Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  Bodhar’s face fell. “Watching Gods. That’s the best you can do? What do you love about her?”

  Everything, Dahl thought. The image of Farideh, fiery and terrible, missiles streaming from her fingers—almost everything—he shook it away. “You said ‘three things.’ That was three things. Come on.”

  The interior of the shop was dim and thick with the acrid smells of guano and brimstone. Dark Reyan stood behind a counting table, eyeing the brothers as though they might be lost or they might be brigands, but there was no chance they might be customers. He was thin as a reed and sallow-skinned, and his shoulder-length hair was an improbably deep black.

  “Oh, Bodhar,” Reyan said. “Well met.”

  “Heya, Reyan,” Bodhar called, as though they’d just wandered into a taproom. “Well met, yourself. How ye farin’?”

  “Well enough.”

  “You remember my little brother? Dahl?” Bodhar asked, jerking a thumb toward Dahl. “He’s visiting. Helped us get out of the army’s reach.”

  “I heard about that. Beshaba pass you over.”

  “Already did, already did,” Bodhar said, his cheer undampened. “Thanks to this one’s quick thinking. He’s been in Waterdeep,” Bodhar added proudly.

  Reyan nodded. “You’ve said. The learned secretary. Always figured if one of Barron’s boys left that farm, it’d be to sellsword.”

  Dahl’s temper flared. “Yes, well. It’s complicated.” Complicated in all the ways he couldn’t discuss—the fence between his life out in the wider world, and his life in Harrowdale hemmed him in. Easier to be a secretary and let them assume what they want.

  “Don’t mind him,” Bodhar said. “We’ve been giving him all the trouble he’s missed out on in the big city, me and Thost. What’s a brother for after all?”

  Reyan cracked a smile. “Well, Dahl, you’re one up on most if you haven’t cracked this plinth-head one yet.”

  “Ma would thrash us all if he started a fight,” Bodhar said with mock seriousness.

  “Your mother is a lamb,” Reyan said “From what I hear, your granny, on the other hand …”

  “String us right up,” Dahl said.

  Reyan chuckled. “If you’re lucky. What can I get for you?”

  Dahl hesitated, the boundary between his past in Harrowdale and his present and Harper oath feeling as solid as a fence in that moment. “Components,” he said. “To begin with.”

  “And what after that?” Reyan asked.

  “Have you got books,” Dahl asked carefully, “about planar entities?”

  Reyan’s eyes cut to Bodhar. “Got some texts on the Feywild.”

  “He says he wants something dark, but t’isn’t for dark reasons,” Bodhar supplied. Reyan made a face. He considered Dahl a moment more.

  “You shouldn’t dirty your hands with that,” he said.

  “I know,” Dahl said. “It’s not for me. It’s for someone I think is in trouble.”

  Reyan shook his head and muttered something. “I don’t carry that sort of trouble. Anything else?”

  Dahl blew out a breath. There will be an answer. It might not be here. “A ritual? I need something to get a message to someone far away—”

  “Simple,” Reyan said. “A sending will get you—”

  “No,” Dahl said. “I need to get a message to them, but I can’t talk to them.” He pursed his mouth. “You have anything that could maybe send a letter or scribe a message if I don’t know where the person’s at exactly?”

  Reyan frowned. “Usually the sending’s good for folks.”

  “I can’t use it,” Dahl said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

  The sorcerer scratched his nose. “I have one that charms an animal to carry a message for you.”

  Dahl shook his head. Such a spell would take ages—how long would it take a squirrel or a cat or a jay to reach Djerad Thymar from Harrowdale? Longer than the spell could reliably last, he thought.

  “A really large distance,” he tried again. “A tenday’s journey, maybe two.”

  Reyan looked to Bodhar, who shrugged. “I think in that case you use the sending.”

  “The sending doesn’t—” Dahl bit off the repeated protest—this was going nowhere and he couldn’t say too much, not without risking the edges of the deal. “Never mind. I need some components too.”

  He ran down the short list of things he needed, Bodhar chiming in to needle at the prices, and by the end, Dahl had half of his list—including the dried formian blood he hadn’t been able to find, procured from Reyan’s private stores—and a third of his coin purse. Not ideal, he thought. But better than expected.

  “Many thanks,” he said to Bodhar. “You kept him down.”

  Bodhar shrugged. “Reyan’s easy. Bluffs like Aggie, all giddy he’s lying.”

  “Why do you call him Dark Reyan?”

  “Come on—that hair? Looks like he dunks his head in a vat of ink.” Bodhar patted his own salt-and-pepper crop. “Can’t say I enjoy this, but having seen the alternative, I’ll accept it. Yours going yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let it go. It’ll make you look less like a pup,” Bodhar advised. He grinned at Dahl. “So you can’t talk to her. That it?”

  Dahl turned on his heel, heading south through the city without a word.

  “Oh come on,” Bodhar called. “What is it? She got a husband or something?”

  Dahl gritted his teeth. Worse, he thought. Lorcan’s laugh echoed in his memory. You’re not the hero of her story. You’re an impediment. A sidetrack. He needed a damned drink—his hand reached like a reflex for the flask in his pocket. He balled it into a fist instead.

  “Hey!” Bodhar shouted, running to catch up. “Look, everyone’s just worried about you.”

  “They don’t need to be.”

  “Why can’t you talk to her?”

  Because my soul is forfeit if I do, Dahl thought. “I can’t tell you that. It’s complicated.”

  “Everything’s ‘complicated,’ ” Bodhar said. “But this girl’s the one you let your guard down to get a message to. Don’t tell me it was about telling your employer where you were,” he said, when Dahl started to speak. “One of those things could have waited until morning.”

  Dahl spun. “I don’t know why you care so much about—”

  The cloaked figure beyond his brother caught his eye as it suddenly turned, too interested in a stall selling roasted apples. The seller held out one in offer, and the figure waved it away with a slim, dark arm.

  “Let’s go,” Dahl said, pulling Bodhar along.

  He turned a corner, not knowing where he was heading anymore, his path determined by the shadowy figure following behind. Sure enough, as the brothers passed a hearth house in the middle of the block, the figure turned the same corner, their face invisible in the shadows of a hood.

  Little shorter than him, he thought, lighter frame. Probably a woman, maybe an elf? Who would be following him? Who would know he was in New Velar?

  How dangerous was this going to be to Bodhar?

  “Come on,” Bodhar said. “You can talk to me, little brother. I’m not going to tell you I know everything about women, but I haven’t forgotten what I do know.” He looked around. “Where are we going?”

  “A moment,” Dahl said, turning down a narrow road. The path was short—his shadow would need to catch up quick to stay on his tail. Partway up, another alley broke off to the left between a fuller’s and a candle maker. “Stick close,” he said to Bodhar, and darted through the passersby and detritus of the city toward the alley.

  Dahl turned the corner fast, yanking Bodhar back out of the way. He motioned for silence and drew his dagger from his boot, listening for rapid footfalls. When the stranger in the cloak came to the corner, he seized them by one arm, swinging them around and up against the stone wall, bending the arm behind.

  “Gods above!” Bodhar cried out.

  “Whatever you’re thinking of trying,” Dahl started, �
�whoever sent you—”

  “Well met to you too,” a woman’s voice said. A familiar woman’s voice. “If you break my arm, I’m going to have to tell my father.”

  “Gods’ books!” Dahl spat. He let go of his captive. Mira Zawad turned, pulling back her hood enough to reveal her brown face and the dark edge of her hair. Her black eyes looked hollow, tired, but they glittered with amusement.

  “What are you doing here?” Dahl demanded.

  “Looking for you, obviously,” Mira said. “And, one hopes, finding you before the Zhentarim do.”

  “Zhentarim?” Bodhar said, eyes wide. He shot Dahl a look. “Well met indeed.”

  Dahl cursed. “Not here,” he said. “We need a quiet place to talk. What’s close?”

  Bodhar clicked his tongue a few times. “The Gilded Rune’s near to here and open, but nobody goes until late.” He turned to Mira. “Not that I do either,” he said conversationally. “Bit rich.”

  “I’m paying,” Mira said.

  “Lead on,” Dahl said, sheathing the dagger. He leaned close to her as he walked. “Did your father send you?”

  “Not this time,” she said apologetically. “Nor am I here for my own pleasure, before you ask.”

  Dahl turned his eyes to Bodhar’s back. “Yes. Well.”

  Holding tight to Mira’s arm, Dahl followed Bodhar to the taproom and back to the darkest, quietest corner it could offer.

  “Not bad?” Bodhar said. “Since you’re talking to each other, I’ll assume she’s not your secret brightbird?”

  Mira laughed once. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Bodhar,” Dahl said, ignoring the question, “why don’t you go find Granny’s things?” The boundary between Harper and Harran tilted dangerously, threatening to topple. “I’ll find you after.”

  Bodhar looked from Mira to Dahl, skeptical. “Yeah, I’ll wait at that table by the door.”

  “He’s your brother?” Mira asked as the shorter man left.

  “One of them,” Dahl said, as he sat beside his Zhentarim double agent, the only daughter of the High Harper of Waterdeep, ready for the worst. Mira wasn’t the sort of agent to come to him with less. Neither spoke as he ordered two ales, plus one for Bodhar.

  “Who’s your secret brightbird?” Mira asked, in a conversational way.

  “There are Zhentarim chasing me and you want to make chatter?” Dahl asked, pulse speeding. “Every breath we sit here is one we lose preparing for whatever nonsense they’ve brought down on us now. So tell me.”

  Mira bit her upper lip, thoughtful a moment, before asking. “Have you heard of the Master’s Library?”

  “The lost temple of Deneir?” Dahl asked. More than a temple—a library, the biggest, they said, in all of Toril. Larger than Candlekeep. Larger than the Library of Curna. Larger than anything Shou Lung could boast of. And since the Spellplague and the death of the god of records, the Scribe of Oghma, no one had seen it. “What do your employers want with that?”

  Mira hesitated again. “Portal magic. Or so they tell me. The Weave is being repaired—somehow. They’d like the portal system they had in olden days back up and running, but there’s a lack of information in this day and age as to how to manage it. So they hired me to find the library.”

  “Since you did so well the last time,” Dahl said. He’d met Mira while searching for another lost library. And Farideh, he thought, that first time ages ago, when he’d gotten everything wrong.

  “The Shadovar have better things to do than chase us this time,” Mira said. “Should be fun, if you want to come along.”

  And there would be portal magic, strong enough to cross the continent. Spells that could send a message long distances, and maybe ways to undo pacts with devils? Dahl shook his head—dealing with the Zhentarim always had a price. “Why are you asking me?”

  Mira smiled in that small, secret way she had. “I don’t think they’re telling me everything. They came to me three days ago. Pulled me off another project they said was paramount—giant artifacts, believe it or not. I haven’t slept since, and they’re willing to use the very expensive portal magic they do have to jump me around hunting—and still, that’s not quick enough. This isn’t about books.”

  “Do you need extraction?”

  “And leave all those lovely records to rot?” Mira said, eyes glittering. “I haven’t found a way in. But what I found is information about the last person my employers know entered the library—one of theirs obviously, but sixty-three years ago—and it’s very interesting, because you share a surname.”

  Dahl frowned, embarrassed. “I think you’re wrong.”

  Mira leaned over the table before he could explain. “Her name was Sessaca Peredur.”

  For a moment Dahl couldn’t speak at all. “Sessaca?” Dahl repeated. “Sessaca Peredur.”

  “Ring any bells? A black sheep of a grandaunt perhaps? Maybe you have an old chest full of gear she left behind? Or, Watching Gods favor us, a map in her hand?”

  Dahl said nothing at all for several breaths. It was a mistake, he thought. It had to be a mistake. Mira raised her eyebrows. “We are talking about my head here, and maybe yours. Tell me you have something.”

  “I might have … her,” Dahl finally said.

  “Her?” Mira asked. “Sessaca Peredur is still alive?”

  Dahl nodded, still gobsmacked. “But … there has to be a mistake. My grandmother …”

  “She come from a big family?” Mira asked. “Peredur’s not a common name, so far as I can tell.”

  It wasn’t—and Sessaca had no one outside of the farm in Harrowdale, they knew that well enough. Bodhar was staring at them from his table by the door. Dahl couldn’t begin to think of how to explain this to him.

  Karshoj—only one of Farideh’s Draconic curses sounded ripe enough for the occasion, and if his pronunciation had been anything to speak of, it would have come right out. Dahl raked a hand through his hair. “I’m going to need you to help me track down some Chessentan black. And finish your ale,” he suggested, picking his up as well. “You’re going to need it.”

  EVEN WITH THE promise of good Chessentan black, Granny Sessaca did not take kindly to being roused from her seat by the fire, especially not when Dahl insisted that she go upstairs to the chilly third room where the children all slept, the only room of the little house that was abandoned this time of day. She insisted, wearily, that she had to stir the fire until her husband came home with the good haunch of venison he promised.

  Bodhar winced. “She gets like that sometimes lately,” he whispered to Dahl. “Forgets things. Maybe we should wait.” He tapped his hand against his leg. “You going to tell me what’s going on?”

  What was going on, Dahl thought, was that Mira was already scaling the drainpipe, letting herself in the window upstairs. And the barrier between Dahl’s Harper life and his Harran life was growing dangerously thin.

  “Go get Thost,” Dahl said. “And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  As much as Dahl didn’t want any more members to this conspiracy, Thost was strong enough and swift enough to scoop Granny from her chair and bring her upstairs. Bodhar carried up the rocker after him and a rug for her lap besides.

  “What is this?” Sessaca demanded. “Your father will be very upset with you boys. You’ll get the switch, I’ll make sure of it.”

  Dahl pursed his mouth. Barron, Sessaca’s only son, had been dead for several years now—bringing him up, forgetting the passage of time. She was upset and there was all the chance Mira was about to upset her more. Maybe Bodhar’s right, he thought.

  But Mira remained, the question remained—the Zhentarim remained. They were coming one way or another, and if he didn’t have an answer to hand them before then—

  Thost stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of Mira. “Who in the sodden Hells is that?”

  “A friend,” Dahl said, setting down the teapot. “She’s got questions for Granny.”

  Sessaca looked up
at Mira, adding the shriveled tea leaves to the hot water, as Thost set her carefully down in the rocking chair. “And who’s this? A little playmate? I don’t like the look of her.” She peered at Mira. “Who’re your parents, girl? I’ll not have my grandsons bringing urchins into this house.”

  “The Black Network sent me, old mother,” Mira said flatly. “And I brought you tea.”

  “What the sodden Hells?” Thost hissed. “Godsdamn it, Dahl, what are you doing?”

  For a moment, Dahl wondered the same thing. But then Sessaca’s expression shifted—if he hadn’t trained himself to spot such things, he might never have noticed. She still watched Mira, puzzled, weary, but Dahl couldn’t deny that a certain cunning had overtaken her.

  “I beg your pardon, girl? The what now?”

  “Old mother, don’t play that game,” Mira said. “Maybe your grandsons will believe your mind’s not sharp, but I’ve read the records. I think I know you better.”

  Sessaca leaned back in her rocking chair, silent for a moment. Weighing the odds. Dahl nearly cursed aloud. Mira was right.

  “Sounds wicked,” Sessaca said, not conceding but not speaking in that trembling way she’d used before. “Sounds like a pack of rogues who might try and kill me where I sit.” She set the chair rocking, toying with the heavy gold locket she always wore. “But that hardly seems wise, girl, when I have my three strapping grandsons on guard like this. Do you think you can take all three of them on?”

  “I don’t hunt people,” Mira said. “Just secrets.”

  Sessaca chuckled. “I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know. And I don’t break the covenant. Your masters have aught to fear from me.”

  “My masters would agree. Although they’d prefer to come line your family up and make you remember with a good bit more blood on the floor, just to be certain. I need to know where the Master’s Library is. You want to keep yours safe. Can you help us both, old mother?”

  Sessaca turned to Dahl. “Is this what you’ve been mixed up in? What are you bringing into this house?”

  Dahl nearly laughed. There was never a border, Dahl realized in that moment, never a division between the life of secrets and the life of simplicity. He’d been born into a world where they were already blurred and blended in a thousand ways.