“And none of you have an interest in making sure that Asmodeus’s plan succeeds?”
Lorcan hesitated. “All devils in the Hells are invested in the success of Asmodeus,” he said. “At least, all devils in Malbolge. Magros . . . One could surmise—if one stretched—that he and his lord might be pleased if Asmodeus didn’t succeed. If Asmodeus didn’t collect more divine power for himself.” He told her what Sairché had said about the divine sparks, about Asmodeus’s orders, and what Shar wanted. About what was happening to the world beyond. If possible she seemed to deflate further.
“What happens if he succeeds? If he takes the sparks?”
“Then his godhood is a little more assured in the days to come.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Weakened,” Lorcan said. “He might even lose the godhead—no one knows.”
Farideh sat on the edge of the bed, her expression drawn. “So you’re worried,” she said, as if choosing each word from a sack of razors, one by one, “that the other devil might sabotage the plan, stop Asmodeus, but make it look as if you were the one who failed. Do you think he’s worried you’ll do the same?”
“That would be clever,” Lorcan said with exaggerated surprise. “But Magros seems to think Sairché and I don’t have half a brain between us. He’s already attempted to get me to kill his agent in the camp—an act that would place the failure squarely on me.”
“So if I give up,” she said, “then this . . . plan you’ve sold Rhand and Shar on might succeed.”
“Perhaps,” Lorcan said. “And who wants that?”
“Or Magros and his lord might succeed. But if I help you, your lady will succeed.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m not gathering the divine sparks. Not even one. I don’t care what she wants, I don’t care what any of them want.”
“Fair enough,” Lorcan said. “I doubt either of them or Asmodeus are foolish enough to be surprised by that.”
She shook her head. “Let’s hope so. I think he’ll find a great many things I won’t do. Chosen or not.”
“Darling, you know better than that,” Lorcan chided. “No one wants to force you. That’s our way—let the demons drag souls kicking down to the Abyss. The baatezu know you’ll walk right in yourselves if we open the right doors.” He smiled. “You just have to be wise enough to pass them by.” And watch for the ones that open in your path, he thought.
She sighed. “You talk like this all day long don’t you? Saying things without saying them? Whatever happened to not thinking about the plans of archdevils?”
Lorcan just shook his head. “The world’s a different place. You and I are different. Something’s happening and . . . it might be better to know.”
“Who’s the agent?” she asked. “One of the guards?”
Lorcan shrugged. “All I’m sure of is that it isn’t a Chosen of Asmodeus. Magros managed to kill the Chosen Asmodeus allotted him. He had to find a replacement. But they’ll be moving through the camp, not keeping to the tower.” He blew out a breath, not wanting to say what he knew he had to. “What do you have in mind?”
Farideh looked up at him. “Is this where you try to talk me out of it?”
“No,” Lorcan said reluctantly. “This is where we leave the tower, and I help you do something mad.”
“We’re not leaving the tower,” she said, standing.
Much like Oota had, the elves had restructured a cluster of huts to mimic an elven high court, bringing in what scrubby brush and lichens they could collect from the hillsides in a defiant mimicry of the sort of lush green space Dahl found himself expecting. As if to set a seal on it, Cereon—the elves’ Oota, as it were— was without a doubt the most eladrinish sun elf he had ever crossed paths with.
“You bring us empty promises of the goodness in an evil race.” Cereon spoke as if he were reciting an ancient, elven spell, not dressing down Armas and Dahl. The cold planes of his face reminded Dahl of nothing so much as a marble statue. A very unhappy marble statue. “What a surprise,” he said.
Ol’ Sour-Fey, indeed, he thought.
“I would not call them empty, solosar,” Armas said. His speech had shifted to mirror the sun elf’s from the moment they crossed into Cereon’s territory. “Nor would I call them promises. Say instead, ‘potential.’ My friend believes the warlock can help us.”
“The tiefling,” Cereon said. Two of the elves behind him, graceful women with their dark hair pinned up and ugly cages trapping their hands, exchanged looks. Half a smile cracked Cereon’s stern facade.
“The tiefling,” Dahl agreed, the words springing from his tongue in Elvish, thanks to the ritual. “Unless you have another way to get your hands freed?”
Cereon didn’t look away from Armas. “I’ve heard what her help gains.”
“You’ve heard what the wizard can make one do,” Armas corrected gently. “Out of the fortress—”
“How do you intend to get this creature out of the fortress?” Cereon asked. Armas looked over at Dahl—that part they hadn’t gone over, largely because Dahl was still plotting it out, looking for holes and traps and problems. There were too many, especially when so much of his mind was caught on the two score ales he hadn’t had and the flask full of Shadowfell liquor still riding in his pocket. When his temper was still tangled around Cereon calling Farideh a “creature”—as if there weren’t a hundred others who deserved Cereon’s sneer before she did.
“We are working on that,” Armas said finally. “We just want to know if you’d be willing to ally with Oota if we manage it.”
“And I know better than to make assurances based on fancy. I know how this plays out—you take my agreement and next thing I know, you and your devil-child need sanctuary, because the guards are hunting for her, and as it happens, her magic doesn’t quite work.”
“Oota’s willing to give her sanctuary,” Dahl lied. “And I don’t intend to have guards on our tail.”
Cereon smiled thinly and considered Dahl with his fathomless eyes. “No one does. Trust me, young man, I have been on this plane for several centuries. I know when you ought not prod the dragon.”
Dahl drew a long slow breath, trying to calm the temper that rose in him. “You want to know how we’d manage it? If I had to do it right now, I’d say in through the passage to the sorting courtyard. Up the wall and into the second floor—we’re not nose-to-nose with shadar-kai there since we skip the cellars and the curtain wall—preferably in stolen Shadovar uniforms, but we can make do with the one we have. Then two floors up to the guest quarters as I understand it—she’ll be there. The number of guards at that point isn’t unacceptable, but we can work with that after a casting to peer ahead. After that, she’s on our side.”
Cereon smiled at Dahl as if he’d just suggested they ask nicely to be let in. “Where do you intend to get the means to cast a ritual like that?”
Dahl pulled Farideh’s ritual book from his sack and flipped to the ritual in question as if each turned page was a slap across Cereon’s still face. “Gold salts, cerated sulfur, basilisk venom. Easily obtained from Rhand’s stores.” He hoped—Rhand’s study was at the top of the fortress—either they’d go up blind and pray no one caught them, or Farideh would have to take the risk and smuggle out components. That made Dahl’s nerves fray further still—he was supposed to be rescuing her, not putting her in worse danger.
Cereon tilted his head. “Wizard’s sight,” he said, naming the ritual, “cannot be cast without a focus. Do you have a very expensive mirror hiding in your pack? Or is the wizard going to provide you with that as well?”
Dahl shut the book. “We haven’t pretended that this plan is complete, or that we’re not still looking for solutions to make it work. All we want to know is if you and your people would be willing—under the right circumstances—to throw in with the rest of us. A provisional agreement—that’s all.”
“A provisional agreement to a hypothetical situation,” Cereon said, “deserves careful consideration
.” He waved them from the makeshift chambers and back out into the street.
A wet snow fell, melting into the dirt paths and making them muddier still, and dampening all the sounds of the camp into stillness. Dahl wondered if the Harper mission was near. There was no way Tam would send the sort of army needed to retake the camp. He ran his fingers through his hair—there had to be an answer, and he had to find it. Before Rhand claimed too many more Chosen. Before the guards caught on or the possible traitor struck again.
Before something happened to Farideh.
“Well that was no good,” Armas said. “We can try again in a day or so. Maybe don’t talk so much next time.”
Dahl blew out a breath.”I don’t know if we have a day,” he said. “If we leave Farideh in there, she’ll have to keep sorting. If she stops . . .” He didn’t want to finish.
“You don’t need Cereon to rescue the warlock.” Armas considered Dahl as they walked. “Why are we counting on a tiefling warlock?”
“Because,” Dahl said firmly, “if we have to fight our way out, we’re going to need casters, and so we’re going to need someone to shatter those finger cages of yours. I’d rather count on a warlock than get cozy with a Shadovar wizard at this point, and those are your options. And she’s not bad.”
Armas grunted. “Neither’s Phalar. And look at that.”
Dahl shook his head. What had Phalar been thinking when he’d told the guards Dahl was in the armory? Probably nothing, Dahl thought. Probably just wanted to make some mischief, put Dahl in some danger. He had his dagger after all. Why worry about the rest?
Because to stop and tell the guards would give away his presence, Dahl thought. Risky. Too risky even for a Chosen of the drow gods. Phalar knew best how to survive, and opening himself to the guards just to strike back at Dahl . . . what had Phalar been thinking?
“Every time he comes out,” Armas said, “carrying extra food or supplies or what have you, you think ‘Maybe he’s not so bad. Maybe he’s not so different.’ And then something like this happens.”
Dahl walked along in silence. It was the sort of thing you expected from drow—like kicking a person through a roof, like knifing an ally in the dark—and yet it didn’t fit. It was what you expected, and so the guards should have grabbed him. Made sure he wasn’t lying, wasn’t sending them on a wild hunt or into an ambush. Because that was what you expected from a drow. Phalar shouldn’t have made it out of the fortress if he’d been foolish enough to stop and taunt the guards.
But Phalar wasn’t the only one who knew that Dahl would be in the armory, Dahl realized. Nor the only one who came and went through the fortress.
“Does Tharra have a guard on her when she’s in the tower?”
“Of course,” Armas said. “Everyone does.”
“Same one every time?”
“Since she started playing lady’s maid for your warlock.”
Dahl blew out a breath. Less likely than Phalar, he told himself. But then there was Tharra’s insistence that he was making things worse by getting into the fortress, by trusting Farideh. By bringing weapons out. “She’s not going to be happy about Cereon is she?”
“Happy about us talking to him? Or happy that he’s exactly as difficult as he is with her?” Armas shrugged. “Either way, I doubt it.”
They reached Oota’s quarter as the sun began to set. The alleys around the makeshift court were packed with bodies—frantic, fearful bodies. The court inside was no better, except a circle in the center where Hamdir and Antama had held back the swarms of prisoners.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t let Phalar and Dahl go in!” Tharra’s stern tones cut through the crowd of voices. “They’d be alive—she’d be alive if they’d stayed out!”
Cold rushed over Dahl. She’ d be alive. Oh gods . . .
“Watch your tongue,” Oota said. “You don’t know why things changed.”
“Tharra?” Armas called, pressing through the prisoners, ducking past Hamdir. “Tharra what’s—”
Dahl and Armas broke through the crowd, and Dahl saw what was truly holding back the other prisoners: a pile of bodies, at least a dozen, wrapped in blood-soaked cloths.
“Where have you been, fledgling?” Tharra demanded. “You were supposed to be watching the children.”
“Gods,” Armas said. “Gods, please, what’s happened?”
Dahl’s heart stopped and he couldn’t look at the stack of bodies, couldn’t bear to find a child-sized bundle among them. “He killed them in the sorting?” he asked.
“Surprised your warlock is no ally?” Tharra said. “From what we can tell, she killed an entire courtyard of people. Took at least four. Including Vanri.”
Shit, Dahl thought. Gods’ broken books. “Where is Farideh?”
“With the wizard,” Tharra said savagely. “We told you, and you didn’t listen, and now Vanri’s probably . . .” She faltered. “We were keeping them safe. And you’ve destroyed that.”
“I got the boys through,” Hamdir said, shouted in that way Dahl was uncomfortably familiar with. “I wasn’t expecting the grays, I didn’t lose hold of her on purpose.”
Tharra fixed him with a hard stare. “Tell him what you heard.”
“Screams. Definitely Vanri. And then . . .” Hamdir swallowed. “A roar. A terrible roar.”
“She manifested.” Tharra glared at Armas. “All those nightmares, all those worries about the ocean taking her . . . If she isn’t dead, gods know what horrors are whispering in her ears now.”
“If she isn’t dead,” Dahl said, “we can still save her.”
Firm up, he thought, shaking. If Rhand was killing Chosen, it was because Rhand was angry. If he was angry, Farideh was in more danger than before. There was no time to wait for Cereon. There was no time to wait for the appointment he and Farideh had agreed upon. There wasn’t even time to figure out whether he could trust Phalar. “We need to get in there, now. We need to get her out, get to the Chosen—”
“Get the rest of us killed?” Tharra said, as if he were her fledgling scout as well, as if Dahl were in need of censure. “What do you think you’re going to do?”
“Save those of us who can still be saved,” Dahl said. “Including Vanri.”
“Do you have a plan?” Oota interrupted, calmer than any of them. “Or are you just expecting to walk in through the gates and come back out with all our lost following behind?”
Dahl faced her. He didn’t have a plan—not as such. He didn’t have a way to be sure no one else was going to die or be caught, or to prove to them once and for all that Farideh was someone to trust. But he could be certain it wasn’t better to stay here, huddled together and waiting for the shadar-kai to come to them.
Nor was it better to leave Farideh in the tower when Rhand was slaughtering innocents.
“Do you?” he said calmly. “Or are you planning to just hope the tower collapses and the wizard drops dead? You were right before—you’re going to have to make a stand, and the longer you wait . . .” He spread his hands. “This will keep happening.”
“And a dozen daggers and a devil-child won’t change that,” Tharra said. “People’s lives are at stake.”
“Are they any less at stake right now?” Dahl demanded. “Right here?” He looked out into the crowd. “Can any one of you say you’re better off holding your breath and hoping you’re not the next one to be caught? You’re the Chosen of the gods—are you going to spit so merrily in their eyes and lie down to die on Shar’s altar?”
No one answered. It felt as if every eye were on him. Waiting for someone to do something. For something to change.
“This isn’t a nursery tale,” Tharra said. “The blessings we carry aren’t weapons.”
Dahl held her furious gaze. “How fortunate for me,” he said. “Isn’t that right?” She looked back, unblinking, no sign of the treachery he suspected save the sudden stillness of her features. He looked to Oota. “I’m in this alone, fine. Let’s hope the
gods still smile on those of us who give two nibs about the world. I’ll find my own way in. I’ll get Farideh out. And then we’ll see what plans can come together.” He leaned toward Tharra.
“And if you tell the guards that, fellow Harper,” Dahl murmured, “I’ll know.” He turned without waiting for Tharra’s reaction, and headed out into the darkening night. Reflexively he pulled the flask of Shadowfell liquor out of his pocket, passed it from hand to hand, then shoved it back again. If no one else was going to be the hero, then the Chosen were stuck with Dahl.
“Show me Lorcan again.” Farideh doesn’t care what it shows, or when, or why. She misses him and Sairché’s words ring in her ears over and over. He’s done with you. She might never see him again, never get to explain herself, and whatever Rhand’s apprentices think about that, she doesn’t care either. They haven’t moved from their stations in nearly an hour—waiting, it seems, for some other development. There’s no more blood, no more whispers, and no more hints about what might be, save for a pair of them fussing with the shelf of ancient scrolls, arguing over whether any of them could be useful. And Farideh wonders if all her plans are doomed to fail this badly.
A taproom in a waystation, sometime before Proskur. Farideh can’t remember the name of the inn or the village. She remembers the night, though, and the taproom. There’s a fiddler and a bard with a lute, another with a drum. The music is raucous and cheery. The dancers are wild and carefree, and the room feels like a hive of bees. Brin and Havilar are whirling, giggling, not caring that people are giving them looks. They crash into the table Farideh keeps between her and the mayhem and look abashed. Brin offers Farideh a hand. “Do you want to take a turn?”
“No thank you,” she says. They whirl off.
“Don’t you like dancing?” Lorcan drawls beside her. She hates it when he talks like that.
“Why would I like dancing?” she says irritably. “I don’t like people staring at me. I don’t like being crowded. I don’t like strangers grabbing at me.” She sips her ale. Farideh remembers wondering if he was going to ask her to, and if she’ d say yes. And she remembers knowing he wouldn’t. “Do you like dancing?”
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