The Adversary

by Erin M. Evans

  Nirka narrowed her eyes. “I will have to go and tell her to leave.”

  “Then do that,” Farideh said. “I shall be in my room. Dealing Wroth cards.”

  She climbed the stairs, feeling Nirka’s suspicious gaze on her the entire time. But the shadar-kai said not another word until they reached her room.

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” she started.

  “Good night, Nirka,” Farideh said sharply, and she shut the door. A moment later, the latch clanked violently, as if Nirka could somehow wound Farideh with the key in the lock.

  Farideh waited, but didn’t hear the guard’s footsteps leave. She took the cards up and flipped them loudly, one after the other—snap, snap, snap. Shuffled. Dealt. Beyond the door, she heard Nirka curse and storm off, and Farideh sighed in relief. She looked down at the haphazard pile of cards—the top one was flipped, facedown. She turned it and found a faintly scorched painting of a devil, horned and winged and hoofed, chasing a green-and-gold angel in a circle. The Adversary. Farideh fought back a shiver.

  The second ruby comb still sat under the mattress where she’d hidden it, still buzzing with the magic from the ghost’s strange ritual. She hadn’t touched it—and she was trying hard not to wonder if the ghost was still watching her, unseen.

  Farideh pulled her haversack from the wardrobe, still heavy with the ritual book Rhand had left her, but her thoughts were on the comb, the itch of its waiting spell like a plea—Pick me up. Bring her back.

  Farideh hesitated a moment, before pulling it from its hiding place and stuffing it into the sack. She’d decide for herself what to do with it once she knew what she was up against.

  Then she took another deep breath and went to the window. She pulled herself up to kneel on the ledge, leaning out as far as she dared. The night was cold, and though the wind had died down, it was enough to make her glad Tharra had plaited her hair. She could not miss.

  Across the way, another of the fortress’s starlike points loomed. Two floors down, one window waited, not quite covered by its heavy curtains and leaking faint candlelight. The stairwell. Farideh pulled herself up to stand on the window ledge.

  It was, perhaps, thirty feet away. Or perhaps fifty, perhaps a hundred. In the dark of night she couldn’t be sure. She held in her mind the way it had looked when she’d considered it several days before—close enough, she thought, to make this work if you just do it. She found her balance, held her breath. There wasn’t much a body rebelled against like this, and in the space between panicked thoughts, Farideh leaped, into the empty air.

  And started to fall.

  But in that heartbeat, she pulled hard on the powers of the Hells. The fabric of the world split and swallowed Farideh, spitting her back out into the air much farther on. Still not to the opposite point, and as soon as the gape closed, she was falling again.

  I’m going to die—but the thought had no more formed, before she caught hold of the ledge, two floors below where she’d started, knocking the wind out of her. Farideh clung to the stonework, lungs screaming as she caught her breath, and hauled herself into the tower again.

  She leaned against the wall—it had worked. She wasn’t dead. It wasn’t a hundred feet. Farideh pressed her hands to her face to smother the giddy laughter that shook her bruised ribs. For the first time in ages, she felt a little like her old self.

  Composing herself, she looked up the dim stairwell, illuminated by the light of a few unclaimed candles, and hoped that the escape from her room would not turn out to have been the easy part.

  Up, first—Farideh crept toward Rhand’s study, her nerves sending Hells magic through her and blurring the edges of her frame with shadowy smoke. At the top she peered in both directions, and saw no sign of guards. Odd, she thought, and she waited a few moments more, in case they were merely out of sight and quiet. Nothing.

  She thought of Rhand’s warnings about his guest, and shoved that fear aside as she made for the study.

  The door was open and she found the room beyond empty. A faint light emanated from the magic limning the vessels and from a crystal hanging overhead, and the brazier glowed with hot coals. Rhand’s open spellbook and ritual book sent a shiver through the space, pulsing with magic. Farideh slipped inside.

  The heat from the brazier had no effect on the air over the vessels, and through the cloud of her breath, she watched the waters ripple. With no wizards to watch her, she might be able to find the way out.

  Farideh scattered a pinch of the dried petals across the water’s surface, the way Rhand had. Specific, she thought, but vague. “Show me the last time someone found a weakness in the wall around this camp.”

  The waters did not change. It hadn’t happened.

  “Show me the last time someone came close to escaping the camp alive.”

  The waters remained, stirring gently.

  Farideh leaned farther over the waters, tension closing around her breath. She’d asked scores of questions in the days before and seen all manner of visions in return. But the Fountains of Memory had nothing to say about escaping the camp. No one had managed. Rhand hadn’t lied.

  She’d been sure he had. There was something odd about the way he’d responded. Something that reminded her too much of Lorcan—that half moment where he decided to tell her the truth turned sideways.

  Her heart buckled at the memory. Without thinking, she threw another pinch of petals into the waters. “Show me what happened to Lorcan when I made the deal with Sairché.”

  There was Sairché, there was Farideh. There was the agreement, turning the room inside-out. The waters shivered and showed the Hells—and Sairché was right, there was no mistaking anything on Toril for such a place. The ground itself seemed to quiver, as if it were alive and hurting. There was a cave—a hollow of bone sunk deep into that evil ground and filled with writhing, shadowy forms. A cage formed of what looked like insect legs, thick and thorny, the spaces between crackling with lightning, and at its center, herself and Havilar. Sairché and Lorcan watched.

  “What did you tell her?” Lorcan asked Sairché.

  “What goes on between a girl and her patroness is private,” Sairché said. “Isn’t that right?” Farideh’s chest tightened, and she wished perversely she could be there, that she could tell him the truth.

  The lightning of the cage snapped, popped, leaped outward to spark against the sides of the bowl. The center of the waters dropped nearly to the bottom of the basin, as if a drain had opened below. A sickly light shone from the whirlpool and the smell of brimstone wafted off the waters. Farideh stepped back.

  A portal, just as Rhand had said—to the Hells, but when? If she reached in, could she save Lorcan? Or only trap herself a second time? The magic holding the waters sparked and crackled as the light built. Farideh reached toward it, feeling the pressure of the air change as she approached the portal’s edge.

  The light surged and collapsed into itself like a dropped cloak. The portal was gone.

  In the waters’ reflection, Sairché held up the ruby necklace she’d given Farideh. A greenish light—the color of a rotting limb—began to build around it. Lorcan stepped back, but caught in the protection spell, he could only go so far. The light flashed and the vision ended.

  Farideh swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat and drew her hand back. The portal might not have worked, she reminded herself. It might have only made things worse.

  And you wouldn’t be able to save Dahl, either way. She rubbed her hand. It had been stupid to even try. Lorcan was safe—Sairché had promised that much. Dahl wasn’t.

  The water smoothed out again, waiting for the next request. Farideh chewed her lip, trying to puzzle out the right words, then scattered another pinch of the petals across the surface.

  “Show me the conversation where Rhand denied anyone had escaped this place.”

  Again the water swirled, and again the waters reflected the wizard and herself beside him, looking out over the camp below. She asked the que
stion, her expression far more closed than it had felt. And there again, the flicker of annoyance across Rhand’s face before he spoke.

  If there were nothing to find there, Rhand would have been smug, triumphant. Something hidden in her question irritated him. Reminded him of something he’d rather forget.

  But what? Farideh turned from the waters, considering the lecterns, the tables spread with maps of Faerûn and scrolls, the shuttered windows. She crossed to the open shelves of spell components and pulled her torn and bloodstained shirt from her pack, laying small bottles in the open cloth. If she didn’t know how to escape, she couldn’t guess what might be useful—or what might be missed. She chose things she recognized and hoped for the best.

  Swiftly, she turned to the rack of scrolls—spells that could be cast regardless of the reader’s skill—and pulled down several, eyeing the runes, the detailed diagrams. The remains of the destroyed ancient library. There was a spell to call the clouds down low. A spell to open caverns in the ground. A spell to turn a river to ice. There were half a dozen altogether, smudged and scorched but bristling with magic—not a one useful against an army of shadar-kai.

  The sound of Rhand’s voice carrying from the staircase broke her reverie. Farideh shoved the scrolls back into place and bolted for the door, but his voice came again, too close: “The Lady of Loss should not be disappointed. More now than ever.”

  Farideh turned and sprinted for the far corner of the room, behind a table covered with parchment and instruments, into a wardrobe hung with heavy leather aprons and stained robes. Farideh pulled the doors as close to shut as she could, before crouching low, out of the sight line of Rhand and the young girl he followed into the room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  23 Ches, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR) The Lost Peaks

  Farideh nearly leaped from her hiding space at the sight of the girl—she could not have been more than thirteen. She was slight as a willow switch with dark hair unbound to the middle of her back. Her skin had a dark, grayish cast, though, and her eyes were faintly luminous. Rhand watched her back as she walked calmly into the study, his expression sending a curl of terror through Farideh.

  She knew that look. She knew what was going to happen. “This . . .” Rhand stopped and cleared his throat. “Ah. This is where we bring the waters for further use.” Rhand stopped before the table blocked Farideh’s view of him, looking drawn and beaded with sweat. “My lady,” he added.

  Jump out, Farideh thought. Grab the girl. You can cast without the rod, well enough to get out the door . . .

  Then what? Run and find Dahl? Run and hit the barrier? Somehow kill every guard in this place and wait for someone who could break her out?

  She couldn’t just watch, that much was certain.

  What else are you going to do? a little voice in her thoughts seemed to say. You’re trapped and so is she. There’s nothing you can do.

  Fatigue settled on Farideh, and though her nerves were drawn, ready to whip her to her feet and out the door, all her muscles drooped. She sat back and heaved a breath as softly as she could to shake the feeling. It didn’t work.

  “So you look into the past,” the girl said, unconcerned with Rhand looming over her, “holding tight to what was.”

  “Not at all, my lady,” Rhand said. “It’s a tool. The waters will show the point at which a potential—” He cleared his throat again, hard. “When one of the possible . . . ah . . .”

  She turned and gave him a beatific smile. “You dislike the term.”

  “I think it overstates what we are dealing with,” Rhand said irritably. “In most cases.”

  “But not all.”

  Rhand gritted his teeth a moment, before continuing. “If you ask the waters when a likely person’s patron took notice of them, it separates those with such blessings from imposters. Would you like to try, my lady?”

  They will catch you, the little voice in Farideh’s thoughts went on. You might as well come out. The hanging robes felt as if they’d smother her. Her own armor might smother her. She dug her hands into her hair, the pain sent a shock of sense through her.

  Focus, she told herself. That girl will be dead if you can’t focus.

  “ ‘Patron,’ ” the girl said. “That seems like it will give you many unwanted answers. Lords. Benefactors. Weak entities with ideas above their station. Plenty of things the Church of Shar is not remotely interested in. Why not say ‘god’?”

  “It would reject too many,” Rhand said patiently. “There is no way to know where the waters draw the line. If an exarch has reached out, must we say ‘exarch’ or ‘god’ or ‘demigod’? ‘Saint’ or ‘devil’ or else? ‘Patron’ covers all options—any who might bestow the powers under any guise. If it gathers a few artisans with nothing to mark them, that is a minor difficulty, I assure you. My lady.”

  “Is it?” the girl said. “There are those who would say it’s a drain on the princes’ coffers. A waste of Shar’s clemency.”

  Rhand looked at the girl, as if he were fighting once more with something dark and powerful inside himself. “And have you listened to them, my dear?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” she said, and through the confusing swirl of panic and despair, Farideh dimly thought it was the first time she’d actually sounded like a young girl. The girl prodded the edge of the magical field surrounding the basin, making it spark. “It does seem awfully involved. And expensive.”

  “As I mentioned,” Rhand said. “My system is improved. I have someone capable of spotting them before they know they aren’t merely captives, finding even the most minor ones hiding among the fold, before they are ready to claim.”

  You, Farideh thought. He means you. And when he’s done with her, you’ll be next. Go—grab her. Run. She imagined Nirka and her knives coming after Farideh. The blades slicing into her skin. It would drive away this awful, smothering feeling. Cut the heavy layer of skin off, that would do it—

  Farideh bit down hard on her tongue, disrupting her runaway thoughts. What was happening?

  “And what ‘patron’ bestowed that blessing?” the girl said, disinterested. She crossed the room, toward Rhand. Toward the door. “Who chose her?”

  Farideh had to get out. She had to get away. It felt too much like that revel in Waterdeep, with the pull of Rhand’s poison dragging her down. But if she so much as moved, Rhand would find her. She concentrated on the sound of her breath, hissing in and out of her nostrils.

  “I have an agreement with someone from the Nine Hells.”

  “An agreement?” the girl said. “If you’re venerating someone other than the Lady—”

  “Your pardon, but nothing could be further from the truth. The devils have their purpose, but godhood is not one of them. What happens to her patron is irrelevant. All will aid Shar in the end, by their assistance or by their destruction.”

  The girl looked back at Rhand, her expression peaceful. Farideh leaned forward enough to see Rhand, paler still with a wildness to his eyes and his breath coming hard, as the girl stood just within reach. The silence stretched out. Farideh held her breath.

  “Nothing is everything,” the girl pronounced. “Shall we see what you have managed?”

  Rhand drew a single, shuddering breath. “This way, my lady.”

  You have to move, Farideh told herself. You have to save that girl. But she felt as if her bones had turned to stone, and it took an eternity before she could haul herself up. Rhand and the girl were long gone.

  You have to find them, she told herself, even while a little voice seemed to murmur, Why? So you can fail her too? Even once she’d left the study, the feeling that she didn’t quite have the strength in her to continue in her own body persisted.

  A good thing the guards are gone, she thought, pausing on a landing to catch the cold air on her face. She needed a weapon, she needed to find Rhand, she needed to stop him. The armory—she all but tumbled down the stairs, all traces of stealth long gone.
>
  What was she doing? she thought. She couldn’t manage this—even if she could save the girl from Rhand, there was nowhere to run. If Dahl couldn’t save himself, then maybe he was doomed too.

  You’ll never get out of here, the same little voice said, as she made her way down to the lowest level. No longer sure of her plans, no longer sure of anything except that if she didn’t follow through, she didn’t know what to do next. Get a weapon. Get the girl. Get out.

  You’ll never manage. You can’t save her anymore than you could save Havilar. If you try you’ll only make things worse.

  She pressed a hand to her head. What was the matter with her?

  By the time she found the armory, she felt as if she was drowning. Nirka’s strange words popped into her head—He knows what it is to fight the Shadowfell. The home plane of the shadar-kai, the path—they said—to the world of the dead. The shadar-kai feared fading away into it, their essence drawn away into the shadows of the plane. Was that what this was? Was that what was happening to her?

  In the armory, she stood amid the wicked-looking weapons, unable to hold her thoughts together, unable to decide what to do next.

  The air shivered, and when the tiefling woman’s ghost appeared again, Farideh nearly wept in relief. She tore the comb from her haversack, not caring if it doomed her or damned the whole fortress. She slid it into her hair, the teeth scraping her scalp.

  I’m glad you changed your mind, the ghost said. She didn’t move her lips, but her voice rang in Farideh’s thoughts as clearly as if the dead woman had spoken. And not a moment too soon.

  “What is this?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

  You’ve been poisoned, the ghost observed. She made a sound, as if she were clucking her tongue, but again, her mouth did not move.

  “I didn’t eat anything,” Farideh said. “Tell me what to do?”

  It’s a poisoning of the mind. The ghost’s face peeled back to muscle and bone, the globe of one silvery eye laid bare in its socket. It will take a blade and a stern stomach. An act to shock the thoughts out of you.