The Adversary

Chapter Seventeen

24 Ches, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR) The Lost Peaks

Concentrate, Farideh admonished herself, as Lorcan climbed down from the windowsill, into the empty study. Between the embarrassing way Lorcan’s embrace flooded her with want and the utter terror that gripped her when they took flight from the bedroom window, she had plenty to distract her from the Nameless One’s powers nibbling at her thoughts.

“I hate that,” she said, still trembling as she unwound her tail from his calf. “Gods, I hate that.”

Lorcan shook a spatter of melting snow from one wing, then the other. “Didn’t you leap from the window to get here before? You’ll fall but not fly?”

“It’s not the same,” she said, crossing to the basin nearest the window. “You’re meant to fall down, not up.” The Chosen of Shar’s effects slipped in through her thoughts and curled up like a dog at a fire. It was nowhere near as bad as it had been standing in front of the Nameless One, but still it made her thoughts sluggish, her heart heavy. She concentrated on slowing down her rattled breath, on the task at hand. Get in, get what you need, get out.

Lorcan came to stand behind her as she reached for a pinch of the blue petals in the bowl beside the vessel-close, too close.

“What about this Chosen of Shar?” he murmured close to her ear. “What am I meant to do if it takes you again?” She went still, her hand resting half in the pile of dried petals. He set a hand on her hip, and drew her ever so slightly closer, and she forgot the powers of Shar altogether.

“You could remind me,” she said, eyes on the waters, “of all the things you said when you came here last. I think that would do it.”

Lorcan straightened. “I apologized for that.”

“You did,” Farideh said, looking back over her shoulder. “Which is why we’re still talking. But it isn’t as if ‘sorry’ is a magic word that means none of that ever happened.” She looked down at her reflection in the water, the gloominess of the Nameless One’s presence across the hall unfolding in her thoughts. “It doesn’t wipe the slate.”

“Well, what does?” Lorcan demanded.

Farideh laughed once. If she knew the answer to that, she would do it herself and resolve her own sins once and for all. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”

Before he could respond, she cast a pinch of the flowers over the surface of the water.

“Show me the last time someone escaped from one of Rhand’s camps.”

The waters swirled and shivered, reflecting back another camp, with the same squat huts, the same obsidian tower, the same faint shimmer of a magical wall. Beyond, a desert stretched, red and frosted, the sun just creeping over a distant horizon. The guards on the wall were fewer-and human, yawning at the early hour, their eyes focusing on some half-remembered dream no one else could see. They certainly weren’t expecting the prisoners who poured out of the graying shadows.

There hadn’t been as many-perhaps a hundred, a hundred and fifty-but there weren’t many among the people who rushed the stone wall who didn’t scintillate with the blessings of the gods. A bolt of lightning struck the first guard who tried to sound an alarm, followed by an explosion of rubble as a stout dwarf woman planted her hands against the stone wall and brought it down beneath the guards’ feet. The prisoners killed them swiftly, took their weapons, opened the gates, and filled the narrow courtyard. The guards regained their wits and struck back-cutting down anyone who came near. Blood soaked the sandy floor of the courtyard.

But the guards didn’t seem to matter to the prisoners. Their efforts were turned against the tower.

There were Chosen who set flames against the building’s base, hot enough to crack the crystal. There were Chosen, like the dwarf woman, who made the stone shatter into chips or stole the ground from beneath it. There were others who took a warlord’s mantle, flush with the blessings of a martial god, who made their comrades into an army to bring the guards to their knees and to keep those destroying the tower from being attacked. Spells sizzled down from the tower’s heights-balls of flame that clung to guard and prisoner alike, spheres of energy that seized whole groups of fighters. The commanders ordered the prisoners to break, to spread out, as another spell locked a dozen of them in place. It made the wizards’ work harder, but it didn’t stop the spells that rained down on the Chosen below.

But then the tower fell.

Some ran as the stone cracked. Some scattered to the edges of the courtyard, seeking shelter where they could. The Chosen who had stood right up on the tower’s base didn’t even try to flee-there was no fleeing as the structure fractured and split and fell apart in great, sharp pieces. The screaming blended together, a roar to match the pitch of the tower’s constant vibrations.

The core of the tower split, and the shimmer of the wall ceased. The prisoners who were left fled into the red desert and vanished as the Fountains of Memory returned to their placid swirling.

“Shit and ashes,” Lorcan said.

Farideh stared at the basin, shocked into silence. They had to bring the tower down to dispel the wall.

“The stone,” she said, as much for herself as for Lorcan. “It looks like it breaks easily. If you attack it right, maybe. .” She fell silent. That tower had been smaller. It hadn’t been so well guarded-and still, half the prisoners had been killed bringing it down.

It’s no use, that unwelcome voice in her thoughts seemed to say. You can’t save all of them. You can’t save any of them without asking for a sacrifice.

Farideh squeezed her eyes shut. “What do you think Magros intends to do?” she said. “What. . what do we play off of?”

“Does it matter?” Lorcan said. “You can’t seriously be considering bringing down-”

“What are our options?”

“He has a Red Wizard. Some undead. They’re headed here with some magic in mind. I doubt,” he added acidly, “that it has to do with freeing your prisoners. Maybe she wants an army of corpses? Maybe she wants to capture the camp for her own master?” He shuddered and pulled her nearer. “Darling, we don’t need to be here. Please.”

“I’m not coming back,” Farideh said. “I don’t want to find I missed something later on. Do you think the Red Wizard will be able to get through the wall?”

Lorcan shook his head. “Rhand has to make allowances from the sound of it. Even Sairché and I can’t come through easily. Out though. . It might be easier. I could get you away. Get us away. Let Magros and Sairché bungle things on their own.”

“You know you can’t,” Farideh said. “You know I won’t go.” She ought to push him off. She ought to keep out of his reach. She ought to make sure she was absolutely clear about where they stood right now-and he was not in her good graces. But with the Nameless One’s presence on the other side of the floor pressing on her like wave after wave of invisible soldiers. . his arms around her made for pleasant enough armor. Regardless of why he offered it.

“Is she getting to you?” Farideh asked.

Lorcan cursed under his breath. “Yes.”

“Keep fighting it,” Farideh said. She tried to speak as carefully as he had earlier. “If the prisoners escaped-like in the vision-that wouldn’t go well. You’d be at fault. You and Sairché and Glasya. It would be exactly the sort of thing this Magros might try to make happen.” She dipped her hand into the water to feel the sharp jolt of pain the cold sent up her nerves. “It would be a good idea to see if that agent you mentioned knows about it. So you could be sure not to catch the blame.” She pushed him gently away and turned to face him. “Or maybe they know about the Red Wizard.”

“You’d have to find the agent,” Lorcan said. “One soul in an ever-moving sea.”

“I have connections. This completely ridiculous power.” She shut her eyes and calmed herself. She had been doing a fine job of not thinking about being a Chosen of Asmodeus, of not considering what came next. If she could keep it out of mind, it was as good as not true-or as close as it could be.

But even brushing the edge of that knowledge stirred a panic in her heart.

“It’s ridiculous as you’re using it,” Lorcan said. “Finding Chosen is a very odd little side effect Sairché decided to exploit.”

She opened her eyes again and found him watching her with an uneasy expression. “What’s it for then?”

“You see the state of mortal souls,” Lorcan said. “How corrupted they are. How easily they would be claimed for the Hells.”

“Karshoj,” Farideh spat. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m never doing that.”

“Never say never, darling,” Lorcan said. “It may come in handy one day.” He hesitated. “Is that all? The soul sight?”

“Yes.”

His wings twitched in an agitated way. “It seems inadequate. Unlike His Majesty.”

Farideh felt the Chosen of Shar’s powers and her own worry twine around her chest. “So what comes next? I kill with a touch? I steal souls with a glance?”

Lorcan made a face. “Lords of the Nine, you’re dramatic. No-I don’t know what comes next. I only mean you should be on guard for more. Asmodeus only knows what will trigger it, after all. In the meantime, you need spells. Something to show Rhand and Magros what they ought to be afraid of.”

“I’m nothing to fear.”

“You are a Chosen of Asmodeus. The whole world will fear you, if you give them the opportunity. Here.” He took her hands together and filled the bowl of them with a darkness that sloshed back and forth like ink. The magic seeped in between her fingers and ran up her arms.

Farideh swallowed. “What is it?”

“Another spell,” Lorcan said grimly. “Face your foe. Hold the rod parallel to the ground and pull up. Say chaanaris as you do. You’ll want to be some distance back. It doesn’t. . discriminate.”

Farideh looked down at her hands, still cupped in his. “All right. Shall I practice?”

“No,” Lorcan said quickly. “Not this one. Don’t use it unless you have to.”

“Why?”

He regarded her for a long moment. “There are spells I can give you,” he said, “which might as well come from a wizard’s study. There are spells that acknowledge their nature in subtler ways-the rain of brimstone, the word of corruption.” He closed her hands in his. “And then,” he finished, “there are those spells that are undeniably the gift of the Nine Hells. It is one of those. I don’t want you to be afraid to use it when the time comes.”

“Have I been such a coward before?”

“The pact has been gentle on you so far. There’s no room for that anymore.” He looked down at her hands in his. “Why didn’t you listen?” he asked. “We would have been all right. I could have handled Sairché. I’m not worth this trouble.”

Farideh pressed her mouth shut. It was the Nameless One’s powers. It was just what happened to Lorcan when Shar’s emptiness rushed over him. It didn’t take away what he was, deep down. “She was going to kill you,” she said after a moment. “And as you said, I can’t do much with a corpse.”

Lorcan let go of her hands.

Farideh turned back to the waters and scattered another pinch of petals over the surface. “Show me where Clanless Mehen was a quarter hour ago.”

The waters took only a moment to show a group of people scaling the slopes of a densely wooded mountain. And among them, Mehen, hauling himself over a fallen tree, up onto the path where the others waited.

“Harpers,” Lorcan said, coming to stand behind her once more. “Brin said they’d be following.”

Farideh sighed and shut her eyes. “If I survive this, I think I’ll never leave Mehen’s side again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Is that. .? Gods be damned. The Thayans.”

Mehen stopped beside a creature out of Farideh’s nightmares-a corpselike thing with long, bony arms and talons like scythes. “What are they doing with Mehen?”

“A very good question,” Lorcan said, leaning nearer to the water. The smell of him-musk and brimstone and strange spices-taunted Farideh, and the Chosen of Shar’s powers seemed to catch hold of it, wielding it like a tool to dig into her heart.

“I need you to find Mehen,” she said.

“He won’t be happy to see me. You might end up with a corpse despite your best efforts.”

She turned to face Lorcan. “Not if the first thing you say is that I’m all right. Give him some sign.”

He didn’t move back. His eyes flicked over her face as if he knew her anger had a chink in it, and he smiled. “What sign is that?”

Without breaking her gaze, she reached across and pulled the long blade from his scabbard. He stepped into her, so that the knife stopped halfway out, and Farideh stood pressed against the icy basin.

“Cut a plait of my hair,” she said, remembering the vision in the pools. “Give it to Mehen. He’ll know what it means.”

“That’s a lot of blade for a little lock.”

And despite everything that had changed, Farideh blushed at that, and Lorcan’s smile spread. She let go of the knife and separated out one of the small braids Tharra had left at the nape of her neck, hidden in her loose hair. “Here.”

He drew the knife, and wound the plait around one finger and pulled it, hard enough to draw a gasp from her and force her head back. He hesitated, the sharp blade too close to the golden column of her throat. Farideh shut her eyes.

“Magros gave me this,” he said. “He thought I might kill you with it.”

“Would you?”

“I might have,” he admitted. “But not anymore.” He sliced through the lock of hair in one quick motion. “Remember?” he added silkily. “I have a slate to wipe.”

Farideh rubbed the back of her skull and looked away. “You need to get the Harpers here as quickly as possible,” she said. “I need to check on Havi.” She reached for the petals.

“Don’t bother,” Lorcan said. “We should go and I can find her myself.”

Farideh bit her lip. “If you can keep her away-”

“Don’t even ask me to do that,” Lorcan said, tucking the braid into a pocket. “You know I can’t. Besides, she has a way into the wall-that necklace Sairché left you. The Harpers will need it.”

Farideh looked back at the basin. “Then just one more.” She tossed another pinch of petals over the water. “Show me Dahl Peredur, where he was a quarter hour ago.”

The waters shivered and showed the camp, and the wet splattering snow. Dahl leaving a crowd of prisoners, looking furious and hurrying down the road toward the south. Farideh bit her lip, hunting through the vision for clues.

“Dahl,” Lorcan said icily, “is your friend in the camp?”

“Not now,” Farideh said, marking a clothesline, a missing patch of thatching, a stone half-buried in the ground. The vision disappeared and she blew out a breath. “Yes, it’s Dahl. If you’re going to rage and moan over that, at least consider he’s a bit better than Adolican Rhand.”

“You didn’t tell me about him either.”

“Because I thought that trial was over,” Farideh said. “I thought I didn’t have to worry about him anymore.” She met Lorcan’s dark eyes. “I didn’t want to worry about you getting into trouble, with some human’s blood on your hands, trapped in the middle of Waterdeep-or what would become of me if that happened. Though I suppose you’ll say it wouldn’t have mattered. It’s not as if Asmodeus would just let me go to waste, right?”

She left him standing beside the basin and collected the components Dahl had asked for-not caring if their absence showed. She went to the window and looked down-the snow had stopped, and the world beyond was dark and wet and moonless. Lorcan moved up beside her and brushed the hair from her cheek. She flinched.

“I am sorry,” he said again. “And. . not just because I wish you’d stop being angry. But you couldn’t have stopped the king of the Hells from choosing you, and neither could I. You were born for this.”

Farideh’s throat closed around a fresh set of tears, but she only nodded, unwilling to cry again. “Come on,” she said, hardly louder than a whisper. “We need to go.”

Much as she hated the sensation of flying, and the mockery of an embrace that was holding on to Lorcan for dear life, the drop from the tower to the camp below wasn’t nearly long enough, and when her feet touched down on the sticky mud beside the hut with the missing thatch, her pulse was racing and her throat still tight. Lorcan pulled her into an alleyway, peering out into the street.

“A quarter hour is a lot of time,” he said. “Might be your paladin’s found something else to do. Someone else to visit.”

Farideh pushed past him, coming out into the street. “I think he knows about the massacre. So he’s looking for me too.” She started a little ways down the road. “A quarter hour is enough to get to where he’s keeping his weapons and prepare, then leave again.” She looked back at the fortress, looming over the camp. There was an awful lot of it to fall. “He ought to come back along this path, and-”

“Farideh?” Dahl’s voice called. Farideh smiled as she turned to see the Harper sprinting up the road, dressed in a stolen Shadovar uniform and wearing a sword. “Gods books, Farideh?”

“I see he’s still a quick one,” Lorcan muttered.

“What happened?” Dahl cried as he reached them. “They’re saying you murdered a dozen people and sent ten times that to the wizard’s workshop.” He looked her over once. “I was going to rescue you.”

“I didn’t kill them,” she started.

“Well, I figured that,” Dahl said irritably. He looked at Lorcan, but said to Farideh, “You’re not hurt?”

Farideh rubbed her left hand, the healed finger. “Not much,” she said gamely. She gestured at Lorcan. “I found us more allies. And a plan.”

“A plan?” Dahl repeated. He shook his head and cursed softly. “Of course.”

Farideh scowled at him. “You haven’t even heard it yet.”

“No, I-” Dahl stopped himself. “I haven’t,” he said diplomatically. “And it’s probably better than the nonsense I’d cobbled together.” He spread his hands. “Tell me what to do.”

Farideh rolled her eyes. “Hear the plan first. And tell me yours. Likely they both need refining.” She turned to Lorcan. “You’re going to make sure the Harpers find Havilar and Brin, and point them here. Sairché’s going to put Rhand off the scent.”

“And we’ll sort Magros,” Lorcan added. “You handle the agent and. .” He sighed. “Don’t attempt this mad plan without telling me what exactly you’re doing first.”

“If it’s too late-”

“I’ll make sure it’s not too late.”

“Fine,” Farideh said. “I’ll see you then.” She could only hope there were enough Chosen, enough powerful Chosen willing to attempt something so likely to end their lives-gods, she almost wished Lorcan were staying. It would take a devil to convince someone of something so dangerous.

She had so lost herself in puzzling out what came next that she didn’t expect Lorcan to say another word.

She didn’t expect Lorcan to grab her around the waist, to pull her right up against him. She didn’t expect that when she started to tell him to leave off and stop acting out, that his mouth would close over hers and steal her breath.

Farideh’s mind went blank as a fresh sheet, not even certain of what was happening. And then Lorcan’s hands pulled her hips against his. His tongue slipped past her lips to brush against the roof of her mouth, and a branch of lust shot through her, as electric as a lightning storm.

I ought to kiss him back, she managed to think.

And then he released her, dark eyes dancing.

“Do be careful, darling,” Lorcan murmured, and before Farideh could sort out what to say or even how to form the words, he plucked up the ring that made the whirlwind portal and was gone.

Farideh drew a sharp breath. Reflexively she pulled her cloak closer around her.

“Gods books,” Dahl said. Then, “I thought you said he wasn’t coming to save you.”

That’s why he did it, Farideh thought. He only kissed you because Dahl was standing there. He only did it to mark his territory, just like before. She touched her mouth without meaning to.

“He isn’t saving me,” she said firmly. “I think I’m saving him. I brought components. I found a way to take the wall down. Can we get inside?”

Dahl hesitated. “Yes.” He looked up the road, toward the fortress. “But it may take some explaining. Come on.”

It would have been too simple, Dahl thought grimly, if they’d been allowed to just see Oota like any other petitioner. He had meant to make Farideh hang back, out of sight, while he slipped back in and got them a little space. But as discreet as Lorcan might have thought he was being, someone had seen them flying out of the fortress, and Dahl ended up leading her straight to the mob of prisoners coming to see what had fallen among them.

After that, it was all he could do to hang onto her and keep the angry prisoners back.

“I told you already,” Dahl all but shouted over the noise of the crowd. “She didn’t kill them, and she’s here to help us.” But the prisoners recognized Farideh the moment they’d come close to the makeshift fortress, and no amount of Dahl’s shouting or shoving prevented them from hauling Farideh up to stand before one-eyed Oota.

“Tharra has her doubts,” Oota said. “As do I. Better to be sure of her.”

“Better not to risk it at all,” Tharra said. “Put her down or lock her up. If she’s not with the wizard, he’s going to come looking for her soon enough.”

“I have three days,” Farideh said. “We have an agreement.” At that, Tharra shot Oota a knowing glance. Farideh flushed and wispy shadows edged her frame. “He thinks I’m. . elsewhere. Serving another.”

“Which of them are you murdering my people for?” Oota asked.

Farideh looked down at the piled bodies. “That was an accident. I told him I wouldn’t identify the Chosen. I didn’t know he would kill them,” she said. “But I should have. I’m sorry. I will be sorry every day of my life.”

“Might be able to shorten that for you,” Tharra said, and Farideh’s jaw tightened.

Oota glowered at Tharra. “Are you taking my place, friend? Making my orders?” To Farideh she asked, “Pretty clear you’re no ardent follower. So why are you here?”

“Are you going to turn down a freed caster?” Dahl asked. He looked around the room, spotted Armas in the back and beckoned him closer. “You can still cast that spell?” he murmured to Farideh. “The one that shatters things?”

Armas held up his shackled hands. Farideh pointed her flat palm at the half-elf. “Assulam.”

The magic raced dark and virulent up her arms, shot across the room, and turned the cruel gauntlets into a burst of rust. Armas leaped back, surprised. He flexed his hands stiffly, and gave a nervous chuckle. “I’ll be damned.” He murmured a soft, sibilant word. A cloud of colored lights appeared at his fingertips, and he laughed again and looked over at Tharra, who kept her stern expression.

“Get Cereon and the elves,” Dahl said.

Oota held up a hand. “Hold.”

“I can tell which of you are Chosen, too,” Farideh said. “I’ll do it for you instead of him. You can separate those who are likely to gain powers, try and trigger them, and make an army of sorts. Or just keep them away from the wizard.”

“Or get them all in one place?” Tharra said, still unconvinced. “Easy for your guards to scoop up?”

Farideh turned to her. “You’d be ready for that. You’d never let them stand around where they could be gathered up, and neither would I-not if I could help it.” She looked to Oota. “Move me around the camp, if you’d rather.”

Tharra pursed her lips. “We can’t risk it. She could easily be a spy.”

“Why would I bring you a spy?” Dahl demanded. “I vouch for her.”

“How long have you known each other?” Tharra demanded.

Dahl hesitated. That wasn’t a simple question. “Long enough.”

Tharra reached over and yanked Farideh’s sleeve up, showing her brand. “You two see the same skinscrivener?”

Farideh pulled her arm away. “Do you want my help or not?”

“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.”

More footsteps crunched up behind Farideh, and she hoped it was Mehen, come to scold Havilar and make them both go back inside. She couldn’t leave Havi, but she knew this would end badly.

“I don’t want to get out,” Farideh told her, and she wiped her tiny nose on the back of a mitten. “And you can’t move it, anyway.”

“I can so!”

“Hey,” Dahl said, and Farideh startled, suddenly grown again and watching her memory of Havilar. His breath turned into steam on the air. “Are you all right?”

Farideh knew she should ask him how he was there, why he was there. She knew she should ask why Dahl had shouted at them to stop as the wizard’s finest took effect. She should ask about the cold, and the footprints they made as they moved through the snow-that wasn’t like what he’d told her.

But when she opened her mouth she said, “She’s going to break her arm. The log falls and pins her. I have to stop her. Mehen will be so angry.”

“You can’t stop it,” Dahl said. “It’s already happened. This is just a memory, all right? You have to focus on that. You can’t stop it. You just have to ride it out.”

The top of the log wavered dangerously. Farideh shut her eyes. “Right. The wizard’s finest.”

“Exactly,” Dahl said. “Only a bit worse. Tharra added something to the goblet. I think it’s meant to amplify the effects, make it harder to come out of it.”

“Bastard,” Oota spat. “Knew she had a blade for my back.”

“Worry about that later. Just stay alert and watch for the amplifications.”

“They’re already happening,” Oota said. “You don’t feel the cold or the heat in these things. You don’t leave marks. Are we going to be wishing for weapons?”

“I suspect that will depend on how your question comes across.”

A shriek, a heavy whump-Farideh’s eyes snapped open as a scream tore out of her throat. Havilar lay half under the log, pinned in the snow. She started forward, even as her younger self did the same-ready to push the log with all her might, terrified to find Havi dead under there- Dahl caught her arm and stopped her. “Hey! It’s not real!”

Farideh kept pulling against him, watching her younger self snatch up the stick Havilar had held and lever up the log enough for Havilar to wriggle out. Overhead the pale clouds began to darken and billow, heralding a storm.

Dahl held her tight. “You were very. . strong little girls.”

“Swordswomen need to be strong. Mehen makes us lift rocks,” Farideh said flatly, as the little her wept and cradled her wailing sister.

“Made you lift rocks,” Dahl said, turning her toward him again. “Made. This isn’t real. You have to remember that.”

Farideh shook her head. “Then what is it?”

Who do you serve? Oota’s question echoed over the snowy village, dragging behind it a roll of thunder. The snow, the village, the girls clinging to each other bled together like ink on wet parchment. Only the wooden palisade remained. The sky darkened, swollen with clouds and blood-red lightning while the rest of the world faded.

And Farideh was suddenly very afraid.

“It’s not real,” Dahl reminded her. “Gods’ books, you have to calm down.” She looked over at him. His breath was coming hard and rattled. “Farideh, this is all coming from you-the visions, the sounds, all of it. You have to calm down.”

But out of the palisade’s shadows a figure unfolded: Havilar, all armed and armored, and eyeing the group of them with a very un-Havilarlike malevolence. She carried a glaive, but at its tip there was a crystal like the end of a warlock’s rod instead of a metal spike.

Rohini, Farideh thought, trying to step back, to move away from Havilar. The succubus who had possessed her sister. Dahl was still holding onto her arm, and someone else was holding her by the hair.

“You’ll be fine,” Mehen said. “You’ll have your sister with you. A blade at your side.”

“They love her, don’t they?” Lorcan was suddenly there, so close by her side that she could feel the heat of him. “But only so long as you keep after her, cleaning her messes and making sure no one realizes that she’s causing so much trouble.”

“Havi’s not trouble,” Farideh said, not taking her eyes off the devil nested in her sister’s skin, even though her thoughts were all on Lorcan. The memory of him kissing her-when had that been? Not here, not now. He chuckled. Dahl squeezed her arm.

“Stop that too. It’s not real,” Dahl said, and it sounded as much like he was reminding himself as her. “Farideh, what. . what are we looking at? Tell me what happened.”

A stone wall erupted out of the ground on their left, followed by a crag of pale rock that looked like broken bone ahead. Havilar slipped into the shadows between them and vanished.

“I can help you, you know,” Lorcan crooned. She shut her eyes. “Simple as it comes. No one will ever hurt you. No one will ever hurt her either.”

“It’s Lorcan from the day I took the pact,” she said. “After Havi summoned him. He tells me all the ways I can use it to protect myself, protect her, and I say yes, even though I shouldn’t. Mehen is from the day I went out on patrol for the first time. I don’t want to go, I know it will end badly-it does. I nearly take the blacksmith’s foot off, jumping at a marten. Havilar. .” Her blood flooded with the powers of the Hells. She had to save Havilar, somehow, without hurting her too. “It’s not Havilar, but it is. A devil in her skin. We have to be careful-she’ll fight and not care if Havi-”

“It’s not real,” Dahl reminded her. “The only dangers are the feelings it stirs up.”

“There is dangerous,” Mehen said. “And there is dangerous.”

Oota cried out suddenly. Farideh opened her eyes as Dahl pulled her behind him-she glimpsed Havilar darting past, her grin wicked and her glaive dripping blood. Oota held a hand to her upper arm.

“Gods’ books,” Dahl swore. He looked around and grabbed the dagger Mehen wore at his belt. It came away, solid as the real thing. The memory of her father made no sign he’d noticed or cared-after all, Dahl hadn’t been there when Mehen had readied Farideh for patrol. Dahl tested it in his hand. “Remember someone with a sword,” he told Farideh.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Oota said grimly. She checked her wound. “ ’Course it doesn’t usually work like this either.”

“Think, Fari!” Dahl said. “Anyone with a sword.”

Who do you serve?

“There’s a very rare heir among the Toril Thirteen,” a woman’s voice said. The room sizzled and dissolved into a city in the heart of summer, and another cambion stood in front of them: Sairché, flanked by two erinyes. “The descendent of Bryseis Kakistos, the Brimstone Angel herself. Only three other devils have collected Kakistos heirs. Lorcan must have one. I think it’s you.”

Farideh’s pulse started drumming again. Three, and herself-and Havilar, who was somewhere here, all too near. Sairché couldn’t be allowed to find her.

Dahl moved toward the nearer erinyes, as if convinced she would strike. He pulled the sword and the devil didn’t so much as flinch. But as soon as the weapon was free, Sairché and the erinyes vanished.

And Havilar’s glaive swung out of the shadows once more, aimed straight for his neck. Farideh cried out, and Dahl turned in time to drop out of the polearm’s path. He ducked under its swing and slashed at Havilar’s face with the dagger. A line of blood appeared across her cheek. But she smiled.

And a line of pain seared over Farideh’s cheek, right up to her silver eye. She touched her face, and met Dahl’s gaze over her bloody fingers. Havilar laughed and vanished into the shadows again. Dahl cursed loudly, and both he and Oota moved to stand at Farideh’s back. Red lightning raced over the sky and the roll of thunder echoed Farideh’s runaway pulse.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Fine,” Farideh said mechanically, studying the shadows for Havilar again.

“Hamdir and Antama will be working at waking us up,” Dahl said, passing the dagger to Oota and readying the sword. “We just have to stay alert until they do. Don’t hit the tiefling. Just don’t let her hit you.”

“And if they can’t?” Oota asked. “You know the best way to get out of this.”

“Give them half a chance,” Dahl said coldly.

Bodies erupted out of the ground two by two, fine lords and ladies turning with assassins and shadar-kai in a gently whirling dance that closed in around the three of them. Dahl reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist again. Adolican Rhand’s revel.

“Your sister wants things well within her reach,” Lorcan’s voice said in her ear. “She never needed help. Though”-and the crowd parted to reveal Brin and Havilar, their arms wrapped around each other, and Sairché beyond them, watching-“that can always change.”

A scream rang over the dancers, and all the gentility vanished as the assassins and shadar-kai drew weapons and attacked. The woman in front of Farideh swatted desperately with a fan at the grinning shadar-kai who’d slashed a deep rent through her bodice and down to her skirt. Farideh hardly thought, throwing up a hand, pulsing with the bruised and dancing magic of the Hells.

“Adaestuo!” But as the blast of energy hit the shadar-kai, he turned into Havilar once more, and it was her sister who took the brunt of the spell, and a heartbeat later, Farideh herself felt the concussion of power, the sharp electric crackle of the spell. It stole her breath and blanked her mind for a moment.

But she had to do it again, she thought panting, taking in the rampant carnage around her. She had to stop this. Stop all of this. Even if it was Havilar at the root. Even if it meant-

Dahl grabbed her and she nearly hit him with a second spell, before he wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head against his chest.

“Stop looking!” he said. “Stop. None of this is real, I promise. You have to remember that.”

None of it was real, and yet all of it was real-Farideh’s memories filtered through her very worst fears. That Havilar would be hurt. That Havilar would be lost. That Havilar would be turned into something terrible by sweet-voiced devils promising her easy answers.

“A favor,” Sairché’s voice said, over the screams and the sounds of fighting. “And I’ll protect you and your sister from death and from devils, until you turn twenty-seven.”

Just as they did to you, a little voice said. Something terrible. Something that destroys everything it touches, thinking it knows best.

“That’s not true,” she murmured. Dahl held her closer.

Who do you serve?

The landscape changed with a grinding sound, and Dahl gasped. She pulled away. All traces of the revel, of Arush Vayem, of Waterdeep had burned away, and they were standing at the edge of a hideous landscape-the suppurating ground sprouted tangles of wiry brush, sores of lava, and bony protrusions, watched over by a distant, enormous skull. A scream echoed across the plains, chased by another and another, a chorus of the tortured. Even the sky seemed to loom, ready to crash down on them. Oota was nowhere to be seen.

“Malbolge,” Farideh said, feeling her very core start to shake. “It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”

Bars like thick insect legs burst out of the ground around Farideh, trapping her in place. Havilar eased out of the shadows, glaive still in hand. Dahl set the sword against the cage, reached through the bars, and took her face in his shaking hands. “Look at me,” he said. “Look at me, gods damn it, not at her.”

Farideh drew several long, slow breaths, trying to ignore the glimpses of Havilar she saw from the corner of her eye, and the spikes of panic that came with them-you have to save her, have to save her. The nightmare spun and spun around them, the Hells growing larger and more detailed beyond the terrible cage, hemming them in as surely as the bars.

“This is all my fault,” Farideh said.

“This is that scheming Tharra’s fault,” Dahl said. “Unless you gave her the hamadryad’s ash powder, you’re just as much a victim as the rest of us are.”

But Farideh had made this place, this terrible place-and she couldn’t control it the way she needed to. If she hadn’t taken Sairché’s deal, if she hadn’t ended up in the fortress, if she hadn’t helped Rhand-

“What was yours like?” she asked, making herself look at Dahl. “You said you did this before. What was it like then?”

His eyes flicked to Havilar and back, almost as if he were weighing which was worse. “Embarrassing,” he said. “But not deadly.”

“What did they ask? What did you see?”

“It’s not important.”

“If I have to stay calm, to stop paying attention to all of this, then yes, it is important.”

Dahl scowled at her, still holding her face. “They asked how I got here. And it started with my fall. Followed by every. . shameful, awful moment of my life, and then you jumping in here.” He averted his gaze. “I think I’d gladly trade you.”

Farideh leaned closer, so that she couldn’t see Havilar, her horn ridge resting against the bars. It was as close as she’d ever been to another person-save Lorcan. Dahl’s gray eyes slid back to hers, and belatedly Farideh remembered the dreamscape echoed her reactions. She bit her lip. And Dahl looked down at her mouth.

“You would not trade,” Farideh said quickly. “Watching your. . what do you have? Brothers? I forget.”

“Brothers,” Dahl agreed, looking up again. “Older. But they’re farmers, the both of them. I’m not really afraid they’ll turn on me with blades in hand.”

“I’m not afraid of that!” Dahl gave her a look, and she flushed. “I’m not,” she said. “I’m afraid they’ll turn her. They’ll hurt her.” Her heart squeezed and Havilar darted forward again. Dahl let go, scooping up the sword in time to block the weapon.

“I’d still trade,” he said quickly, blocking a second strike. He glanced back at her. “It’s not real.”

Farideh started to retort, started to tell him it was karshoji real enough-but Havilar’s glaive found an opening, slashing up through Dahl’s belly, into his chest. He gasped. . and vanished. Farideh cried out before she could stop herself. It’s not real, it’s not real-

Havilar turned and gave her a lazy smile. “Are you surprised?” she said, not at all in Havilar’s voice. She stalked toward the cage. “It was always going to come down to the two of us.”

Stay calm, she told herself. When she’d been able to keep herself from getting lost in the fear, things had slowed down. Havilar tossed her glaive from hand to hand, eyeing Farideh like a choice prize.

But it wasn’t Havilar-those weren’t Havilar’s words, and those weren’t Havilar’s actions. What would Havilar really say? she asked herself. If you’re doing all of this for Havilar, what would she actually do?

“Gods,” her sister’s voice said beside her. “You really think I’m a terror, don’t you?” Havilar crouched atop a spur of bone, looking down at her devilself with a wrinkled nose.

“It’s not you,” Farideh said.

“Right,” Havilar said. “Then why do you care about saving it?” She shook her head. “That’s definitely supposed to be me. Only you made me fight like I’m shoveling with that stupid thing. And you couldn’t give me nicer armor? You wonder why I’m angry at you-it’s ’cause you put me in ugly armor that makes me look like I have a ham for a backside.”

“Oh for gods’ sakes,” Farideh said. “I did not.”

“Fine,” Havilar said. “Forget the pothac armor. You’re still convinced you have to save me, and that I’m this big scary something. Do you see that?”

“I don’t, though,” Farideh said. “You’re not.”

“Then why do you have to be in charge of everything? Why is everything sitting on your shoulders?”

“I’m trying to protect you!”

The ground rumbled, shattering the bars of her cage and raining pieces onto Farideh. A great, spiked beast-a dragon made wormlike and twisted by the Hells-burst out of the rock and shot skyward. The creature went stiff, clawed arms waving almost boneless and vinelike, before splitting neatly into three parts that fell away like the petals of a hideous blossom around a heart of stone.

Standing atop the heart was a devil-not merely a devil, Farideh knew down to her marrow. Where Lorcan was beautiful in a way that had made her listen when she shouldn’t, the man on the stone, holding a ruby rod, was beautiful in a way that she wasn’t sure she ought to be looking at. As if her eyes were going to turn inside out at the sight. He pointed the rod at her and spoke, in a voice like ground glass.

You have one task: Stay alive, tiefling. Give no ground. You may find we have more than one goal in common.

The core of the archdevil glowed suddenly blue and bright as a falling star, the light resolving into another of the strange glyphs that marked the Chosen.

“That’s the secret,” the devil-Havilar said.

For a terrible moment, Farideh couldn’t breathe.

Then she shot up, out of the vision, gasping and wet. Dahl stood over her, similarly soaked, and holding a bucket. She sat, trying to make sense of the world. Trying to forget the threat of her possessed sister and the disappointment of her true one.

Trying to forget the glorious, terrifying devil standing on the stone heart.

Trying to pretend she wasn’t sure with every fiber of her being that that had been the king of the Hells himself, Asmodeus.

She covered her face with her hands and fought the urge to wail, to scream, to be sick all over the floor.

“It’s all right,” Dahl said, easing her up to a seated position. “It’s all right.”

“Get her down to the shelter rooms,” Oota said. She was sitting beside the big human man, drenched as well. “You’ve got ’til morning to recover, tiefling.” As Dahl helped Farideh to her feet, Oota turned her furious gaze to Tharra, sitting bound and stern-faced between two more guards.

“Lock her up,” Oota said. “I want to be at my best before I deal with this traitor.”