“An idea,” Mira said. “I spent time enough with both to make guesses-but nothing certain. Netheril stretched across most of the north once. It could be a lot of places. We need those artifacts as much as he does.”
The guard, Farideh thought. That’s where she’d seen Mira before. That’s why she looked familiar.
“I think we are having this conversation,” Dahl said. He took the page from under his jacket and smoothed it out for Tam to see. “A lucky thing I was there after all. Rhand vanished with the stone, but he dropped this.”
Tam took the page from him. The ink swirled purple, catching on the creases before straightening itself into neat lines of runes. For a long moment, the Harper said nothing and the air hummed with the page’s mutterings.
“A stroke of luck doesn’t absolve you of putting people in danger,” Tam said. “But well done.”
“I hope you’re not going to blame me for not realizing exactly how depraved Adolican Rhand is,” Dahl said. “You cannot hold me accountable for an army of assassins appearing to brutalize the guests, either.”
Tam looked up at him, as if he certainly could. “I can hold you accountable for forgetting the Shadovar, yes. The Cyricists … are a complication I think we can all be forgiven for not expecting.”
“What’s a Cyricist?” Havilar whispered.
Farideh shook her head. “Worshipers of someone?”
“Madmen,” Brin supplied grimly. “They follow the god of strife.”
“The Church of Cyric probably doesn’t want it,” Dahl said. “The Zhentarim probably do.”
“What’s a Zhent-”
“Mercenaries,” Mira interrupted before Havilar could finish. “And I’m sure it’s more a matter for the Church.”
“More than mercenaries,” Dahl said. “An organization that has its fingers in a dozen governments and a hundred cults-including Mad Cyric’s.”
“So Rhand was right,” Tam asked. “They must want it badly to attack him in his home. Why?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mira said swiftly. “What matters is that you and I”-she turned to Tam-“very much need to get out of Waterdeep. Master Rhand won’t be pleased at all with my guardwork, and he’ll no doubt be curious where you might have gotten to. So-”
“Plans have changed,” Tam said. He looked as if he could chew iron and spit nails. “All of you are going to have to come along to Everlund.”
“Can we?” Havilar asked. She tucked an arm around Farideh’s shoulders. “I mean, Fari’s not well and Mehen’s not back yet.” She fidgeted. “But can we?”
“If you stay here every eye in that revel who saw the twin tieflings and the Cormyrean lordling will be ready to recognize you,” Tam said. “Especially when one fought free of the brawl with a bottle and a tray, and one made a Waterdhavian brightcoin’s floor spew lava. You’re coming, and don’t think there’s an argument to change that.”
He said the last part to Farideh, but all she could think of was Adolican Rhand saying, They say he tore a portal to the Hells to destroy a rival’s floating city.
“He grabbed the page and stone when they broke in,” she said hoarsely. “Nothing else. It’s important isn’t it? You think there’s something still there.”
“Clever, clever,” Mira said.
Tam’s mouth made an even harder line, as if he heard the request she wasn’t making. “You will stay in the tower in Everlund and wait. I’ll arrange things so that word is sent when Mehen returns, and he can come collect you two. You,” he said to Brin, “gods, I thought you were more cautious than this. You’re coming too, if you know what’s best. Pray to every god they didn’t recognize you.”
“They didn’t,” Brin said. “You can be sure of that.”
Tam didn’t reply, but turned on his assistant. “And you,” he said to Dahl. “Since you’ve decided to play the leader of this little band, you can take charge of their well-being in Everlund. You’re on defender duty.” He looked up at Mira. “Until we sort out this mystery.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
EVERLUND
7 FLAMERULE, THE YEAR OF THE DARK CIRCLE (1478 DR)
The summer sky is blood red and the monsters of Neverwinter swarm through it, but the air’s so cold that steam wafts off Lorcan’s skin. He looks like sin. He looks like want. He looks like Farideh’s doom, and she knows it.
It’s your doom too, she says, but he ignores her, pulls her hard against him. One burning hand strokes her cheek and she tilts her head away from him. He twists a lock of her hair around one finger and pulls, and the sudden pain steals her breath.
Say it, he says roughly.
Say what? she asks, but she knows, when he holds her like this, she is likely to say anything he tells her. He is dangerous, but she is helpless here.
Laesurach, he whispers. The tip of his tongue flicks over her ear, and she looks past his shoulder. Sairche’s standing there, a wicked smile on her lips.
Laesurach, Farideh repeats, and the fire surges up around Sairche-but the cambion doesn’t flinch as her skin burns away. And suddenly, it’s not Sairche standing in the volcano’s mouth but Havilar, and her leathers are flowing robes of red and black, her glaive a staff that weeps blood.
There are five, she says, but it’s the archdevil’s voice. That was the surprise.
Lorcan’s arms are suddenly gone-he doesn’t hold her, he stands between her and Havilar-and the lack of him frees her, but it leaves her moorless.
Run, darling, Lorcan says as the erinyes rise out of the ground. Run fast and run far.
Havilar-who is not Havilar, who is not Sairche, who is not the archdevil-points her staff at Lorcan and a stream of hellwasps pours out of it. Their sword-arms and stingers pierce every inch of him. They tear out his eyes and he screams, and she screams, and over it all Havilar laughs …
Farideh sat up in a spare bunk in the Harpers’ tower, her pulse hard and her breath harder. No hellwasps, no erinyes, no Lorcan-but still her stomach churned and she bolted for the window to vomit bile into the alley below.
“Fari?” Havilar said sleepily. “Are you all right?”
Shivering, Farideh crouched beside the window, her forehead resting on the sill between her shaking hands. Her tail rasped against the floorboards. How many nights of this? How many more nightmares before she went mad of them?
“No more tea,” Tam had said, not until the very last of the poison’s effects had faded. No tea, and no tapping into the Hells. Between the two, her nightmares grew worse and worse.
She heard Havilar pad toward her and felt her sister’s hand on her shoulder. She tensed-afraid to turn and see the strange robes.
“Nightmare,” she said lightly. “It’s nothing.”
“It was nothing last night,” Havilar said, dropping down beside her. “And it was nothing three nights ago. What’re you really dreaming about?”
Farideh turned her head side to side against the sill, the wood rubbing against the ridges of her horns. “Nothing. It’s just a dream.”
“A dream that makes you hark up.” Havilar dabbed a corner of her sleeve to Farideh’s chin. “Tell me.” Farideh kept her silence-the dreams were horrible enough, she didn’t want to argue over them too.
“All right, I heard you saying his name. You practically screamed it before you woke. So quit lying. What is it?” She ducked her head closer to Farideh’s. “Mehen’s not here,” she said. “You can tell me if it’s indelicate-”
“They’re torturing him,” Farideh said quietly. She turned her head. “That’s what I dream about. Devils cutting up Lorcan. And I can’t stop it, and when I try to, they capture you too.”