The Adversary

by Erin M. Evans

  Chapter Twenty-four

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

  Mehen helped Havilar out of the portal and into a bedroom hidden under dustcloths. “You can open your eyes again,” he said. Havilar looked around once, holding tight to her weapon.

  “Where is she?”

  “Near,” Lorcan said. He unlatched the door and peered out. “Before we find her, though, you need to know two things. First, there’s a Chosen of Shar somewhere in here. She’s exceedingly powerful—you’ll feel it.”

  “How do we fight her?” Havilar asked, as she moved ahead, out into the hallway beyond, scanning for guards.

  “Strong feelings seem to get you a little space,” Lorcan said. “But not much. And you may not need to worry about that,” he added, “because Sairché is in here somewhere, too, and I know you both have very strong opinions about her.”

  Good, Mehen thought, tasting the air. The devil who’d tricked Farideh. The devil who’d stolen his daughters.

  “But that’s the second thing,” Lorcan said. “She and I have a pact of our own. I’m bound to protect her, and she has to protect me.” Mehen started to tell Lorcan he could try however he liked to stop Mehen from hurting Sairché, but Lorcan held up a hand.

  “It doesn’t come into play,” Lorcan said significantly, “if I don’t know what’s going to happen. Understand? I have to make sure Farideh’s safe— that agreement is”—he shuddered—“more pressing. But then I’m obliged to save Sairché, and if I know that she’s, say, in the way of your falchion, I have to stop it.”

  Mehen bared his teeth. “I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.”

  Havilar cried out as a pair of human soldiers came up the stairs. Their swords were out, and as they spotted Havi, they turned and called back to someone out of sight.

  Mehen pulled his falchion, ready for a fight. But Havilar yanked the remains of the ruby necklace from her pocket and threw the whole thing over the guards’ heads.

  The explosion threw the guards from their feet and sent a rattle of stones sailing through the hall. Havilar ducked, shielding her head from the flying rock.

  “Well done,” Mehen said. The flight of stairs below was a crater, the outer wall blown wide to the cold daylight. The guards below who’d survived shouted conflicting orders.

  Mehen looked back to see Lorcan straightening over the guard’s body, his blade wet with blood. “Start climbing,” he said.

  The broken rock extended half the flight. Mehen climbed to the next landing and found his heart suddenly racing, as though he were in the heat of battle, his thoughts sinking as they had on the lowest nights, the times he was sure his girls were gone forever.

  Lorcan stopped dead. “There,” he said. “That’s it. That’s the Nameless One. And . . . shit and ashes. That’s not just the Nameless One.”

  Mehen looked down the empty hallway. Smoke clung to the ceiling, and the crackle of flames echoed through the space. He looked back at Havilar and saw the pinched look of her features.

  “Brin won’t know what happened,” she said. Mehen took hold of her shoulder and steered her down several steps, past the point where the unwelcome feeling took hold.

  “Stay here,” Mehen said. “Make sure no more guards come up the stairs. I’ll get Fari.” Lorcan trailed him as he stormed toward the farthest room, each step driving his pulse faster, each breath a little harder to draw.

  Mehen squared his shoulders and pressed on.

  In the middle of the room, a flaming angel faced off against a child of shadow, a battle of wills, a battle of proxies for the powers that filled the black stone room, the only sign of their presence the maelstrom of fear and loss that stirred in Clanless Mehen.

  “Farideh,” Mehen said. The flaming angel didn’t move. He stepped into the room, focusing on his daughter in the middle of that fire. “Farideh.”

  Dread gripped his chest. He’d been ready for a wizard, a devil, a pack of guards. Whatever this was . . .

  Whatever it is, he told himself firmly, she’s still Farideh.

  “Farideh,” he said, coming to stand beside her, just out of reach of the wings of flame.

  “Go,” she hissed. “If I stop, she’ll overwhelm you.”

  He glanced at the shadowy girl, at her manic grin. Briefly he imagined his girls at that age, and thanked the gods no one had given them such strength. He could feel the girl’s powers pulling his soul open, making a hollowness he was all too familiar with.

  “Let her go, Fari,” he said. “Come back.”

  Farideh shook her head. “Go, please. It’s not safe.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “Put the flames out and trust me.”

  Farideh swallowed, and for a terrible moment, with the growing light of Zahnya’s spell flashing on their faces, Mehen feared she would refuse once more. Then she let out a gasping cry, and the flames, the wings, and the terror all vanished. At once the Nameless One’s gift rolled over them both, and Farideh’s knees buckled. Mehen caught hold of her, and she let out an explosive breath.

  Sairché remained, shaking against the wall.

  Mehen gritted his teeth and looked to Lorcan, standing frozen in the doorway.

  “Your sister,” Mehen called. “Your problem.” He hooked an arm under Farideh and helped her toward the door, holding her close as the waves of aching emptiness crashed against them.

  “Stop!” the girl cried. Her whole frame seemed to tremble with the powers that poured out of her, as she glared at Mehen. “You can’t leave. You can’t bear it.” The force of her powers intensified and Mehen’s heart felt as if it were shattering all over again.

  But beside exile, beside Arjhani, beside losing his daughters, and losing them again, the powers of the Nameless One were nothing. For all the sadness and emptiness tried to tangle him up to drag him down, Mehen had lived long years with that feeling—and he’d learned how to ignore it.

  Mehen looked down his snout at the girl. “You have scant time before this camp is destroyed. Find your way out.”

  The Nameless One looked up at him, shocked and horror-struck. The powers ebbed and Lorcan rushed past Mehen and scooped Sairché ungently from the ground.

  “Get that portal open,” Mehen growled as Lorcan passed.

  “We need to go down,” Dahl said, looking nervously at the crackling ball of magic. It had doubled in size since Brin and he had started watching for the twins. “We need to get the doors shut.” Brin didn’t move.

  “Brin!” Dahl shouted. He didn’t want to go down any more than Brin did, didn’t want to assume the worst. But the longer they waited, the thinner their chances grew. “Gods books, Brin, come on!”

  “I should have stayed with her,” Brin said.

  When he didn’t turn, Dahl ran from the open door to the Cormyrean’s side and grabbed hold of his arm. “She gets out, and you’re going to be looking back from the afterlife a great fool,” he said.

  Brin looked at him, as haunted as Dahl had ever seen a man. “And if she doesn’t?”

  “Then I think she’ll forgive you waiting a few days,” Dahl said, “if you’re going to be a great fool and join her. Come on.”

  He shoved Brin toward the door, ignoring his own racing fears. They were nothing beside Brin’s—and it was an insult to the other man, he thought, to make the comparison. But as Dahl pulled the wooden door shut and followed Brin down into the dark, he said a little prayer to Oghma.

  If you don’t let her figure out a way to escape, he said, then I really am through with you.

  The girl who had long since offered her name up to Shar watched the field of magic that had grown to the size of a cart, sizzling and flashing in the air beyond the study’s open windows. As she slipped into the room, her eyes fell on the wizard, twitching uneasily in his sleep, but they didn’t linger. She came to stand instead over the basins with their ice-cold waters. She didn’t ask her goddess for deliverance—no one thought she understood what she had pledg
ed herself to, but she knew down in her bones that Shar would not save her, not a second time.

  She took a pinch of the powdery blue blossoms and scattered them over the surface of the water, closing her eyes for a moment and cursing her want. “Show me Sakkors . . .”

  Zahnya looked over the shimmering runes that burned into the forest floor, the lines of power that strengthened and directed the spell. Her two remaining apprentices lay dead on the ground, their blood spilled—quickly and quietly—to bolster the magic. Nothing in the grove breathed but Zahnya.

  In the camp beyond the dancing light of her spell shone down on the huts like a second, sickly sun and reflected off the polished tower, green and orange and gold.

  Zahnya held her wand before her chest and spoke the last words of the spell. They struck the air like the rattle of grave dirt on a casket lid, and turned into motes of darkness that swirled together over the runes, collecting into a mass that suddenly evaporated into the ether.

  And beyond the wall, everything became sound and light.

  Chapter Twenty-five

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

  The silence after the explosion felt like a living thing to Dahl, something tense and ready to pounce. He climbed the crumbling stairs and pushed the remains of the wooden hut off the exit, scrambling out through the dirt. Beyond, there was nothing left but rubble and the faint, winking remains of the Thayan wizard’s spell.

  Dahl’s breath turned heavy in his lungs. The tower was gone. The wall was gone.

  Farideh was gone.

  Others came up out of the ground, surveying the damage. Dahl found he couldn’t look at any of them.

  Oota clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, son. I won’t lie. I was half-expecting to come out and find nothing changed.”

  And instead, Dahl thought numbly, everything’s changed.

  He turned to see Brin step out of the shelters, squinting at the light unimpeded by the many buildings. Brin shaded his eyes, looking toward the spot where the tower had stood, ignoring the people pushing past him. Staring as if every part of his mind refused to accept what lay before him. There was nothing Dahl could say.

  A line of red light split the air beside them, followed by the scent of brimstone, the sizzle of the moisture burning out of the air. Dahl leaped back, the instinctive parts of his brain sure there was another explosion happening—and then Havilar stepped carefully down onto the ground, pulled Mehen after her, and then Mehen led Farideh down, still holding onto a scarlet hand. She looked back into the portal, as if she weren’t sure she ought to leave. But then Lorcan’s hand released her, and the portal sealed itself shut.

  Havilar shuddered violently, looking through the crowd. “I can’t believe you looked,” Dahl heard her say, moments before Brin threw his arms around her. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, you’re all right!”

  Farideh looked out at the place where the tower had been, marveling at the empty crater. A chilly breeze stirred the air and lifted her dark hair. “Karshoj.” She looked back over her shoulder at Dahl. “We were lucky.”

  “Very,” he said, smiling.

  “Goodwoman?” Vescaras stood beside Farideh, holding a pair of shackles. “Your hands, please.”

  “What?” Dahl cried. “No—don’t be ridiculous. She’s not a spy.”

  “We have to be sure,” Vescaras said. Farideh looked past him, up at Mehen who stood over Vescaras like an unwelcome shadow.

  “It’s just until we reach Waterdeep,” Mehen said. “We’ll be with you every step.”

  “And you’ll not be harmed,” Vescaras said.

  Dahl couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t have to do this. You have nothing to prove.”

  “Yes, I do,” Farideh said with a sigh. She held out her hands. “I always will.”

  The prisoners wasted no time leaving the destroyed camp behind. Beyond the wall, down on a lower plateau, they made a makeshift camp, even as groups of them vanished into the forest, heading for faraway homes. Dahl considered the sheer numbers of people milling around—there was no surveying them, no keeping track of who’d been lost and who had left, who had which powers and whether they were safe. But at least, he could make sure that folks heading for Waterdeep or Everlund waited for the Harpers who would be returning that way. Oota and her most loyal were heading north. Cereon and the elves, south. Armas, Vanri, and Samayan would go with them for a ways.

  “Turmish,” Armas said. “Then Airspur.”

  Dahl frowned. “What about the other little boy?”

  “Stedd has things to do,” Samayan said quietly, poppies unfolding around his feet.

  “And the Harpers?” Dahl asked. Armas turned away angrily. “Be gentle with Tharra,” he finally said. “She wasn’t all bad.” Daranna had found a solid tree root, arching out of the ground, and slipped Farideh and Tharra’s shackles through it. Farideh quietly dealt Wroth cards in a tight square atop the rocky ground. Khochen, standing guard, looked up as Dahl approached.

  “I’ve found a score who want to head to Waterdeep,” she said. “We’re going to be ages walking.”

  “Better than not making it back,” he said. “I need to make a sending to Tam. Have you seen Vescaras?”

  “He’s bothering Daranna. Don’t tell him I gave her the cards,” she said, nodding at Farideh. “He’ll think she’s sending messages to a confederate in the trees.” She grinned at Dahl. “And then you’ll have to admit you gave her them.”

  Farideh looked up, puzzled. “Were you not supposed to?”

  “Ignore her.” Dahl scowled at Khochen. “Do you have a cover of some sort?”

  Khochen shook her head. “How many of them already figured you out?— there’s no pretending at a cover. Better to just get them where they’re going. Collect a few to our cause.”

  Dahl considered all the clever folk he’d met in the past tenday. “I can think of a few.”

  But the sending came first. He found Vescaras standing off at the edge of the rocky plateau, leaning against a tree and talking to Sheera, Daranna’s fledgling with the crossbow.

  Flirting with Sheera, Dahl realized. He glanced back across the camp to where he’d left Khochen. She hadn’t seen—thank the gods. The long trek back to Waterdeep would only feel longer if Khochen were angry.

  “Vescaras!” Dahl called. “I need to talk to you.” The half-elf scowled down at him. He gave his excuses to Sheera and skidded down the rock toward Dahl. “What is it?”

  “I need to make a sending for Tam—have you got your kit still?”

  “I have a spare,” Vescaras said, taking it off his belt and handing it over. “Is that all?”

  “Thanks,” Dahl said. Then, “Look, I don’t want to get into your business, but Khochen doesn’t deserve you flirting like that behind her back, where everyone can see.”

  Vescaras frowned. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “She told me, all right?” Dahl said. “I know it’s a secret, and believe me I wish it had stayed that way, but it didn’t, so . . . treat her right. Or I have to tell her, and I don’t think she’s someone you want to wrong.”

  Vescaras narrowed his eyes. “She told you we’re lovers?”

  Dahl nodded. “I’ve kept it to myself.”

  The other agent studied Dahl for a moment longer. “I know you’re friends with Khochen,” Vescaras said, “so please believe me I say this with the utmost respect: Khochen is a snake. She’s a good agent, but there is no way in all the layers of all the Hells that I would let her get close enough to my vital organs or my coin purse to become anything remotely like her lover.”

  Dahl colored. “Gods damn it—I knew she would lie.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” Vescaras offered. “She did say you wouldn’t need rescuing, and she was more than right about that. So perhaps your friendship isn’t ended?”

  Dahl regarded Vescaras warily—it was as complimentary as he’d ever heard the o
ther man be. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. I presume this means you’ll be rejoining the rest of us in the field?”

  “We’ll see what Tam thinks,” Dahl said. They started toward the center of the camp again. “Khochen also said you don’t like me because you think I snubbed your sister.”

  “Did she?”

  “Is that it?”

  Vescaras squinted as if considering his words. “It would be unmannerly to get into,” he finally said. “But no. However, should one of my sisters give you another invitation to attend on her? I suggest you politely make your excuses, quickly and clearly.”

  “No room in the Ammakyl’s manor for a farmer’s son?” Dahl retorted.

  “No room for a smug hardjack who trails trouble,” Vescaras corrected. “But as I said, it would be unmannerly to get into.”

  Farideh woke to someone shaking her shoulder. A hand clapped over her mouth as she stirred, and she saw Tharra leaning close over her, a finger to her lips.

  “Don’t scream.” The Harper took her hand carefully from Farideh’s mouth. “I owe you,” Tharra said. “For saving Samayan. For trusting me. Despite the wizard’s finest.” She held up a bent piece of metal. “I’ll break you out too. There’s a lot of world to escape to.”

  Farideh blinked at her. “Isn’t that against your code?”

  “Lot of ways to read the code,” Tharra said. “I’d argue I didn’t betray the Harpers, so it’s not treason and not a hanging offense. But will the Shepherd?” She shrugged. “I’m not taking that risk. Neither should you.”

  “No,” Farideh said. “I’m not leaving.” Mehen slept on beside her. Havilar lay beyond with her head in Brin’s lap. Dahl was somewhere out on the edge, standing guard. “My family’s here. My friends.”

  “Do you think that’s going to last? A devil’s deal—that leaves you tainted.

  Not something that love and wishes will wash away.”

  “It hasn’t stopped them yet.”

  “And the Harpers? They didn’t listen to Dahl about the shackles, why would they take your word? What’s to say they’re not just going to make your family face your execution?” Tharra looked down at Farideh’s chained ankles. “You come with me, and you can tell them at least that you kept on living.”