Brimstone Angels

for all the rest of my life. Where are we going after this?”

“I need to be in Waterdeep,” Tam said, grimly studying the curve of the High Road as it traveled away from the coast. “I’m expected there by the end of the tenday.” He paused, looking back at the twins, as if he was no longer certain what to make of them. “You’re welcome to travel with me until then.”

“If we stop in Waterdeep,” Farideh said, “we might have better luck finding a bounty. Or a guard’s job.”

“Fair enough,” Mehen said, tucking the map away. “We need to reach-”

But the rider coming up the southbound path kicked the charger into a gallop. Farideh started to step out of the road, to make way, but the rider, a woman with cropped black hair slowed, staring fixedly at the lot of them.

“Aubrin Crownsilver!” the woman bellowed.

Brin turned, and his eyes widened. “Hrast,” he said.

“Does she mean you?” Havilar asked.

The rider pulled her charger up short a dozen feet from Brin and drew her sword from its sheath. “All of you put your hands atop your heads and leave your weapons untouched.”

“Or what?” Mehen said.

“Or I shall make certain you are charged with the full range of your crimes,” she said. “Put your hands atop your heads.”

“I think we can beat her,” Havilar whispered, moving closer to Brin. “Wait,” Brin said.

“It’s better than letting her arrest you!”

“She’s not going to arrest me,” he said. “It’s Constancia.”

“Who?”

“Your bounty,” he said. “My cousin.”

The woman in the armor set her blade even with Farideh’s chest, not an ounce of fear in her cold gray eyes. The hair that had been so neatly coiffed in the printing was disheveled and filthy, but her armor put mirrors to shame.

The tip of her sword twitched, motioning Farideh aside. “Step away from His Grace.”

“His what?” Havilar cried. She gave Brin a little shove. “What did she call you?”

“His Grace,” Constancia said, “Lord Aubrin Crownsilver of Cormyr. Stand aside or I shall detain you for kidnapping.”

“You can try,” Farideh said, drawing on her powers. She’d be damned if she would let this woman push her aside after everything else. Whatever Brin was or wasn’t, he’d stood beside her while Rohini tried to destroy Neverwinter.

Mehen stepped forward, peering at the woman, a slow smile curving the corners of his mouth and baring his yellowed teeth. He pulled the bounty poster from his breastplate. “I beg your pardon, good-woman. But I think you’re the one under arrest.”

Constancia looked at the printing, then at Mehen’s terrible smile. She looked past him at Farideh, and the warlock met the gray-eyed glare without flinching. Constancia blinked first and took in the shimmer of violet flames in Farideh’s hands.

“Oh, they’re what you think,” Farideh said hotly.

The knight stared at Farideh a moment longer, before dropping her sword in the dust and setting her hands upon her own head. “Oh Aubrin,” she sighed. “What have you gotten into?”

EPILOGUE

The Palace of Osseia, Malbolge, The Hells

The sound of Glasya tapping her scourge against the side of her throne was all Lorcan knew. Even the hellwasps had ceased their buzzing as the archduchess surveyed the devils held before her by myriad spells that left Lorcan at least, if not all of them, still and mute. He did not dare look up from the pattern of the floor.

The hellwasps had made their report, given the statements of the lesser devils for them, and fallen quiet long ago. All that remained was for Glasya to pass judgment. All that remained was for Lorcan to die.

“Well,” Glasya said after an eternity, “there seems to be plenty of blame to share. Invadiah for failing in her mission. These erinyes who served her for failing in their task. The cambion”-and Lorcan’s prison seemed to turn to fire; he still couldn’t scream-“for interfering and for murdering my agents, for sowing discord. The erinyes, Aornos and Nemea, for failing in their task and being murdered. And of course … Rohini.”

Tap, tap, tap.

“The traitor has not been recovered?” she asked. No one answered Glasya, and she sighed, a sound that sent shivers of horror through his own breath. Like a great beast opening wide its jaws-Glasya’s displeasure meant all of their heads.

What would she do if she knew Lorcan suspected her true plans? If she had any inkling that Farideh had marked Glasya’s strange machinations and picked out the far more plausible case-that Glasya sought foremost to make an enemy for Asmodeus of the Sovereignty? Would Glasya care? Would Glasya strike him down for merely guessing? Would she send spined devils to hunt Farideh across Toril’s face?

He stared fixedly at a spot on the floor and wished to never, never know.

Lorcan’s vision went suddenly blank, as if his wish and his fear had been granted in the same moment-but no, he was still breathing. Then he felt his knees buckle, pressing him down into the floor, and heard the thuds of the rest of the court forced to prostrate themselves.

The sound of the god of evil entering his daughter’s court was no sound-and yet Lorcan’s ears felt as if someone were blasting cannons beside his head. The air was suddenly hot enough to make Lorcan’s skin sting and the smell of brimstone burned his nose.

“My lord father,” Glasya said. “You honor us.”

You overstep your bounds, child. If Glasya’s voice made Lorcan shiver, Asmodeus’s made his stomach threaten to empty. Shards of glass ground into his brain would seem less wrong. I am here to see to your own punishment.

“I beg my lord’s pardon,” Glasya said without a trace of fear. “Am I to be punished for the failings of a few of my retinue in completing their tasks?”

Do not take me for a fool. I am all too aware of the damage you have done in Neverwinter.

All at once, Lorcan’s remaining senses were snuffed out like a candle-he could not hear the archdevils, could not smell the scorched remains of previous prisoners, could not feel his own breath coming into and out of his lungs. He simply wasn’t.

Whatever Asmodeus had to say to Glasya, it was not for a mere cambion’s ears.

Just as abruptly, everything returned, and though he had no sense of how much time had rushed passed, he was sure every other devil in the palace-perhaps every devil in Malbolge-had felt the same thing.

“You have me mistaken,” Glasya said. “I would have the reports of the circumstances on Toril read again, if my lord father commands it.”

Do you seek to overthrow me child?

Glasya paused before replying. “Do you know you’ve never asked me that before, my lord?”

Answer the question. Here and now.

“I would not insult your intelligence, my lord. I am your daughter-of course, I would overthrow you given the opportunity. You’d be disappointed, Papa, if I did not.”

Asmodeus’s pride and rage mingled into a white-hot heat that burned across the court.

“But,” the archduchess continued, “you will be pleased to note I am not a fool either. My court is barely established. My powers are at a meek and tender stage. I am your vassal and your willing servant-I would not pretend to your throne. Not yet. Not for quite some time.”

I should kill you, whelp.

“You won’t,” Glasya said, without pride or daring. “There is not a Lord in the Hells who would be so honest