Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  She stared at him, horrified. “You didn’t tell him that, did you?”

  “He’ll figure it out eventually,” Lorcan said carelessly. “Probably—without you, he’s a bit thickheaded.”

  The edges of Farideh’s frame blurred with the edge of shadows, the kiss of gathering flames. Careful, he told himself. Careful.

  “Do you want to see him?” he asked, in the most offhanded way he could.

  The shadows fled. The flames cooled. She stared at him, lovely mouth agape as if she couldn’t imagine how to respond. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “What’s the catch?”

  “Only that you’ll have to come into the circle,” Lorcan said. “And that I’m not taking you to him—I have no interest in making myself a target for a bunch of skittish shepherds and backwater bumpkins, or in making Dahl happy.”

  She stared at him, and there was the shadow of that wide-eyed girl who just wanted whatever answers he could give her. “What will you do?”

  “Pour a little water in the basin,” he said. “I’ll scry him for you. Because I do care. I want you to be happy, darling. I want things to be peaceful between us again. It did hurt,” he added. “If it matters.”

  Farideh hesitated, her eyes flicking over his face as if she could find a crack, a secret danger. But there would be none—there was no trick. Only the knowledge that this would bring her no comfort when it came to Dahl. Only questions.

  He hoped.

  Farideh went to the table and filled the stone basin, stepping across the line of powdery runes with care. For a moment, she was near enough to touch, and Lorcan considered drawing her to him, letting the basin fall and reminding her of all the pleasures she’d forsaken.

  But she set the basin on the floor and dropped down beside it, and Lorcan reminded himself he’d have to be patient. Much as every part of him screamed for action.

  “Well?” She looked up at him, her eyes shadowed.

  “Have you been sleeping?” Lorcan said, kneeling beside her as he twisted one of the rings he wore around his neck onto his index finger.

  “No.” But she didn’t elaborate.

  The ring opened a dimensional pocket, from which Lorcan withdrew a few components and a book of spells. Scrying over water was a nuisance, but a few scatterings of burnt petals, a dusting of dried blood, the murmured words of Infernal, and the image of Dahl rose up clear enough to be identified, if not as crisp as a mirror would have managed.

  The Harper sat on the deck of a ship from the look of things, a seafaring vessel, and Lorcan’s hands curled into fists against his lap. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to come here. He couldn’t possibly be. He sneaked a look at Farideh’s face.

  She looked more surprised than joyful. Her eyes were on the shape of a woman sitting beside Dahl, leaning a bit too close for comfort. Dahl wasn’t moving away from her.

  “What are they saying?” Farideh asked, her voice a little tight.

  “I don’t know,” Lorcan said. “I’d need a mirror for that.” He looked at the woman too—familiar, and appealing in a reckless kind of way. “Who’s that?”

  “Mira. She’s one of his agents.”

  And more, Lorcan thought. There was no denying the familiarity in the way Mira leaned in to speak to Dahl, the flirtatiousness in her smirk, the fact that Dahl didn’t shift away, but smiled back. If they weren’t lovers, they had been—and right now, that was all that mattered. Lorcan fought his own smile.

  “Well he’s clearly sailing someplace. Where else has he to go but to find you?” Lorcan considered the image. “Maybe Mira needed him.”

  “Don’t,” Farideh said. She stood. “I do love him. It doesn’t matter what you think.”

  “I’d never suggest it did. But …” He spread his hands as if the answer lay between them. “Darling, we are what we are.”

  Farideh gave a sharp laugh. “A devil who speaks in half-truths and plays me like a pawn?”

  “Better than the farm boy who hardly thinks you count as a person.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “But you can’t pretend it was never true. Are you really certain anything has changed from Waterdeep?”

  She shook her head, jaw tight, as though it would keep the sharp words from forming in her mouth. “You’re getting sloppy.”

  “Because who can say that anything’s changed from that winter day?” Lorcan said. His eyes dropped to the amulet of Selûne Farideh wore around her neck. “That’s ignoring quite a lot of things. I was serious when I said you and I weren’t meant to break on something as trivial as this.”

  “There is no you and I!” The rage in her seemed incandescent, ready to explode for a moment. And then she turned on her heel. “Clap your hands three times if you want it to send you home,” she called back as she stormed out. “Otherwise Havi will be here in a breath.”

  “Darling, wait!” he shouted. But she was already gone. “Shit and ashes!” He kicked the basin of water over. You can fix this, Lorcan told himself, even though he’d said it so many times he was losing count. You have to fix it, he thought, remembering Asmodeus’s words.

  He clapped his hands, triggering the spell nestled in the binding circle’s magic. Another drop through eternity and he landed once more in the treasury. Invadiah was nowhere in sight as he scaled the winding staircase up to the room that held the scrying mirror. Finding the space empty, he coaxed the sinew locks across the door before stirring the surface of the mirror, bringing up the image of Dahl aboard the ship, now scribbling a note against the boards.

  The terms of their agreement were simple and they should have proved more than enough. Dahl could not speak to Farideh without losing all claim to his own soul, in exchange for speedy passage to the Dalelands. The distance would surely be enough, and the realization that there were less complicated women out there for Dahl to choose might make Farideh give up whatever hope she was harboring.

  Lorcan liked that less than just convincing her to come back to him. There were pieces he couldn’t control, choices that weren’t his to make, and the thought of being what Farideh settled for rankled him. He watched Dahl consider his words. If you weren’t a devil, Lorcan thought, ignoring your promise would mean nothing. He could open the portal to wherever that ship sailed, step out, and cut Dahl’s throat before the Harper realized what was happening. All the risk would be gone, and it would only be a matter of time before Farideh gave up hope. If he weren’t a devil.

  You have never been devil enough, Lorcan thought. Why claim that mantle now?

  He took hold of the mirror’s wrought-iron frame, staring into its depths and this hated foe. There’s an answer, he told himself. There’s always an answer, if you’re clever enough and willful enough. That was what being a devil meant, after all—outwitting your rivals, overcoming the obstacles they threw you, avoiding the fallout. He thought of Invadiah’s threats, the twisting narrative of the Blood War: A battle is a smokescreen. A raid, a point to be won. An assassination a sword to shove your enemy down on.

  Lorcan smiled to himself. Perfect. He stepped away from the mirror, letting the image persist for anyone to see.

  For—to name one—his vicious sister to see when she invariably stepped out of the portal again. Sairché would hardly be able to resist such a prize, and Lorcan would have hurt Dahl not at all.

  WHEN THE BOAT nudged into the landing at the source of the Fire River two days later, Dahl was already dressed and waiting, waiting for the clomp-clomp of Zhentarim boots to rattle overhead. Last leg, he thought. Last chance to gather information before things get tricky.

  He eased his way up the stairs, keeping his eyes on the deck above. They weren’t after portal magic. They weren’t secretly devout Deneirrath. What were they searching for?

  Above, the sailors called back and forth from the boat to the shore, and over them, Xulfaril barked orders. Sessaca already stood on the deck, wrapped in her shawl. She spared him a dagger-eyed glance as he climbed onto the boards. Dahl tapped a finger to
his lips. Everyone would be too busy disembarking to worry about Dahl—he hoped. Sessaca raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  He stumbled, aiming for bleary, past a Zhentarim pissing over the side of the boat, as though he meant to make his own water on the farther side, but instead he darted to the left. Toward Xulfaril’s cabin.

  She couldn’t take everything—a mountain climb and whatever they expected to bring back besides—but she wouldn’t leave anything too precious either. Dahl slipped inside and shut the door behind him. The room had been picked over, nearly stripped. A chest, unlocked, sat at the foot of the bed. He flipped it open—nothing but clothes and components—and turned the bed. Nothing. He swept the bureau’s drawers.

  A broken ear pick. A dried-out bottle of ink. A burnt match.

  A torn piece of parchment, caught by a splinter against the headspace. Just the size for a flying snake to carry, he thought as he fished it out.

  I will send Grathson, the message read, before breaking off. The lines that followed gave a jagged hint at what the full message might have said.

  Don’t engage without

  know too well what sort of threats we might be de

  Apprise us of what your historian finds

  we’ll continue to press from the eastern

  The rest was missing, thrown away or tucked into Xulfaril’s belongings. Dahl slipped the scrap back under the splinter and left the room, strolling back toward Sessaca. Threats—A godsbedamned war of mercenaries? he wondered. A monstrous uprising in the forests of the Earthfasts? What was to the east of the Master’s Library?

  Doesn’t matter. Up the mountains, find the library, get home, he thought. Get out before anything Grathson’s here to do comes into play.

  Get your hands on the portal spells, he amended. Or books about breaking deals with devils. Assuming anything of the sort existed …

  He wondered if Farideh were making the same sort of half-managed plans, scrabbling for bits of magic that might reunite them. If she’d puzzled out the reasons that he hadn’t responded to her sending. She could be awfully clever, awfully single-minded, given the right problem …

  Or she might just assume you ran off, he thought. There was plenty to point her that way, even assuming Lorcan wasn’t manipulating things.

  “I just think it’s safer this way,” he’d said. What an idiot, he thought.

  Up the mountains, he told himself. Find the library. Get back to her.

  Sessaca watched the Zhentarim below, very carefully ignoring Dahl until he stood beside her. “ ’Bout time,” she said, her breath a cloud on the cold morning air. She pointed her chin at the Zhentarim, at Grathson in their midst. “You take any longer someone was bound to notice.”

  “Worth the risk,” Dahl said.

  “Order is we stay on the boat and out of the way until they get supplies off and sorted. But that won’t take long.”

  Dahl surveyed the river mouth, the mountains beyond. Here, the Earthfast Mountains met the Earthspurs, two ranges narrowing around the river, like fingers pinching a thread. The dusty green of scrubby trees ran down the foothills, down onto the riverbanks.

  “Where is the library?” he asked.

  “Way up there.” Sessaca inhaled the crisp, piney air deeply, and sighed. “Never thought I’d smell that again,” she said. “Lot of memories in this place.”

  “Nothing like running weapons in the wilds, huh?” Dahl said a little sourly.

  “It wasn’t just weapons. That would have been a waste of everyone’s time.” Sessaca wrapped her shawl a little closer. “You still sulking about not knowing the secret?”

  “No,” Dahl said, which was mostly true. He never liked being the last to know. But knowing is better than ignorance, he reminded himself. I shall fear no deception, but the truth remains.

  “Liar,” Sessaca said.

  “Thost and Bodhar didn’t know,” Dahl said quietly. “Does Ma? Did Da?”

  “Heavens, no!” Sessaca said. “Why, by every Watching God, would I have told Barron? That’s not the kind of thing you tell your children. Nor your grandchildren, come to it.”

  “What about Grandda?” Dahl shook his head. “Or was he smuggling poisons into Myth Drannor, pretending to be just a simple farmer too?”

  “Lamhail was never simple,” Sessaca said. The river slapped the boat’s side, and for a long moment there was only that and the thud of feet on the boards. Dahl looked over at Xulfaril standing beside the gangplank, seeming to watch her agents, but if she weren’t listening to every word Sessaca and Dahl spoke, he’d declare himself the bloody Chosen of Dead Deneir. Sessaca followed his gaze to the wizard. Made a dissatisfied little sound in the back of her throat.

  “Harrowdale town,” Sessaca said suddenly. “That’s what we called New Velar in those days.”

  Dahl frowned at her. “What?”

  “I didn’t run just weapons,” Sessaca said, as if he weren’t listening. “Trade goods filled the gaps, covered my tracks. Little packages I didn’t ask about, but paid right. Messages sometimes. I had a shipment of Tsurlagolan copper that I took to Harrowdale Town, because it seemed like a good place to lie low while I waited for orders. Sweet little town.” She looked back at Dahl, smiling in a way that managed to be both fond and wily. “Sweet boy too.”

  “When my orders sent me west, that sweet boy insisted on accompanying me.” She rolled her eyes. “As if I’d never heard that before. I kept my blades at hand, my boots buckled, my gold at my throat, but”—she shook her head, smiling to herself—“that sweet boy wasn’t an act. Never laid a hand on me or my gold. Even let me stay with his family, on their little farm. And everyone was so kind and friendly. So when I came back through, I stopped again. And again. Eventually, Chauntea had her way and I turned out pregnant. When I realized, I decided to go back to that little farmhouse and try settling down. That’s how it happened.”

  “So you got trapped on the farm,” Dahl said. For all his grandmother’s lies bothered him, for all her allegiances to the Black Network sat uneasy, there was no denying how swiftly the walls of a Harran life had come down on the Viper of the Earthfasts from the sound of things. He could imagine it—had imagined it. The farm wasn’t where he belonged, he felt surer than ever before, and how could it have been where Sessaca Peredur belonged when she stood on the Fire River’s banks and longed for the piney air? He felt a strange guilt, as if it were his fault for being born to the son who had locked her down.

  “Who said trapped?” Sessaca demanded.

  “What were you going to do? Leave Da behind in swaddling? You might be a blackguard, but you keep your kin close.”

  “The baby wasn’t your da,” Sessaca said. “Lost that one. So I could have escaped if I was trapped, and never mind ‘kin.’ But … things change. People change. I loved your Grandda. I loved that farm. I wanted that life.”

  “But you missed this one,” Dahl pointed out.

  “They’re not mutually exclusive,” his grandmother said. “I would have thought you of all people would know that.” She sighed again. “Why in the sodden Hells would anyone smuggle poisons to Myth Drannor? That’s the only example you could come up with?”

  “Why would a Zhentarim agent know the location of a dead god’s holiest sanctum?” Dahl returned. “I clearly don’t understand how you do things.”

  She waved him off. “I suspect you know better than you’ll let on, and that’s a fact. Your monster-girl send a letter back?”

  Dahl watched Xulfaril gesturing at the Zhentarim below. “It’s only been three days.”

  “Well she’d best pick up her feet, or whatever she has,” Sessaca said. “I doubt very much that snake can make it down into the Master’s Library.”

  Dahl’s chest tightened. “We’ll see, won’t we.”

  Sessaca frowned at Xulfaril. “She make you want to settle down, this girl?”

  “She’s not the settling sort,” he said. “But she’s not simple either.”

  “And she’s
not a dragonborn, thank the gods. So why’s she not with you?”

  Dahl hesitated. “I left her behind.”

  “That seem like a wise decision?”

  “No,” he said. “It seems like the stupidest decision I’ve ever made.”

  “Well, we’ve established you’re not too imaginative.” Sessaca sniffed. “Why’d you leave her?”

  “I asked her to come, because I was—I am that sure of her, but then … things happened. I didn’t think she’d fit, and I asked her to stay behind. And by the time I realized I was being an idiot, that I’d been thoughtless … I found out about the Shadovar and I had to go before I could convince her to come with me.” He blew out a breath. Watched Xulfaril pretend to study Mira coming up the stairs from belowdecks, arms laden with maps. “I know,” he said. “I’m an idiot.”

  Sessaca sniffed. “You’re not an idiot, Dahl. You just think too fast. You don’t slow down and ask yourself if you’re considering all the pieces. It’ll get you into trouble, and right here, it has. You’ll figure it out.”

  Dahl considered his grandmother. It was the closest thing to a compliment she’d spoken in a long, long while. “Yes. Well … Thank you. That … means a lot.”

  Xulfaril folded her arms over her chest and crossed down the gangplank after Mira. “Gods be damned,” Sessaca murmured. “I thought she’d never leave. Can put up with a lot of jabber, that one. Any idea what she was hoping to hear?”

  Dahl shook his head. “Directions to the Master’s Library?”

  “Fat lot of good it’ll do her. If it were as easy as that, nobody would be carting me out here. We’re all going to have to pray I remember the way by landmarks.”

  The peaks of the Earthfasts blocked the rising sun, foreboding and mysterious. “How’d you find this place anyway?”

  “I dreamed it,” Sessaca said. “A path up the mountains, a vein of silvery metal. A voice singing over and over. Let’s just say, when you see a thing you dream about like that, you have to know it wasn’t just a dream. I was expecting treasure. Some cursed tomb or other.”