by Erin Evans
“No you couldn’t have,” Farideh said. She blinked, expecting tears at the past tense, but they didn’t seem to come. “Dahl … Dahl was ready if one of us died.”
“But just one of us,” Havilar said sadly. “I don’t know whether to hope it’s you or it’s me.” She pursed her lips, looking at the dark shapes in the mists. “But it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Maybe they didn’t manage?”
Farideh glanced at the sisters standing on the edge of oblivion, wondering if that too would be her fate. Bryseis—Bisera—looked up and met her gaze for a moment. She turned and cupped her sister’s face in both hands. “You will be safe,” she said firmly. “That’s all I really wanted.”
Then Bisera jumped into the darkness, so suddenly that Farideh cried out, moved as if to stop her. The Brimstone Angel was gone.
• • •
MEGARA, THIRD AMONG the pradixikai, ripped the club from a succubus’s grip and ran the demon bitch through with her sword. Her sisters, Artaxata and Nola, speared the creature from opposite sides, too swift to be stopped. The sound of the succubus’s innards sliding along twin blades, accompanied by her last gasp, was a godsbedamned symphony to Megara.
“Surprise,” she snarled, just before the succubus burst into flames. What a glorious gift from the king of the Hells: the return of their wings, the return of their hated enemies to their proper side, and still the erinyes perched in the same place upon the hierarchy—she knew that down in her bones.
“Dive at the ground troops,” she ordered Artaxata and Nola. “Get that goristro’s attention off the wall.” She grinned. “How long has it been since we’ve gotten to twist one of those big bastard’s heads around?”
Curly-haired Artaxata grinned back. “Too long. Let’s savor it.”
Lorcan might have snatched Mother’s mantle from Megara, insulting her by elevating a weakling like Neferis over her, but she could die happily, once more battling the enemies every part of her knew as enemies, once more riding above the fray on powerful wings.
The goristro had been driven back from the hole it broke in the long stone wall, but not far. The dragonborn might be clever, powerful warriors for this world, but judging by the bodies scattered around the breach, they were exactly as fragile as everyone else in it. Nola dived for the bull-faced demon, scoring a cut along one shoulder, drawing its attention toward her and away from Artaxata, who dropped down and stabbed it through the other shoulder. The goristro roared, more in fury than in pain—which suited Megara fine. They were only beginning, and the pradixikai could make a demon’s agony last a long, long time.
The air near the demon split and a trio of succubi tumbled out. Megara eyed them, calculating how quickly she could end these new fighters before the goristro noticed. But the smell of rotting flowers and burning flesh hit her nose. The succubus at the center smirked and raised a hand in greeting—a hand holding the sigil of Glasya, a copper-tipped scourge—before all three of them leaped into the air, seeking out the humans in leopard skins chasing the goristro.
“Lords of the shitting Nine,” Nola sneered. “We’re still stuck with them?”
A moment later a troop of spined devils scattered from the rift, followed by a pit fiend—Khartach, one of Her Highness’s special guard. The monstrous creature threw wide his wings and threw back his head, roaring with a sound that shook the battlefield.
“Shit and ashes.” Megara turned to her fury sisters. “Take out the goristro before His Lordship decides he needs to show off and ruins our fun.”
• • •
LORD OF ALL Knowledge, Binder of What Is Known. Make my eye clear, my mind open, my heart true.
Dahl prayed so that he would not scream. He’d prepared for this. He’d made sure there was a solution if she fell, if Asmodeus didn’t give a care for his Chosen.
Give me the wisdom to separate the lie from the truth. Give me the strength to accept what is so.
A vrock crashed against the shield, scattering a cloud of poisonous-looking spores. Dahl held tight to the spell—it could only get worse if the demons broke through. He glanced over his shoulder, some part of him hoping, willing Farideh to blink. She still lay across Mehen’s lap, pale and still and staring.
“You need to choose now!” Tam shouted.
“Choose?” Mehen bellowed. “Choose?”
“Wait!” Dumuzi cried.
My word is my steel, my reason my shield.
“I’ve enough for one, and there’s a limit to the time,” Tam shouted. “Dahl, choose!”
No one spoke—to choose felt monstrous, to separate them, to deny one and lift up the other. Mehen shook all down to his feet. Brin had gone terribly pale. I’m the one who prepared, Dahl thought savagely at the gods. I’m the one who thought ahead. Don’t make me do this.
“The planes are colliding again!” Dumuzi cried. “It might go awry. I have to—”
“I don’t have time!” Tam shouted. “Choose!”
From heav’ns to Hells the plane will ring. Dahl closed his eyes as his thoughts rang with the memory of Farideh reading the prophecy etched across his soul. Reflect, and after my priest speaks. Her heart would break if he didn’t try.
Try, a voice that might have been his own and might have been something greater whispered.
“Cast it between them!” Dahl shouted, anguished. “The one that wants to come back comes back.”
Tam blew into his palm, scattering the diamond dust into the air above the twins—the blessings of Selûne held it in a sort of cloud above them, twinkling in the dawning light. Dahl’s throat closed shut, listening to the soft prayers to the Moonmaiden, trying to cling to his shield spell.
But a moment later, it didn’t matter. Lightning seared his eyes, and it was all Dahl could do to keep his feet.
• • •
ALYONA TURNED TO the twins. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s not a perfect ending, but the best she or I could hope for, I think.” She smiled, but even that seemed sad.
“What now?” Havilar asked again. “Do we wait?”
Alyona nodded at something behind them. Farideh looked over her shoulder—there was the opening in the mists, the starry sky spangled with beautiful islands. There was the green-skinned angel waiting.
“Welcome to the Gates of the Moon,” she said.
“Selûne has watched over you all of your lives,” Alyona said. “You can come with me there. It may not feel like much consolation. Not now, but in time—”
“In time,” a silky voice interrupted, “you will grow to miss the mortal realm.”
Havilar squeezed Farideh’s hand more tightly as a horned man with bright red skin stepped out of the mists. The angel made no move to stop him as he approached. He sketched a bow to Havilar and Farideh.
“My ladies,” he said. “As you have provided such a boon to His Majesty, you would be welcome in his kingdom, and Lord Dispater is most passionate about securing your—”
“Don’t listen to him,” another voice chimed in. Another devil, another horned man, this one decked in luxurious furs. “Prince Levistus would suit your desires far better. From Stygia you may reach the mortal realm most easily.”
“Not so easily as Avernus,” a third devil chimed in, stepping from the mists in shining bronze armor. “It’s hardly separated.”
“Don’t listen to them,” Alyona implored.
“Why listen to her?” the devil from Avernus asked. “Can Selûne let you reach your loved ones again?”
“Farideh!”
She whipped toward the sound, just as Lorcan burst through the mists. “Oh holy gods,” Farideh said. “Are you dead?”
“I’m a devil,” he reminded her, his voice shaking. “The Sixth Layer … Please, come with me. Come with me. I’ll keep you safe. These others will strip your soul from you, don’t listen to them. I can hide you. I can figure out a way—”
“Lorcan,” Farideh said. “Stop.” He did, dark eyes shining, and though she didn’t owe him any sort of fond feeli
ngs, her heart ached. “We never got the chance to talk.”
“I will talk about whatever you like,” he said. “Just please, come with me. Please.”
Farideh sighed. With her free hand, she reached up and touched his cheek. “You won’t be there much longer,” she said. “My price was you. I do love you. I love you enough that I wouldn’t keep you trapped in the Hells for my own comfort.”
He shook his head. “What does that mean? What are you talking about?”
Farideh started to explain, but she felt so weary all of the sudden. “It means good-bye,” she said.
He caught her arm. “No.”
Farideh leaned forward and kissed him, one final time, still holding tight to Havilar’s hand.
Suddenly, her arm was nearly yanked from its socket, as if someone were trying to tear Havilar from her. Lorcan grabbed hold of her hand as she was pulled back, keeping her on her feet as the mists closed around them.
Go, said a voice that sliced through her weary thoughts like a silvery knife.
Go, said a voice like the final word of a spell.
Go, said a voice promising she would delight in what came next and regret it as well.
“Fari!” Lorcan shouted. She shook her head.
“Let go,” she told him and pulled her hand from his. To Havilar, Farideh held on all the tighter, reaching for her sister with her newly freed hand. Somewhere in the closing mists, it caught Havi’s other hand, pulling back with all her might.
Come back, said a voice like a song and a prayer and the beat of her own heart.
And then, Farideh was nowhere.
• • •
THE SON OF Victory nearly missed the signals, though no one would ever say so. One moment, he watched the battle with growing fury, his priests all channeling what power they could into the demons that were rapidly falling to the sudden army of devils that appeared on the field.
The next moment, the priests saw wings of lightning close around Djerad Thymar, and the Son of Victory cried out—though no one would ever admit to hearing it. They would attest that every scrap of power his priests might have called on was suddenly pulled back into Gilgeam, stolen out from the fiends, gathered together to create a great bubble of golden light that grew from the god-king to encompass all his army, as a wind like none other blew wild over the field, sparking with strange light and stranger magic. Another storm of the planes, they whispered. And what had it brought?
No one would have said, not to the Son of Victory, that perhaps Djerad Thymar wasn’t their prize to take this day, that perhaps the stones of their ancestors weren’t worth dying for. But when the storm passed, when they found themselves once more left in the wake of its power, when the Son of Victory looked upon the still-dancing lightning wall that embraced Djerad Thymar and declared a retreat to secure Unthalass, not a soul remained behind.
• • •
WHEN FARIDEH WOKE again, it was to a horrible wheezing, sucking sound.
You’re breathing, she thought dimly, noticing all of her bones and how they ached, her nerves and how they scintillated with pain and magic. You’re alive.
“Havi,” she gasped.
“Gods’ books!” Someone seized her, lifted her off the stones. Her muscles felt as if they had no idea how to move anymore. “You got both of them!” Dahl shouted. “You got both of them!”
“Fari?” Mehen was suddenly looming over her. “Fari, say something!”
She struggled a moment to focus on his face. “I’m sorry,” she managed.
“Oh, Fari,” Mehen said, squeezing her hand. “Comes back from the grave and first words are ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
“Here.” Dahl held a flask to her lips, a potion spicy and thick with mint. She drank it and her eyes worked better, her muscles let her sit upright.
“I don’t think I need a religious education anymore,” she told Dahl weakly. “At least not parts of it.”
“Not funny,” he said. His cheeks were slick with tears. She pulled herself up and embraced him fiercely. Over his shoulder, she spied Havilar, gently twisting her arm as if it pained her a little, while the other embraced Brin. Havilar met her gaze.
Thank you, Farideh mouthed.
Havilar looked at her as though she were mad, as though there were never another thing she could have done besides hold so tightly to her soul that the gods and the Fugue Plane released it. Farideh smiled. She was a good sister—the best of sisters—and all the rest of their days, she would never forget that.
PART XIII
RENEWAL
14 Alturiak, the Year of the Rune Lords Triumphant (1487 DR)
Harrowdale, a day’s ride from New Velar
• • •
Farideh blew out a nervous breath as Bodhar’s and Thost’s horses trotted away from the wagon, heading down the snowy slope toward the little farmhouse that had just come into view.
“I am fairly sure,” Dahl murmured from the driver’s box beside her, “that you did not make this much shadow-stuff when you faced the arcanist. Nor the Chosen of Shar.”
“You weren’t there for the Chosen of Shar,” Farideh pointed out. She brushed a hand over her cloak, trying to smooth away any sign of her nerves. Dahl had insisted she didn’t need to wear the hood up, but the cover over her horns gave her a measure of comfort as the wagon rattled through the Dalelands. “I don’t think you’re right about the arcanist either.”
“Good,” Dahl teased. “My mother is nowhere near as frightening as an undead arcanist, and don’t you dare suggest otherwise.” She brushed a hand over her sleeve again—Dahl caught her fingers and squeezed them. “What are you afraid of? What’s the worst that could happen?”
Farideh gave a nervous laugh. “The worst? Your brothers tell your mother you’re bringing a tiefling girl home, she gets so upset she bursts out of the door, calls you a disappointment and makes you choose between your family or me. And then I’m alone, in the middle of the Dales.”
“Well,” Dahl said mildly, “if she demanded I choose, I’d choose you.”
“You can’t pick me over your mother.”
“Of course I can. Besides, if my mother demanded I pick, I’m fairly sure that’s not my mother, so we’re dealing with doppelgangers or the like, and I need you in that case.”
One of the stones in her pocket hummed, as if it had suddenly become alive. She slipped her hand in and pressed it to her palm.
Did you know, her sister’s voice came, that people drop actual pearls into the Sea of Fallen Stars to appease Umberlee? Sea elves must be decked out. Miss you.
Farideh smiled to herself. “This is not what the stones are for, I hope it’s nearly deepnight there or that you have no emergencies. Nearly there, miss you too.”
“I will wager you the next words out of her mouth are ‘I have a glaive and a hellhound, I don’t have emergencies.’ ”
“She also has a child with her, at least for the next tenday,” Farideh pointed out. Havilar and Brin had gone to return Remzi to his parents. Farideh and Mehen had both offered to go along, but Havilar had been firm.
“You both have other things to do,” she’d said. “Brin and I can handle this.”
Farideh leaned against Dahl’s shoulder, wishing to herself that Havilar were here too. “Is it late there?”
“Assuming they’ve nearly reached Aglarond, yes, it’s very late.” He kissed her head. “You going to give Mehen the sending you promised now, or hope you remember before you fall asleep?”
“I haven’t forgotten once yet, thank you very much,” Farideh said. She thought of Mehen, alone again for the first time since they’d returned from their imprisonment in the Nine Hells. This time, though, he had a way to keep tabs on them: Ilstan’s last gift. And someone to keep him company in Kallan, and someone who needed him in Dumuzi.
Farideh tried to imagine Mehen, forcing her to choose between her family and Dahl, between her past and her future, and couldn’t. Especially not after everything that had happened on
top of Djerad Thymar—Mehen would always, she suspected, be a bit gruffer with Dahl than he was with Brin, but when Farideh had told him they were heading to Harrowdale after all, his only hard words were over whether it was wiser to take the land route through the newly disturbed countryside of Tymanther or the sea route, past Unthalass.
“I’m well aware that dragon turtle is meant to be on our side,” he’d said. “But give him a year to prove he can tell the difference between a trade ship and the karshoji Untheran navy. You go with your giants.”
Someone—a woman too young to be Dahl’s mother—came out and lit lamps beside the doorway. Dahl waved to her, and another twinge of anxiety took Farideh by the throat. Mehen wouldn’t make you choose, she told herself. Eurdila won’t make him choose.
“What should I say to her?”
“Who? Dellora?” Dahl asked.
“Your mother.”
“I don’t know. ‘Well met, it’s nice to meet you.’ What should you say?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know any Dallish customs. I don’t know what’s rude or not or what’s going to make me stand out—”
“You’re going to be fine,” Dahl said. “You managed in Djerad Thymar, you managed in the royal palace of the Purple godsbedamned Dragon—twice, now—you are not going to somehow bungle things so impossibly that it can’t be explained on my family’s farm, where half the time someone has to tell my brothers to leave their sheep-mucked boots outside.”
Ilstan’s body had been laid to rest in the catacombs of Djerad Thymar, a warrior’s burial, a hero’s tomb etched with the story of the warning he carried to Dumuzi, the ritual they’d cast on the pyramid’s peak. To Suzail, Farideh had carried his cloak with the war wizard sigil on it, his wand, his spellbook, and a lock of his hair. She’d intended to bring them to the Nyaril family, but she’d no more than crossed the city’s gate but war wizards had descended on her, brought her to the palace, first to the Royal Magician Ganrahast, and from there to Queen Raedra, who was—much to Farideh’s surprise—very glad to see her.