Eight years ago, Havilar thought, I would have known what to say. But there by the fire in the middle of nowhere, her tongue felt like lead. She was sorry her disappearance tangled Brin back up in the family that sought to control every part of his life. She was glad he didn’t sound so scared of his old terror of an aunt anymore. She wanted to tell him how glad she was to know he hadn’t given up. She wanted to tell him she was so glad, because maybe—maybe—it meant he still loved her back.
But then he might tell her that he didn’t.
“Thank you for saving Mehen,” she said finally. “Thank you for sticking with him.”
Brin sighed. “I can’t believe we just left him. Again.”
“I know.” Havilar drew her knees up to her chest. “But he would have stopped me going. I’m not going to leave Farideh to die just because she’s ruined my life.” She shut her eyes. Gods, she couldn’t even keep it in that long. No one wants to hear how angry you are, she thought. The horse lifted its head and nickered.
“I know.” Brin sighed once more, and Havilar wondered if he was angry at Farideh too.
Something popped in the underbrush, and Havilar whipped her head around toward the sound. The shadows of the forest were deep and not even Havilar’s sensitive eyes could pierce them. Beside her, Brin’s hand went to the sword on the ground.
“Lorcan?” he whispered.
Havilar shook her head. Lorcan would fly back. She checked the bandages and stood carefully, glaive in hand. The crackling and popping came again, the shiver of leaves too low to the ground to be wind. A flash of light and then another.
“Lorcan!” Havilar shouted, as loudly as she could. “Come back!” She and Brin shifted, fanning out without a word to better meet whatever was about to come at them, out of the portal opening in the brush beside the road north.
If someone had told Sairché the forest was older than the archdevils themselves, she might have believed them. Broadleaf trees towered over her, too ancient and imposing for common names like “oak” and “alder.” Despite the fact it was late winter in this part of Toril, their leaves stayed, emerald and viridian. Sairché twitched her cloak over her wings. She couldn’t shake the feeling the trees were watching her wait in the ruins left behind in the little grove.
However old the High Forest was, it’d had time to accumulate its own layers of magic. This spot, in particular, bubbled with long-dead powers from some failed civilization, stirred to wakefulness by the Spellplague, and simmering now as the Weave shifted and changed. Perfect for conversations you didn’t want people eavesdropping on.
Sairché counted the glowing, pale green crystals protruding from the crumbling stone wall for an eighth time, when the second devil finally stepped free of his portal.
“You’re late,” she said.
Magros of the Fifth Layer regarded her as one regarded a furious imp— unconcerned, unimpressed. The misfortune devil looked as much like a human as Sairché did—only instead of wings to name him a fiend, his feet were cloven hooves the size of an erinyes’s fist.
“I thought that was how we were doing things,” he said. “How you were doing things, anyway.” Magros shed the heavy furs he wore, draping them over a spike of crystal. He rolled up his sleeves and patted a cloth to the sweat that had sprung up between his tiny horns. “Blasted heat. Your Chosen is finally in play, I take it? Better late than never. I suppose.”
Sairché gritted her teeth. That stlarning phrase.
“Much better,” Sairché said. “Or will you claim that the Chosen you used for your prince’s personal efforts—the one that died far too early—was a better played piece?”
Magros gave her a withering look. “What can we do for the frailty of mortals?”
“Not get them killed unnecessarily?” Sairché offered.
“And what of your wizard?” Magros said. “My agent in the camp reports witnessing—over several nights—a carrier landing in the courtyard of the fortress.” He settled himself on a fallen pillar. “Seeing as how there were not more guards in the camp after, and the beasts that bore the carrier had a harder time leaving than arriving, I’m beginning to wonder if you even know what your pieces are managing in your absence.”
Sairché’s eyelid began to tic again. Ferrying prisoners out of the camp— that was not what she and Rhand had agreed to. That was not what Farideh was meant to assist. It would have to be corrected, and damn Magros for noticing it first.
“How is it your agent knows so well the count of the guards?” she asked coolly.
Magros chuckled. “Perhaps the guards were a guess. Still, with or without the loss of souls, your wizard seems to be working most inefficiently.”
Sairché bristled. Rhand’s unexpected speed at completing the camp had thrown her off schedule—for seven months he’d been acting as if he had all the resources he needed, sifting through his captives and singling out only a third of the ones with potential. She cursed the wizard’s willfulness to herself. “He’s done well enough. He’ll do better now that he has help.”
“So you say. She has a tenday to make things work more smoothly, remember?”
“We need to adjust the timeline,” Sairché said. “Give me another tenday before you act.”
Magros chuckled. “Is that why you asked me here? I think not. After all, this isn’t the only effort Prince Levistus is concerned with. You’ll simply have to catch up, cambion.” He smiled nastily. “You wouldn’t want His Majesty’s efforts to be in vain.”
Sairché held the misfortune devil’s gaze. “Of course not. So why not give me the time to be sure of her?”
Magros clasped a hand to his chest, affronted. “Are you suggesting Asmodeus has given us pieces that might fail?” He gave her another unpleasant smile. “Perish the thought. I have every confidence in you, Sairché.”
You have every confidence that I’ll be the one caught holding the bag, she thought. The longer she played a part in Asmodeus’s plans, the clearer it became that the archdevils who served him were using what was happening on Toril as an excuse to advance their own personal agendas. And that some of those personal agendas amounted to unseating the god of sin.
“His Majesty is indeed wise and powerful,” Sairché said. “But let us not forget the lesson of the Eighth.”
Magros’s attention was piqued. “What lesson is that?”
Sairché smirked. “Oh, didn’t you hear? His Grace, the Archduke, seems to have overstepped. He had claimed a fraction of a spark. He doesn’t have it anymore.”
“Everyone has heard that,” Magros said. “Have they found the spark?”
Sairché shrugged as if that weren’t the important part, but in fact, everyone was still scrambling to find out what had happened there. “His Majesty hasn’t. But he has specially tasked Lord Mephistopheles with recovering it or replacing it.” She gave Magros a knowing smile. “Since of course he and his agents have always maintained that it was an attempt to gain more power for His Majesty. Asmodeus would be sure they carry through.”
“So His Majesty’s attention remains on the Eighth’s efforts?” Magros said thoughtfully.
“His Majesty’s attention is everywhere,” Sairché said, an answer that was all but catechism for a devil in the Hells. “But I would not wish to be in Cania.”
“Hmm,” Magros said. “Is that all? I have much to do.”
“Of course,” Sairché said. If he looked into Cania, he would see she was right enough, and with any luck, Magros would be as incautious as he’d been with the first Chosen and do something stupid, thinking the god of sin wasn’t watching.
“Give my lord’s regards to your lady when you speak,” he said, gathering his fur.
“The same,” Sairché said, knowing he wouldn’t and neither would she. Sairché would have to go back to Toril, to lean on Farideh and make sure the tiefling wasn’t shirking her responsibilities. It could be done in a tenday if everything kept in place.
She returned to the skull palace of Osseia,
bypassing her chambers once again and steeling herself before heading back to the portal room, all too aware of her half sisters’ eyes as she passed. She activated the portal linked to the beacon she’d given Farideh, swearing to herself if Rhand’s godsdamned barrier spell threw her off course one more time, she would vent all her frustration on the first person she saw. She hoped it was the wizard.
Sairché stepped out of the portal and saw Farideh at once—there was that, at least. The wizard must have fixed his blasted spell—
But then she noticed they were standing outside near a fire, beneath a scraggly bunch of trees on a riverside, Adolican Rhand was nowhere to be seen, and there was a young man with a sword standing nearby.
“You little idiot!” Sairché snarled. “Run away? You’re lucky I haven’t got time to go snatch your sister, because I would gladly trade today. What have you done to my wizard?”
Farideh took a step back, and glanced at the young man.
“What? All your bluster gone?” Sairché said. The gold-eyed woman braced as if she were going to lunge at Sairché again. “You’d better find answers for me. What are you doing out here? Where is—”
Gold eyes, Sairché thought. Lords of the Nine.
“Wrong twin,” Havilar said. She pulled an amulet out from under her shirt. “Vennela.”
Sairché’s shield shattered around her and the blood in her veins seemed to fill with crystals of ice. Bound, she thought. Lords of the Shitting Nine. She took a step back. “Well,” she said. “You’re quicker than your sister.”
“Much,” Havilar snapped.
Sairché turned on the young man, expecting an attack, but he was only watching, sword drawn. “You’ll have to forgive my outburst,” she said to Havilar, all calm. “I’m sure I’m not the first to make that mistake. I see your sister didn’t follow instructions. You have the necklace don’t you?”
“She left it for me.”
“You don’t want it,” Sairché said, eyes still on the sword. “Give it to me.”
“You tried that already,” Havilar said. “Lorcan gave it to her, and she gave it to me.”
“Lorcan didn’t give it to her,” Sairché said. “Give me a little credit. I only said that so she’d hang onto it—clearly that didn’t work as I’d like, so kindly hand it over.”
“Where is she?”
“Paying me back,” Sairché said. She turned back and smiled at Havilar, but the tiefling’s expression was hard. The necklace was in her hand, rubies glinting in the firelight. “Don’t worry—the punishment’s equal to all those lost years. I like things to be fair, too. Now, give that to me, before . . .”
Sairché trailed off, staring at the necklace in Havilar’s hand. The largest ruby was missing. Lorcan had escaped.
The thought had no more gone through her head but the entire weight of her brother crashed down from the sky and slammed Sairché into the ground, driving all the air from her lungs. If the fall set him off-balance at all, he recovered quicker than Sairché, pinning her flat, one hand on the side of her head.
“Oh, you like fairness?” he crooned in her ear. “Let us see about fairness.”
Whatever weakness, whatever softness she had marked in Lorcan, it was nowhere in evidence as he set one red thumb deliberately below her right eye.
“She knows where Farideh is!” Havilar cried. “You have to ask her! You have to ask her first!” Lorcan didn’t move, didn’t speak. He smiled down at Sairché as if Havilar hadn’t said a word.
“I won’t tell you if you intend to kill me,” Sairché said. She might be able to throw him aside, but he wouldn’t let her go and she couldn’t hurt him back, not safely—she’d promised to protect him, after all. “You won’t find her if I don’t tell you where.”
Lorcan chuckled. “I think you mistake my goals.”
“If you wanted to ruin me, you’ve had chances already,” she said quickly. “Hells, if you’d just slit that one’s throat, you’d have caused enough chaos to make my life a slog through the Abyss.” Sairché tried to twist an arm out, but he held her secure. “You kill me, you make an enemy of Glasya.”
“Because she is such a friend to me these days.” He pressed against her eyelid, hard enough to distort her vision, and no further. “I have a lot to pay you back for.”
“Stop,” Havilar said. “Please.” The pressure stopped increasing. “You don’t want to save my sister—fine,” the tiefling went on. “And I don’t care what happens to your sister, pop her eyeballs out and hand her over to those erinyes things, just do it somewhere else.” She stepped closer. “But I care what happens to Farideh. And you said you’d help.”
Lorcan was silent such long moments, Sairché wondered what schemes he was weighing, what prior agreements were in play—or if he had gone too mad for such things.
“Give me your knife,” he said to the tiefling. She tossed it down to land before Sairché’s face. He aimed the tip of the blade at Sairché’s right eye, just a hair’s breadth from her lower lid.
“Ask your questions.”
“How do we get her out?” Havilar asked.
“The necklace,” Sairché said. “Every one of those gems is a failsafe, a tool to help Farideh get out of this alive. And now she doesn’t have it.”
Havilar held the strand up to the light by one dangling ruby. “What do they do?”
“Nothing, likely,” Lorcan answered. He drew the tip of the blade over the thin skin beneath her eye, drawing blood. Sairché didn’t dare flinch. “She’s quite the liar.”
“Throw it!” Sairché said. “Throw the last shitting ruby, for gods’ sake, and see for yourself!” Havilar twisted off one of the dangling jewels.
“Havi, no!” the young man cried, but it was too late. Havilar hurled the ruby across the glade, against the side of the rocky outcropping. As it struck its target, the gem detonated, the explosion large enough to send a rattling avalanche of stone off the face of the outcrop and a hot wind rushing past the camp. Havilar and her young man tumbled off their feet, but Sairché was not so lucky, and Lorcan weathered the concussion.
“Another bomb,” Sairché panted, blood dripping down into the corner of her eye and over her nose bridge. “A charm that will help her pass through the wall undetected. A portal bead that will pull her back into the stasis chamber in the Hells. A beacon for me. And Lorcan.”
Havilar looked up at Lorcan, who had gone quiet again. Sairché twisted against him—if she could get her hand up to the chain of rings she wore, she could find the one that activated her portal . . .
“Bring it here,” Lorcan said. The tiefling laid the necklace out just beyond Sairché’s reach. “Now,” he said. “Which is which?”
Sairché eyed the chain of jewels, weighing the risk of a lie against the risk of the truth. “Bomb, beacon, portal, passwall. The passwall charm is the only thing that can open the wall without resorting to planar travel. She very well might need it.”
Lorcan reached out, snapped the portal bead off. “Let’s see if you’re lying.”
Before Sairché could react, he’d slammed the bead against her mouth, past her lips and over her teeth. He kept his hand pressed against her face, looking down at her without even a scrap of emotion she could use. She tried to speak, to convince him that he would lose so much more with her trapped in the Hells. The bead slipped, lodged in the gap of her molars, and Sairché froze.
Lorcan smiled at her. “Sleep well, Sairché,” he said, and he slammed the hilt of the knife into her lower jaw. The bead shattered, the glass cutting her gums and tongue, then the portal’s rough magic wrapped around her and dragged her back, deep into the caverns of Malbolge.
Chapter Eleven
21 Ches, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR) Three days ride from Waterdeep
Lorcan took hold of Sairché’s necklace of rings and leaped aside as his sister vanished in a tangle of glowing threads and a gust of flame. The chain snapped as its wearer was pulled through the fabric of the
planes, sending magical rings scattering over the forest floor.
He had expected to feel a rush of triumph, a certain glee as she was sucked away to the same cage she’d trapped Farideh and Havilar in. But the utter calm surprised him: their quarrels were finished, his revenge complete. Sairché would stay, trapped in the stasis cage for as long as he liked—one of the rings would open it.
“Now what?” Havilar demanded.
Lorcan turned to her, relishing the moment. “Now? Now I take my new trinkets and return to the Hells.” He stooped to pluck the rings from the deadfall, nearly a score in all.
“And then?” Havilar asked after a moment. “She knew how to get to Farideh, and you just . . . did you kill her?”
“I sent her away,” Lorcan said, stringing rings onto their chain. “Back to where she kept you all those years.” He looked up at her. “You’re welcome.”
“She knew where to find Farideh,” Havilar repeated. “She knew and it’s not like she was going to attack you.”
“You underestimate Sairché.”
“I don’t underestimate Sairché, I listen to Farideh!” Havilar shouted. “We needed her to find Farideh, you karshoji bastard!”
“You needed her,” Lorcan said savagely. “Your sister threw me over—did you really think I was eager to rescue her? To swoop in like someone out of one of your silly chapbooks and go on like she hadn’t betrayed me? You’re a lot more foolish than even she thinks you are.”
Havilar’s cheeks reddened. “Farideh was trying to protect us!” That was just a twist of the knife—Lorcan ought to save her because Farideh was only doing what was in her and Havilar’s best interests. You thought she was different, Sairché had chuckled. They all try and scale the hierarchy eventually. They all choose someone else. He twisted the broken links together and put the chain of rings around his neck.
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