The Adversary

by Erin M. Evans

  Farideh’s throat closed around a fresh set of tears, but she only nodded, unwilling to cry again. “Come on,” she said, hardly louder than a whisper. “We need to go.”

  Much as she hated the sensation of flying, and the mockery of an embrace that was holding on to Lorcan for dear life, the drop from the tower to the camp below wasn’t nearly long enough, and when her feet touched down on the sticky mud beside the hut with the missing thatch, her pulse was racing and her throat still tight. Lorcan pulled her into an alleyway, peering out into the street.

  “A quarter hour is a lot of time,” he said. “Might be your paladin’s found something else to do. Someone else to visit.”

  Farideh pushed past him, coming out into the street. “I think he knows about the massacre. So he’s looking for me too.” She started a little ways down the road. “A quarter hour is enough to get to where he’s keeping his weapons and prepare, then leave again.” She looked back at the fortress, looming over the camp. There was an awful lot of it to fall. “He ought to come back along this path, and—”

  “Farideh?” Dahl’s voice called. Farideh smiled as she turned to see the Harper sprinting up the road, dressed in a stolen Shadovar uniform and wearing a sword. “Gods books, Farideh?”

  “I see he’s still a quick one,” Lorcan muttered.

  “What happened?” Dahl cried as he reached them. “They’re saying you murdered a dozen people and sent ten times that to the wizard’s workshop.” He looked her over once. “I was going to rescue you.”

  “I didn’t kill them,” she started.

  “Well, I figured that,” Dahl said irritably. He looked at Lorcan, but said to Farideh, “You’re not hurt?”

  Farideh rubbed her left hand, the healed finger. “Not much,” she said gamely. She gestured at Lorcan. “I found us more allies. And a plan.”

  “A plan?” Dahl repeated. He shook his head and cursed softly. “Of course.”

  Farideh scowled at him. “You haven’t even heard it yet.”

  “No, I—” Dahl stopped himself. “I haven’t,” he said diplomatically. “And it’s probably better than the nonsense I’d cobbled together.” He spread his hands. “Tell me what to do.”

  Farideh rolled her eyes. “Hear the plan first. And tell me yours. Likely they both need refining.” She turned to Lorcan. “You’re going to make sure the Harpers find Havilar and Brin, and point them here. Sairché’s going to put Rhand off the scent.”

  “And we’ll sort Magros,” Lorcan added. “You handle the agent and . . .” He sighed. “Don’t attempt this mad plan without telling me what exactly you’re doing first.”

  “If it’s too late—”

  “I’ll make sure it’s not too late.”

  “Fine,” Farideh said. “I’ll see you then.” She could only hope there were enough Chosen, enough powerful Chosen willing to attempt something so likely to end their lives—gods, she almost wished Lorcan were staying. It would take a devil to convince someone of something so dangerous.

  She had so lost herself in puzzling out what came next that she didn’t expect Lorcan to say another word.

  She didn’t expect Lorcan to grab her around the waist, to pull her right up against him. She didn’t expect that when she started to tell him to leave off and stop acting out, that his mouth would close over hers and steal her breath.

  Farideh’s mind went blank as a fresh sheet, not even certain of what was happening. And then Lorcan’s hands pulled her hips against his. His tongue slipped past her lips to brush against the roof of her mouth, and a branch of lust shot through her, as electric as a lightning storm.

  I ought to kiss him back, she managed to think.

  And then he released her, dark eyes dancing.

  “Do be careful, darling,” Lorcan murmured, and before Farideh could sort out what to say or even how to form the words, he plucked up the ring that made the whirlwind portal and was gone.

  Farideh drew a sharp breath. Reflexively she pulled her cloak closer around her.

  “Gods books,” Dahl said. Then, “I thought you said he wasn’t coming to save you.”

  That’s why he did it, Farideh thought. He only kissed you because Dahl was standing there. He only did it to mark his territory, just like before. She touched her mouth without meaning to.

  “He isn’t saving me,” she said firmly. “I think I’m saving him. I brought components. I found a way to take the wall down. Can we get inside?”

  Dahl hesitated. “Yes.” He looked up the road, toward the fortress. “But it may take some explaining. Come on.”

  It would have been too simple, Dahl thought grimly, if they’d been allowed to just see Oota like any other petitioner. He had meant to make Farideh hang back, out of sight, while he slipped back in and got them a little space. But as discreet as Lorcan might have thought he was being, someone had seen them flying out of the fortress, and Dahl ended up leading her straight to the mob of prisoners coming to see what had fallen among them.

  After that, it was all he could do to hang onto her and keep the angry prisoners back.

  “I told you already,” Dahl all but shouted over the noise of the crowd. “She didn’t kill them, and she’s here to help us.” But the prisoners recognized Farideh the moment they’d come close to the makeshift fortress, and no amount of Dahl’s shouting or shoving prevented them from hauling Farideh up to stand before one-eyed Oota.

  “Tharra has her doubts,” Oota said. “As do I. Better to be sure of her.”

  “Better not to risk it at all,” Tharra said. “Put her down or lock her up. If she’s not with the wizard, he’s going to come looking for her soon enough.”

  “I have three days,” Farideh said. “We have an agreement.” At that, Tharra shot Oota a knowing glance. Farideh flushed and wispy shadows edged her frame. “He thinks I’m . . . elsewhere. Serving another.”

  “Which of them are you murdering my people for?” Oota asked.

  Farideh looked down at the piled bodies. “That was an accident. I told him I wouldn’t identify the Chosen. I didn’t know he would kill them,” she said. “But I should have. I’m sorry. I will be sorry every day of my life.”

  “Might be able to shorten that for you,” Tharra said, and Farideh’s jaw tightened.

  Oota glowered at Tharra. “Are you taking my place, friend? Making my orders?” To Farideh she asked, “Pretty clear you’re no ardent follower. So why are you here?”

  “Are you going to turn down a freed caster?” Dahl asked. He looked around the room, spotted Armas in the back and beckoned him closer. “You can still cast that spell?” he murmured to Farideh. “The one that shatters things?”

  Armas held up his shackled hands. Farideh pointed her flat palm at the half-elf. “Assulam.”

  The magic raced dark and virulent up her arms, shot across the room, and turned the cruel gauntlets into a burst of rust. Armas leaped back, surprised. He flexed his hands stiffly, and gave a nervous chuckle. “I’ll be damned.” He murmured a soft, sibilant word. A cloud of colored lights appeared at his fingertips, and he laughed again and looked over at Tharra, who kept her stern expression.

  “Get Cereon and the elves,” Dahl said.

  Oota held up a hand. “Hold.”

  “I can tell which of you are Chosen, too,” Farideh said. “I’ll do it for you instead of him. You can separate those who are likely to gain powers, try and trigger them, and make an army of sorts. Or just keep them away from the wizard.”

  “Or get them all in one place?” Tharra said, still unconvinced. “Easy for your guards to scoop up?”

  Farideh turned to her. “You’d be ready for that. You’d never let them stand around where they could be gathered up, and neither would I—not if I could help it.” She looked to Oota. “Move me around the camp, if you’d rather.”

  Tharra pursed her lips. “We can’t risk it. She could easily be a spy.”

  “Why would I bring you a spy?” Dahl demanded. “I vouch for her.”

/>   “How long have you known each other?” Tharra demanded.

  Dahl hesitated. That wasn’t a simple question. “Long enough.”

  Tharra reached over and yanked Farideh’s sleeve up, showing her brand. “You two see the same skinscrivener?”

  Farideh pulled her arm away. “Do you want my help or not?”

  “It’s not her you should be asking,” Oota reminded her. The half-orc considered Farideh as if trying to force the tiefling woman to look away—gladly, Farideh stared right back.

  “The wizard’s finest,” Oota finally said, “should sort this out.”

  Tharra stiffened, and Dahl said, “That’s ridiculous. You’ll lay her out for a day, and we don’t have time for that.”

  “She said three days,” Oota reminded him, not breaking her gaze. “Tharra is right—it’s a mighty high risk. If she’s what she says, we’ll protect her. If not”—her crooked grin sent a chill down Farideh’s back—”we’ll appreciate the advantage.”

  “There has to be another way,” Dahl said. “You don’t need to put her through it.”

  “Oh, probably,” Oota said. “But the wizard’s finest is my offer. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll do it,” Farideh said. “I’m certain I’ve been through worse.”

  “We’ll see,” Tharra said. “I’ll see all of it.”

  “No, Tharra,” Oota said. “This one’s mine.”

  “You can’t afford to be laid out either.”

  “Hamdir and Antana can manage. And you.” Oota spared Tharra another of her crooked grins. “You can manage without me, I’m plenty sure. But this one . . . I want to see this one.”

  Tharra pursed her mouth. “I’ll get the flagon.”

  Farideh turned to Dahl, looking more than a little worried. “How bad is this?”

  Dahl hesitated. “Not . . . good. She might see things you’d rather not share. You might see things you’d rather not remember. And after . . .” He winced at the memory. “The next day is horrible. But it seems to be honest. So they’ll see you’re someone they can trust.”

  She looked up at him, that shadow-smoke growing thicker. “And if they don’t?”

  Dahl thought of asking her what they might find, but—no, not now. It was probably just the devil anyway, and he quickly shifted his thoughts away from that. “Then we’ll think of something else,” he said firmly.

  Tharra brought the cup to Oota, the honey-sweet smell of the wicked brew’s base overlaid this time by a murky, dirty scent that stirred Dahl’s memories. He blew out a breath—how many hours had he carried the flask of shadar-kai liquor now? It felt like months.

  “Bah!” Oota cried. “What is this?”

  “Think it might have gone a bit off,” Tharra said.

  Dahl frowned. “Doesn’t smell like old wine.” What did it smell like? Something familiar.

  “It’s not wine,” Tharra reminded him. “Not really. We can’t wait until Phalar gets another batch.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Dahl said. “What if it . . . poisons as it goes bad?” He sniffed again—was it the base? Did the fruit turn that way? Had he eaten that, smelled that? “What do they make it out of?”

  “Shadowfell things,” Tharra said.

  But things tainted by shadow always smelled musty to Dahl, old and cold and faint.

  “Ready, devil-child?” Oota said.

  “As I ever will be.”

  “Who do you serve?” Oota asked. She handed Farideh the cup and the tiefling drank deeply, coughing at the introduction of the heady brew.

  This smell, Dahl thought, was wet and living and virulent. “Feywild,” he said. Ah shit. Shit.

  Farideh handed the cup across to Oota, and Dahl saw the fine splinters floating on the scummy surface of the wizard’s finest, looking like the remains of a bad cask, before the half-orc brought the cup to her lips.

  Hamadryad’s ash—that was the smell. Powdered roots of Feywild ash trees that the hamadryads let casters harvest when the ash trees threatened their oaks. Dahl used it in several rituals. Particularly one to amplify the effects of other rituals.

  He looked over at Tharra, who was watching Oota, jaw tight. “Oh gods.”

  Oota flinched and glared at the cup, then at Tharra. “This . . . doesn’t . . .”

  Stop!” Dahl cried, even though it was too late. “Don’t drink it!”

  Farideh looked up at him, alarmed, and started to speak. But half a syllable out of her lips and she fell backward, the word becoming a grunt.

  Oota stood, reaching for her cudgel. “Snake!” she said, her words starting to slur. “What have you done?”

  Tharra took a step back. “What I needed to,” she said.

  If it worked like it did in rituals, Dahl thought, it would drive everything up. It would make the memories more than Farideh could handle—maybe more than Oota could handle—and it might well drive her mad. It might well kill them, Dahl thought, remembering how his heart had tried to pound its way out of his chest.

  “Hamdir!” Oota shouted, weaving on her feet. “Antama! Grab . . . her. . .”

  Dahl snatched the cup from Oota’s limp hand a moment before she collapsed in a heap beside Farideh. A moment before her two heavies seized Tharra.

  “What’s the antidote?” Dahl demanded.

  Tharra eyed him stonily. “No antidote. Are you going to listen to reason now?”

  Farideh started shaking, and Dahl dropped down beside her. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could change to stop this from happening. He could only watch.

  He looked at the cup, the swallow and a half of wizard’s finest left in the bottom. He could watch from here . . . or from there.

  Please let this work, he thought to Oghma or whoever might be listening, and he tipped the rest back.

  “Are you mad?” Tharra demanded.

  “Not as mad as you,” Dahl said. “Hold onto her. Oota’s going to want answers at least half as much as I will. Try to wake us, however you can.” By the end of the sentence his tongue had turned to clay, and before Hamdir, Antama, or Tharra could say a word, Dahl’s vision turned black.

  When Farideh could see again, she was standing in Arush Vayem, deep enough into winter that the snow was piled up to the top of her shins, the cold creeping through the leather. Wood smoke spiced the air, and the singsong argument of children was the only noise.

  There were two tiefling girls up ahead—both dressed in well-loved rabbit fur capes and mittens, their tiny horns just beginning to curl back over their dark hair. Farideh approached, her heart shivering: the girls were Havilar and herself, in their seventh winter, and she remembered this time, this place. She remembered what was about to happen.

  It’s not going to happen, she told herself. It isn’t real. This was a memory, like the ones the waters showed.

  The wind gusted, blowing open her cloak, as if the scene itself were laughing at her conviction. What’s memory? What’s real? What’s real enough?

  Oota came to stand beside her, watching the young twins stomping through the snow. “Shitting wizard’s finest,” she growled. “Never a simple answer. What are we looking at?”

  “That’s me,” Farideh said pointing. “That’s my sister Havi.” Havilar bounded over to the palisade. A tree had fallen, rotten and top-heavy with ice, at just the right angle to destroy this part of the wall. The tree had been chopped up and hauled away already—burning in a dozen hearths no doubt—and the replacement logs shaped and placed. But the weather was still cold enough that it would be longer still to get the stone and earth packed around the repairs. The man repairing the wall was off having his highsunfeast, and Havilar had a plan.

  “She’s going to break her arm,” Farideh said, dread creeping in on her, as Havilar wedged the stick she was carrying in between two of the logs, working it back and forth.

  “Godsdamned, Tharra,” Oota said. “Probably ruined the damned question. You know she was going to do that?”

  But Farideh only had ey
es for Havilar. She didn’t know a Tharra—there certainly wasn’t one in the village. She shouldn’t be talking to this half-orc either—Mehen wouldn’t like it.

  “Havi, I think we should go back,” the younger Farideh said, and she felt herself mouth the words unconsciously. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “It’s a fantastic idea,” Havilar said. “And it’s a fantastic idea right now— Zevar is going to be back to finish in a little, and then we’ll never get out.”

  More footsteps crunched up behind Farideh, and she hoped it was Mehen, come to scold Havilar and make them both go back inside. She couldn’t leave Havi, but she knew this would end badly.

  “I don’t want to get out,” Farideh told her, and she wiped her tiny nose on the back of a mitten. “And you can’t move it, anyway.”

  “I can so!”

  “Hey,” Dahl said, and Farideh startled, suddenly grown again and watching her memory of Havilar. His breath turned into steam on the air. “Are you all right?”

  Farideh knew she should ask him how he was there, why he was there. She knew she should ask why Dahl had shouted at them to stop as the wizard’s finest took effect. She should ask about the cold, and the footprints they made as they moved through the snow—that wasn’t like what he’d told her.

  But when she opened her mouth she said, “She’s going to break her arm. The log falls and pins her. I have to stop her. Mehen will be so angry.”

  “You can’t stop it,” Dahl said. “It’s already happened. This is just a memory, all right? You have to focus on that. You can’t stop it. You just have to ride it out.”

  The top of the log wavered dangerously. Farideh shut her eyes. “Right. The wizard’s finest.”

  “Exactly,” Dahl said. “Only a bit worse. Tharra added something to the goblet. I think it’s meant to amplify the effects, make it harder to come out of it.”

  “Bastard,” Oota spat. “Knew she had a blade for my back.”

  “Worry about that later. Just stay alert and watch for the amplifications.”

  “They’re already happening,” Oota said. “You don’t feel the cold or the heat in these things. You don’t leave marks. Are we going to be wishing for weapons?”