The Adversary

Chapter Seven

19 Ches, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR) Waterdeep

Farideh did not sleep. She sat on the bed with her back against the wall, watching the door. Every time she started to doze off, she thought of waking in the dead of night with Adolican Rhand standing over her, and she jolted into alertness.

She kept her cloak pulled close around her, her rod in her hand, her sword in easy reach. The room was cold-like a cave more than anything, all smooth-planed black glass-same as the halls they passed through to reach it. The rich furniture-a canopied bed, a raised chest with a ewer and bowl beneath a large mirror, and a brazier burning hot and magically smokeless on the thick carpet-couldn’t hide it, nor did it blunt the faint vibration the stone seemed to give off. Not enough to hear. Just enough to make her even more on edge, as she sat and waited for Rhand’s inevitable return.

Coming back into the world from Sairché’s confinement had been so like waking from a nightmare, only to realize she was still trapped within another dream-one where she couldn’t control her powers and monsters she was sure she’d vanquished rose up out of the ground, undeterred.

“I seem to recall we had unfinished business, you and I,” Rhand had said after he’d shown her into the room. “What a fortunate coincidence your mistress’s plans aligned with mine.”

One of the guards stirred up the brazier and a second laid out a pale nightdress on the bed-he’d draft her proper servants tomorrow, he’d said. Farideh didn’t dare look away from her captor even as her nerves sent up plumes of shadow-smoke, as if they could blur her edges and hide her from his sight. “I seem to recall you drugged my wine,” she said. “And then set your guards after me and my friend.”

Adolican Rhand wagged a finger at her. “Ah, but you were the one who destroyed the site I was so close to reclaiming. A score of my men died in the blast, you know,” he said, as if these were impish pranks. He smiled and it was still unpleasant. “Shall we let bygones be bygones?”

The way he’d looked at her while she drank the poisoned zzar, the feeling of his hands on her waist where they didn’t belong, the way he’d smiled like she wasn’t a threat at all and asked if she wanted to lie down while the crowds around her dissolved into laughing devils and her feet stopped obeying her- Farideh suppressed a shudder. Nothing is bygone, she thought.

She wondered what Sairché had promised him.

A common enemy-that was the deal. The favor would bring down a common enemy. But Sairché hadn’t said who that was. Did Rhand know? Was Farideh meant to turn against him? Was there some fourth wicked source in this arrangement?

But Rhand had given her no sign, and merely bid her good night, saying that he’d send up a maidservant in the morning to help her find her way down to morningfeast. As much as she hadn’t expected to see Rhand again, she’d expected even less for him to make conversation with her like a longlost friend and then walk out the door, leaving it unlocked.

She wondered if Rhand would remember Dahl from before if the Harper got caught. She wondered if Dahl had seen Rhand come down the stairs and if he’d come back for her. Dahl had gotten her away from Rhand the first time, when she couldn’t walk straight let alone say what was happening to her. But the middle of a revel where everyone was at least acting innocent and the middle of a fortress crawling with shadar-kai and devil-dealers were very different.

And, Farideh thought, picking at the embroidery of the coverlet, Dahl only came back for you by accident that first time.

She took a deep breath-again. You can handle this, she thought, staring at the closed door. You are the daughter of Clanless Mehen. You are a Brimstone Angel. .

You are an idiot, a little voice said. You are in well over your head.

As soon as Rhand and his guards left, she’d thrown the nightdress over the mirror. She couldn’t bear to look at her face with all its subtle strangeness, all the minute reminders of what she’d done. In the hardness of her jaw was everything Havilar had lost-including her trust in Farideh. In the slight widening of her cheekbones, Mehen’s broken heart. In the paleness of her skin, there was Brin’s sad expression and the uncertain way he looked at Havilar. In the faint lines around her mouth, there was Lorcan.

Farideh’s throat tightened and she laid her head against her knees, trying to swallow her tears. Do you really think you’re still his warlock now? Sairché had said. Because he was done with her or because Sairché had him locked away? If this was how she protected Farideh, how had she “protected” Lorcan?

It doesn’t matter, Farideh thought as the tears started flowing. There is no reason to think you’ll ever see him again. He wouldn’t forgive you either. She wept and wept for all of them, and without meaning to fell asleep.

The sound of the latch made her leap off the bed, all adrenalin and instinct. The sun had risen, she noted as she caught her breath and tried to slow the hammering of her pulse. How long had she been asleep? She wiped her face as the door opened-long enough all her tears were gone.

So were the rod and the sword.

It was not Rhand who opened the door but a human woman in a threadbare gray skirt and blouse, a black cloth tied around thick auburn hair shot through with gray. She curtsied before entering, trailed by a guard in spiked armor holding a wooden case.

The guard was shadar-kai, and shorter than Farideh by a head and a half, but by the way she moved every ounce of her seemed to be muscle, encased in black leather and trimmed with chains. Her silvery hair was cropped short and stuck out from her head in a wild halo. Piercings of blackened metal pulled at her face, giving her a strange grimace. There were knives at her hips and crossed on her back. The guard looked Farideh over and smiled, displaying teeth filed into points.

The human made another little curtsy. “Well met, my lady. I’m Tharra,” she said, with a familiarity that didn’t fit. “They’ve asked me to dress you for morningfeast.”

“My lady,” the guard added, dropping the case on the table.

“My lady,” Tharra said, smoothly, as if she’d merely paused a moment too long. As if the guard weren’t terrifying.

“What am I supposed to call you?” Farideh said, Sairché’s warnings echoing in her thoughts.

The guard’s eyes were black as Lorcan’s but colder, much colder. She curled her lip, displaying a row of filed, pointed teeth. “Nirka.” She turned to scowl at the maid. “Be quick about it!” Tharra bobbed her head and went to the wardrobe.

“I’m already dressed,” Farideh said. Tharra considered Farideh’s torn and gore-stained blouse, and raised her eyebrows. She looked to the guard who snorted.

“You’ll change,” Nirka said. “He’ll have things to say if you come down wearing that.”

“I’ll suffer them.”

Tharra straightened her apron. “There are lovely gowns in here,” she said, and whether it was her tone or the worry of what Rhand might do, Farideh found herself curious. It wouldn’t be such a concession to change. .

Farideh frowned. That wasn’t like her, not at all. She wondered what Rhand-or Sairché?-had done while she slept.

“There are combs and a necklace, as well.” Tharra opened the case to show a wide collar of jet and rubies that would sweep over Farideh’s collarbones. The combs were decorated with little clusters of lacquer poppies spangled with more rubies and weeping drops of pearl milk. “They won’t suit your current clothes. And Nirka tells me the wizard would like you to wear them.”

I’ll bet he would, Farideh thought.

Farideh thought of Sairché’s cool confidence. She thought of Lorcan’s sly sharpness. She thought of Temerity’s stillness in the face of a Brimstone Angel. She could do this.

Farideh steeled herself and sneered the way she had when faced with Rhand and the dead guards to answer for. “Are the gems what’s making me so interested in dresses?”

Tharra stiffened. “What?”

“What do they do?”

Tharra stared at her, and Farideh had the strangest sensation that she was keeping herself from looking to Nirka. “ ‘Do,’ my lady?”

“How are they enchanted?”

Tharra smiled and shook her head. “They aren’t. Do you prefer they were?”

Farideh touched the gems tentatively-no itch or buzz or tingle. No sense there was anything magical at all about them. She frowned.

“Put her in the dress and come along,” Nirka said. “Your morningfeast is getting cold and Master Rhand is growing impatient.”

The maid pulled several items from the wardrobe-a dark green velvet gown; a gauzy silver one, matched with a long corset; a third, glittering black and red with long, carefully placed strips. Tharra’s amused expression showed clearly through the very transparent red sections.

“That one. A fine gown,” Nirka said, though her disgusted expression showed she didn’t agree. “Put it on.”

“I’m not wearing that,” Farideh said, feeling her stomach knot. “Ever.”

“It will suit your figure,” Tharra said. “You could try it on?”

She could. She could just try it. There was no harm in-

Farideh flinched as if she could shy from the embarrassing, intrusive thoughts. “Hold it up again?”

Tharra had no more than lifted the dress, but Farideh pointed a finger and spat a word of Infernal that carried with it a shiver of energy. The middle of the dress exploded into cinders and tatters of thread. Tharra and Nirka jumped back in surprise, the guard catching the hilts of her hip daggers as she did.

“I am not,” Farideh said again, “wearing that.” She considered the open wardrobe. “Haven’t you any armor for me? Anything with breeches?”

Nirka eyed her impassively. “What do you intend to do, little demon? Fight your way out?”

“I intend to wear what I want,” Farideh said sharply. “Or not leave this room. So you can decide-do you want to explain to him where I am? Or do you want to find me something I’ll wear?”

Nirka looked her over slowly, as if thinking of all the ways she could cut Farideh into pieces. “You will wear the jewels and the combs. And you will tell him what you did to the dress.” She stepped closer to Farideh-close enough Farideh thought about which spells she could cast, which tender spots she could strike if the shadar-kai grabbed her around the throat. “But do remember, it won’t make any difference.” She gave Farideh another horrible grin that bared her pointed teeth. “It may even make it worse.”

The powers of the Hells coiled around Farideh, ready to lash out if the guard so much as moved-

A claw of pain gripped the back of Farideh’s skull. The lights began blooming around her vision again and clustered in shadow-black and foul green around the guard’s heart, and a shimmering purple and bruised yellow around the servant’s. Blue sparked around the corner of her silvered eye. Farideh held steady, trying to channel someone cold and dangerous and not at all afraid of what was happening. Trying not to cry out.

“Don’t leave,” Nirka snapped at Tharra as she swept from the room.

Tharra shut the door behind the guard. “Shall I dress your hair while we wait? My lady?”

“Where are my weapons?” Farideh demanded.

Tharra smiled, the purple light in her pulsing. “I wouldn’t know. They brought me into the fortress just this morning. If I had to guess, I’d say someone took them to the armory.” She gestured at the chair before the mirror. “Nirka would be the one to ask. My lady.”

Farideh sat, her nerves ready to shatter. Nothing felt right, and she couldn’t shake the sensation that at any moment, she would be surrounded by all the things she feared. That if she stopped preparing, tensing for them, they would sweep her away as neatly as Sairché had swept her out of the world.

And then there was Tharra, who was so calm and falsely pleasant, it set Farideh’s nerves on edge.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what’s fashionable in Shade,” Tharra said. “Or have the skill to make it happen. But I can plait-”

“Do what you want,” Farideh said. She could tie the whole mess up in a bow, and it wouldn’t make a difference. Instead of watching her unwelcome reflection, Farideh watched Tharra in the mirror, as she deftly separated hanks of Farideh’s purplish-black hair, plaiting them into smaller sections and twisting them up into knots under Farideh’s horns. A pang of heartsickness hit Farideh-Havilar would have cheerfully pinned her hair up. Although she would have spent the time trying to convince Farideh that the combs would look much better on her.

“Do you come from Shade?” she asked Tharra. The woman’s expression turned curious.

“No, my lady,” she said. “I don’t think any of us do.”

“You just serve him for your own reasons?”

For the barest moment, Tharra’s eyes turned hard as flint. “For food. We take the best we can get in hard times,” she said. “My lady. How is it you plan to serve him?”

Farideh flushed at the unspoken implication and started to retort, but the blue lights that had been flickering in the corner of her silvered eye flashed again in the mirror’s reflection, just over Tharra’s head and behind her. Farideh pursed her lips and tried to quiet them. Sairché would have to come eventually. She’d have to tell her what it was then.

But as she watched, the lights grew and clung to each other. And, for a moment, took the shape of a woman, a tiefling.

Farideh leaped to her feet, jerking her hair out of Tharra’s hands. But the lights had gone out once again, and there was no sign in the little room that anyone but Farideh and the maid had been there.

“Is something wrong, lady?” Tharra asked. She’d taken a good two steps back from Farideh, watching her carefully. The lights around Tharra had vanished too.

Farideh blinked several times, but whatever she thought she’d seen didn’t return. She sat back down. “No. Just finish.”

Nirka returned a moment later with black leather jacks, marked with lines of gold-colored studs. Nirka made a slit in the back seam for her tail, and Farideh mutely pulled them on, still watching the empty air over the bed. The necklace looked preposterous with the high-necked armor, but Tharra draped it around her neck anyway.

“Come on,” Nirka said. She nodded to Tharra. “Clean this up, and I’ll be back for you.” Nirka locked the door behind them, and led Farideh downstairs.

Adolican Rhand waited for Farideh at the end of a long table laden with delicacies she had no stomach for. He stood as she entered, chuckling at her garb.

“I’ll admit,” he said sitting again. “I was hoping you would choose something more flattering. The red one is terribly fashionable in the city, I’m told.”

“Not in any city I’ve been in,” Farideh said, and the wizard laughed.

“Too true.” He gestured at the meal between them. “Please. You’ll have to forgive me, I did not wait.”

Farideh didn’t move. The last time she’d taken food from Adolican Rhand, it had taken tendays to get the poison out of her system. “I ate from my rations.”

“I assure you, my kitchens are much better. Have some fruit at least.” When she didn’t, he chuckled again. “Ah, still holding a grudge. Nirka- reassure her.”

Farideh tensed as the guard stepped up from behind her, a furious sneer twisting her pierced face. But Nirka only took Farideh’s plate and filled it, cutting and eating a bite of each item as she did. Then she stood, glaring at Farideh, as if this indignity were purely her doing.

“I can promise you,” Rhand said, “I’m aware of where we stand now. Of what you can do for me and my patrons. Of what your patron desires. Whatever you think of me, I hope you realize I wouldn’t jeopardize such a privilege unnecessarily.”

Farideh hoped none of her puzzlement showed. She thought of Rhand’s notes, of his crude intimations, of the drugs he’d slipped into her wine, muddling her thoughts and senses. There didn’t seem to be another way to take any of that.

But she remembered Dahl insisting that it was probably nothing, Havilar saying that Rhand was likely no worse than Lorcan. Maybe she was wrong to be so on edge. Maybe he was only an overeager suitor. Had he slipped her anything after all? Or was it only the sedative tea Tam had given her and the stirring of her pact magic?

You’re not wrong, she told herself. But then again, she’d been wrong and wrong and wrong lately.

“Sairché wasn’t very forthcoming about details,” she said, studying her plate. “What is it exactly she said I could do for you?”

“Isn’t that so like a devil?” Rhand said. “Vagaries and half truths? It must be a chore to work with them. Is your patron like that too?”

“Yes.” Farideh looked across the table, not knowing what he meant by “too,” but knowing it was better to seem sure. “So enlighten me?”

Whatever his own assurances, Rhand’s gaze still had an unsettlingly predatory quality and his eager smile did nothing to blunt it. Anger-at him, at Sairché-squeezed her chest.

“You are to assist my grand experiment.” He nodded at the plate of food in front of her, and since the guard was still standing, still clearly full of focused dislike for Farideh, she obliged and nibbled at a bun.

“In fact,” Rhand went on, “with the assistance of your particular powers, I should be able to make the advancements I’ve been stymied from reaching.”

Pain gripped the back of her head again, like a living creature latching on with many-bladed legs. Her eyes watered, and for a moment she could not focus on anything except the agony in her skull and getting her own breath in and out of her lungs.

Then the lights started again, shivering purple and black and deeper shades around Adolican Rhand-who hadn’t seemed to notice her discomfort.

“I don’t care for the term,” he was saying. “Not in this case. Though some come near that mythical status. Not many. Not enough to warrant such a melodramatic title.” He filled his goblet from a near pitcher. “At any rate, they are far trickier to identify in time than one would expect. Finding those with a trace of the divine about them, that’s a trifle. But”-he held up a hand, as if to stop her inevitable argument-“there is a difference, as you can imagine.”

“Yes. Well. I would think so,” she said, nearly choking on the words. Nirka was watching her, a jagged, lashing green light at her heart.

“My first attempts,” Adolican Rhand went on, “were focused only on those traces. It works well enough to gather some, but then I end up with too many false identifications, clogging up my experiments.”

Blue lights appeared into the empty space over his head, one after another. They grew and bled together, even as more popped into being. Farideh winced and she could hardly hear Rhand now, saying, “You can imagine the mess. It works but it’s no good for the rest of them, waiting.”

The lights once more took shape, becoming a tiefling woman trailing tattered robes. She shifted and flickered, like light cast across the surface of water, and the movement made the image of her peel away and build back up, showing skin, then muscle and viscera, bare bone, black shadow and back again-all drifting back and forth at different times, different speeds. As the light drew smooth skin over her face, the woman smiled at Farideh, and laid a bony finger to her lips.

Farideh leaped out of her seat and the ghost vanished.

“Eager indeed!” Rhand crowed. He stood as well. “Come, I’ll show you my arrangement, then we can see how you fare. Garek, Sharit, go get a group ready. Come,” he said again, holding out an arm for Farideh to take. Farideh steeled herself and took his arm, uncomfortably aware of the similarities to the last time he’d offered-the sick feeling in her stomach, her unsteady gait, the strange visions she couldn’t control.

But the lights had come on twice before she ever put a morsel in her mouth. The lights had to be something else. . some symptom or side effect. . some clue. .

She had just worked up the courage to excuse herself, to try and get back to her room where she might have a modicum of privacy to sort things out, when they reached a pair of doors flanked by two more shadar-kai. Rhand eased her in ahead of him, releasing her arm.

Equipment cluttered the room-glass retorts, shelves full of components in jars and pouches and envelopes, shelves of scrolls. Another brazier, burning hot and fragrant with dried herbs. Two large tomes lay open on lecterns at either end, and between them sat three vessels of water the size of shields, magic bristling around their edges. Windows lined one wall of the room, and the guards pushed the shutters open to let in more light. Two younger men in wizards’ robes hunched over open scrolls. They stood straighter as Rhand entered, but he didn’t acknowledge them.

“This tenday’s draw,” Rhand explained gesturing at the basins. “It has to be distilled carefully, with much of the ordinary water removed. A score of buckets full, and this is what’s left.”

Farideh peered at the water. It swirled gently in its confines, looking thick and cold and gleaming with an oily opalescence in the light that streamed through the wall of windows. “And what is it?”

He was silent so long that Farideh wondered if perhaps he’d already said, and now she’d exposed her inattention. When she looked up, though, he had a faraway expression as he gazed at the basins. He looked at her and smiled.

“They are what remains of the fabled Fountains of Memory.”

Dahl crept back down the hillside as dawn broke over the mountains. Late, he thought. Which meant he was farther north than he’d guessed. The dozens of buildings he’d seen multiplied to scores-no, hundreds in the gray light. He slipped in between them, down alleyways, past dark doorways, past closed windows. . past gardens with the last weedy tops of carrots and parsnips gone to seed. Past laundry lines, a hobbyhorse carved from a gnarled branch. Dahl frowned.

Lord of Secrets, he thought, ducking into the open door of an empty hut at the corner of two larger pathways. Don’t let me have sent such a dire message over a village.

But a village should have had more than just huts-there were no smiths or markets or farmlands to be seen. No pigs in the streets, no dogs. No horses or carts. No taverns, he thought, all too aware of the faint headache he’d woken with. He had his flask still-a sip here and there would keep it from getting worse.

He took another before he nudged the shutters open and watched, crouched in the shadows as people started coming out into the streets. With each one, his suspicions were confirmed: the “villagers” didn’t belong, all mixed together, by the shores of the icy lake.

Dahl counted men, women, and children. Skins of every hue. Humans, elves, a dwarf, a pair of half-orcs. A full orc walking alone and cutting his eyes back and forth across the street. If it were a village, he thought, everyone in the North would have heard of it.

Not enough to warrant using the second sending. There was no doubting this wasn’t a village. There was no being sure-not yet-what exactly it was.

Dahl peered closer at the group of humans standing outside, at the villagers who passed by in the meantime. Not one person wore a weapon of any sort, not even the fishing knives you’d expect to see in a lakeside village.

Except for the shadar-kai. Dahl heard the gang of three jangling up the street before he saw them. The villagers heard as well, and quickly got out of sight. A woman, her auburn hair gathered under a black kerchief, leaped in the door of Dahl’s hiding place.

Dahl froze. The woman stepped behind the wall between the door and the window, watching past the doorjamb as the shadar-kai, dripping chains and blades and sneering laughter, passed by. The woman cursed softly and rested her head against the wall.

Not villagers, Dahl thought. But not Netherese soldiers either.

“I’m going to ask you to be quiet,” Dahl said, low and quick, “and tell me if you can see any of those guards from where you stand.”

To her credit, the woman didn’t jump at the sound of Dahl’s voice. She stood a little straighter, and without looking over at Dahl swept her gaze over the street. “No.” She turned and looked Dahl over, not a little fear tensing her frame. She wore the same faded, mended clothes the rest of the villagers wore-as if she had only the one set. All the buttons were missing from her padded jacket and she’d tied a string around her chest, to keep it shut.

“What are you doing out of the fortress?”

Dahl held up his hands. “I’m not with the guards.”

The woman’s eyes flicked over Dahl’s stolen uniform. “Is that a fact?”

“Tharra!” a child’s voice shouted from outside. “You can come out!”

“Go on without me,” the woman called back, eyes on Dahl. “Tell Oota I’ll be there shortly. So whoever you are, keep that in mind,” she said more softly to Dahl. “Obould’s shieldmaiden’ll care if I disappear. Is your scheme worth that?” She shifted back from Dahl, making her jacket gape. Out of the corner of his eye, Dahl registered the edge of something rounded and metal that dragged on the fabric of the woman’s shirt.

“I don’t know what that means,” Dahl said, coming nearer, hands spread. “And I don’t have a scheme.”

It was the wrong move, and Dahl should have known it, he’d realize later. Not a sign he trusted Tharra so much as giving the woman the opportunity to strike out, punching Dahl hard enough to make the Harper see stars and fall back onto the cot. When he sat up, Tharra had fled.

Idiot, he thought, pressing gently on his nose and wincing at the blood his fingers came away with. Even a stranger would rather hit you than help you. At least Tharra hadn’t pulled that weapon in her coat-

He frowned to himself, looking up at the reed roof. Not a weapon. A pin. The edge of metal under her jacket had had the same shape, the same curve as the old Harper pin Dahl had worn for a time. Watching Gods-he rolled to his feet and went to stand in the doorway of the hut. There was no sign of the woman, no sign of the child who’d called to him. Only the strange villagers passing this way and that, bundled in their thin cloaks and worn jackets.

And a trail of white daisies peeking merrily through the half-frozen mud, too early in the season to be in such bright bloom.

Mehen made himself wait for Havilar to wake up and come down for morningfeast, uncertain it was the right course. He had hardly slept, arguing late into the night with Tam and his Harpers, until Brin made him leave. They weren’t saying Farideh was a traitor. They weren’t planning to hunt her down. But Mehen knew Tam well enough to know he wasn’t going to throw out the evidence for being absurd, and no amount of shouting from Mehen would make the difference. They’d go as soon as Dahl had better information.

He wished he’d kept Havilar close all the same. He wished he’d bundled both girls up and whisked them out of this filthy city, out of harm’s way.

He’d made the Harpers swear to take him with them. No one was going to tell Clanless Mehen to cool his heels while Netherese and devils and planes knew what else menaced his daughter. Just the thought enraged him-and he held tight to that rage, knowing the alternative would undo him all over again. He wouldn’t lose Farideh again.

Mehen considered the stairs up to the inn’s rooms, and tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Havilar would need to come as well-a thought that nearly made him willing to stay behind. She wasn’t strong enough yet.

But he couldn’t abandon Farideh. And he couldn’t abandon Havi either.

Mehen sighed and stretched the tension from his neck. The sun was well up and still no Havilar. Probably nothing, he thought. Probably just wants to be alone a bit. He went up the stairs anyway, unable to stand another lonesome moment.

Once upon a time, Havilar had insisted on sleeping on the floor beside his bed-not crawling in like a baby-and once she’d drifted off, Mehen would have lifted her in beside him, off the cold boards. But Havilar wasn’t his wild little girl anymore, seeking comfort from a nightmare. He sighed as he turned down the hall. So many years without them-he felt as clumsy and out of practice being their father as Havilar did with her glaive.

Listen to your gut, he told himself, because there was nothing else he could do.

Brin was standing in the hallway, staring at Havilar’s shut door. Mehen paused, watching the young man for a moment, wanting as much to leave them both to their privacy and to run him off before he could do something to break Havilar’s heart on top of everything else.

There was no word for the knowledge you weren’t supposed to have-how differently would things have turned out if Mehen had found out about the Cormyrean lordling and his daughter a few short tendays after the fact? He couldn’t imagine being anything but furious. But years after? When the boy had become something like a son, something like a friend? Mehen didn’t know what to hope for anymore, except that Brin would be kind to her.

Brin looked up at Mehen and gave him a wan smile. “Well met.”

“Well met. Any news?”

Brin shrugged. “Lot of talk. Tam’s pretty convinced this is bigger than just Farideh. He wants a full expedition, but the others are trying to hold him off until Dahl gets another sending through with more information.” Brin sighed. “Assuming he can. Tam won’t admit he’s worried about Dahl too.”

“Worried he’s a liar,” Mehen said. “Why would she work with Shade?”

“Tam knows,” Brin said. “Still, it bears investigation. Why else would Dahl mention it?”

Mehen bristled. “Because he’s excitable and he doesn’t like her. He said as much.”

“He told you they fought because you scare the piss out of him, much as you do everyone,” Brin reminded him gently. He shook his head. “And who doesn’t Dahl fight with? But all I mean is, there are Netherese involved. So the Harpers need to be involved.”

“They could be involved faster,” Mehen said. If they were too slow, too cautious. . He tapped his tongue against the rough roof of his mouth, reminding himself to be calm. “Did you sit down with her yet?” Mehen asked, nodding at the door.

“Almost. I will. It’s not easy.” Brin shook his head. “You know. You know exactly. Terrible and wonderful and. .”

“And the words aren’t there,” Mehen finished. “Might be best. You lay everything out too quick, you’ll send her running. You don’t need to be the thing that breaks her.”

Brin nodded, as if he didn’t believe it, but he didn’t have a better plan.

“Might be the gift hiding in all this,” Mehen said. “There’s more time before we have to go back.”

Brin chuckled once, bitter and aching. “Not much of a gift.” He turned away from the door. “She’s still asleep.”

Mehen squeezed past him and pounded on the door. “Havi? Havi, you need to get up!”

Silence.

Mehen pressed the side of his head to the door and tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth. There were no sounds-not the faint drone of Havilar’s sleeping breath, not the slight shift of her, awake and annoyed-and the taste of her scent was dull and old. Mehen’s heart thundered in his ears as he wrenched the door open.

The bed was empty. Her glaive, her haversack, her cloak-all gone.

There was only a note on the bed.

And Clanless Mehen, for the first time since Brin had shown up in Suzail and told him his daughters were gone, felt panic sink its frozen claws into the deepest part of him, and pull him earthward. You think the world has hurt you? it might have whispered. There is so much more pain for you.

Steady, he told himself. Steady.

Brin pushed past him, read the note, and cursed. “She’s left. With Lorcan. They’ve gone after Farideh.” He scanned the note again. “They took horses.”

Mehen reached for the note. “She wouldn’t have gone with Lorcan.”

Brin held tight to the sheet. “No. He says he has some way to find Farideh, so they’re following that. North. Gods damn it, Havi.”

“That karshoji henish!” First Farideh, now Havilar-you fool, he thought, you utter fool. He should have killed the devil when he’d had a chance. He should have stopped this, all of this, ages ago. “Tell Tam I’ve gone.”

“Wait!” Brin called. “Mehen you can’t-”

“Don’t you tell me I can’t,” Mehen roared. “I know what I can do. I’m not going to sit here and-”

“Mehen you can’t get to them both,” Brin said. “You know it. There isn’t a horse in that stable-in any stable-that can carry you that fast. By the time you get Havi back, the Harpers will have gone. And they’ll have made up their minds about Farideh, with or without you.”

It was true. He couldn’t be sure how long Havilar had been gone, how far she’d traveled, but with the scent of her so cold and stale it had to be hours and hours.

“If I go now,” Brin said. “I might be able to get her back before the Harpers leave. But if I don’t, you can still go after Farideh.”

There was no part of Clanless Mehen that didn’t rebel at the plan-he would not sit back like an old man and wait for others to do his duty He would not let the boy who held his daughter’s heart in his hands shatter it out in the wilds, where that devil might pick up the pieces.

But they were both out of his reach, and there was nothing he could do in that moment-Brin was right, Tam was right. He had to rely on others and wait.

Mehen grabbed the younger man’s arm, hard enough and suddenly enough to make Brin try and pull away, frightened. Good, he thought viciously.

“You listen to me,” Mehen said. “You find her, you bring her back. You don’t lose her and don’t you hurt her, or I swear on every bit of esteem I have for you now, I will make you wish you left me in that cell.”

“I know,” Brin said. He pulled free. “I don’t want her hurt either.”

Mehen grabbed hold of Brin again, this time in a fierce embrace. “Be careful yourself, lad. Don’t leave me wondering.”