Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  Farideh shook her head. “I doubt it. I haven’t cast that spell since …” Since before they’d been locked in the Nine Hells. Since back in the arcanist’s library-tomb.

  “Pity Dahl’s not here,” Brin said. “He’s always got a damned apothecary in his bag.”

  If Dahl were here, Farideh thought, how many things would be better? Another pair of eyes, another mind, another way of looking. Someone who could remind her to stop panicking—he was good at that.

  Or if Dahl were here, would he even be here? she wondered. Would he be able to think of twenty things about her, or would he have only thought of one: Asmodeus?

  “We can send Hencin out for them when he comes back,” Farideh said, pushing it all aside and dipping her stylus in ink. “What else could we try?”

  “Anything,” Brin said. “It could literally be anything.”

  “Well, what’s common? What have you seen before?”

  “Holy water,” Brin said. “Or maybe a blood sacrifice. Maybe …” He bit his lip, eyes on the axe. “Did she tell you? About the thing with the Lance Defenders?”

  Farideh set the stylus down. “This morning. I suppose that means … She made a decision about everything then?”

  “No.” Brin blew out a breath. “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe she won’t.”

  “I told her she should. And she should. She really seems to like it here.” Brin smiled. “You should have seen her. She knocked those little plinth-heads on their backsides, never broke a sweat, and told them exactly how she’d done it. She could be amazing at this. She would be so happy. I can’t keep her from that.” He dropped his eyes. “But I can’t stay here, any more than she could have stayed in Suzail.”

  And if Havilar stayed in Djerad Thymar—or worse, if Havilar and Mehen stayed—did that mean Farideh would stay? The thought made her feel as if she couldn’t breathe. She squeezed her eyes shut. Calm. Calm.

  “Perhaps it needs a different wielder?” Ilstan piped up from the sofa.

  Brin scowled. “Wonderful, we’ll run down our list of, oh, everyone in the stlarning world. That should be simple enough.”

  Farideh thought of Ashoka’s admonition. If there was a true bearer of the axe, maybe it would only work for them, and all of this was nothing but wasted time. She wrapped a strand of hair around and around her finger, tight enough to hurt. There was no way to know—except to keep guessing or let Ilstan study the axe.

  Make Ilstan study the axe, she corrected herself. He had so far refused to so much as touch the weapon. “I cannot be trusted at the moment.” He considered the axe grimly. “Perhaps ever.”

  Proper wielder. Farideh added it to the list.

  “What about the story?” Brin said. “Are there any clues in it?”

  Farideh rubbed her eyes—it was all muddled now, mixed in her dreams and everything else. “Thymara found the tomb of a warrior and the axe and she used it to gather the other Vayemniri.” She bit her lip. “Maybe you have to be from Thymara’s line.”

  “If that’s the case,” Ilstan said, “then why did they let it pass out of their hands. Why give it to you if it must be borne by one of their line?”

  “What else?”

  “The moon told her to …” Farideh went completely still, recognition flooding her. “Oh gods. Oh. Dahl.”

  “Hrast,” Brin said. “What now?”

  “I … I think I used it. When we were outside, I was holding the axe and I was thinking about Dahl, and there was a moment—just a moment—where I would have sworn I saw him reflected in the axe head. I thought I was just seeing things, too tired, you know? But what if that’s it? It would make sense. The moon protected Thymara, told her to take the axe and keep it safe. Karshoj, how could I not think of that?”

  Farideh snatched the axe off the table. Even in the morning light, the moonlight had been enough to wake the axe, her thoughts of Dahl enough to direct the scrying. If it were that powerful, it should take nothing at all to find Arjhani, and thereafter the maurezhi. “If we get up to the top of the pyramid, we should be able to—”

  “What is the date?” Ilstan interrupted.

  “The, er, twenty-fifth of Nightal,” Farideh said. “Why?”

  “The time?”

  “Tharsun.” Brin said, folding his arms. “Late afternoon.”

  “Then the moon has set already,” Ilstan explained. “Assuming nothing else has gone awry in the world, it will not rise until some hours after deepnight.”

  Farideh cursed and sat back down. So close, so close. And now what was there to do, but worry about Havilar, about Dahl, about Asmodeus and everything else?

  “We could just try what’s on the list?” Brin said, as if he’d had the same thought. “Can’t hurt, right?”

  Farideh shrugged. “I guess not.” She considered the list. “Should we start with fire?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ilstan called. “If it is tharsun, then it occurs to me I haven’t eaten since morningfeast, and that’s likely why this pain in my belly—”

  “You’re hungry. Got it.” Brin stood. “Are you all right alone with him for a moment?”

  Farideh nodded. Shackled as he was, sane as he seemed, Ilstan appeared to be nothing of a threat compared to everything else. Brin left, and for a long moment, the room was so quiet Farideh felt as if the silence were about to break through her ears.

  “How are you doing?” Farideh asked Ilstan.

  Ilstan bobbed his head. “He speaks,” he said, “though not as much. And … the other one is quieter. But I would not say he’s gone. Sometimes I can feel … I don’t know how you contend with his presence.”

  Farideh frowned. “He doesn’t talk to me. Except when I dream, maybe. I don’t really know what’s real and what I’m imagining. Azuth just … talks to you?”

  Ilstan looked surprised. “Constantly. I mean, I cannot say it always is coherent. Or that I can be sure of who is speaking. But I believe.”

  “And he tells you to free him?”

  “He tells me many things.” Ilstan sighed. “I worry I’m not hearing any of them right.”

  Farideh returned her attention to the axe, leaving Ilstan to his thoughts. What more could she say? What more should she say—most everyone would say she was mad for trying to comfort Ilstan. He’d tried to kill her multiple times. He’d hunted her all the way to Djerad Thymar. What had he done to deserve this sudden alliance?

  But for all that made sense, Farideh knew she didn’t believe Ilstan was wicked. There was good in him as much as anyone, and it wouldn’t be right to throw him away. Especially when he might be the only one who knew what was happening to her and to Havilar.

  The shivery sensation of a finger gently tracing the edges of her brand interrupted those thoughts. Lorcan. Farideh steeled herself. Now or never.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, standing and making for the bedroom.

  “The Knight of the Devil,” Ilstan intoned. Farideh turned, the shadow-smoke of her pact and the racing flames of Asmodeus’s gift chasing each other up her frame, ready for another battle.

  But the war wizard only sat, staring into the middle distance, an expression best described as vague annoyance on his face. “The Lady of Black Magic. She has the key. With it the prison unlocks.”

  “Ilstan?” Farideh asked. “Are you all right?”

  The wizard whipped his head toward her. Something unnatural seethed behind his eyes and her brand started to prickle. “You know,” he said in that rushy voice. “And you do not. But what you do not know, she knows. Which is the greater danger, to he and I and all of you.”

  Snow began falling all around them, a blizzard that blurred away the ceiling and walls. She stood as if she could run and found herself sinking to the ankles in a snowdrift. Djerad Thymar was gone. There was only Arush Vayem and the lonely winter wind. Farideh turned in a slow circle.

  “Ilstan, what have you done?”

  Suddenly he was standing so close, nearly on top of
her. “What you do not know, she knows. Which is the greater danger, to he and I and all of you.”

  “Who?” Farideh managed.

  Ilstan smiled at her, in a fond, grandfatherly sort of way that didn’t fit his features at all. “The Lord of Spells,” she murmured. “What’s the key?”

  “You’re a funny little thing, you know that?”

  She turned, the wind whipping the snow up around her. Lorcan stood in the path—but gods, it wasn’t Lorcan. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said, numbly.

  “I gave you the chance to stay out of this,” he said. “To be happy. Until it was clear that you don’t want to be happy. You want to be virtuous, right, good. I let you uncover enough to see your enemy clearly and yet you become so focused on something that isn’t your concern.”

  Farideh watched him through the swirling snow, unsure if she was awake or asleep. “But I think it is. I think … I think …” She turned again, considering the empty village, the thickening snow.

  Suddenly Lorcan stood beside her, nearly on top of her. “You think. You think. Do not think. Do not act. You are given a great gift, my dear, but only if you obey. I am not an enemy you want to make. The one who gets hurt doesn’t have to be you.”

  She looked into his fathomless eyes. “What happens if you die?”

  He chuckled softly and tilted his head. “What did he tell you?”

  “ ‘The Knight of the Devil. The Lady of Black Magic. She has the key. With it the prison unlocks.’ ” She swallowed, the snow almost too thick to see through, cocooning them in a blanket of white. “I don’t know anything about a key.”

  A burst of light illuminated the snow, so bright, so sudden, that Farideh flinched, and when she opened her eyes, her vision was seared in spots.

  For the briefest of moments, she saw an elderly human man, leaning so close to her there was nothing else. And then she blinked and he was gone—the world was gone. She could see nothing but white, the snow becoming shards of ice that abraded her skin. She turned and turned, but the wind moved with her, trapping her in place, herding her like a lost lamb. She forced herself against the gale, and—

  Found herself lying on the floor of the common room, staring up at the ceiling, one hand clutching her burning upper arm.

  “Darling!” Lorcan shouted. He was kneeling beside her. “Darling! Can you hear me?”

  Farideh, all impulse, shot to her feet, shoving the cambion away. The snow was gone, Arush Vayem was gone. Ilstan still sat on the couch, staring into the middle distance, and there was nothing of either god in his eyes or in Lorcan’s.

  “Darling,” he said, holding his hands high, “what happened?”

  You know. And you do not. But what you do not know, she knows. Which is the greater danger, to he and I and all of you.

  “He and I and all of you,” she murmured.

  “Farideh?” Lorcan said again. “What happened? Tell me you’re all right.”

  No, she thought. None of us is all right. And I can’t stop it.

  20

  25 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)

  The Upperdark, beneath the Master’s Library

  NONE OF THIS IS RIGHT.

  The thought rose in Dahl’s mind, like a swimmer breaching the surface of a rough and rising tide, and for a moment, he saw everything: the Zhentarim mindlessly digging through the rubble, the bodies trailing back into the Underdark, Mira staring blankly into the darkness. The man made of night staring back into Dahl’s soul.

  The darkness pulled Dahl down again.

  What an interesting specimen you make. The man did not so much speak as his voice echoed in the space between Dahl’s heartbeats, stretching them out to make his point. You don’t belong with these fools, this rabble, now do you?

  The demon’s efforts struck the thought like a plow against a fieldstone, sparking fears Dahl didn’t know were still in him.

  He didn’t belong here—his ears seemed to fill with years’ worth of his brothers poking fun at his borrowed books, the freedom offered in Jedik’s suggestion Dahl be sent to train in the Domes of Reason. His father’s puzzled expression. He had risen above his upbringing. He would make something of himself. He had bested Oghma’s puzzles. He would show them.

  His thoughts jolted as if his mind were a rough and rocky road. There was Farideh—considering him with a faint frown. “I mean, you can call yourself whatever you want—but if people are going to think coming from a farm means you don’t belong, does it make a difference? You’re still you, aren’t you? It doesn’t erase that. It shouldn’t.”

  It shouldn’t. It didn’t need to. Finding Oghma wasn’t a weapon to cut down his doubters. His family weren’t his enemies.

  Oh, how naive. The man of night eased through the new crowd of would-be followers, Grathson’s sellswords, Xulfaril’s minions. Look around you. You are a lackey to your lessers. Have you fallen so far as that, or did you ever stand anyplace higher?

  Anger surged in Dahl. That’s how it always went, wasn’t it? He would go where he ought to fit, where things were sure to be right and he would be valued, and what would they do but grind him down? His family—they didn’t understand him or what he was. The Oghmanytes—there was no help there, no support in his time of need. The Harpers—how many still held his mistakes against him? How many thought he was without merit, without redemption?

  A secretary, the man finished. That’s the best they want you to be, because they fear what you could become.

  Yes.

  “Dahl,” his grandmother’s voice said. His thoughts shuddered once more.

  No—I wish you were here, the note had read, You would know what to do.

  Vescaras, who antagonized him like no one could, fumbling in the doorway. “Goodwoman, I don’t mean to speak out of place, but I think you ought to know that … Dahl’s a good man, a good agent.” Stepping up for him.

  They don’t fear you, he thought. They value you, even if it’s not always the way you want.

  He blinked and saw the cavern for what it was, saw that people had moved—or maybe he had moved without realizing it. Bodhar with a blackened eye, a bleeding lip. Suddenly his knuckles were throbbing—he looked down at the ragged bloody scratches. The marks of hitting someone in the mouth.

  Of course you hit him in the godsbedamned mouth, Dahl thought, balling his fists again. He doesn’t respect you. Laughed when you made clear he couldn’t talk about her like that. He thinks you’re still some kid, some stupid kid.

  Farideh—squeezing Dahl’s shoulder down to the bone, down through muscles tensed for another such fight. “Martifyr,” she hissed in Draconic. Peace. “He’s baiting you.”

  Dahl looked up and saw the man made of night, his attention on Xulfaril, on Grathson strangling under some magical spell. He’s baiting you, he thought.

  You’re in a lot of danger, he managed. He couldn’t move his feet. He turned to see Sessaca glaring at him, as if she were the only one who wasn’t in thrall. “Think,” she said.

  He tried to reach beyond himself, out to the presence of Oghma, hoping the god of knowledge might arm him, might give him some strength against this creature.

  You know that won’t work, the man said.

  Why would he arm you? Dahl thought. He left you before. He led you on a merry chase. And for what? To make you grovel? To make you humble? What do you need to be humble for?

  My champion, my wayward son … the path’s well-trod, the hunting’s poor.

  Farideh—streaked and dusty and puffy-eyed and the moment he’d realized he had it all wrong. He loved her and he’d wasted so much time pretending that he didn’t, because someone like him didn’t fall for someone like her. Because he already knew the answer, even though he hadn’t thought about the question.

  So turn your face into the wind … My champion, my wayward son. The echo of the god’s presence, a memory held by every corner of Dahl’s being shivered through him.

  Dahl blinked. Saw h
is brothers fighting one another. Gods’ books, he swore at himself. Keep it together. He managed four steps toward them—grab Thost around the neck, get him off-balance, get him to listen—

  Do you know why your god isn’t here? the man asked. His fingers slid through Dahl’s hair, grabbing a fistful and tugging his head back so that he stared up at the cavern’s ceiling, traced in eerie fungal lights that made his eyes swim. He is not here, because you are mine, Dahl. You have always been mine. Who else prizes you? Who else sees you were meant for greatness? To scrabble up this rotting heap they call civilization. Deep down, you know your worth. You know your strength. You could crush them all.

  “Dahl.” Sessaca’s sharp voice cut the rhythm of the demon’s threats. “Think.”

  Who else prizes you?—He shut his eyes, remembered Farideh, remembered the fear that gripped him when he’d come back to her after that first night, unable to quiet the voice that whispered in his thoughts: She’s changed her mind. You’ve said all the wrong things too many times. It’s too late to undo them. She knows you’re a fraud. And then he’d seen her, voiced that fear that she might not want him still, and she’d laughed like she knew the worry too, and she’d kissed him.

  She values you, he thought, holding to it like a talisman. Even if everything else was false, that was true.

  Is it?

  “Well met,” Mira murmured, and his thoughts filled with cold nights in Proskur made warmer by their embrace, the taste of whiskey, faint in both their mouths, and the flinty taste of cave water this time as she kissed him. Everything dissolved again—everything but the moment, and memory, and this woman in his arms.

  See? the man crooned. You can have whatever you are willful enough to take. Why are you playing by other’s rules?

  “Dahl,” he heard his grandmother say.

  None of this is right.

  Dahl pushed Mira away—or tried to. The demon seemed to fracture his mind and his will and his body, and making them work in concert would have been simpler if they had been three completely separate people. “Mira,” he managed, though he murmured it against her lips. “We shouldn’t.”