by Erin Evans
“Yes,” Dahl said. “But there are people I need to help first. There’s someone I have to set things right with. We don’t leave the waking world to its own devices.”
“But you must sometimes,” Somni said as if explaining things to a child.
“If I don’t do this when I have the chance,” Dahl said, “then there’s no way at all my head will be clear or my knowledge of any use to you. I’ll come back,” he added. “I will promise that.”
“You cannot promise that,” Somni said. “You don’t know if it’s going to be true. But I will accept that your need exists. I will take my stomm back to the mountains’ edge and wait for you there, when you’ve finished settling things with your stomm.” Without waiting for an answer, without explaining what she’d meant before, the giant chieftain strode back down the hill to her people, taking every hope of a giant army to crush Gilgeam and Bryseis Kakistos with her.
“Well,” Mehen said acidly, “many thanks, Dahl, for bringing us allies. How would we manage without them?”
“Brand-new stlarning tribe of giants fell into the world seven days ago and I haven’t figured out exactly how to explain everything in this world to them or convince them to do things that I can’t even say for certain are in their best interests,” Dahl said hotly. “All my apologies. I’m trying.”
Uadjit smiled at the Harper. “Excuse us a moment.” She grabbed Mehen’s upper arm, pulling him aside, out of Dahl’s earshot. “What snake has crawled into your smalls? Can that boy say a word without you criticizing it?”
Mehen drew back. “You don’t know him. He’s a proud little hardjack and—”
“Like you? You sounded like Pandjed back there,” Uadjit snapped. “He didn’t put that nonsense in Somni’s head any more than he put omin’ iejirkkessh in mine. There is nothing happening right now that isn’t completely expected. Treaties don’t happen in a karshoji afternoon, and they don’t happen with someone sniping at the closest thing we have to an ambassador with the other side!”
At that moment, Uadjit glanced back and saw Dahl talking to Dumuzi. She broke off and turned on Mehen, eyes blazing. “He knows my son,” she said accusingly.
“They’ve met.”
“Which means he knows your daughter, and judging by the way you’re all but spitting lightning, he knows her too. Don’t tell me you’ve decided to play the blind patriarch and thwart Farideh’s happiness so you can make a match to keep her home?”
“I am not playing the karshoji blind patriarch!” Mehen said. “Life is not a godsbedamned Ash Day drama.”
“Then pull back your attack,” Uadjit said. “Do you think I like it when my son gets tongue-tied over foolish girls? It doesn’t matter. Whatever is happening between a pair of hatchlings behind closed doors has nothing to do at all with discussing refugees and asylum. Let me do what I do best, and save your snarling elder act for later.”
Mehen folded his arms over his chest as Uadjit rejoined the others, pride wounded more than he dared show. It’s because you love her, he told himself, because you only want what’s best for her. Because Havilar is missing and you can’t think straight. Because he really is a smug little hardjack and he abandoned her, tugging her back and forth with empty messages.
Which didn’t matter, he had to admit. Uadjit was right. He didn’t need to like Dahl. He didn’t need to scare him into behaving better, or make him prove he wasn’t going to bring Farideh to ruin and heartbreak. He just needed to know if Dahl was right about the giants and the Untherans.
And worse comes to worst, Mehen thought, he’s not Lorcan. He rubbed a hand over his face and edged back over to the group.
“So,” Namshita said, “which of you must I beg asylum from?”
“Djerad Thymar is a free city,” Uadjit said. “There’s nothing stopping you from entering. However, given the current tensions, it would be wisest if you entered with an escort and a clan’s backing.” She turned to Dahl. “Do you know if any of the Shestandeliath or Clethtinthtiallor survivors are elders?”
“That … is something we should probably check on,” Dahl said. He turned to the Calishite woman, who’d been watching the proceedings with a sharp and watchful eye. She shook her head.
“I’ll get Bodhar and Thost.”
“Get Mazarka,” Dahl said.
“If Shestandeliath or Clethtinthtiallor have elders who would back your request,” Uadjit explained, “that would ease the path. Better still if you’d be willing to tell us what we need to know to protect our own people and our cities.”
“You should know the Son of Victory will not stop until he’s won.” Kallan shot Mehen a significant look, which Namshita spotted. “I don’t say that in praise. I mean he will not admit defeat. I don’t know that he can. If you want to be free of him, you will have to destroy him, utterly.”
“Along with those who follow him,” Dumuzi said. “Wicked and innocent.”
“I will answer your questions,” Namshita said, “when you’ve given shelter to the people who risked their lives to defy him.”
Uadjit considered a moment. “Fair.”
“They ought to stay outside the pyramid while that’s settled,” Kallan chimed in. “And while you figure out if any of them are really on the side of Gilgeam.”
“Also fair,” Uadjit said, despite the dark look Namshita gave Kallan. “The city extends beyond the walls of the pyramid,” Uadjit assured her. “There will be shelter and food and safety. Ah!” Behind her, an owl-pierced old man with rust-colored scales came up to the slope, leaning on two human men—both bearded, one almost as tall as Mehen himself. “Let’s you and I speak to Clethtinthtiallor Zarjhan about his clan’s acknowledgment.”
Uadjit and Namshita headed down the slope, Uadjit taking hold of the Clethtinthtiallor elder’s arm and leading him back to where they might sit on a tumble of rocks. The two men came striding up the slope toward Dahl.
“You ought to go with her,” Dahl said to Mehen. “I think you and Namshita might get along better than you expect.”
“What says the wind?” the smaller one said. “We have a place to go? Oh, well met.” He nodded to Mehen, Kallan, and Dumuzi.
“This is, um, …” Dahl took another, unnecessary breath. “These are my brothers. Thost and Bodhar. This is Dumuzi, Kallan, and Mehen. Farideh’s father.”
“Oh,” the smaller one said with great significance. “Right. She’s adopted.” He grinned at Mehen. “And she puts a lot of sugar in her tea. Well met, goodman—goodman? Is that how I ought to say it?”
“Say what you like.”
Bodhar continued, greeting Kallan and Dumuzi. Mehen looked the other one over. Thost nodded back. “Well met. Those your horses?”
“Yes,” Mehen said. “All of them.” Uadjit’s chastisement came back to him. “Somni offered some help getting everyone back. You don’t have to walk.”
Thost shrugged. “We walk, then we walk.”
“Been walking a lot since we followed Dahl out of Harrowdale,” Bodhar said. “Besides, now we get to meet this mystery girl he’s so mad about.”
“Gods’ books, Bodhar. Don’t—”
“Hasn’t said a word about you, mind,” Bodhar said to Mehen. “Good or ill, good or ill.”
“Said he loves how much she loves her family,” Thost said. “Counts for some.”
“Right,” Bodhar said. “Forgot about that. So a little good.” He grinned at Mehen.
Dahl looked as if he were hoping a giant would come striding through and crush them all flat. “How far are we from Djerad Thymar?” he asked.
“Maybe two days walking,” Mehen said. “Three with all these folks.” He hesitated. “You want to take my horse and go on ahead with the others, you’ll get there in a day or so.”
Dahl hesitated as if he expected a trick. “Many thanks. The giants can speed things along, if you all are amenable to taking them up on their offer.”
“ ’Tain’t so bad as it seems,” Bodhar assured Mehen. “Not so bad as p
ortals, anyhow.”
Kallan chuckled. “Speed’s handy, but I have to agree. Gives me a two-day headache.” He nodded at Dahl. “You can have my horse, get you both back quicker.”
“Again,” Dahl said, “many thanks.” He cleared his throat, turning to Mehen. “Is she all right?”
“None of us is all right,” Mehen said, and much as he wanted to ride off and leave Dahl with no more than that, he sighed and started to explain what exactly Dahl was insisting on walking into..
• • •
WHAT THE KARSHOJI HELLS? Havilar screamed as she found herself back in that plane of fog and light. It was a dream—it had to be the dream, confusing Brin and making him think things were true when they weren’t. She didn’t have a son. She couldn’t have a son.
You remember the Nine Hells in ways Farideh doesn’t, she realized. Farideh’s years there were a blankness, a hole in her memory—but Havilar had glimpses of devils and darkness and worse. Had they let her wake, at least a little?
She thought of the way her changed body made her feel clumsy and off-balance, her bosom alien and frustrating—and the way Farideh refused the same complaint. The way Farideh complained the dresses she’d borrowed from Havilar gaped at the bust.
If she’d needed to breathe, Havilar wasn’t sure she would have managed. She clutched her braid and wished it were her glaive or her sister or something useful.
Alyona stood, reaching for her. What happened?
Did you know? Havilar asked. About there being a baby?
Alyona blinked at her. Did he find it then?
The “it” Brin had been hunting for Bryseis Kakistos. The “it” Havilar should have known about, but didn’t. He’d found the missing heir. Which meant Bryseis Kakistos might know too. Which meant she might intend to use the baby for something terrible.
Where are you going? Alyona said as Havilar stood and moved for the fold in the fog.
She found the door herself this time, pulled herself through it, out into the fortress, where again she stood beside her own body.
PART VI
HIERARCHY
19 Mirtul, the Year of the Arch (1353 DR)
Aglarond
• • •
It took a great deal of effort, a great deal of magic, to let Alyona haunt her.
Caisys helped her find Titus Greybeard again, who in turn traded her texts mentioning soul sapphires, at a dear price. They didn’t speak of the succubus.
The demons, it happened, had ways to break a soul sapphire, and while none of them were what Bisera needed, she immersed herself in those spells, finding the pieces and paths to crack an opening in the prison, a door to let Alyona’s soul reach out, but not escape. A way to keep her sister bound to her, safely, that took her own soul to wedge the door open.
At first, Bisera’s nightmares raged. She should have dreaded them, but in each, she saw her sister once more—furious, yes; dangerous, indeed. But alive.
“I need to find a way to bring her back,” Bisera told Caisys. The priests of Selûne had cremated the body, not waiting for Bisera to return from her vengeance, not waiting for a proper priest. There were no tokens taken. The underpriests had burned everything—who would think any part of a tiefling lovely enough to take?
Bisera had gotten carried away, and what the Hag Countess had given her wasn’t power enough to make up the difference. She tried to call the night hag down again, but to no avail. She tried to call the erinyes back, but nothing came.
“You need a cleric,” Caisys had said. “And while I know a few, none of them can do what you’re asking.”
“You don’t have to help me.”
“Please,” Caisys said. “It’s more helping Alyona, isn’t it?”
I will find a way, she promised Alyona in her dreams. I will rescue you, I promise.
When the nightmares started to settle into something dim and mournful, Bisera found herself surprised by the return of Shetai. It was evening, the caravan drawn alongside the road to Ilmwatch, and she left to go pull water from a nearby stream. The presence of Alyona came with her—she could feel her twin’s ghost as though she walked beside her, and Bisera clutched the soul sapphire around her neck, as if she could protect Alyona from any further injustice.
She reached the stream and found an imp waiting there. “Are you Bisera?”
“Depends who’s asking,” she said, letting the magic she still channeled flood her fingertips.
“Shetai,” the imp said. It handed her a mirror, and as soon as she held it firm, the imp vanished back into the air.
The surface of the mirror flashed, and the face it showed a moment later was not the erinyes, but a pale creature the size of a mountain with piercing eyes and a wide, razor-lined mouth trimmed in paint.
“Bisera,” it said. “There you are. I have such news for you.”
Bisera frowned. “You aren’t Shetai.”
“I am and I’m not,” the creature said. It flourished a hand tipped with sharp, bloodied nails. “Promoted. There’s been a change in the regime of the Sixth Layer, you see. Malagarde is no more.”
“She’s dead?”
Shetai chuckled in a way Bisera couldn’t have imagined coming from the erinyes. “Yes and no. What matters is she is no longer Lord here. She displeased His Majesty, and that could not stand. I chose the correct side, as you can see. I serve Glasya, Lord of the Sixth and Princess of the Nine Hells.”
Bisera bit her tongue. “And so I assume this means the end of my pact. How convenient.”
Shetai’s dark eyes glittered. “Not at all. Your pact, perhaps, marks the sort of thing that His Majesty found distasteful in Malagarde’s methods—slapdash and without order. But the core of it intrigues him. Asmodeus has taken an interest.”
“Asmodeus?” Bisera asked. “The king of the Nine Hells?”
Shetai nodded slowly. “I mentioned it.”
Bisera felt as though she’d been crossing a marsh, and rather than being knee-deep, she’d just plunged to her waist. Beside her, Alyona felt frantic and cold—Bisera could nearly hear her screaming in the breath of the wind. “What does that mean?” Bisera asked. “For me?”
“It means,” Shetai said, “you should have a visitor soon enough.”
Soon enough—how long had it been? The sky was fully dark, the air cool at last, and the moon a sliver of light above, but Bisera could have sworn only a heartbeat had passed when she noticed the archdevil standing on the other side of the stream.
She would know later that this wasn’t him—only a dim reflection, an avatar of sorts—but in that moment, she had never seen anything so glorious or so terrifying as the king of the Hells.
“You’ve found yourself a tidy little connection to my kingdom,” he said, a voice like a promise in the dead of night. “Was that your doing, or Malagarde’s?”
“Mine,” she said, only a little bit of a lie.
“What a clever, clever girl you are,” he said, the praise slippery as fishes. “And how are you enjoying those powers?”
She forgot so much of that first meeting—but whatever fear and want and confusion the Hag Countess had caused in her, beside Asmodeus it was a trifle, shadows and scratchings. This was something altogether different, and it took all her will to keep her feet. I am no one’s slave, she thought.
“I don’t want a deal if you can’t do better than she did,” she said.
Asmodeus’s laugh etched itself into her bones. “Please, child. You stand before the master of the Nine Hells. What a night hag can give you is like the light a star gives compared to the midday sun. Name your terms, I’ll name my price.”
“First,” Bisera said, “I want my sister back.”
Asmodeus clucked his tongue. “A true resurrection. You’re asking an archdevil for the powers of a god.”
“Are you so far from being a god?”
She would never ever forget his smile as he said, “How funny you should ask that. I think we can suit each other nicely.”
• • •
12
2 Hammer, the Year of the Rune Lords Triumphant (1487 DR)
Aglarond
FARIDEH MOVED AS IF IN A DREAM, SOME DISTANT PART OF HERSELF NOTING how out of place she must have looked, striding up to a cowherd’s cottage on a hill, wrapped in leather armor and holding tight to her sword. A sixth Brimstone Angel. A nephew. Havi’s son.
There had to be a mistake.
“Would I possibly waste this much effort on a mistake?” Sairché had said in her withering way. “Believe me, at the time I was as surprised as you are now. It was such a trial, making sure the babe thrived enough to be born, and then midwifing the whole thing, and carrying it off, without anyone noticing. There were plenty of times,” she went on, “I considered calling off the whole business.”
Whatever clemency Farideh had been inclined to offer, with worse villains to face, it vanished in the face of Sairché’s flippant remarks. Lorcan had to pull her bodily from the room.
“What’s done is done,” he told her, holding her tight. “What matters now is finding him.”
That, at least, Sairché had given up, and by the next afternoon, they stepped through the portal into a pastureland at the edge of Aglarond’s forest, Lorcan in his human disguise. The light was low, the hour later here than in Djerad Thymar.
“You can put that sword up,” Lorcan said. “We’re not walking into an ambush.”
“The sort of people who would take a baby from Sairché, no questions asked, and you’ll pardon me if I don’t trust them.”
“How many questions did you ask?” Lorcan said. “People forget to ask plenty of things when faced with their heart’s desires.”
Farideh stopped and turned on him. “Something changed again.”
Lorcan’s face became as still and implacable as a statue, and it only made her more certain. “Darling, if you’re going to be cryptic—”
“You know what I mean.” She studied him, not budging. “You’re back to normal, aren’t you?” Farideh said. “Whatever happened, you fixed it. You made it stop.”