Lorcan shrugs. “Why would I?”
Farideh sighs. “Right. You don’t like anything.”
“I like surviving,” Lorcan says.
“Do you like anything that you don’t need?”
Lorcan gives her such a puzzled look, and standing over the waters, Farideh is embarrassed all over again. How many times has he hinted at the terrors of Malbolge? Everything Lorcan does is, by necessity, to save his own neck—one way or another. Even when he saved her life, there was a payoff, a reward. Passage to the Hells, safety from his sisters, an alibi when he returned to his terrible mistress. Lorcan does nothing because it’s just pleasant. She knows that now. She suspected it then. Enough she should have known better than to ask such a silly question.
“Never mind,” she says and looks down into her ale. It’s the first time, Farideh thinks now, she started to understand he would always be something alien, something inhuman.
But as the waters continue reflecting, she notices something she hadn’t in the taproom that night: Lorcan’s puzzlement fades into something bare and uncomfortable as he watches her. As if she wears him out. As if she vexes him. As if he’s confused and frustrated. As if he knows all of this, and still, he wants her to stay there, beside him. He sighs, so quietly she never heard him.
“I like,” he said finally, “this ale. I think I’ll have another.”
The vision fades, the waters stop, and there is only Farideh’s reflection on the glassy surface. She wonders why the waters chose that moment, why they revealed it from that angle, why they let her see that strange look Lorcan gave her that makes her heart quicken. To teach her a lesson or to break her heart swiftest? To tease her or taunt her or none of it? The waters might be good or evil or neither.
Neither, she tells herself. The magic doesn’t care one way or another. It’s only her melancholy that makes it feel that way. It’s only knowing that perhaps Lorcan wasn’t as alien as she’ d always thought that makes her feel as if she’s failed him too.
Chapter Seventeen
24 Ches, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR) The Lost Peaks
Concentrate, Farideh admonished herself, as Lorcan climbed down from the windowsill, into the empty study. Between the embarrassing way Lorcan’s embrace flooded her with want and the utter terror that gripped her when they took flight from the bedroom window, she had plenty to distract her from the Nameless One’s powers nibbling at her thoughts.
“I hate that,” she said, still trembling as she unwound her tail from his calf. “Gods, I hate that.”
Lorcan shook a spatter of melting snow from one wing, then the other. “Didn’t you leap from the window to get here before? You’ll fall but not fly?”
“It’s not the same,” she said, crossing to the basin nearest the window. “You’re meant to fall down, not up.” The Chosen of Shar’s effects slipped in through her thoughts and curled up like a dog at a fire. It was nowhere near as bad as it had been standing in front of the Nameless One, but still it made her thoughts sluggish, her heart heavy. She concentrated on slowing down her rattled breath, on the task at hand. Get in, get what you need, get out.
Lorcan came to stand behind her as she reached for a pinch of the blue petals in the bowl beside the vessel—close, too close.
“What about this Chosen of Shar?” he murmured close to her ear. “What am I meant to do if it takes you again?” She went still, her hand resting half in the pile of dried petals. He set a hand on her hip, and drew her ever so slightly closer, and she forgot the powers of Shar altogether.
“You could remind me,” she said, eyes on the waters, “of all the things you said when you came here last. I think that would do it.”
Lorcan straightened. “I apologized for that.”
“You did,” Farideh said, looking back over her shoulder. “Which is why we’re still talking. But it isn’t as if ‘sorry’ is a magic word that means none of that ever happened.” She looked down at her reflection in the water, the gloominess of the Nameless One’s presence across the hall unfolding in her thoughts. “It doesn’t wipe the slate.”
“Well, what does?” Lorcan demanded.
Farideh laughed once. If she knew the answer to that, she would do it herself and resolve her own sins once and for all. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”
Before he could respond, she cast a pinch of the flowers over the surface of the water.
“Show me the last time someone escaped from one of Rhand’s camps.”
The waters swirled and shivered, reflecting back another camp, with the same squat huts, the same obsidian tower, the same faint shimmer of a magical wall. Beyond, a desert stretched, red and frosted, the sun just creeping over a distant horizon. The guards on the wall were fewer—and human, yawning at the early hour, their eyes focusing on some half-remembered dream no one else could see. They certainly weren’t expecting the prisoners who poured out of the graying shadows.
There hadn’t been as many—perhaps a hundred, a hundred and fifty—but there weren’t many among the people who rushed the stone wall who didn’t scintillate with the blessings of the gods. A bolt of lightning struck the first guard who tried to sound an alarm, followed by an explosion of rubble as a stout dwarf woman planted her hands against the stone wall and brought it down beneath the guards’ feet. The prisoners killed them swiftly, took their weapons, opened the gates, and filled the narrow courtyard. The guards regained their wits and struck back—cutting down anyone who came near. Blood soaked the sandy floor of the courtyard.
But the guards didn’t seem to matter to the prisoners. Their efforts were turned against the tower.
There were Chosen who set flames against the building’s base, hot enough to crack the crystal. There were Chosen, like the dwarf woman, who made the stone shatter into chips or stole the ground from beneath it. There were others who took a warlord’s mantle, flush with the blessings of a martial god, who made their comrades into an army to bring the guards to their knees and to keep those destroying the tower from being attacked. Spells sizzled down from the tower’s heights—balls of flame that clung to guard and prisoner alike, spheres of energy that seized whole groups of fighters. The commanders ordered the prisoners to break, to spread out, as another spell locked a dozen of them in place. It made the wizards’ work harder, but it didn’t stop the spells that rained down on the Chosen below.
But then the tower fell.
Some ran as the stone cracked. Some scattered to the edges of the courtyard, seeking shelter where they could. The Chosen who had stood right up on the tower’s base didn’t even try to flee—there was no fleeing as the structure fractured and split and fell apart in great, sharp pieces. The screaming blended together, a roar to match the pitch of the tower’s constant vibrations.
The core of the tower split, and the shimmer of the wall ceased. The prisoners who were left fled into the red desert and vanished as the Fountains of Memory returned to their placid swirling.
“Shit and ashes,” Lorcan said.
Farideh stared at the basin, shocked into silence. They had to bring the tower down to dispel the wall.
“The stone,” she said, as much for herself as for Lorcan. “It looks like it breaks easily. If you attack it right, maybe . . .” She fell silent. That tower had been smaller. It hadn’t been so well guarded—and still, half the prisoners had been killed bringing it down.
It’s no use, that unwelcome voice in her thoughts seemed to say. You can’t save all of them. You can’t save any of them without asking for a sacrifice.
Farideh squeezed her eyes shut. “What do you think Magros intends to do?” she said. “What . . . what do we play off of?”
“Does it matter?” Lorcan said. “You can’t seriously be considering bringing down—”
“What are our options?”
“He has a Red Wizard. Some undead. They’re headed here with some magic in mind. I doubt,” he added acidly, “that it has to do with free
ing your prisoners. Maybe she wants an army of corpses? Maybe she wants to capture the camp for her own master?” He shuddered and pulled her nearer. “Darling, we don’t need to be here. Please.”
“I’m not coming back,” Farideh said. “I don’t want to find I missed something later on. Do you think the Red Wizard will be able to get through the wall?”
Lorcan shook his head. “Rhand has to make allowances from the sound of it. Even Sairché and I can’t come through easily. Out though . . . It might be easier. I could get you away. Get us away. Let Magros and Sairché bungle things on their own.”
“You know you can’t,” Farideh said. “You know I won’t go.” She ought to push him off. She ought to keep out of his reach. She ought to make sure she was absolutely clear about where they stood right now—and he was not in her good graces. But with the Nameless One’s presence on the other side of the floor pressing on her like wave after wave of invisible soldiers . . . his arms around her made for pleasant enough armor. Regardless of why he offered it.
“Is she getting to you?” Farideh asked.
Lorcan cursed under his breath. “Yes.”
“Keep fighting it,” Farideh said. She tried to speak as carefully as he had earlier. “If the prisoners escaped—like in the vision—that wouldn’t go well. You’d be at fault. You and Sairché and Glasya. It would be exactly the sort of thing this Magros might try to make happen.” She dipped her hand into the water to feel the sharp jolt of pain the cold sent up her nerves. “It would be a good idea to see if that agent you mentioned knows about it. So you could be sure not to catch the blame.” She pushed him gently away and turned to face him. “Or maybe they know about the Red Wizard.”
“You’d have to find the agent,” Lorcan said. “One soul in an ever-moving sea.”
“I have connections. This completely ridiculous power.” She shut her eyes and calmed herself. She had been doing a fine job of not thinking about being a Chosen of Asmodeus, of not considering what came next. If she could keep it out of mind, it was as good as not true—or as close as it could be.
But even brushing the edge of that knowledge stirred a panic in her heart.
“It’s ridiculous as you’re using it,” Lorcan said. “Finding Chosen is a very odd little side effect Sairché decided to exploit.”
She opened her eyes again and found him watching her with an uneasy expression. “What’s it for then?”
“You see the state of mortal souls,” Lorcan said. “How corrupted they are. How easily they would be claimed for the Hells.”
“Karshoj,” Farideh spat. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m never doing that.”
“Never say never, darling,” Lorcan said. “It may come in handy one day.” He hesitated. “Is that all? The soul sight?”
“Yes.”
His wings twitched in an agitated way. “It seems inadequate. Unlike His Majesty.”
Farideh felt the Chosen of Shar’s powers and her own worry twine around her chest. “So what comes next? I kill with a touch? I steal souls with a glance?”
Lorcan made a face. “Lords of the Nine, you’re dramatic. No—I don’t know what comes next. I only mean you should be on guard for more. Asmodeus only knows what will trigger it, after all. In the meantime, you need spells. Something to show Rhand and Magros what they ought to be afraid of.”
“I’m nothing to fear.”
“You are a Chosen of Asmodeus. The whole world will fear you, if you give them the opportunity. Here.” He took her hands together and filled the bowl of them with a darkness that sloshed back and forth like ink. The magic seeped in between her fingers and ran up her arms.
Farideh swallowed. “What is it?”
“Another spell,” Lorcan said grimly. “Face your foe. Hold the rod parallel to the ground and pull up. Say chaanaris as you do. You’ll want to be some distance back. It doesn’t . . . discriminate.”
Farideh looked down at her hands, still cupped in his. “All right. Shall I practice?”
“No,” Lorcan said quickly. “Not this one. Don’t use it unless you have to.”
“Why?”
He regarded her for a long moment. “There are spells I can give you,” he said, “which might as well come from a wizard’s study. There are spells that acknowledge their nature in subtler ways—the rain of brimstone, the word of corruption.” He closed her hands in his. “And then,” he finished, “there are those spells that are undeniably the gift of the Nine Hells. It is one of those. I don’t want you to be afraid to use it when the time comes.”
“Have I been such a coward before?”
“The pact has been gentle on you so far. There’s no room for that anymore.” He looked down at her hands in his. “Why didn’t you listen?” he asked. “We would have been all right. I could have handled Sairché. I’m not worth this trouble.”
Farideh pressed her mouth shut. It was the Nameless One’s powers. It was just what happened to Lorcan when Shar’s emptiness rushed over him. It didn’t take away what he was, deep down. “She was going to kill you,” she said after a moment. “And as you said, I can’t do much with a corpse.”
Lorcan let go of her hands.
Farideh turned back to the waters and scattered another pinch of petals over the surface. “Show me where Clanless Mehen was a quarter hour ago.”
The waters took only a moment to show a group of people scaling the slopes of a densely wooded mountain. And among them, Mehen, hauling himself over a fallen tree, up onto the path where the others waited.
“Harpers,” Lorcan said, coming to stand behind her once more. “Brin said they’d be following.”
Farideh sighed and shut her eyes. “If I survive this, I think I’ll never leave Mehen’s side again.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Is that . . . ? Gods be damned. The Thayans.”
Mehen stopped beside a creature out of Farideh’s nightmares—a corpselike thing with long, bony arms and talons like scythes. “What are they doing with Mehen?”
“A very good question,” Lorcan said, leaning nearer to the water. The smell of him—musk and brimstone and strange spices—taunted Farideh, and the Chosen of Shar’s powers seemed to catch hold of it, wielding it like a tool to dig into her heart.
“I need you to find Mehen,” she said.
“He won’t be happy to see me. You might end up with a corpse despite your best efforts.”
She turned to face Lorcan. “Not if the first thing you say is that I’m all right. Give him some sign.”
He didn’t move back. His eyes flicked over her face as if he knew her anger had a chink in it, and he smiled. “What sign is that?”
Without breaking her gaze, she reached across and pulled the long blade from his scabbard. He stepped into her, so that the knife stopped halfway out, and Farideh stood pressed against the icy basin.
“Cut a plait of my hair,” she said, remembering the vision in the pools. “Give it to Mehen. He’ll know what it means.”
“That’s a lot of blade for a little lock.”
And despite everything that had changed, Farideh blushed at that, and Lorcan’s smile spread. She let go of the knife and separated out one of the small braids Tharra had left at the nape of her neck, hidden in her loose hair. “Here.”
He drew the knife, and wound the plait around one finger and pulled it, hard enough to draw a gasp from her and force her head back. He hesitated, the sharp blade too close to the golden column of her throat. Farideh shut her eyes.
“Magros gave me this,” he said. “He thought I might kill you with it.”
“Would you?”
“I might have,” he admitted. “But not anymore.” He sliced through the lock of hair in one quick motion. “Remember?” he added silkily. “I have a slate to wipe.”
Farideh rubbed the back of her skull and looked away. “You need to get the Harpers here as quickly as possible,” she said. “I need to check on Havi.” She reached for the petals.
&
nbsp; “Don’t bother,” Lorcan said. “We should go and I can find her myself.”
Farideh bit her lip. “If you can keep her away—”
“Don’t even ask me to do that,” Lorcan said, tucking the braid into a pocket. “You know I can’t. Besides, she has a way into the wall—that necklace Sairché left you. The Harpers will need it.”
Farideh looked back at the basin. “Then just one more.” She tossed another pinch of petals over the water. “Show me Dahl Peredur, where he was a quarter hour ago.”
The waters shivered and showed the camp, and the wet splattering snow. Dahl leaving a crowd of prisoners, looking furious and hurrying down the road toward the south. Farideh bit her lip, hunting through the vision for clues.
“Dahl,” Lorcan said icily, “is your friend in the camp?”
“Not now,” Farideh said, marking a clothesline, a missing patch of thatching, a stone half-buried in the ground. The vision disappeared and she blew out a breath. “Yes, it’s Dahl. If you’re going to rage and moan over that, at least consider he’s a bit better than Adolican Rhand.”
“You didn’t tell me about him either.”
“Because I thought that trial was over,” Farideh said. “I thought I didn’t have to worry about him anymore.” She met Lorcan’s dark eyes. “I didn’t want to worry about you getting into trouble, with some human’s blood on your hands, trapped in the middle of Waterdeep—or what would become of me if that happened. Though I suppose you’ll say it wouldn’t have mattered. It’s not as if Asmodeus would just let me go to waste, right?”
She left him standing beside the basin and collected the components Dahl had asked for—not caring if their absence showed. She went to the window and looked down—the snow had stopped, and the world beyond was dark and wet and moonless. Lorcan moved up beside her and brushed the hair from her cheek. She flinched.
“I am sorry,” he said again. “And . . . not just because I wish you’d stop being angry. But you couldn’t have stopped the king of the Hells from choosing you, and neither could I. You were born for this.”
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