“Got it,” she panted. “They’re pulling back, but—”
“Get down and cast it!” Dahl shouted. “We haven’t got time.” She darted past, weaving her way between the prisoners, down into the tunnels below, Vescaras following her.
Khochen came running up from the direction of the lake, tailed by a man with a bow carrying Samayan pickaback, another fellow, and Daranna. Brin searched the road behind them, and Dahl’s stomach dropped.
“Where’s Havi?” Brin demanded. “Where’s Mehen?”
Khochen gave Dahl a grim look. “Your friend the wizard took Farideh hostage. The other two went with the cambion to rescue her.”
Dahl cursed and cursed and cursed, as if his breath couldn’t come any other way. “We have to go after them.”
“There is no time,” Cereon said.
“There’s all the godsbedamned time we have, if we can’t all fit down there!” Dahl shouted. Which meant it wouldn’t matter. They were all doomed—on the ground, in the tower, at the bottom of the lake.
A deep boom shook the ground beneath their feet, and for a terrifying moment, Dahl was sure Torden’s warnings about the stability of the mountainside had caught up with them. Shouts came from the shelters, and a moment later the prisoners began to flow down through the main entrance, down into the room that the ancient scroll had crafted.
A weight came off Dahl’s shoulders, but he found he couldn’t follow them, not yet.
Dahl turned back to the tower and saw smoke pouring out of the highest windows. His pulse beat harder, and if he could have done anything in that moment, he would have run for the fortress again, just to try and do something.
But Dahl knew he could not save her this time. If Mehen and Havilar and Lorcan couldn’t manage it, none of them would have been able to. He looked over at Brin—the Cormyrean watched the tower too, looking faintly gray. “I’m sure she didn’t want to leave you behind,” Dahl started.
“It doesn’t matter,” Brin said quietly. “She’ll always choose her sister. I know that.” He gave Dahl a wan smile. “She comes back, and then she’s gone again. I thought it was bad before. If I lose her and Mehen—”
“She’s not gone,” Dahl said firmly. “None of them are. Not yet.”
“Not yet,” Brin agreed.
High up on the tower’s farthest edge, something exploded, scattering shards of black stone.
Rhand’s teleportation felt nothing like Farideh’s own spell, the one that seemed to make a slit in the planes and move her through something like the edge of the Hells, hot and close and whispering. This was bloodless and cold—just a gray, airless place, and then she was standing in the study, once more beside the Fountains of Memory.
Rhand smiled at her, and Farideh thought, there was no devil in the Hells she feared like she feared that smile. Cast, Farideh thought—a burst of energy, a vent of lava, a rain of brimstone. Call the grasping souls back and let them tear him apart—
She closed her eyes and fought back a shudder. That is where you’ll end up, she thought. Begging for a little life from the living . . .
Not yet. For now, Rhand was enough to focus on. And she couldn’t count on him not having the same sort of shield Sairché had borne, something to stop her spells if she tried the wrong way to remind him she wasn’t a lamb brought to slaughter.
But without her spells, without the gifts of the Nine Hells—without her friends, her family—she was little better.
“You should know,” he said conspiratorially, “your mistress has already fallen. Her deal with me, as it were, is not an issue.” He crossed to the sideboard, poured two goblets of a dark red wine, and brought one over to Farideh. “The devils planned to unseat me, didn’t they?”
Farideh nearly laughed. “You shouldn’t assume they care about you at all.”
His eyes darkened. “Well they certainly don’t care about you, do they?” He handed her the glass.
“I’d rather not.”
Rhand laughed. “Oh please, it’s not drugged.” He shoved the glass into her numb hands and leaned in. “I don’t have any need to drug you this time.”
It wouldn’t matter how conscious she was in a short time. Magros’s spell would complete and they would be dead without a layer of earth shielding them. She wondered if the blast would kill them, or if they’d be crushed when the black rock shattered.
Still, if Rhand tried anything between now and then . . . she could still feel the powers of Asmodeus, like something deep inside her had snapped and bled awful ichor into her. It dripped, it drizzled, but she knew it could rush forth again.
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” she murmured.
“Nor do I care,” Rhand returned. He toasted her and took a stiff swallow of the wine. “I believe I told you once, you are not unique.” He strode to the open windows, setting the glass down beside him on the sill and looking out at the growing ball of magical energy. “Neither are your devils’ allies. Whoever it is, they will have a surprise shortly.”
“It’s going to explode.”
“No, it’s not,” Rhand replied. “My two best apprentices are preparing to dispel that nonsense. Just as it reaches its full strength. With luck,” he added, reaching for the goblet once more, “it will reverse the spell and blow the bones of whatever pretender is casting it back to his master.” He took a sip. “But I will settle for ensuring his failure.”
Farideh’s stomach dropped. If the spell were stopped, then their plan was pointless. The prisoners and Harpers and Havi and Mehen would just stay here until they died of hunger or thirst. Or risked destroying the tower themselves. Her sacrifice had meant nothing.
Rhand gave her another unpleasant smile. “Drink up.”
Farideh stared back at him, wishing she was foolish enough to. Even the suggestion made her stomach protest, after the wizard’s finest—
Farideh’s breath caught.
Dahl’s flask of the shadar-kai liquor was still in her pocket, Farideh realized. And Tharra’s strange herbs were tucked into her sleeve. A shield wouldn’t stop the wizard’s finest. Rhand’s expression hardened, and she took a careful sip of the wine, her eyes on the swirling basin of water beside her.
“How long before the spell completes?” she asked.
Rhand turned back to the window, as if gauging his apprentices’ progress. “As I said: it won’t. The dispelling is already underway.”
As he spoke, Farideh drained the wine from her own goblet, swallowing a cough and praying he hadn’t lied about the drugs. She dipped the empty goblet into the basin beside her, filling it halfway with the cold waters of the Fountains of Memory. She pulled Dahl’s flask from her pocket, still sloshing with the shadar-kai’s brutal brew.
“What if it doesn’t work?” she asked, her eyes locked on his back as she tugged the little pouch from her sleeve. Her stomach churned as the fetid smell of the splintered roots hit her nose.
“Whatever you think you know from slinging lumps of forsaken souls at weak enemies, it is a trifle compared to what we do. This is magic of a higher order. It won’t fail.” Rhand set the goblet down again, off to his left, still watching the dancing light that could be seen off to the right.
Farideh made herself keep breathing as she crossed the room on feet so swift and silent, even Mehen would have praised her stealth. Her hands were steady as she reached for his goblet and replaced it with her own.
Rhand turned at the sound of the metal against the stone, but there was Farideh, leaning out over the sill. He picked up the tainted goblet, and Farideh’s heart threatened to beat its way out of her throat. There only remained the question—the best question to keep him laid low.
“I think you’re wrong,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “A wager, then?”
She held the goblet with the untainted wine in it close. “When it explodes,” she said “we’ll be dead.”
“And when it doesn’t, what will you forfeit?” he asked. He brought the goblet
toward his lips again. “I know—do you still have your ritual book? You never did let me show you how those first few work. Perhaps we’ll start there.” He tipped the goblet back.
All the anger, all the horror, all the hate in Farideh’s heart poured into her next words: “What have you done?”
She wanted to make him watch it, live it, have every crime torment him in the nightmarish fashion the potion had. That broken part inside her felt as if it gushed with righteous anger.
Rhand did not seem to hear her at first. He stopped mid-sip, swallowing what was in his mouth already, as if in reflex. A mouthful was all it took, she thought, remembering her own trials.
Staring into the cup, his face curled in a sneer. “What have I done? You little . . . What is this?”
“The wizard’s finest,” Farideh said, balling her hands into fists to stop the urge to cast and strike him. Adolican Rhand lunged at her, a spell flickering in his own hands, but the drink was already slowing him down.
Farideh took a step back and felt the powers of Asmodeus flood her like an aqueduct after a rain. The flames poured through her and out her skin, and the great wings of fire unfolded from her back once more, setting the curtains ablaze. She saw terror cross his features and she savored it.
“Drink up,” the Chosen of Asmodeus said.
For a moment, Rhand’s eyes widened with horror, aware, suddenly of what he was facing, and then the wizard’s finest claimed him. Rhand’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the floor.
Farideh bolted—Rhand would keep, and the wizards on the other side of the tower would be ready to stop the explosion any moment now. As she passed, she heard the whoosh of flames catching the wall hangings, the rug beneath her feet. The polished black stone reflected the dancing orange light.
The tiefling woman’s ghost appeared in her path. The woman gestured sternly for Farideh to retrieve the comb, to talk to her, but the memory of the ghost in the water, telling Farideh to let go, rose up again.
“Do I even need the comb?” Farideh said, still burning. “I don’t know who you really are. I don’t know what you think to use me for, but while I’m obviously plenty of people’s pawn, I won’t be yours.”
The ghost’s form peeled back to reveal glowing bones and the dark chains of magic that seemed to hold them together, the pulse at her core . . . and a glyph of sharp, broken lines that hid there. She was Chosen.
She was dead. And she was Chosen. A chill ran through Farideh, and nearly made her falter. That shouldn’t happen—a dead Chosen lost their spark. That was the key, after all, to all of Asmodeus’s plans.
But whyever the tiefling woman had held onto her powers, there were a thousand other Chosen out there who were still living, who would die if Farideh stood here wondering. She sprinted through the ghost’s chilly form and across the hallway, into the opposite room.
The two wizards stood in front of the window, looking ill and distracted, but armed with wands and watching the growing ball of magic as if taking their eyes from it for a moment would mean the death of them.
Farideh stepped into the room, and the wings of fire spread as wide as the space would allow, setting the wall hangings ablaze. The wizards turned to her, and Farideh cast a rain of brimstone at them.
In the same moment, she realized the Nameless One was still there. She was huddled against the right-hand wall, looking for a moment as small and fearful as a child in a room full of monsters should. Beside her, Sairché sat, her wings curled limply around her, her golden eyes on Farideh as if she weren’t certain in that moment which of them was worse—the Nameless One or the Chosen of Asmodeus.
Then whatever restraint the Nameless One had shown, whatever she had done to make the wizards’ jobs easier, fled, and the smothering sense of the void of Shar swept through the room. Farideh gritted her teeth and found the anger in her rose to meet the sadness of Shar.
“You’re back,” the Nameless One said, a mocking edge to her voice, “and so changed. Have you given up your soul to him, then? Have you lost your sweet sympathy?”
Farideh tore her eyes from the Nameless One. She had lost nothing, but the pity she felt for the girl Shar had stolen was caught in the heart of a maelstrom, overtopped by the waves of anger and power. She focused on the two wizards, who were no longer watching the spell but standing fearful and overwhelmed, their eyes on Farideh.
As it should be, she thought. The whole world fears you—and finally to your benefit. She pointed the rod at the wizards. “Laesurach.”
The ground beneath them opened, as if somehow a vent of lava reached up through the tower itself, as the plane peeled back to let the Fourth Layer of the Hells pour through. Molten rock and leaping flames surrounded the stunned apprentices, lighting their robes afire and setting off what protective spells they’d carried. One of them seemed to shake off the Chosens’ effects and leaped out of the fire and pointed his wand at Farideh. “Ziastayix!”
Farideh smiled as the fireball struck her, the flames surrounding her absorbing the spell and sending a sharp prickle of pain over her skin. She cast another spell, a cloud of burning gases—the still-startled wizard tried to run, and toppled over the windowsill. She heard him shouting spells as he fell.
Beyond the window, the ball of magic had grown as large as a human curled into a ball.
The second wizard’s missiles hit Farideh in the shoulder, rocking her off her feet. But another blast of flames was enough to make him reconsider his ally’s escape. Burned and bleeding, he climbed onto the windowsill.
Farideh’s bolt of energy struck him squarely in the middle of his back. The air went out of him in a grunt, and the wizard fell. Beyond the window, the spell kept growing, unimpeded.
Farideh turned to face the Nameless One, and for a moment, she was nothing more than a frightened girl, staring after the fallen wizards. “That spell will explode—that’s what they said.”
“We can still escape,” Farideh told her. She felt the flames start to fade. “If we hurry.”
The Nameless One shook her head. “The carriers are coming. They’ll take me back to Shade. And you will come with me—both of you.” She held herself up, the arrogance of Shar overwhelming whatever fear she’d shown as surely as it overwhelmed all in her presence. “Tell the guards.”
“The guards will not come for you,” Farideh said. She looked out the window—the spell had grown larger still, the size of Mehen. “You’ll be dead, if you don’t come now.”
“Then we will all be dead,” the Nameless One said, her voice shaking. The emptiness of Shar surged forth, washing over the room. Sairché squeezed her eyes shut again, murmuring something under her breath. “Everything comes to nothing,” the Nameless One said.
Farideh felt the powers of Asmodeus fill her again, the flames leaping higher, the dizzying power filling her hands. Behind the dancing fire of her skin, her veins were black as the obsidian tower. There wouldn’t be time to get down to the shelters.
Then through the turmoil of fear and sadness, a sudden calm, cool as a beam of moonlight washed over her. Think, her own voice seemed to say. Remember. Stay alive. This is not the only way.
“The fountains,” she said. “The fountains make portals.” She held out a hand. “Come on.”
The Nameless One narrowed her eyes, fear flickering through her expression. “I will not.” The sense of loss and loneliness wrapped around Farideh’s heart, threatening to snuff out the flames. “And neither will you.”
Magros of the Fifth Layer watched from a comfortable distance as the Red Wizard and her assistants poured ever more magic into the spell. Magros was not himself fond of that sort of magic—spells were tedious, particularly spells on this boiling plane. But casters made good tools and crafted such clever little things. He knew better than to interrupt.
Zahnya looked up at him as the runes at her feet flared with a peculiarly dark light. It made even Magros’s eyes ache. “We are nearly finished,” she said.
�
��Please,” he said. “Take what time you need. What happened to the Harpers?”
“In the camp,” she said. “They don’t have much longer.”
“A pity,” Magros said. “I suspect they are distracted by a traitor in their midst.”
Zahnya didn’t ask what he meant, and Magros pretended he wasn’t a little disappointed at that. “I’ll take the scepter while you’re free,” he said.
“Our deal’s not complete,” she said.
“Do you think I intend to be caught standing here when you succeed?” Magros demanded. “I stand to lose a great deal if anyone finds out how I’ve helped your master.”
“His Omnipotence doesn’t look kindly on foolish actions,” Zahnya said.
“His Omnipotence, I understand, doesn’t look kindly on anything,” Magros said. “There is nothing more for me to do—you cast the spell, you collect the powers. I’ve set everything up, and now I would like my payment.” He held out a hand. “Please.”
Zahnya hesitated a moment, but she went to the palanquin and retrieved a case, all covered in Nar runes, cinnabar and gold. “As promised,” she said, “the scepter of Alzrius.”
Magros opened the case and fought not to flinch at the heat that radiated from the heavy implement that rested inside. Even lying still and inactive, the scepter could melt the remains of the snow that clung to the buildings just beyond the barrier and the High Forest’s magic. And in the right hands, it might melt a great deal more. He closed the case and took Zahnya’s hand, bowing low over it.
“A pleasure doing business with you, dear lady. Our agreement is complete. Tell His Omnipotence to enjoy the godhood while he can.”
Before Zahnya could reply, Magros activated his portal and returned to the chilly Fifth layer. It didn’t matter what she had to say, after all, when the deal was complete.
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