Brimstone Angels (17 page)

She poured some water in the basin and rubbed herself a little cleaner with the rag provided, before pulling on her jacks and the hooded robe. Over the basin, a cheap bronze mirror hung, and Farideh stood before it a moment, considering her reflection, considering a face she had looked at in one form or another nearly every moment of her life. The nose was too proud, she thought, the chin too weak for the heavy ridge of horn across her forehead. Why didn’t it look that way on Havilar? With one hand she carefully covered her silver eye, and watched herself for a moment.

“What are you doing?” Havilar said. Farideh whipped around. Havilar was squinting at her from the bed.

“Nothing,” she said. “Washing up. It’s getting late. We should go.” She turned and shook Mehen awake, careful to avoid his belch of lightning breath and Havilar’s scrutinizing gaze. She didn’t want to talk to her sister just then, or be in the crowded little room.

One’s a curiosity, she thought, closing the door behind her and pulling up her hood. A little attention, but not a lot. She could go and find Brin and explain things and no one would get riled. She crept down the stairs.

Brin wasn’t in the taproom. She hurried through and out the door. The courtyard was far quieter than it had been the night before—only a man in a blue cloak sleeping on a broken wagon near the inn’s stables, a few dozen people milling around the well at the end of the street, and a handful of travelers sitting on the inn’s portico, enjoying the sun.

Farideh hesitated, peering at the people around the well and the remaining few wagons. Brin was not there either. If he’d left already … she’d just have to find a way into the city herself. Maybe they wouldn’t care. Maybe they wouldn’t stop her. Gods, it would be so much easier with someone who looked like they belonged.

Especially since she knew she might be going alone.

Mehen had agreed to take their new patron as far as Neverwinter, but not to go into the city. Knowing Mehen, he wouldn’t want to linger, particularly not for Farideh to stop and find other warlocks. She might have to part ways with him then, and Havi, too, if she didn’t decide to stay with Farideh. It made her stomach flip. Surely Mehen wouldn’t be so angry as to abandon her?

She thought of the way he’d dressed her down the night before, and the day before that.
You’re not as lamb-brained as he thinks you are
, Lorcan had said. He was right. Mehen treated her as if she couldn’t make a single decision without—

“Well met, my lovely,” a rough voice called.

Farideh started and turned just enough that she could see the man, a wiry fellow sitting among a group of similarly well-dressed men and women under the edge of her hood. Daggers and drinks on all of them.

“Coins bright, girl? Give us your name and you and your glim little figure come join us.”

She turned and started walking toward the stables. His friends sniggered.

“I’m speaking to you,” the man called. She heard him stand and start across the dry grass. The stables were still half the road away, when he caught up to her. “You might well give me a ‘well met’ or a fair glance.” He grabbed her arm.

Farideh jumped and twisted away from him. She pulled her arm up and brought her elbow down hard on his hand, breaking his grip. Hardly thinking of anything but Mehen’s training, she thrust her hand out against his chest and shoved him back with the base of her palm.

It clearly startled him. He slapped her hand aside more in instinct than anything else, there was so little intent behind the strike. But she stepped away from it … and into the rut of a wagon wheel. Her ankle turned and she tumbled to the ground, her hood flying back as she landed. His friends were roaring now.

If the fact that she’d rebuffed him had startled the man, the sight of her horns shocked him. He took a step back, then glanced back at his laughing friends. “Watching gods. You’re one of those Ashmadai,” the man said.

What that meant, Farideh had no notion. But the disgust in his voice was unmistakable. She didn’t have to worry about him harassing her into his company anymore. She wasn’t even a person anymore.

The fount of power that was the Hells swelled, and she felt the connection to her prime. She didn’t seize it. Not yet. But the threat of the man standing over her riled her nerves and the shadow miasma
started to float off her. It took too much of her concentration to keep it from showing.

“No,” she said. “You have me mistaken.”

“Mistaken?” he snorted. “Much mistaken, just as you had Patrice Roaringhorn mistaken when your kind got him
murdered.
” His friends were closing on them now. “Wasn’t very wise to leave the mark of your dark god on everything.”

“Watching gods, Roglarr,” the bearded man hissed as he reached the young man. “You’re acting like an idiot. Tavern tales don’t make a murder. Patrice ran off with the wrong sort.”

“
Her
sort,” Roglarr growled.

“Well,” the dark-haired woman said, “
you
were perfectly willing to get up her skirts a minute ago. You can’t blame Patrice.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Roglarr pulled his dagger. Farideh started to speak the word that made the screaming blast of energy.

A hand caught Roglarr’s wrist, and a calm voice said, “Put the dagger down.”

Farideh stopped mid-curse. The power flowed back, waiting, swirling.

Roglarr looked up, puzzled, at the man who had been dozing in the broken cart only moments before. The sun caught the silver of the pin he wore on his blue cloak—an elaborate design of stars and eyes—and the metal of the chain he wore wrapped around his waist. Farideh’s attention lingered on the pin. As lovely as it was, it spelled trouble: in his shabby dress, a piece that fine could only be a holy symbol, the mark of a priest.

The man raised his eyebrows, like a tutor waiting for an errant pupil to answer. Roglarr sneered and fought the older man’s grip, but couldn’t free himself.

“Put the dagger down.”

“She’s a cultist,” he said. “A worshiper of devils.”

The priest looked down at her, his dark eyes amused. “Ah. Yes. I see what you mean now. Alone, unarmed, emblems of not a single god—good or evil—on her person—”

“They
hide
them, of course,” the younger man said. “Now take your hand off of me, and help me find someone to bring her to justice.”

“It sounded,” the priest said, “as if you’ve had some tragedy of late. That can make a man foolish. If I don’t miss my guess, your friend fell in with a bad crowd while you were having yourselves a little adventure in Neverwinter, hm?” He looked down at Farideh. “My dear, have you ever been to Neverwinter?”

“No,” Farideh said. She stood, carefully, testing her weight on her ankle.

“Waterdeep?”

“Just the edge. Not past the wall.”

“So,” he said turning back to Roglarr, “it seems very unlikely that you have found yourself a secret member of the cult your friend joined, and much more likely you merely find yourself a bit embarrassed about calling down this lass and finding something you weren’t expecting. Put the dagger away, Roglarr. Go back to your drinking and stop hunting for trouble.”

The young man looked as if he’d rather snap the priest’s head off, but instead he jerked his hand away and sheathed the dagger, before stomping back into the inn, his friends trailing.

“Many thanks,” Farideh said once he’d gone. The man gave her a little bow.

“Not at all,” he said. “Of course,” he added, “if you
are
a member of a dark god’s cult, I shall be terribly embarrassed myself.”

Farideh blushed, and set her mouth in a hard line. “You needn’t worry.”

“Oh, my apologies,” the priest said, with a chuckle. “I’m merely teasing, and doing a rotten job of it. You’re one of the dragonborn’s girls, aren’t you? Did he tell you we’d be traveling together?”

“Oh,” Farideh said. That was where she’d seen him. The priest from the caravan. “Yes, he mentioned.”

He held out a hand. “I’m Tam.”

“Farideh,” she said, taking his proffered hand gingerly. The man grinned, and Farideh was surprised at how bright his teeth were.

“Well met, Farideh.” He looked back over her shoulder. “Where is Mehen? We were supposed to meet this morning.”

“He’s coming,” she said. “He wasn’t feeling well.” She smiled nervously, careful to keep her own pointed teeth covered.

“He seems trustworthy,” Mehen had said the night before, after telling them of the priest’s offer. “But, Fari, he’s still a priest. Sword only from here on out, and don’t test that. You’ll need to keep Lorcan’s spells a secret.”

My
spells, she thought, standing before the priest. She wondered if he had spells of his own, or his goddess’s, that might tease out her connection to Lorcan whether she kept it hidden or not.

But all that worry was making the shadow-smoke start to leak out around her, trying to protect her. She held very still to keep it undisturbed, and tried to slow her breath. The priest kept looking at her.

“You come from Tymanther?” he asked. She nodded—it was close enough.

He grinned. “Whatever they say, I promise I don’t bite.”

At best, the dragonborn had little interest in the gods. At worst, they disdained them, saw them as little better than the dragon overlords and cruel titans their ancestors had escaped when their world had collided with Toril. She knew the only reason Mehen hadn’t dragged her to a priest to see about having the pact stripped away was that he hadn’t run out of options that didn’t involve making him beholden to some god or other.

But the sands in that hourglass were running low—sooner or later, he’d insist they try.

“Oh, well … we didn’t live in the city. We … came from a village on the frontier,” Farideh said. “There were … the midwife was a priestess of Chauntea.”

“Well, I promise you, priests of Selûne are just as harmless and mostly just as pleasant.”

Farideh smiled so she would not tell Tam what a horror dealing with Criella had really been. “I’m sure,” she said after a moment.

Brin came out of the stables then, picking straws from his hair. Farideh started to excuse herself, but Tam caught sight of Brin.

“Ah!” he said. “Farideh, I’d like you to meet my apprentice. Brin. He’ll be accompanying us to Neverwinter as well. Brin, you might remember Farideh?”

A look of surprise passed over Brin’s face, and Farideh pursed her lips. An apprentice priest? He’d left that out. Gods, what had she admitted to the night before?

“We’ve met,” she said.

“Yes,” Brin said. “I … we talked last night.”

“Oh good,” Tam said, with a hard look at Brin. “You took my advice.”

“There you are!” Havilar said, bounding up to them. “Why didn’t you wait for me? Good morning, Brin.”

Farideh flushed. “You were still sleeping,” she said to Havilar, even though she didn’t take her eyes off Tam. “And I just wanted to talk to Brin alone.”

“About what?” Havilar said, turning to Brin.

“About Neverwinter,” Farideh said. “This is … Tam,” she said, ignoring the daggers her sister was staring at her. “He’s the one Mehen said we’d escort. He’s Brin’s … master. This is my sister Havilar.”

“Oh,” Havilar said, though Farideh noticed she had the decency to look chagrined at ignoring him. “You were the one with the chain. It’s a very nice weapon. Well met.”

“Well met,” Tam said, “and I return the compliment. It’s not often you find such a spry glaivemaster. And Mehen?” he asked Farideh. “Will he be ready to leave soon?”

“Yes,” Havilar said. “Definitely.” She traded a glance with Farideh. “Before midday at the very latest.”

Traveling that day was faster and quieter than the day before had been. Farideh stayed as far from Tam as she could, lest her nerves overtake her and she do something stupid. It meant she was usually lagging behind everyone but Mehen, who was still nursing a headache.

But it meant she had time to think.

Lorcan had let her be all morning. If she were lucky, he was busy with other things and she could get to Neverwinter without having to worry about how to hide her pact from Tam or Brin. As long as she kept her sleeves down and she used her sword, they wouldn’t have a reason to think about whether or not she was really a sorcerer.

She wished she knew something about sorcerers. All she was sure of was they didn’t need a spellbook the way wizards did. She chewed
her lip. In Neverwinter, it might do to buy a large book and a staff, so that she might pass as a wizard.

But with Brin, she would have to broach the subject eventually. She needed help—as little as she knew about sorcerers, she knew less about other warlocks. If Mehen and Havilar left—
if
, she reminded herself—she needed another ally. She’d have to tell him. She’d never actually told anyone she was a warlock before. No one but Mehen and Havilar. And the village.

He might be afraid. He might run off. If he was learning from a priest, he might do worse.

She watched the back of the Selûnite priest, walking along ahead of her. She remembered enough of him from the attack on the caravan to be worried. Not the sort to pray and wait. If he found out about her pact, what were the chances he would run off? Slim, it seemed, remembering the way his chain had lashed out and struck down an orc with an explosion of silver light.