But that wasn’t right. It was because he couldn’t listen to her try and hold him off like an adversary, when she was too despairing to form words-that was the truth. Because he owed her better. Because she needed a moment to not be on guard.
“Take it back,” she sobbed. “Please take it back. I’m not his Chosen. I can’t be.”
This is none of your doing, Lorcan reminded himself. This is nothing you could have stopped.
“If I could I would,” he said. “You know that.”
That triggered fresh sobs. “Why? Why?”
Lorcan shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. “It seems he’s invested all the Brimstone Angels,” he said. “Just an accident of your birth.”
She went rigid again and pulled away. “All of them? Oh gods. Oh gods! Havi?”
Shit and ashes, Lorcan thought. “No. Your sister’s fine. Nothing’s shown up in her, I promise. I was at her side before I came here-several days now. I saw her only hours ago. Nothing.”
“But it will?” Farideh said, panic edging her voice. “It will, and then what?”
“One thing at a time,” Lorcan said. “Your sister has a protection laid on her too-and darling, it’s heavier than yours. It may be Asmodeus passed her by. It may be that protection stops the blessing from awakening. The important part is that she’s fine. She’s not a day and a half from here, her and Brin. They’ll arrive soon. And you and I had best be ready for them.”
Farideh pulled away from him farther, shaking her head. “What’s the trick?” she said. “Your god clearly doesn’t go to all this trouble just to be perfectly happy when you go ahead and undo it all.” She was back to looking at him like a demon, crawled out of the Abyss. “So what’s the trick? You ‘help them escape’ by killing them all? You don’t kill them, you just. . pull them into the Hells? Is it me? — will I have to. . Is it really my soul. .?”
“Gods damn it!” Lorcan cried. “The ‘trick’ as you put it, is not on you. It’s on Asmodeus.”
That stopped her. “On Asmodeus?”
“Or,” Lorcan said more carefully, “perhaps a better way to say things is that Sairché’s plan is flawed. As is her collaborator’s, a devil called Magros. Both have made”-he gave her a significant look-“mistakes. Sairché was tasked with collecting Chosen. Magros was tasked with gathering their powers. We shouldn’t be surprised if it falls apart. The concern, of course, is that any failure would reflect poorly on the person who caused it”-he nodded to Farideh-“the devils who made the plans. . and the archdevil who oversaw it. We must make sure that isn’t us.”
“So I have to help you so your lady isn’t punished.”
“I’m more concerned about the fact that I’ll be dead,” Lorcan said. “And listen to what I’m telling you: there is another devil. Another Lord of the Nine with their fingers in the pie. And none of them care even a little what becomes of you or the people you’re worried about. I do care.”
She watched him warily. “So if Sairché fails, she’ll be punished and so will you. And your lady. But if the failure is the other devil’s it’s him and his lady in trouble?”
“Lord,” Lorcan corrected. “And yes.”
“And none of you have an interest in making sure that Asmodeus’s plan succeeds?”
Lorcan hesitated. “All devils in the Hells are invested in the success of Asmodeus,” he said. “At least, all devils in Malbolge. Magros. . One could surmise-if one stretched-that he and his lord might be pleased if Asmodeus didn’t succeed. If Asmodeus didn’t collect more divine power for himself.” He told her what Sairché had said about the divine sparks, about Asmodeus’s orders, and what Shar wanted. About what was happening to the world beyond. If possible she seemed to deflate further.
“What happens if he succeeds? If he takes the sparks?”
“Then his godhood is a little more assured in the days to come.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Weakened,” Lorcan said. “He might even lose the godhead-no one knows.”
Farideh sat on the edge of the bed, her expression drawn. “So you’re worried,” she said, as if choosing each word from a sack of razors, one by one, “that the other devil might sabotage the plan, stop Asmodeus, but make it look as if you were the one who failed. Do you think he’s worried you’ll do the same?”
“That would be clever,” Lorcan said with exaggerated surprise. “But Magros seems to think Sairché and I don’t have half a brain between us. He’s already attempted to get me to kill his agent in the camp-an act that would place the failure squarely on me.”
“So if I give up,” she said, “then this. . plan you’ve sold Rhand and Shar on might succeed.”
“Perhaps,” Lorcan said. “And who wants that?”
“Or Magros and his lord might succeed. But if I help you, your lady will succeed.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m not gathering the divine sparks. Not even one. I don’t care what she wants, I don’t care what any of them want.”
“Fair enough,” Lorcan said. “I doubt either of them or Asmodeus are foolish enough to be surprised by that.”
She shook her head. “Let’s hope so. I think he’ll find a great many things I won’t do. Chosen or not.”
“Darling, you know better than that,” Lorcan chided. “No one wants to force you. That’s our way-let the demons drag souls kicking down to the Abyss. The baatezu know you’ll walk right in yourselves if we open the right doors.” He smiled. “You just have to be wise enough to pass them by.” And watch for the ones that open in your path, he thought.
She sighed. “You talk like this all day long don’t you? Saying things without saying them? Whatever happened to not thinking about the plans of archdevils?”
Lorcan just shook his head. “The world’s a different place. You and I are different. Something’s happening and. . it might be better to know.”
“Who’s the agent?” she asked. “One of the guards?”
Lorcan shrugged. “All I’m sure of is that it isn’t a Chosen of Asmodeus. Magros managed to kill the Chosen Asmodeus allotted him. He had to find a replacement. But they’ll be moving through the camp, not keeping to the tower.” He blew out a breath, not wanting to say what he knew he had to. “What do you have in mind?”
Farideh looked up at him. “Is this where you try to talk me out of it?”
“No,” Lorcan said reluctantly. “This is where we leave the tower, and I help you do something mad.”
“We’re not leaving the tower,” she said, standing.
Much like Oota had, the elves had restructured a cluster of huts to mimic an elven high court, bringing in what scrubby brush and lichens they could collect from the hillsides in a defiant mimicry of the sort of lush green space Dahl found himself expecting. As if to set a seal on it, Cereon-the elves’ Oota, as it were- was without a doubt the most eladrinish sun elf he had ever crossed paths with.
“You bring us empty promises of the goodness in an evil race.” Cereon spoke as if he were reciting an ancient, elven spell, not dressing down Armas and Dahl. The cold planes of his face reminded Dahl of nothing so much as a marble statue. A very unhappy marble statue. “What a surprise,” he said.
Ol’ Sour-Fey, indeed, he thought.
“I would not call them empty, solosar,” Armas said. His speech had shifted to mirror the sun elf’s from the moment they crossed into Cereon’s territory. “Nor would I call them promises. Say instead, ‘potential.’ My friend believes the warlock can help us.”
“The tiefling,” Cereon said. Two of the elves behind him, graceful women with their dark hair pinned up and ugly cages trapping their hands, exchanged looks. Half a smile cracked Cereon’s stern facade.
“The tiefling,” Dahl agreed, the words springing from his tongue in Elvish, thanks to the ritual. “Unless you have another way to get your hands freed?”
Cereon didn’t look away from Armas. “I’ve heard what her help gains.”
“You’ve heard what the wizard can make one do,” Armas corrected gently. “Out of the fortress-”