Fire in the Blood, page 65
She blinked. “He’s all right?”
Vescaras shrugged. “To be honest, I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know what emergency came up, or how he got there or why he told me instead of you. Should you find out—or should you know—kindly apprise us? There’s no interest in losing agents, but Dahl particularly … well, we’d be worse off.” Vescaras made a face. “Don’t tell him that; he’ll get a big head.”
He’s all right, Farideh thought. He’s all right and he loves you.
And he went to Harrowdale in less than a day, she thought. And he couldn’t tell you.
There was no doubt at all in Farideh’s mind that some devil or other had gotten ahold of Dahl, and there wasn’t a devil in the Hells as eager to harm him as Lorcan. But Lorcan never lied to her—and so it remained to be seen what new danger had intruded into her life and Dahl’s.
Still she smiled. You are all right, she thought. And he loves you.
HAVILAR DIDN’T SIT when she and Brin came to the front room, and maybe that was why he didn’t either. Her tail slashed against the floor, no matter how hard she tried to still it. You’ve decided, she told herself. And it doesn’t matter what he says and it doesn’t matter that you want him to say it.
“I’m not changing my mind just because you shaved,” she blurted.
“I don’t think you should,” Brin said. “This hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been fair.”
“I don’t even really know you anymore,” Havilar said—she reminded herself of that over and over. It’s been eight years. He’s someone else. He remembers someone who isn’t you. That’s where all the troubles start.
“Maybe,” Brin allowed. Then, “But I want to know you.”
Havilar moved around behind the sofa, so she could grab the back of it, hold it like a shield between them. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means,” Brin said, not moving, “I’d like it if we could start over.”
Havilar shook her head. “That … No! We can’t. Do you want to just pretend that none of this happened? That we’re strangers and … What is that even supposed to do?”
You came back, and we just tried to pick up where things fell. It turned into a mess because you’re right—you didn’t know me, and I couldn’t tell you so much. I hurt you, and I hate that. There’s no one I’ve ever loved like you, Havi. No one else understands that, but … I love you best when you are yourself, when you don’t tell me things because I want to hear them, when you remind me I’m being ridiculous or cruel. You’re like my rudder.” He pressed his mouth shut. “I messed up.”
“We messed up,” Havilar allowed. “I should have told you about Sairché. Whatever Lorcan said.” She held tight to the sofa, as if it might be torn away from her. “So what are you suggesting?”
“I want to come with you,” Brin asked. “We don’t have to be lovers, or anything. Just … maybe we can figure out if we are suited, after all this time?”
Karshoj, Havilar thought. You are still in love with him, you pothac idiot. “I don’t know.”
“Can we try?” He shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. We’re too far apart. I hurt you too much—but then we’ll just know you were right.” He smiled at her. “Not a bad set of circumstances.”
Havilar snorted. “You sound like Lorcan when you do that. But nicer,” she added. He reached a hand across the sofa toward her.
“Well met,” he said, grinning. “I’m Brin. Just Brin,” he said. She took his hand in hers.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, giggling. It was silly, but it was sweet. Just like she remembered him.
THE CAMBION WAS clever, Bryseis Kakistos had to give her that much credit. The careful divisions of Sairché’s mind meant the ghost could ride with her, could speak to her, but could not sift through her thoughts, nor could she wrest control of the body.
Yet, Bryseis Kakistos added, as she watched through Sairché’s eyes as the cambion sought out a series of powerful warlocks and wizards. She had not shared the whole of her story with Sairché, the whole of her plan. Only enough to give her the impression that this would be the key to undoing Asmodeus—that this would be a prize his scheming daughter would forget all Sairché’s failures to get. Let the cambion think Bryseis Kakistos was bound to her wishes. Let her think that Bryseis Kakistos was a tool to be used and disposed of. It failed them all in the end.
“Do you care,” Sairché drawled, “if they survive?”
Not especially, Bryseis Kakistos said. I will need a body, eventually. It will work best if it comes from a descendant.
“And you’re quite short of those,” Sairché noted, waving the image to reflect a skeletal lich standing motionless beside a lectern with a large book on it. “We seem to have plenty of options for the spell in question. Any preferences on where to start?”
The portal opening washed Bryseis Kakistos in adrenaline, but Sairché merely waved the mirror back into quiescence, so that it only reflected herself, and the cambion man who was suddenly behind her. Handsome in the sort of way that made mortals make very foolish decisions indeed. He looked so like Caisys that Bryseis Kakistos laughed.
“My brother,” Sairché murmured.
You never told me you were the children of the Vicelord.
Sairché’s confusion couldn’t be hidden. Don’t worry, Bryseis Kakistos said. You have quite a lot of company.
A memory swept over her, pulling her attention away, into the past: the shameless wishes of the ghost, the ghost bound to her side. Alyona. He’s handsome, Bryseis Kakistos allowed. But when you are alive again, you’ll see there’s so much more for you now.
It rushed her away, back into the past, and tossed her back out in the present just as swiftly. Bryseis Kakistos tried to cling to it—Alyona? Who was Alyona? But the memories were lost again, pulled away on the ever-circling edges of her damaged soul. She turned her attention to Sairché’s, to the cambion man.
“Where is she?” Sairché asked.
“Which she?” he retorted.
Sairché gave him a withering look. “Farideh. The only she you give a damn about.”
“Suzail, for now,” he said, ignoring the barb. “Don’t get any ideas—I plan to keep a very close eye on her in the near future.”
Tell him Asmodeus does as well.
“So does Asmodeus, I hear.”
Lorcan narrowed his eyes. “Sairché, don’t pretend to be clever. Of course he does. Why would he ignore his Chosen?”
“He ignores them left and right,” Sairché returned. “Three of them are already dead.”
Ask him if he knows why she was made a Chosen.
Sairché stumbled at that—the kind of question the devils were loath to dig into, the kind of question that might draw the attention of Asmodeus. “Why do you suppose,” her brave little cambion said, “that he made her one of his Chosen?”
“To make my life more miserable still?” Lorcan guessed. “Who knows? It’s an odd choice, that much is plain. A nearly uncorrupted Chosen of Asmodeus? Shit and ashes, the Princes of the Abyss are probably rolling.”
Sairché chuckled. “Aw, did your plans to corrupt her fall through?”
Bryseis Kakistos considered the cambion, the near image of his sire, and considered too, the dearth of descendants, the need for a solid form.
Ask him if he still takes her to bed, she told Sairché, plans for the next stage of her reincarnation neatly unfolding.
ILSTAN NYARIL EMERGED from the sewers to the north of the city, still limping and wounded but sane. For the moment: The intermittent murmurs of the Lord of Spells were eating away at the clarity that last battle had bought him. The magic of the Weave was beginning to pull him in again. He would have to find others—other spellcasters—whose magic he could augment, whose spells he could improve with the blessings of Azuth.
… the seal is weakened … the key is found … the Lady of Black Magic is searching, searching … how is a devil like a wizard?… both bleed until they don’t …
A healer, he thought. You have to find a healer. He sat down in the crust of snow and cast a cantrip. A needle and thread appeared and stitched the note into the sleeve of his robes in shimmery thread. If the madness overtook him again, here would be a reminder before it was too late. Find a healer. Give the magic to another caster. Find Farideh. Rescue the Lord of Spells.
You have to kill her, he told himself. Even if it made him squeamish—she might seem kind and safe and certain. But there was no escaping that she had been Chosen by the god who’d murdered Azuth, the god who no doubt kept him trapped. That she held the key to his release and return. That she had to die for Azuth to live, for Ilstan to be exonerated and cured of this building madness.
Find Farideh. Ilstan traced the roughly embroidered runes upon his robe’s lap, and considered the setting sun. He began to walk toward Proskur—a healer first, then a way to track her. The right components, the right persons, and she would be easily pinned down, a sacrifice for the rebirth of Azuth.
Erin M. Evans, Fire in the Blood
