For the first time since she’d reached Neverwinter, Farideh was alone.
She didn’t bother to stop by her room, to grab her cloak or her rod or her sword. If she had, she might have run into Havilar or Brin or Mehen and they would want to know where she was going and why. They’d all have reasons for why she shouldn’t go, for why she should do things differently.
None of that matters, she told herself, not for the first time. She was going back to speak to the shopkeeper, to find a way to get control over her own pact. She didn’t need others weighing in on that.
The day was still young and fiercely bright. The newly plastered buildings glowed with the summer sun and the clouds overhead sped by as if they didn’t want to block the sun too long. People crowded the streets, heading to and from shops, construction, and the woods beyond with baskets, tools, and braces of game. Farideh plunged into their midst.
Farideh still wasn’t used to walking in Neverwinter, to passing in the streets as if there were nothing odd about that. Perhaps it was that way in all large cities, perhaps it was only Neverwinter. Regardless, people’s attentions-if they ever settled on her-seemed to take her in and then let her go. She was as inconsequential as anyone else, and it made her a little giddy.
With so many people around, Lorcan ought to continue leaving her be. She slid a hand up her sleeve and ran her fingers over the raised shapes of her brand. Nothing. He hadn’t so much as needled her in two days.
She ought to be glad, to have the space to seek out other warlocks, to think about changing her pact without Lorcan pressuring her. But she was worried. He’d never gone so long without making himself known.
Maybe Mehen is right-the thought flitted through her head before she could stop it, and she pursed her lips. Mehen was right about some things: Lorcan was dangerous. Lorcan was less predictable than she’d like. Her life would be simpler if she weren’t a warlock.
Mehen still wasn’t speaking to her, and it left a heavy, twisted feeling in her stomach. They’d fought before, he’d cursed her stubbornness before-but never like this. She’d run into him that morning, as she carried dirty linens to the laundry.
“Good morning,” she’d said quietly. “How did you sleep?”
Mehen had looked at her blankly, as if he weren’t certain she was actually there at all. As if he didn’t care what she had to say.
She forged ahead anyway. “I’m sorry. About the other night. We should have told you Brin did the healing. It seems silly now, but at the time … I didn’t want you to be angry at him. And you were already angry at me, so … that seemed easier.”
Mehen stared at her, cold and silent. He rocked slightly on his feet.
“Are you all right, Mehen?” she asked.
“No,” he said in hard tones. She stepped back.
“Oh.” She took another step back. “I suppose you’re busy. Helping Rohini?”
“Orcs,” he said. “In the wood.” He glared at her with such intensity, that she flushed. He was still angry. He still blamed her.
She’d excused herself and bumped into Rohini, who’d smiled at Farideh in her cold, syrupy way and sent her off to wash the researchers’ glass … and all the while stood in the next room and glowered and stared and made Farideh feel as if she were under a glass herself, before storming off for no apparent reason. There was something about Rohini that didn’t sit well. Never mind, Farideh thought. Not your concern. Concentrate on fixing the pact. Concentrate on proving Mehen wrong.
Perhaps Lorcan was right-of course he was, he was always right. Mehen did think she was a fool and naive. He saw the pact as akin to her handling a blade too heavy and sharp for her clumsy skills. But if she learned the spells to control it, if she leashed Lorcan a little better …
This isn’t for Mehen’s sake, she told herself. It’s for mine.
As if there were anything she could do to change anyone’s opinion of her anyway. Mehen was still furious. Havilar was still sulking and snapping at her for some slight Farideh hadn’t figured out yet. Lorcan was ignoring her.
Which is what you want, she thought. Except it wasn’t really.
Pulled in two directions, her only hope was to find a path down the middle. Her only hope lay in the shop before her, with the yellow door and the sign that read “Claven’s Armory and General Goods.”
Farideh looked at her hand on the door handle.
You can still change your mind, she told herself. Lorcan’s wicked smile overwhelmed her thoughts.
The bells on the door jingled as she passed into the shop.
The shopkeeper looked up from measuring out a length of rope for a customer and smiled at her. “Ah! You came back. I’ll be with you in just a moment. Kalam!” he called toward the back of the shop. A young man with a scruffy beard stuck his head out between the curtains, a book in his hand. “Would you mind setting a kettle on the fire for tea? And then why don’t you take a break, walk about in the fresh air and get something to eat.”
The young man glanced at Farideh and raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” He ducked back behind the curtain, and Farideh kept herself busy and her thoughts calmer admiring the potions on the shelves. The sunlight bouncing off the polished floors caught in the potion of vitality she’d picked up before like a slice of the summer sky. Beside it, bottles of a thinner red liquid shimmered through each other, deep as rubies.
“Welcome, welcome,” the shopkeeper said as the bells rang again. “I’m so pleased you came back. Admiring my wares, hmm?”
“They’re very lovely in this light,” she asked. “Are they all for healing?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “All the ones out here. Come, come. I have tea and some cakes you’re welcome to. But first, I’m Yvon Claven.”
She smiled nervously. “Farideh.”
“Well met, my dear.” He ushered her behind the curtain and pulled out a chair at the small table there. As Yvon brought tea and cakes and cups and saucers, Farideh looked around the large back room. On one side, high shelves packed with boxes reached to the ceiling, and a rack hung with armor in need of repair dominated one wall, each piece tagged with names of owners and blacksmiths. The farther side of the room was given over to leatherworking, and hides of a dozen sorts waited to be shaped into armor. She peered at the grayish hide draped over the table, and wondered what sort of monsters one hunted in Neverwinter.
“You must have a thousand questions,” Yvon said, sitting down. “But I insist you have a cake before you start.”
Farideh took one gingerly, all too aware of the thin gruel she’d had for breakfast. “Thank you. I do have so many questions. But one is more pressing than the others. It’s about my … Lorcan, my devil.”
“Oh?”
“He is …” She searched for the proper term. “A bit aggressive. I want to keep the pact, but … I cannot keep on the way we have. Is there anything I can do?”
“Of course,” Yvon said. “You’re free to change your pact. I suspect it hasn’t mentioned that?”
She shook her head. “How?”
Yvon poured the tea. “Find another devil. Preferably a stronger one, in case it gets it into its head to hold on. But you’d prefer that anyway-there always comes a time to move up.
“Or,” Yvon added after filling his own cup, “you can kill him. He’ll come back eventually, but usually they’re vain enough to stay away. Still, you ought to get a replacement-no sense in tempting fate.” He chuckled to himself. “Lector’s first pact was with an imp, of all things. It took him years to get rid of it. He ended up having to lure it into a temple of Amaunator where their priests sorted it out. Sugar?”
“Oh. Yes. Please.” He dropped two brown lumps into the tea-it had been a long time since Farideh had had sugar, or tea for that matter. She wrapped her hands around the mug.
The steam rising out of her cup curled like the shapes of her brand. She nibbled on the cake thoughtfully. A stronger devil. It wouldn’t be Lorcan. It might be a devil who left her alone. It might be someone who she didn’t have to worry about saying no to. It might be someone who gave her more impressive spells. It might be better.