by Erin Evans
Beside him, Zoonie whined, bouncing on her hindquarters, as if she sensed the danger Havilar was in. Brin hesitated. Havilar was more important than Zoonie—he would never argue otherwise. But dooming the hellhound was harder than he could have prepared himself for. “Perhaps we can come to a—”
Bryseis Kakistos gasped suddenly. “You little bitch!” she shouted.
At that moment, Remzi lunged at Phrenike, grabbing hold of the soul sapphire’s cord dangling from her fist.
• • •
DUMUZI LISTENED TO Farideh with the concentrated caution of someone hearing out a madwoman, and she knew it. He sat opposite her in the quiet of the Verthisathurgiesh guest quarters, listening without any interruption as she laid out their plans for the ritual, and only when she came to asking outright for Thymara’s Black Axe and the corpse of Nanna-Sin did he speak.
“Absolutely not,” he said, sounding surprised, as if he’d expected her explanation to land somewhere entirely different.
“Dumuzi,” Farideh said, “we really don’t have many options.”
“And I’m sorry to hear that,” Dumuzi said, “but that doesn’t mean you get to desecrate the grave of the Moon’s Champion or use my family’s artifact to bless the god of sin.”
Farideh pursed her mouth. Between her and Ilstan, it was hard not to think that they could surely wrest the black axe from Dumuzi. He might be stronger than both of them, but he had no magic to speak of. Mehen was on their side—he knew exactly where the body of Nanna-Sin lay and could get them there, or get it out.
No, she told herself. It would be easier to do things without letting other people in, but it wouldn’t be right.
“If we don’t find a spark,” she said, “then they’ll keep pulling each other apart. Then Bryseis Kakistos still has a way to end him, and Havilar is still a target.”
Dumuzi shook his head. “That’s something you should bring up to your god. We already stopped Gilgeam from stealing Nanna-Sin’s divinity—why would I just let Asmodeus take it?”
“It won’t make things worse for your people,” Ilstan said. “And it may make them better.” He looked at Farideh. “There are dragonborn wizards, after all, and if they are open now to the notion of worship—”
“We aren’t,” Dumuzi said flatly. “Certain cases aside.”
Stay calm, Farideh reminded herself. They had time to argue, to discuss Dumuzi’s concerns and explain their own reasons. She wasn’t in such a hurry to put these plans into motion.
Suddenly a gust of hot air flooded out of the room Sairché had been imprisoned in, and Farideh’s brand ignited in a flurry of prickling. She came to her feet just as Lorcan passed through the door.
There was no mistaking the curse had once again been wiped from him. His dark eyes seemed to smolder as he looked them over. But his gaze fell on her for only the briefest of moments before it darted away. Her temper surged, even as she was searching him for injuries.
“You’re back?” she managed.
He cleared his throat, and his wings flicked in that way that made him seem nervous. “I’ve come from Nessus,” he said, his voice tight. “From His Majesty … and guest. They wish to speak with their Chosen. Both of you.”
“I’m not his Chosen anymore,” Farideh said.
Lorcan chuckled once. “Well, darling, today is full of surprises. I’d get comfortable if I were you.”
She shook her head. “We’re … We’re in the middle of something. And you and I are going to talk—”
“It’s not so much a request as a warning,” Lorcan interrupted.
“Is that why?” she asked. “Does he know what we’re hoping to do?”
“I think he might.” His dark eyes found hers, and her heart started racing—with fear or with passion, and she was distressed to notice she couldn’t tell the difference with him. “Darling,” he said, “I’m only a messenger.”
Farideh turned to Dumuzi. There wasn’t time to goad him. “What would make the plan all right? Quick! What would he agree to?”
“I don’t know,” Dumuzi said. “You have to understand, Nanna-Sin … He clearly misses him. He clearly misses the pantheon he had. If it doesn’t protect us, I can’t imagine him doing anything to harm what little he has of the past.” His teeth gapped. “If anything’s going to be done to Nanna-Sin, I would think Enlil would want him brought back.”
“What if he came back,” Ilstan said, “but without the divinity?”
Farideh turned to him. “Can we do that?”
Ilstan shrugged. “We can’t. But … Asmodeus is at the peak of his power, one assumes. He’d probably be immortal. Probably retain his self. Although gods … they are both changeable and unchanging.”
“Would that do it?” she demanded.
Dumuzi shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d have to ask.”
“Ask!” Farideh said, or might have said. She could no longer be sure as her vision turned gray and she was falling, falling, into some other place. Her presence requested by someone with no need to ask if she was finished.
• • •
HAVILAR WASTED NO time once she’d been shoved back out of the dream world. She climbed back through the invisible door, into the world of mists, startling Alyona.
Oh, she said. Did you go?
You’re going to help me, Havilar said quickly, grabbing the other woman by the arm. Your sister is about to do the ritual and I’m not letting that happen.
Alyona shook her head. What do you imagine I can do?
You can hold her here, Havilar said. You can. I saw you do it in her dream—that’s not your head, that’s not your dream, but you stopped her, so don’t act like you can’t.
Alyona lifted her chin. Maybe, she allowed. I’ve never tried. She’ll be upset, she added.
Good, Havilar said savagely. Maybe then she’ll listen. Come on.
When they came back out into the world, they were entering a little room in one of the towers. Brin, Zoonie—Havilar floated away from her body, searching for the little boy, and spotted him hiding behind a cabinet in the corner. He saw her too, his eyes bulging in utter terror. She tapped a finger to her lips—shush.
“Lord Crownsilver,” she heard her voice say. “I trust you’re well.” Bryseis Kakistos looked around the room. “Please don’t tell me you’ve decided to do something foolish with the boy.”
“Is it time?”
Zoonie? Havilar said. The hellhound cocked an ear, her tail thumping against the floor. Good girl. Good. All right. You can hear me?
The hellhound made a grumbling sort of noise and coughed sparks, which was about as much as Havilar was willing to expect. Good girl, she murmured again.
Suddenly the memory of cold gripped her, a disorienting feeling as if her mind thought she was freezing stiff but her body had no such sensation. Alyona shouted as Havilar turned and saw the lich yanking the soul sapphire from her body’s neck. Bryseis Kakistos made no move to stop her, paralyzed as she was.
Get her free, Havilar shouted. She sped to Alyona’s side. Can we do that? How do we do that?
Quiet, Alyona said. She grabbed Havilar’s hand and plunged both their fists together through the back of Bryseis Kakistos. It felt as if she were punching through the crust on top of a thick layer of snow, only if lava lay beneath. Havilar yelped, but Alyona held her firm. Something deep inside the Brimstone Angel twisted, alive, and pulled a pulse of magic out of the two of them, and her arm jerked into motion, then her head, then she was speaking. “Aquatin luokseni.”
That was her, Havilar realized. She’d gripped the Brimstone Angel’s ghost.
Bisera, Alyona said. Bisera, you have to listen.
A flash of magic deposited a small jeweled box into Bryseis Kakistos’s hands. The lich looked surprised. “How did you get that?”
She isn’t listening, Havilar insisted. She shoved her ghostly hand once more through the body and grabbed a fistful of what she found there. She heard Bryseis Kakistos’s sharp intake of brea
th, so soft her enemies would have missed it. Havilar glanced at the little boy tucked in the shadows of the room’s corner, and pulled a little farther. Her own heart started to flutter—a sensation far more definite than anything she’d found in the misty plain.
“I suppose we’re at an impasse,” Bryseis Kakistos said, and Havilar couldn’t be sure if she was talking to the lich or herself.
Oh, I think I have the upper hand here, Havilar said. You come out now.
“You’ve miscalculated,” she said. “Zoonie, parosh renoutaa.” The hellhound came snarling to her feet. “Lord Crownsilver, the muzzle, if you please.”
Havilar froze, her arm sunk to the elbow in her own rib cage. What are you doing?
“Oh, are you going to waste your dog on a feint?” Phrenike asked. Her left hand seethed an eerie greenness, sick and foul. “I can kill it, you’ll recall, rather quickly.”
“You can have a crushed phylactery and a dead hellhound,” Bryseis Kakistos said. “Or we can all calm down. Lord Crownsilver, what say you?”
“Tarto, Zoonie,” Brin said.
Havilar hesitated, eyes on Zoonie, arm still half out of Bryseis Kakistos. The hellhound eyed the place she hovered with worried eyes, sparks raining from her jaws. Zoonie would do anything for her, she was sure of that. She didn’t release her grip, but she stopped pulling.
“Your true love’s soul is in quite a lot of trouble,” Bryseis Kakistos told Brin.
Do it, Alyona said beside her. It’s the only way.
Havilar shut her eyes and shoved her arm in up to the shoulder in one swift motion.
Bryseis Kakistos gasped suddenly. “You little bitch!” she shouted. Havilar pushed harder, her sight growing hazy, even as the sense that Bryseis Kakistos’s spirit was struggling against her grasp grew. Alyona pressed against her other shoulder—she felt the edges of their souls sizzle now as they contacted—and with her other hand reached in to grab hold of Bryseis Kakistos as well.
It hurt, it hurt more than Havilar could have imagined. If she’d been rolled flat as a farothai and run through a basilisk’s gullet, it couldn’t have hurt worse. For a moment she forgot who she was, where she was. She was only heavy and dense and trapped.
Then she opened her eyes and saw Remzi, one hand tangled in the leather thong of the soul sapphire’s necklace, hanging from Phrenike’s grasp.
“What a foolish little creature you are,” the lich said. “I suppose you favor your simpleton mother.”
Havilar reached for her glaive—her arms moved like they were filled with sand—but there was no glaive, of course. Bryseis Kakistos had no need for a glaive.
Destroy the phylactery! Alyona shouted. Havilar turned her head too fast and caught a glimpse of the tiefling twins, their souls twisted and tangled together as Bryseis Kakistos tried to escape. Havilar looked at the box in her hand—and her eyes caught the trio of tattoos someone had put on her wrist. Strange runes, unfamiliar runes.
But that second one … that second one looked like the shape Farideh drew before the lava vent opened.
Which wouldn’t save Remzi. Brin had his sword out and a dagger—he was going to do something unwise, she was sure of it. She would have too, if she had her weapon.
But then Zoonie leaped into motion. She howled and the flames that had been building in her jaws streamed forth to catch the lich’s robes aflame. Phrenike shrieked and twisted from the fire, loosing her grip enough for Remzi to twist free. In the same moment, Havilar touched her fingers to the mark. The floor before her ignited, smaller than Farideh’s lava vent but faster, hotter. She dropped the phylactery into the fire, as still-burning Phrenike reached for her son with green glowing fingers. The lich cried out in sudden surprise but didn’t fall.
Zoonie’s muzzle fell apart, the leather burned away, and no sooner had the glowing cage of metal hit the floor but the Nessian warhound sprang into Phrenike, seizing the lich’s neck and jerking—once, twice—
The spell unfolded, filling Phrenike’s bony hand as she clawed at Zoonie.
“Zoonie!” Havilar screamed. “Eshata! Eshata!” The hellhound dropped the lich, but not quick enough. Havilar watched that green glowing hand sweep around, forgetting Remzi, forgetting Bryseis Kakistos, reaching for the hellhound—
A dagger struck Phrenike’s palm not a handspan from Zoonie’s shaggy coat, tossing her arm backward with the force of the throw. Remzi ran around the lich, giving her a wide berth, to hide behind Brin, while Zoonie wheeled, scrambling up to her feet again.
Phrenike lay broken on the floor, her neck twisted, her violet eyes dimming. Havilar dared to move a little nearer, her feet fighting her like sellswords uncertain of a new mistress. The lich looked up at her. “You kill me and you have to hunt yourself up another heir,” she said.
“I do not,” Havilar said. “Karshoj to that stupid plan. You almost killed my dog.” Havilar looked down at her wrist and chose the first of the two tattoos, the one that looked like a snowflake. Light streamed from her wrist, a cone of sunshine. The lich collapsed into a pile of ashes.
“Havi?” Brin said, softly. “Havi?” She turned to him and smiled, nodded.
Brin rushed to her side, throwing his arms around her. “Oh gods, gods.” He kissed her and kissed her. It had never felt so good to have a form, Havilar thought, trying not to laugh.
But some part of her lurched. She looked back at the ghosts, at Bryseis Kakistos reaching for her beyond Alyona’s grasp.
You will not take this from me, she whispered.
“I will take this from you, because you have a terrible plan,” she said. “I’m going to fix it for you, because I like your sister. You had your chance. Now sit down.”
“Are you … Are you talking to her?” Brin asked.
Havilar remembered no one else could see the ghosts. Except …
She looked over at Remzi, who was watching her wide-eyed with the soul sapphire clutched to his chest. Zoonie licked his cheek, and he pushed her away without breaking Havilar’s gaze.
“Can you see them?” Havilar asked. “Or could you just see me?”
Remzi’s gaze darted over her shoulder. He gave a small, shy nod. “Excellent,” Havilar said. “Your job is to keep an eye on them and tell me if … well if one of them breaks free, it’s Bryseis Kakistos.” She pressed her mouth shut a moment. “I’m Havi, by the way.”
“Well met,” Remzi said in a tiny voice. Brin put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. Remzi slipped out and moved behind Zoonie.
“He … has your sense of timing,” Brin said quietly. “Your insane courage.”
Havilar rolled her eyes. “And your aim, I guess.” She shook her head. “We have to set that aside for later. We need to get out of here.”
Mot landed on the table beside her. “Lady,” he said, nodding. “I see you’re back.”
“Well met, Mot,” she said. She winced as another yank came on her spirit.
I can’t force her into the sapphire, Alyona apologized.
Traitor, Bryseis Kakistos said mournfully.
It’s for your own good, Bisera!
“Hey, little boy! Give me that,” Mot said, beckoning for the amulet. “I know what to do with her.”
“No!” Havilar snatched it out of the air as Remzi handed it over. She looked at the stone in her palm—dark blue and refracting the light into the shape of a multipointed star. “Her sister is in here too. And she didn’t do anything, except maybe hope that Bryseis Kakistos would remember how to be decent.” She turned back to where the ghosts were still intertwined. But quieter now. Watching.
“Nobody is taking Alyona to the Nine Hells,” she said, for the sake of the ghosts and the living. “But,” she added, “I am willing to wager that Torm will spare a turning for you if you don’t behave.”
Bryseis Kakistos watched, hateful and furious, and Havilar was certain she was only biding her time. Fine, she thought. Better than stealing my body. She turned back to Brin. “First, we unlock the cells and find her sta
ff,” she said. “Then we go get my glaive.”
25
9 Hammer, the Year of the Rune Lords Triumphant (1487 DR)
Djerad Thymar, Tymanther
THE DRAGONBORN SHOPKEEPER’S NOSTRILS FLARED IN A WAY DAHL expected meant something, but he had no idea what. “I can’t go below sixty,” he said. “Especially not when you’re paying me in foreign coin.”
“You can weigh it,” Dahl pointed out. The shopkeeper only shrugged, sending the chain draped across his cheek swaying.
“Still sixty.”
Dahl scowled at the ritual book between them. There was only one other shop that dealt in magic items and components in all of Djerad Thymar, and its owner, he was told, had given most of her stock to the war effort and then joined up with a battalion of wizards.
“Sixty?” Bodhar said. “Who you selling to, Preskan? Can’t tell me the demands all that high. A pity,” he added, “because I seen some impressive things come of magic.”
The elderly tiefling with them snorted. “None of that comes out of an empty ritual book. Sixty’s definitely a premium.”
“Have to stay in business,” Preskan said.
“Aye, Lachs. Gotta find some way to pay the embroiderers for this frippery.” Bodhar ran a finger over the gold stitching on the book’s fabric cover. “Dunno, Dahl, does it match your dancing slippers?”
The dragonborn chuckled, though Dahl had a hard time telling if he was laughing at Bodhar’s charm or if the attempt were just failing. He’d chuckled the same way at seeing Thost—as if the sight of a human as big as a dragonborn surprised him or maybe that too seemed absurd.
“What if you do seventy,” Bodhar compromised, “and you add five spells to the pages.” He looked over at Dahl. “Would that work?”
“Eighty,” Preskan said. “And two.”
“Seventy-five and three.” A shield, Dahl thought. A magic circle.
A resurrection.
He pushed that thought to the side, even though it felt as though his heart was screaming and screaming for him to focus on it. She’s not necessarily going to die of this, he told himself. You still have time to hunt up a priest. In Djerad Thymar. Where the most powerful priest is a fifteen-year-old traditionalist who thinks people ought to let their own injuries heal because that’s how things have been done. Hrast.