by Erin Evans
“Draw!” another Vayemniri woman yelled, preparing the ballista.
All around them, swords left their sheathes, and soldiers crouched, the better for their comrades to aim past them with spears and javelins.
The door shattered, the first glimpse of the beasts coming clear.
“Remember your ancestors!” Uadjit shouted. “Remember their strength and their struggles! Remember the ones who come after us, who will sing of this day!”
Likely without us, Namshita thought grimly as the first goristro tore aside the remains of the door, letting sunlight pour past its shaggy frame. But there will be a future, she told herself.
Suddenly, the air before the ballista sizzled, vents opening in the very air. A creature stepped free—and another and another and another. Nine. Nine of them. Fiends, Namshita thought, ferocious-looking women with tangled horns and sharp hooves. The first of them shouted—a war cry to be certain, but in no tongue Namshita knew—and charged the goristro, sword first.
“Reinforcements?” Uadjit said, sounding puzzled.
“Luck,” Namshita told her, as the devilish warriors drove the demons back, away from the gate. “Forward!” she cried. “Let the Son of Victory see we are not his thralls and our home is no prize for him!”
• • •
DAHL’S HANDS SHOOK as he set all the components he needed in order, the book open at his feet. Already, there were demons climbing the winds high enough to reach them on the peak of Djerad Thymar. He needed to cast the shield—but once he did, he couldn’t break concentration or risk letting the spell slip. The body of Nanna-Sin lay at the center of the unfinished circle, all but bait for the circling demons. Ilstan stood alongside it, Dumuzi and Havilar at its head and feet, all prepared with the markings the spell demanded and the words Caisys had crafted. And Farideh wasn’t here yet.
Mehen slashed at a succubus that dipped too near. “Dahl, stop dawdling!”
Farideh came racing up the stairs from below, her cheeks flushed. “Sorry! I’m here!” she panted. “We have to start!”
“Obviously!” Havilar shouted. She and Farideh both looked to the empty space between them for a moment, as if listening. “Switch spots with me, Dumuzi,” Havilar said.
“Should you be listening to her?” Dumuzi asked, but he exchanged positions anyway.
Dahl started mixing the powdered bluefoots and the salts of mercury. Farideh darted over to him and held him tight a moment. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered.
“Promise,” he said, and kissed her cheek. He glanced at Tam, checked for the vial of crushed diamonds at his belt.
He finished the spell, dragging an iron ring through the mixture and whispering the words that made a rust-colored hemisphere shimmer into being over them. He held that image in his mind and began a prayer to Oghma to help keep his focus.
Farideh twisted the ring on her finger, retrieving the pale staff of Azuth from its hiding place. Ilstan took hold of it as though she were returning his child, cradling it close to his narrow chest. Brin stood ready with the powdered silver. Mehen and Mira kept their swords out, in case Dahl’s shield dropped. Tam lowered himself to his knees, as if in prayer.
Farideh looked over at Dahl. I love you, she mouthed, before touching the ruby rod of Asmodeus to the staff of Azuth and starting something that might save the world, or end it.
PART XII
THE VESSEL
28 Alturiak, the Year of the Malachite Shadows (1460 DR)
Aglarond
• • •
There were eight of them, children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, scattered across a family tree that had planted its roots from Vaasa to Amn to Durpar. Bryseis Kakistos surveyed the circle of tieflings with a pride she wouldn’t have expected.
One son survived, Alonzo, the baby Caisys had stood over, now an old man with a bad hip and the soft eyes of the adept she’d brought to her bedchambers one night. The stern line of his mouth as he watched the others made her think of Alyona when she grew nervous and annoyed. He’d married a Northern girl—an odd concession to society, given the rest of her brood—and two of his children stood nearby in the grove. Naria, dark as her dead mother, and Lachs, pale as his father, both long and lanky. Naria’s daughter, Threnody, stood by as well, sharp eyes watching the shadows despite her graying hair. Two more children were dead, another boy, another girl—the elder brother’s son was the one they’d chosen for the ritual. Chiridion, proud and straight-backed and bearing all the best gifts of his forebears. They’d tracked him to far-off Durpar, amid silks and spices and the dangerous eyes of rakshasas and the descendants of Pradir Ril. Bryseis Kakistos had to admit not a little fondness for the young man who’d given Caisys the slip twice before being caught, and then bargained like a fence for his assistance. Strength, tenacity, cleverness—who wouldn’t be proud?
Her other son had not fared so well. The fosterage had named him Jubal, and he’d rambled all across Toril, leaving behind bodies and debts and children, before dying at last in the dark by the point of several blades. She had gathered two of his children to their cause—proud and sullen Nasmos, secret child of a minor Amnian noblewoman; and Livulia, stout and graceful, the third child of a merchant and his straying tiefling wife.
How many children Jubal had fathered wasn’t certain, nor was it certain how many of these had gone on to mimic their father’s ways. The Nine Hells would know—the devils had begun to make a sport of crafting their own pacts, collecting their own sets of warlocks, descended from that first coven, that first agreement. Every one of these, her descendants, had been snared in such a pact, and it made what remained of Bryseis Kakistos twist with guilt. She had doomed them, every one, all down the line from Jubal to the baby-vessel resting in Adastreia.
She’d traced the lines of the pact out to Mulsantir, to the tiny, purple-haired woman now sitting on a rock with her hands folded nervously over her stomach. She called herself Adastreia Tyrianicus, which made Alyona chuckle. She was sharp and careful and far more powerful in her pact than Bryseis Kakistos would have expected of someone who worked as a scullery in a Golden Way tavern, but the pact was fresh and Adastreia already knew to be careful with devils.
She glanced at Caisys. He still believed this was about untangling their descendants from the demands of the pact, about making the world better for tieflings by making it progress. Adastreia had needed a firmer nudge, the whispered truth of Asmodeus’s ending in her dreams, and the fire had taken hold of her great-granddaughter.
You might have doomed them, Bryseis Kakistos thought, looking over her brood, but had she not made things easier as well? If she hadn’t helped Asmodeus claim the blood of the fiendborn, they might have seemed human and lived completely invisible lives.
Or they might have been born with every wrong feature and been thrown in the river. They might have never had the chance to take the power of a warlock pact.
They might never have been chased by devils, she thought.
Alyona was suddenly beside her. It worked! she said. Are you ready?
Bryseis Kakistos turned her attention to Caisys, the architect of this strange family gathering, their messenger in the mortal world. Tell her its time, she said.
He chuckled once, and nodded, the enchanted ring that let them speak glinting in his ear. “Well done, children,” he said. “Sounds like it’s time.”
Adastreia nodded, ignoring the others with a determination that made Bryseis smile. She took up the knife and the oils, stretched herself out upon the stone surface. Chiridion moved beside her, saying something soft and in her ear that made Adastreia roll her eyes and laugh. They might not be all that fond of each other, Bryseis Kakistos thought, but they are comrades at least. They want this better world.
They want to fix your mistakes.
Livulia stepped forward, bearing the gifts of Selûne, the prayers and spells that would make the vessel safe from prying devils’ eyes, from the notice of Asmodeus. Long enough at least for B
ryseis Kakistos to gather the elements for the next ritual, the one to bring down the king of the Hells. She’d have to tell Caisys about unseating Asmodeus eventually. She’d have to pry the staff from him one way or another.
He noticed her watching and raised an eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”
I’m glad we’re allies once more, she said, and she meant it.
He snorted, but he smiled. “You don’t have friends, do you?” She didn’t know how to answer that. She had allies and she had Alyona. And maybe she had Caisys.
Bisera? Alyona said, taking her by the hand. Are you ready?
Bryseis Kakistos turned her attention to her great-granddaughter, to the fluttery beginnings of something in her belly, to the strands of the Weave and something more tatting themselves into readiness. The ritual would disrupt all of that, latch Bryseis Kakistos’s soul into that tiny void, taking up the space meant to grow some other self. She wondered idly if that supplanted soul would find another someone to become, if, like Bryseis and Alyona, it would have another chance.
She wove the anchor, magic and moonlight—this one for her and the next for Alyona. It wouldn’t take long between them—not twins, but sisters still, and she told herself that was more than enough. It wasn’t how she anticipated her revenge, but this would be better. This would cleanse the stain from her. This would make Alyona forgive her.
Stay close, she told her sister.
The thread of magic pouring down from the moon suddenly tightened, sharp as a razor across the center of her soul. She moved in front of Alyona, but the anchor was splitting, the magic shifting. Each point was suddenly bound to two places—an impossibility that forced the spell apart. She felt the connection to Alyona pull close, then tear away.
Her last thought before Beshaba’s misplaced blessings destroyed her, was to hope for third chances.
• • •
27
TTHERE IS A MOMENT, NO MORE THAN A HEARTBEAT, WHERE ETERNITY STRETCHES, where the gods face each other, strange allies and equals, separate once more. The Lord of Spells looks out of the eyes of a young man who loved magic as dearly as the wizard Azuth once was, even in the absence of Beloved Mystra. What was Ilstan Nyaril is wholly enveloped by the god, embraced by the Weave flowing through them both, knitting the wounds of the shared spark. Sealed in that moment, divine to ephemeral, flesh to godhead, every wizard on the plane sees for a moment the return of Azuth, the sight of a young man with ancient eyes, smiling wryly at the way things come round.
The Thrower of Lightning hands over his beloved child’s gift, the ember of godhood kindled by the stories and memories of the Ash-Marked Ones. Even as the king of the Hells takes it, Enlil draws Asmodeus’s promise back. Nanna-Sin will live, will return, will protect again.
The Raging Fiend fills the flesh of the tiefling woman, tinting her mismatched eyes black as the lightless depths of his realm. His presence flickers, like a mockery of candlelight, but her hand, now his, reaches toward the third god, claims the bright light of divinity hanging between them and presses it to the breast of this champion he does not deserve. She is endless as sin in that moment, more certain than death. God or devil or woman, the Raging Fiend reclaims his throne, his role—the Dark Shepherd of Toril.
Between them the Moon’s Champion opens his eyes once as divinity flees him, his soul escaping whatever place it had slumbered, resting a breath in the heart of the golden-eyed tiefling who bears the onyx axe that once cut down the enemies of Unther. As he dies anew, she gasps, still all too mortal, all too unprepared to be the vessel of the god, and her skin glows with a bluish light, her slow smile beyond charming. The gods reach out—ruby rod, black axe, white staff, platinum javelin. Nanna-Sin’s body twists, rising, changing. The soul that lights the tiefling woman floods back out of her, as the god of the moon is reborn in a blaze of light, not here in the depths of Djerad Thymar but where he is needed.
Where the navy of Unthalass has arrayed itself along the coast, a cry goes up: a dragon turtle rises from the depths, ancient and fierce, with a shell of mother-of-pearl and deep eyes lined with black. There is no crossing the harbor. There will be no crossing the harbor, not without the grace of Vivesh Nannari, the Moon’s Champion.
Asmodeus raises his hand, her hand, sweeps it out toward the field of battle. Where the fallen angels, the erinyes, storm toward their perpetual enemies, the powers of their master catch them, lift them up on well-earned wings, signs of his favor, her favor. The erinyes leap skyward, cutting succubi and vrocks and shadows from the sky, out of the paths of Djerad Thymar’s bat riders, sowing fear in the demons of Gilgeam.
A moment, no more than a heartbeat, when all things change, all things return. Three gods face each other, strange allies and equals, and then they are gone, taking their vessels with them.
• • •
DUMUZI SHOT UP as if from a nightmare, shivering to the very points of his teeth. The touch of Enlil on his mind calmed him—barely. Bodies surrounded him, faces. Shouting. He couldn’t remember …
You’re all right, the voice of the god said. You are safe.
He’d been dead, he realized. For a breath, he’d been dead.
You came with me, the god said, sounding apologetic. But you’re all right now.
“Dumuzi!” Someone was shouting at him. He blinked. Tam. “Dumuzi!”
“I’m all right,” he said. “I’m all right!”
You have to listen. We’ve distracted ourselves—
But the others weren’t. Farideh, Havilar, and Ilstan lay splayed on the ground, feet pointing together. Ilstan stared up at the cloudy sky, a soft smile on his face. The twins lay slack. The Crownsilver had dropped his sword and stood helpless over Havilar, one of the little imps flapping frantically over her. The Peredur stood at his post, holding the shield that kept the diving vulture demons away, but glancing back over his shoulder with increasing anguish. Mehen, holding Farideh’s limp head. Her eyes were open, staring at Dumuzi.
“Do something!” Mehen roared.
It’s happening again. Dumuzi, Ushamgal-lù, listen.
“That’s one down then.” The Selûnite priest crouched between the twins, his palm full of glittering dust. “Which of them do I raise?”
Raise, Dumuzi thought. Dead. And everything seemed to fit together again, jerking into motion like a wheel finding solid ground. His thoughts came back, his nerves reawoke, his heart seemed to find a steady beat once more. The itching, crackling sensation of loose magic on his scales.
“No,” he breathed. “Oh karshoj, no.”
“You need to choose now!” Tam shouted.
• • •
FARIDEH OPENED HER eyes to a world without edges, an endless plain of grayish mist that made her brain ache, trying to discern where it ended, where it began. She felt a hand in hers—Havilar, beside her, looking just as shaken as Farideh felt.
“This is the Fugue Plane, isn’t it?” she whispered, her voice shaking. Farideh squeezed her hand tight. “Karshoj. What now?”
Farideh had no idea. Dahl’s teasing went through Farideh’s thoughts. If you survive this, I’m going to have to insist you get yourself a religious education. Grief crushed itself around her. She squeezed Havilar’s hand tighter.
In the mists ahead, two more figures stood. Twin tieflings, with small sharp horns like a mountain goat’s, hoofed feet, and lovely faces, hands interlocked just like Havilar and Farideh’s. “Oh my dears,” Alyona said. “You’ve done a very brave thing.”
“For all the good it will do,” Bryseis Kakistos said mournfully. She eyed the mists around them—dark shapes moved through the clouds. “When the devils come, you mustn’t listen. Farideh, do you understand?” Her voice began to tremble as she spoke. Alyona turned and wrapped her in an embrace, stroking her sister’s hair.
The mists shifted. One moment there was only grayness, the next there seemed to be a doorway to another place, a cave within the clouds that led to a vast starry sea, hung with islands bathed in moonlig
ht. A winged woman flew through the night toward them.
Bryseis Kakistos lifted her head, still holding tight to Alyona. “Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, you’re going to leave. You have to leave. And I’m …”
Alyona shushed her. “You don’t have to go back to the Nine Hells. I’ll stay until you’re ready.”
“Where else would I go?” her sister demanded. “I broke my promise. I won’t be welcome in the Gates of the Moon.”
“No,” Alyona agreed. She took her sister by the hand. “Come on, Bisera, I’ll show you.”
“Do you want to follow?” Havilar whispered. “I sort of want to follow.” She glanced at the nearing angel. “I don’t want to answer this woman’s questions, that’s for sure.”
Farideh was more concerned with the dark shapes circling them in the mists. She nodded, and together they walked through the endless plane after the other twins.
An eternity passed, so long Farideh felt as if she couldn’t remember who she was, where she was, only that Havilar was with her, her hand tight in Farideh’s. They finally came to a stop, the mists clearing before them to reveal a jagged edge, as if someone had torn the plane away, letting it fall into darkness. Farideh’s heart turned as cold as the bottom of the mountain tarn she had grown up swimming in. Havilar grabbed her arm with her other hand.
“There’s nothing there,” she whispered. “There’s nothing there—right?”
Oblivion.
Bryseis Kakistos looked back at Alyona, alarmed. “You can’t do this,” she said, clasping her sister’s hands. “This isn’t fair. It’s not what you deserve.”
Alyona covered her sister’s hands with her own. “I’m not coming with you this time,” she said sadly. “But I will wait. I will stay until you’re ready.”
Farideh looked away. She was a monster, a killer of her own kind. She’d been the reason for more bloodshed and heartache than could ever be tallied. But she’d been someone’s sister too. And in the end, she’d helped them.
“I’m sorry,” Havilar said, turning her own face into Farideh’s shoulder. “I could have been a better sister.”