“Don’t worry, brother,” the tiefling man said. “The others are gathering—we will have revenge on those that killed your friends.”
Yvon’s eyes swam. “The Glasyans?”
The man gave him a puzzled look. “The Sovereignty.” He lowered his voice. “They think they are clever, but we’ve discovered them after all: the spirits living in the Chasm. They think to overthrow our lord, no doubt.”
“No,” Yvon said. “It was a pair of Glasyans. It was the Sixth Layer.”
The man snorted. “Those dandies? We had it from your leader’s mouth: four spellscarred orcs and a tiefling warlock claiming the blood of Ashmadai for the Sovereignty.”
“Lector?” In his mind’s eye, Yvon recalled the the crunch of bone, the empty wheeze of breath leaving his comrade’s body. The golden-eyed one had broken something in his skull with that strike. His eyes had been dead before he hit the floor … hadn’t they? “Where is he?”
The guard shook his head. “Gave his report and then died, unfortunately. As you will soon if you don’t give those wounds a rest.”
“There were no orcs,” Yvon said. “The orcs … those were earlier. Elsewhere.”
The guard raised an eyebrow. “So you were all struck down by a single warlock?”
Yvon shook his head. “No. A pair of warlocks … or perhaps a warlock and something else.”
“Aye, there’s killing blows enough to mark at least a caster and a blademaster.” He shifted. “Or a warlock leading a pack of orcs.”
“The Raging Fiend take you!” Yvon cried. “I know what I saw.”
“Bring it to someone who cares, brother. Only wait until after the burning.” The guard grinned. “You marked, did you, the warlock wore the robes of the House of Knowledge?” He leaned down close to Yvon and whispered, “It burns tonight.”
Yvon stared at the man a moment, woozy with the loss of blood. None of this was right—the girl who entered had not spoken, she had come alone, but Farideh had aided her and they had killed ten Ashmadai with their own hands and nearly killed Yvon as well. There were no orcs. There was no claim of any “Sovereignty.”
And now his fellow cultists were coming together to punish … who? Yvon had noted the connection between the Sixth Layer cult and the hospitalers of the House of Knowledge. But burning down the entire temple—one of the largest buildings still standing in Neverwinter—to kill two girls … that was too much. It would draw the notice of every eye in Neverwinter, and news would spread far and wide. Much as he was sorry to agree with poor, dead Sekata, it did not benefit the Ashmadai to unmask themselves so abruptly.
Especially without determining if the girls were even within.
The guard peeked out the doorway. “Ah, there we are. That’s the signal. I’m afraid it’s time to go.”
“Go?” Yvon said. “Where?”
“Anyplace but here,” the guard said. “This many bodies, Mordai Vell wants the building burned to the ground. The guard’s been paid off and the streets are cleared. Time to get the bier going.”
Yvon stumbled out into the rain and watched as the guard and his signaler splashed accelerant on the walls of his shop. The fire went up quick and hotter than he would have imagined with the rain coming down. The guard again urged him to leave, but when Yvon wouldn’t move, he cursed and went on his way.
The fire roared higher, consuming Yvon’s life, his friends, his comrades. He listened to the sounds of bottles exploding with the heat and passed Lector’s amulet from palm to palm. This wasn’t how the faithful of the Raging Fiend were meant to fall.
“Give me the strength to strike down Your enemies,” Yvon murmured, though Asmodeus was not known for such charity. “Give me the insight to hunt them to the ground.”
The sign caught with a great whoosh of flames, swallowing up the secret sigil of the Ashmadai. Inauspicious, he thought.
But as Yvon stood, his joints aching from cold and blood loss, the smack of running feet approached. Yvon watched, stunned, as the runner barreled past him, stopping short of the flames: it was the golden-eyed tiefling, Farideh’s sister, the one who’d murdered them all.
“You are most gracious, Lord,” Yvon said, and he swore her sacrifice would be drawn out even longer than the orc’s.
I am going to fix this, Havilar thought as she ran down the street, outpacing Brin by blocks at a time. She slowed and watched him catch her up, bouncing with nervous energy.
She would get the potion for Mehen. She would show Brin she wasn’t a coward and prove to Farideh she wasn’t the delicate one. She’d stop getting the horrible bursts of panic that kept surging up into her chest, and nobody would possess her or tamper with her again. They’d get out of this awful city and things would go back to the way they were. The way they were supposed to be.
Brin caught up to her and she started running again. Everything can go back to the way it was, she told herself again. I am going to fix this. She spotted the turn that led to the shop.
“Havi!” Brin shouted. She’d gotten ahead of him again.
“This way,” she called, and she headed up the street. She’d get the potion and karshoj to those Ashmadai. She wasn’t afraid.
She passed several people running in the opposite direction. The street was getting much brighter, as if a bonfire.… She slowed and stopped.
Where the shop had been, a giant fire blazed.
Havilar stood, staring at the inferno, fighting down her alarm. If she couldn’t get the potion, then she couldn’t save Mehen, and everything was still a mess. She watched the flames. A little wouldn’t hurt her, maybe if she—
A sudden sharp pain caught her across the base of her throat, yanking her off her feet.
She got her fingers around the garrote as she slipped, and she pulled hard. The wire cut her fingers, but the shorter person holding it slammed into her back. She twisted, bringing her elbow hard into his ribs and nearly hitting his throat instead. He coughed and his grip on the wire loosened enough for Havilar to roll free.
The shopkeeper they’d met on their first day in Neverwinter came to his feet a little unsteadily. He had a mad look in his eye and dried blood all down his crimson robes. He shoved the garrote into his pocket and drew a black-handled dagger instead. “Blessings of the Raging Fiend upon you.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling that peculiar panic start to smother her nerves. “You’re one of those cultists.”
“Foremost,” the shopkeeper said. “The one you couldn’t kill.”
“That wasn’t me.” She reached back slowly to unhook her glaive from its harness. “You have the wrong one.”
“I have the blessing of Asmodeus himself,” the shopkeeper said. “I recognize you. I remember now—the eyes.” He tapped the tip of his dagger below one eye. “Let’s see how well your armor suits you now.”
He dived at her blade-first. She gave up on her glaive and stepped toward him hands up to catch his wrist and stop the wicked blade. The sort of clumsy attack she’d learned to block when she still had her milk teeth, for heavens’ sakes. She started to turn his wrist under her, to throw him off his feet and break his grip on the blade, when his other hand ripped something else out of his pocket and something small and cold and metal pressed against her neck.
“Maollis.”
The air went out of her. All the muscles of her arms and legs went loose. Havilar landed flat on her back, staring up at the cloudy sky, her body from tip to toe screaming in pain. She could not even fight the shopkeeper off as he wound cords around her wrists and ankles and bound her with complex loops around the hips and shoulders. As the spell started to fade, he shoved a rag in her mouth and bound that there too.
“That’s more appropriate,” he said, wiping the dagger on his filthy robes. He grabbed hold of the ropes.
“You have them quite fooled,” the shopkeeper panted. “Quite fooled indeed. They’ve gone right after your ‘Sovereignty.’ ” He jerked the rope, dragging Havilar another few feet. “But not me. I d
on’t know how you did it, but it didn’t work on me, Glasyan. I know it was you. I know it was your mistress’s orders.
“And all the world will know exactly that, once I’ve cut you into pieces and siphoned off your soul for the Raging Fiend himself. In front of everyone as they prepare to march on that hospital—oh yes! We’ve figured your confederates out! They’ll see it is all the Sixth Layer’s plot.” He trailed off in a mad sort of giggle.
Havilar spied Brin, sword drawn, his eyes darting from Havilar to the shopkeeper as if gauging the danger. For once, Havilar nearly blessed his caution—if the bald man had gotten the better of her with that stupid amulet, he’d surely take Brin down too if he wasn’t careful.
He might take Brin regardless, and then no one would know where she was.
She blinked at him, and rolled her head back the way they’d come—he needed to get help. If the shopkeeper wasn’t a complete fool he’d keep her tied up the entire time he.… The thought made her momentarily dizzy.
Brin either caught her meaning or came to the same conclusion. Though he looked reluctant to leave her to the shopkeeper, he faded back into the shadows to make a different route, leaving Havilar to try her best not to panic.
THE BLADE OF THE GODS WILL SEVER THE CORD OF THE MOON SHIT, bloody shit!” Rohini strained against the bindings that held her to the heavy chair and the curling madness that held tight to her mind. Arrayed around her, Vartan, the quartet of spellscarred orcs, and a trio of abolethic servitors dripping clear slime watched her.
“Why did you come?” they asked, again and again. “Why did you seek us out?”
The questions were more puzzled than angry, as if they only wanted her to see the error of her ways. She wondered why they hadn’t just fed her to the aboleths in the Chasm, but as soon as she thought it, the corruption agent in her set her giggling. She was a useful tool after all—the Sovereignty knew so, the Hells knew so.
“You piss-swilling apes can the last of the anchors hides in the city of crowns, and the shadow will extinguish the light therein.” Rohini screeched in frustration.
Give in, the part of her swallowed by the corrupting light crooned. The voices, the prophetic words, the abrupt changes to her senses—at some point after the contents of the cask had overwhelmed her, Rohini had lost control long enough for Vartan to tie her to the chair and fetch these servitors.
Rohini made her shape shift in subtle ways, gave herself limpid eyes and heaving breasts. She looked up at Vartan, her lower lip trembling.
But he was too far gone to be such an easy target. He regarded her as a trophy now, or a curiosity. Something for the Sovereignty to claim dominion over. Just like him.
With a roar of rage, Rohini’s shape flowed again into a hulking bugbear’s, straining against the bindings. Vartan stepped back, but the servitors merely watched her.
“Why did you come, devil?” one asked. “Why have you aided this one?”
“What benefits us, benefits Asmodeus.” She sneered. “And what benefits Asmodeus the daughter will claim—” She shut her mouth resolutely against the bubbling prophecy. Better they kill her than know her mission.
They’ll know soon enough, the crooning voice said. Embrace it. After all, Glasya isn’t here to save you. She doesn’t care what happens to you now.
“Her plan was always that I died in the process,” she said aloud, startling herself.
“The process of what?” Vartan asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said. She threw her head backward against the chair, studying the ceiling as if the lines of the stone and the ancient stains left behind by collecting water, persisting beyond the shifting colors that clouded her vision, would anchor her. She had to find a way out.
She locked her eyes on one particular stain—the size and shape of a grown man’s liver—and smiled. She knew this room—and what lay near it.
She lowered her head and with all her effort hurled her charm like a net over Vartan. He stilled, sensing the change and not understanding it. Good, she thought, ignoring the splintering lights that filled her vision. “I’ll tell you all about it, if you do something for me.”
“Of course,” he said.
She nodded at the back of the room. “Open the door.”
Vartan started to do as she bid. One of the servitors, a tall, lanky man, caught him by the wrist. “That is unwise.”
But Rohini’s charm held firm, and Vartan shook off the servitor and pulled open the door.
“Mehen!” Rohini screamed. “Mehen, help!”
The dragonborn was faster than she’d expected, and more agile, despite her magic dragging against his reserves for the past two days. Clever her for leaving him his weapons—the wide blade that hacked at the orc nearest the door and sent a slash of blood and slime spraying across the stone. The servitors were quicker and avoided the dragonborn’s next swing.
The tall, lanky man drove his shoulder hard, as if his body didn’t matter, into Mehen’s lower back. It didn’t fell the dragonborn, but it took his attention and gave the other servitor a chance to pull his blade.
And Rohini a chance to escape. Her flesh shifted again, dwindled, as the bones of her arms tapered into the thin limbs of a young elf girl. She wriggled out of the restraints and worked her feet free of the manacles, only stripping the first layer of her skin away, the blood making it easier to slip free. She didn’t feel anything except a rush of glee as she retook her own form, the madness curling itself around her mind.
“Stop him,” one of the servitors said.
“Stop,” Rohini repeated, her tongue turned traitor. Mehen froze, his sword raised over the servitor now lying on the floor. The corruption settled on her mind in an uneasy truce.
“Your resources are impressive,” the wounded servitor said.
“I can bring him to bear again,” she said. “Him and more.”
“We are pleased to hear it,” the other said. “It is a skill we covet dearly.”
“You think to convert me as you did Anthus,” she said.
“After a fashion,” the servitor said mildly. “We had thought Brother Anthus would suit, but in the end he proved himself less ideal than we had previously assumed. You are much preferable. For one, you have resisted the powers of the Hex Locus like no other has. You are too willful to be a singer, and we are pleased to have found you.”
They sounded like the sort of things she found herself blurting out. The strange phrases were bubbling up in her thoughts again, and Rohini clenched her jaw until they subsided, her tongue flicking around her mouth trying to shape the words. “What are you talking about?” she said once she was sure she could say it.
“You are the Prophet,” the servitor said, bowing. “You are the one who will gather the Choir, to sing the Symphony of Madness into being.”
Rohini wavered, the blur of the corruption surging through her, twisting her thoughts into a sort of pleasure at the opportunity. She could spoil a hundred Anthuses and Vartans with the power of the Sovereignty, it told her. You can bring Arunika back from the grave tomorrow. Power like she could never gain in the Hells. Power to unmake those who’d treated her as if she were disposable.
Rohini laughed, a high, mad sound. “You want me to trade one master for another and thank you for it. Fool.”
The servitor smiled. “It is too late for that. The Hex Locus has blessed you. The mark of the Far Realm is on you. You have already been granted a new master.”
“It does not mean I will serve.”
“It is your nature to serve,” the servitor said. “It is in all of our natures. But put yourself in the yoke of the Sovereignty and we promise you a longer lead than that of the Hells. You will be a queen.”
“Among slaves,” Rohini snarled.
The servitor shrugged, almost beatifically, his slimy palms turned up. “Is that not better than what you have now, devil? We are not privy to the current state of the Nine Hells, but our masters know what your kind gave up. Is it worth it, As
modeus’s bridle? Your former enemies now your mistresses, your reward the dissolution of your true form?” The servitor stepped toward her. “If you tell us who sent you, and why you are here, we can help you destroy them.”
Arunika would have relished such an offer, the voice reminded her, and not so long ago, Rohini would have relished it too—they’d been raised from the cradle to corrupt and undo. The murmuring of the Hex Locus’s infection sang to her of the unparalleled pleasures of careful unmaking, of bringing down such complex schemes as the one she now lay tangled in. To hand over Glasya and Invadiah when they least expected it—the demon in her would have reveled in their falls.
The servitor was watching her expectantly.
I am not Arunika, she thought.
“What benefits Asmodeus, benefits us all,” she said again, as the prophecy bubbled up to her lips once more. Even though it wasn’t true in the least.
Sairché crept through her mother’s apartments to the treasure room and slipped inside. Someone had sliced the damaged door away and cleared the rubble of the Needle of the Crossroads. The faintest shadow of its interwoven spells still disturbed the air—otherwise not a pebble remained.
She slid the ring she’d shaped and enchanted from one of the iron curls of the scrying mirror’s frame onto her finger. Not a piece she’d wear to court, but it did the job. As she waved it before the mirror, the surface shimmered, hiccupped, then solidified on the temple of Oghma, the House of Knowledge in Neverwinter. And did not move.
Sairché cursed. She’d spent good, long hours adding to the mirror’s spells, pouring holy water with heavily gloved hands and painting monstrous bloods onto the mirror with a stolen angel’s feather, for just such an occasion. It should have circumvented its previous limitations. She seized the frame and shook it on its hook. Still nothing.
“Piece of rubbish.” She pursed her lips. Fine. Rohini could have her privacy a little longer. She’d warm the mirror up to breaking through the temple’s protections. Spy on someone less interesting and easier to get at.
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