tells me the boy has the blessing of Torm, though he’s not a true priest. His magic doesn’t work always, but if it doesn’t come, he’s likely passable with his sword.” Something flickered in him, threatened to break through the charm, but failed. “But it’s Farideh who will help the other two stop you,” he said. “She is clever enough to combine them, to lead them when they’re afraid or reckless. And she has a pact with a devil.”
Rohini laughed. “Does she now? Well, perhaps she and I could strike up a bargain. Who does she work for? What sort of powers does she have?”
“She creates fire out of nothing. She makes it rain brimstone. She can vanish from one place and reappear a distance away in a burst of smoke—”
Rohini swore, and Mehen stopped reciting. She looked back over her shoulder at the two tiefling girls tying each other’s aprons. A devil-pacted warlock was one thing, a Malbolgian-pacted warlock was another—and the last spell the dragonborn had named was special to Glasya’s powers. This would take some caution, lest Rohini’s plans come apart and Invadiah remove her altogether. The last thing she wanted was the godsdamned pradixikai swooping down on her careful work. She’d simply have to find the pact maker and have the girl removed.
“I don’t suppose you know this devil’s name?”
“Lorcan.”
Rohini went as cold as if she’d been thrown bodily into a chapel full of priests casting blessings. “Lorcan?”
The dragonborn nodded. “She says he’s a cambion, but what I know is he looks like a young man, but with a devil’s form. Wings and horns and such.”
“I know what a cambion is,” Rohini snapped. If Invadiah’s son was in Neverwinter, was he there to aid the erinyes? Or undermine her? Or just undermine Rohini? Had Farideh been the one who’d jostled Mehen from his domination? This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Does she tell you what Lorcan says to her? What he asks her to do?”
“Sometimes,” the dragonborn said. “Sometimes she tells her sister, and Havilar tells me. And what she doesn’t tell Havilar, she keeps to herself.”
“Then you don’t know what Lorcan wants or where he has himself hidden.”
The dragonborn shook his head. “He came when the orc attacked, and then left. I don’t trust him.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rohini scowled. Bargaining with Invadiah’s spoiled son would be an enormous waste of her time. The cambion would probably think he had some sort of leverage. But if she didn’t, there was always the chance she was going to rile Invadiah. What was he up to?
Perhaps he was up to nothing—perhaps she should be asking about Invadiah.
She considered Mehen a moment, wondering if it was worth having to dispose of the tieflings and the human, to risk Invadiah’s anger or subterfuge, to get a dragonborn for Anthus’s servitors. It wasn’t.
Rohini smiled.
“You mentioned there were orcs?” she said. He nodded. “Are there more in Neverwinter Wood?”
“Swarms,” the dragonborn said. “Scouts from Many-Arrows, they say.”
“Perfect,” Rohini said.
The Hall of Justice was not a Tormish temple, not really. But looking on it, Brin still felt as if he might throw up.
Before the catastrophes that had rocked Neverwinter, before the Spellplague that had remade the world, the Hall of Justice had been a temple to a god called Tyr. But Tyr had died—as so many gods had in those days—and his priests found their prayers unanswered. The temple beside the river had stood the century since, the plasterwork giving way here and there to time, earthquakes, and the furious volcano.
Then came Lord Neverember, who took over the temple as his own and filled it with new priests whose god was still listening, to soften the fact he’d commandeered the temple. There were holy champions inside now, performing the rites to Tyr alongside those of Torm, and more guarding the doorway, but it was not a Tormish temple. Not really.
Brin still hesitated at the opposite side of the road.
Even if there are Tormish priests and paladins in there, he told himself, they aren’t Tormtar. They wouldn’t be the brutally efficient sort of holy champion he knew from the Citadel. In fact, Brin felt pretty certain that if Constancia came to the Hall of Justice looking for him, she’d first dress down the two plinth-heads slouching on either side of the door and giving the medusa-eye to passersby. They were holy champions, by the gods, they could bloody well stand up straight! If her squire brought her a breastplate that dull, she’d give him a nail brush and an hour to remedy it!
Brin shuddered. Ye gods, if he came back smelling of puke Havilar would never let him hear the end of it.
Nothing for it, he told himself. He needed to make sure Constancia found him. He’d already gone to the southern gate and told the guards his name—his real name—where he was, and that he was expecting his cousin to arrive. They’d chased him off for pestering them, but they’d remember if Constancia showed up asking.
The Hall of Justice seemed the next likeliest place she might go—but would she, if there was a bounty on her head? Would she take the risk?
Should Brin be taking the risk?
He thought of the orcs, of the way he’d panicked when the twins appeared, of Constancia’s perpetual expression of disappointment. Now was not the time to be a coward. He took a deep breath and started to cross the road.
The door to the temple swung open as Brin reached the foot of the stairs, and of all people, Tam came out. He spotted Brin, and an almost maniac look overtook the expression of disconcert he’d worn.
Brin started to turn, but the silverstar was quicker. He grabbed Brin by the shoulder and stopped him in his tracks.
“Ah,” he said. “My assistant. Come along. I need your help with some rituals.” He steered Brin on the road north, toward the river. Brin went along, too startled to fight at first and then a bit relieved he wouldn’t have to face the Tormish priests.
“Why is it,” Tam said once they’d gone a ways, “when I ask after a young man of your description traveling from Cormyr, does the ranking priest of Torm turn gray and ask that I bring you in to speak with him? Please don’t do me the discourtesy of telling me you don’t know,” he added as Brin started to speak.
Brin shook Tam’s hand off. “Fine. I don’t intend to tell you. Better?”
“Much,” Tam said. “I’d rather you be honest than assume I can’t spot a simple lie.”
“I did all right before. You were perfectly happy to believe I was just some lovestruck idiot.”
Tam chuckled. “It made more sense than what we have here.”
“More sense than a silverstar traveling to Neverwinter for ‘a few days’ on the Harpers’ coin?” The road came to a bridge, a wide stonework pathway traced with carvings of fishes and sea life. They shouldered their way through the foot traffic. “I don’t see why you’re asking about me, anyway. It’s not your business.”
“Everything that doesn’t fit is my business,” Tam said. “Are you going to explain yourself, or let me guess?”
Neither, Brin thought. He was back to wanting to vomit. “Where are we going?”
“The Blacklake District. I told you. I need a hand with a ritual,” Tam said. “Your accent’s what’s troubling me. I’ve known Cormyreans enough to hear that your vowels are short, but not short enough. You don’t use much of the Suzailan slang. But you have the cadence down. And the manners.”
“My tutors would disagree,” Brin said.
Tam stopped and pulled Brin to a stop beside him at the end of the bridge. Brin’s stomach started doing flips. “Answer me one question, and do me the courtesy of honesty,” Tam said, all seriousness. “Are you fleeing Netheril?”
Brin nearly sighed in relief. Netheril, the shadow empire north of Cormyr, had swallowed whole nations in its expansion. They worshiped Shar, the goddess of loss and the anc
ient enemy of Selûne, and generally had the rulers of every other nation on their toes and hoping their successors would do something about the Empire of Shade. If that was all the silverstar was worried about …
“No,” Brin said. “Only in the sense that I’m farther from them here than there.”
Tam pursed his mouth. “One hopes. Come along.”
At the end of the bridge, a strange sort of procession crossed their path: a small man, his fine lightweight suit soaked through with sweat, followed by two other men, similarly … damp. It was hot, to be sure, but even the tieflings in their heavy cloaks didn’t sweat so much. Brin tried not to stare and failed.
The last man in the line, a lanky sort of fellow, turned and looked Brin directly in the eye. His own eyes were colorless. Eerie. They gave Brin the sense he was staring into the space between the stars somehow … like a hole between worlds …
Tam grabbed ahold of Brin’s shoulder again, and Brin blinked. The effect was gone.
The man turned away, and the procession passed on, up the crossroad toward a row of houses, leaning precariously over the sluggish river. They disappeared into the third one, a bluish monstrosity that looked as if it were being held together only by luck and a whim of the Weave. But like the man’s eyes, there was something strange about the building. Something wrong.
“Stay away from there,” Tam said too lightly, “would you?”
“Do I look a fool?” Brin asked. He looked back at Tam. “What were they?”
“I don’t know,” Tam said, heading again into the shattered quarter. “Based on what I’ve seen in this city, I don’t believe I wish to know.”
Brin hurried after him. “You can’t riddle me with questions and then turn around and drop vagaries like that. What do you mean?”
“When a city gets as old as Neverwinter, old powers entrench themselves in all the gaps and crannies.” He slowed, scanning the broken buildings and piles of rubble that replaced the rebuilt structures. “And when a city this old falls, that just makes the gaps and crannies much, much larger. If there aren’t Netherese agents here, I’ll be surprised. If there aren’t worse things—”
“What’s worse than Netherese?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
Brin watched him a moment. “Are you really a Harper?”
“I couldn’t tell you if I were. Are you really a holy champion?”
Brin scowled and didn’t answer.
A few blocks on, a patch of ruins had been cleared, leaving behind a large, more-or-less flat plot of land, waiting to be built upon. Tam paced it out and found the approximate center.
From his pack, Tam took out four sticks of incense, smelling of sandalwood and vinestars and shimmering faintly silver.
“Here,” he handed them to Brin. “Put them in the corners of the square.” As Brin went around the plot and pressed them into the corners, Tam followed, murmuring prayers to Selûne and lighting the incense in smooth, ceremonious gestures. Then, he sat down, cross-legged at the center of the space and beckoned Brin to join him.
“Do you know this ritual?” he asked. Brin shook his head. “That’s all right. You’ve assisted before with other rituals? It’s not much different. Just call down what power you can from Torm and add it to mine. I want this one to last as long as possible.”
“Will they mix?” Brin said sitting down across from him. “Torm and Selûne?”
“Of course.” Tam shrugged. “Might change the look of the place a little, but nothing dramatic. Close your eyes.”
Brin tried to clear his mind, to focus solely on the scent of the incense, the sound of the blade on the whetstone, the weight of duty … and not the concern that the men from the eerie house were something worse or that Constancia might catch him and drag him back to do his duty or that there were Netherese hiding in the shadows. He started to pray, the hard tones of the prayers to Torm mixing with the soft, cyclical chant to the powers of the Moonmaiden, Selûne.
An hour passed. Brin did not notice. Only that suddenly, the incense burned away and the sun was no longer hot on his back. He opened his eyes.
Instead of an empty space, the cleared land now held a temple made of marble and trimmed with silver foil. He and Tam sat in the middle of the temple, rows of backed benches facing an altar below a skylight that would let in the light of the full moon when it rose that night. Over the altar, a statue of a woman with long white hair and a patient smile stood guard, framed by seven silver stars.
“Is that what she looks like?” Brin asked, standing.
“Yes,” said Tam, coming carefully to his feet, “and no. I’ve not seen her face, but the ritual creates the statue, so in a sense, she decides. Does it look like someone …” He turned and trailed off.
It was missing some of the more obvious features. But if you added horns, the swell along the brown, the solid eyes …
The statue of Selûne looked suspiciously like the tiefling twins. Tam studied the statue, his brow furrowed.
“What does it mean?” Brin asked. “Is it a warning?”
Tam pursed his lips. “It means something’s brewing. Where are you staying?”
“The House of Knowledge.”
“I suggest you head on back there,” Tam said, still frowning at the statue, “and start thinking about where you’re going to go next.”
NEVERWINTER
13 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE DARK CIRCLE (1478 DR)
FARIDEH WAS A PROBLEM. AN UNKNOWN.
No, Rohini thought, watching the girl as she scrubbed heavy sample jars. Not so unknown. The coincidences laid atop each other, too thick to be ignored: Lorcan’s warlock in Neverwinter. Lorcan’s warlock, who traveled with a dragonborn who thought she was his daughter. Invadiah’s son’s warlock, who always seemed to be watching Rohini.
Rohini leaned against the wall and gnawed at a thumbnail. Too many coincidences meant something was brewing.
It must be Invadiah. If Invadiah wanted to keep an eye on Rohini, her son’s pretty-faced tiefling would make a fair spy. But Invadiah would surely know Rohini would suspect something the moment the tiefling’s connections came out—and there was no scenario where they wouldn’t come out. Rohini was nothing if not thorough. He has a Toril Thirteen, Invadiah had said, had taunted. She should have seen this coming.
But then there was Lorcan: How did Lorcan fit? Would he try to undermine his mother? Would he have tried to undermine Rohini without Invadiah’s prompting? As far as Rohini knew, not a devil in the Hells who knew of Lorcan thought he was anything but useless, the reason Invadiah had no more offspring—she didn’t want another one like him.
But if he had a Toril Thirteen … well, you had to be a little clever to manage that, Rohini knew. Was he clever enough to play a fool and slip beneath the notice of most of Malbolge too? Was he clever enough to train his warlock to act like a babe in the woods? How clever did Invadiah know he was?
The question of what to do with Farideh was no different, a matter to be most thorough and thoughtful about. To kill her would send a message to Invadiah. Better still, to dominate the warlock and make her act according to Rohini’s will. Make her kill Lorcan. Make her feed Invadiah the sort of lies that would label Lorcan an oathbreaker. Invade her form and take her to the Hells, an assassin with no will and a disposable body.
I will show them what they’ve miscounted in me, Rohini thought. I will punish the erinyes for all they’ve—
Rohini calmed herself. Those were ancient thoughts, suited to another era, another battle. The erinyes were not the succubi’s enemies, however they antagonized one another now, however they’d clashed in the Blood Wars before. It might sting to defer to the erinyes as her betters, but it was far, far better than being the wisest demon in the chaotic Abyss.
And the fact that the same Ascension that granted the erinyes mastery over the succubi also took away the erinyes’ wings—and their beauty—soothed that sting a little.
A little, but not much.
For the moment. She would miss her wings. She suspected all the erinyes did.
Rohini kept watching the girl, who for once was not looking at Rohini, but looking back over her shoulder at her twin twirling the broom like a polearm.
It seemed lately that every time Rohini looked up, there was Lorcan’s tiefling giving her a troubled stare. Though, she admitted, it was possible that it was the other one some of the time. She couldn’t seem to tell them apart. One has a glaive, she thought. One has a rod. One has the gold eyes, one has the silver one.
What either was watching for, Rohini couldn’t fathom. To another eye, the girl would seem perfectly innocent—but Rohini knew better. Who had ever heard of a guileless warlock? There was no point in such a thing.
Rohini chewed her lip. Whatever was happening, it was anything but simple.
Much as it boiled in her brain, Rohini had other, more important things to attend to. She would have to decide what to do about the girl later.
Farideh looked over at Rohini then, held her gaze a moment and nodded in acknowledgment, as if she’d known all along Rohini was watching. As if she knew what the succubus was thinking.
Rohini nodded back, accepting the challenge. Farideh could make things as complicated as she liked; Rohini was anything but simple herself.
Havilar didn’t care for Rohini or her ideas about good uses of time and building character, but she had to appreciate the hospitaler’s punctuality. The very second Rohini headed down the corridor, Havilar knew she wouldn’t be back for ages. She shoved her broom into a corner, blurted an excuse about needing to use the privy to Farideh, and went to the kitchens instead. She snatched a clay pitcher full of water and a couple of mugs and brought them to the courtyard on the other side of the temple.
Brimstone Angels Page 20
