“It’s not her you should be asking,” Oota reminded her. The half-orc considered Farideh as if trying to force the tiefling woman to look away-gladly, Farideh stared right back.
“The wizard’s finest,” Oota finally said, “should sort this out.”
Tharra stiffened, and Dahl said, “That’s ridiculous. You’ll lay her out for a day, and we don’t have time for that.”
“She said three days,” Oota reminded him, not breaking her gaze. “Tharra is right-it’s a mighty high risk. If she’s what she says, we’ll protect her. If not”-her crooked grin sent a chill down Farideh’s back-”we’ll appreciate the advantage.”
“There has to be another way,” Dahl said. “You don’t need to put her through it.”
“Oh, probably,” Oota said. “But the wizard’s finest is my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll do it,” Farideh said. “I’m certain I’ve been through worse.”
“We’ll see,” Tharra said. “I’ll see all of it.”
“No, Tharra,” Oota said. “This one’s mine.”
“You can’t afford to be laid out either.”
“Hamdir and Antana can manage. And you.” Oota spared Tharra another of her crooked grins. “You can manage without me, I’m plenty sure. But this one. . I want to see this one.”
Tharra pursed her mouth. “I’ll get the flagon.”
Farideh turned to Dahl, looking more than a little worried. “How bad is this?”
Dahl hesitated. “Not. . good. She might see things you’d rather not share. You might see things you’d rather not remember. And after. .” He winced at the memory. “The next day is horrible. But it seems to be honest. So they’ll see you’re someone they can trust.”
She looked up at him, that shadow-smoke growing thicker. “And if they don’t?”
Dahl thought of asking her what they might find, but-no, not now. It was probably just the devil anyway, and he quickly shifted his thoughts away from that. “Then we’ll think of something else,” he said firmly.
Tharra brought the cup to Oota, the honey-sweet smell of the wicked brew’s base overlaid this time by a murky, dirty scent that stirred Dahl’s memories. He blew out a breath-how many hours had he carried the flask of shadar-kai liquor now? It felt like months.
“Bah!” Oota cried. “What is this?”
“Think it might have gone a bit off,” Tharra said.
Dahl frowned. “Doesn’t smell like old wine.” What did it smell like? Something familiar.
“It’s not wine,” Tharra reminded him. “Not really. We can’t wait until Phalar gets another batch.”
“Is that a good idea?” Dahl said. “What if it. . poisons as it goes bad?” He sniffed again-was it the base? Did the fruit turn that way? Had he eaten that, smelled that? “What do they make it out of?”
“Shadowfell things,” Tharra said.
But things tainted by shadow always smelled musty to Dahl, old and cold and faint.
“Ready, devil-child?” Oota said.
“As I ever will be.”
“Who do you serve?” Oota asked. She handed Farideh the cup and the tiefling drank deeply, coughing at the introduction of the heady brew.
This smell, Dahl thought, was wet and living and virulent. “Feywild,” he said. Ah shit. Shit.
Farideh handed the cup across to Oota, and Dahl saw the fine splinters floating on the scummy surface of the wizard’s finest, looking like the remains of a bad cask, before the half-orc brought the cup to her lips.
Hamadryad’s ash-that was the smell. Powdered roots of Feywild ash trees that the hamadryads let casters harvest when the ash trees threatened their oaks. Dahl used it in several rituals. Particularly one to amplify the effects of other rituals.
He looked over at Tharra, who was watching Oota, jaw tight. “Oh gods.”
Oota flinched and glared at the cup, then at Tharra. “This. . doesn’t. .”
Stop!” Dahl cried, even though it was too late. “Don’t drink it!”
Farideh looked up at him, alarmed, and started to speak. But half a syllable out of her lips and she fell backward, the word becoming a grunt.
Oota stood, reaching for her cudgel. “Snake!” she said, her words starting to slur. “What have you done?”
Tharra took a step back. “What I needed to,” she said.
If it worked like it did in rituals, Dahl thought, it would drive everything up. It would make the memories more than Farideh could handle-maybe more than Oota could handle-and it might well drive her mad. It might well kill them, Dahl thought, remembering how his heart had tried to pound its way out of his chest.
“Hamdir!” Oota shouted, weaving on her feet. “Antama! Grab. . her. .”
Dahl snatched the cup from Oota’s limp hand a moment before she collapsed in a heap beside Farideh. A moment before her two heavies seized Tharra.
“What’s the antidote?” Dahl demanded.
Tharra eyed him stonily. “No antidote. Are you going to listen to reason now?”
Farideh started shaking, and Dahl dropped down beside her. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could change to stop this from happening. He could only watch.
He looked at the cup, the swallow and a half of wizard’s finest left in the bottom. He could watch from here. . or from there.
Please let this work, he thought to Oghma or whoever might be listening, and he tipped the rest back.
“Are you mad?” Tharra demanded.
“Not as mad as you,” Dahl said. “Hold onto her. Oota’s going to want answers at least half as much as I will. Try to wake us, however you can.” By the end of the sentence his tongue had turned to clay, and before Hamdir, Antama, or Tharra could say a word, Dahl’s vision turned black.
When Farideh could see again, she was standing in Arush Vayem, deep enough into winter that the snow was piled up to the top of her shins, the cold creeping through the leather. Wood smoke spiced the air, and the singsong argument of children was the only noise.
There were two tiefling girls up ahead-both dressed in well-loved rabbit fur capes and mittens, their tiny horns just beginning to curl back over their dark hair. Farideh approached, her heart shivering: the girls were Havilar and herself, in their seventh winter, and she remembered this time, this place. She remembered what was about to happen.
It’s not going to happen, she told herself. It isn’t real. This was a memory, like the ones the waters showed.
The wind gusted, blowing open her cloak, as if the scene itself were laughing at her conviction. What’s memory? What’s real? What’s real enough?
Oota came to stand beside her, watching the young twins stomping through the snow. “Shitting wizard’s finest,” she growled. “Never a simple answer. What are we looking at?”
“That’s me,” Farideh said pointing. “That’s my sister Havi.” Havilar bounded over to the palisade. A tree had fallen, rotten and top-heavy with ice, at just the right angle to destroy this part of the wall. The tree had been chopped up and hauled away already-burning in a dozen hearths no doubt-and the replacement logs shaped and placed. But the weather was still cold enough that it would be longer still to get the stone and earth packed around the repairs. The man repairing the wall was off having his highsunfeast, and Havilar had a plan.
“She’s going to break her arm,” Farideh said, dread creeping in on her, as Havilar wedged the stick she was carrying in between two of the logs, working it back and forth.
“Godsdamned, Tharra,” Oota said. “Probably ruined the damned question. You know she was going to do that?”
But Farideh only had eyes for Havilar. She didn’t know a Tharra-there certainly wasn’t one in the village. She shouldn’t be talking to this half-orc either-Mehen wouldn’t like it.
“Havi, I think we should go back,” the younger Farideh said, and she felt herself mouth the words unconsciously. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“It’s a fantastic idea,” Havilar said. “And it’s a fantastic idea right now- Zevar is going to be back to finish in a little, and then we’ll never get out.”