open hall. The sun shone down through the many windows. Through the broken panes, the sounds of the city wafted in. The strong scent of medicinal herbs and dusty books pervaded the place, as well as the electric sensation of the faded blessings only Rohini felt.
“Here we are,” Rohini said, gesturing at the chamber off the main corridor where the supplies were stored. “You’ll need to wear robes to mark you as part of the hospital. There are plenty of spare ones in the cabinets over yonder. Why don’t you three go find some that fit and then we’ll see about rooms?”
The three glanced up at the dragonborn before following Rohini’s suggestion. Good, she thought, or bad. Depending on Mehen.
“You,” Rohini said, slipping in front of Mehen as he tried to follow, “should stay with me though.”
He watched his three charges as they walked away. “What for?”
“I have some questions.” The power of Rohini’s charm trailed along her exhalation, coiling around Mehen like a serpent. His eyes snapped to her, grew distant, then glassy. “And,” Rohini added, “you dearly want to answer them, don’t you?”
“Yes,” the dragonborn said. “Anything.”
“Tell me,” Rohini said, “are you a warrior of Tymanther? Or some other company?”
“Was,” the dragonborn said. “Clanless now. Just a wanderer.”
“A pity.” So no easily found and captured dragonborn tromping alongside him. Ah well, she’d think of something. “And what did you do to deserve such a fate?” She ran a finger along the dragonborn’s jaw frill. “Take up with Tiamat?”
“Love,” the dragonborn said, “when clan came first.”
“Charming,” Rohini said. Easy to toy with and better than worrying about crossing the Dragon Queen. He was almost a perfect specimen. “Tell me about the tieflings and the boy. You think they’ll be trouble if you come away with me?”
“Yes,” the dragonborn said. “Havilar’s glaive is as good as her right hand. She’s quick and she moves with the battle-difficult to hit. She tells me the boy has the blessing of Torm, though he’s not a true priest. His magic doesn’t work always, but if it doesn’t come, he’s likely passable with his sword.” Something flickered in him, threatened to break through the charm, but failed. “But it’s Farideh who will help the other two stop you,” he said. “She is clever enough to combine them, to lead them when they’re afraid or reckless. And she has a pact with a devil.”
Rohini laughed. “Does she now? Well, perhaps she and I could strike up a bargain. Who does she work for? What sort of powers does she have?”
“She creates fire out of nothing. She makes it rain brimstone. She can vanish from one place and reappear a distance away in a burst of smoke-”
Rohini swore, and Mehen stopped reciting. She looked back over her shoulder at the two tiefling girls tying each other’s aprons. A devil-pacted warlock was one thing, a Malbolgian-pacted warlock was another-and the last spell the dragonborn had named was special to Glasya’s powers. This would take some caution, lest Rohini’s plans come apart and Invadiah remove her altogether. The last thing she wanted was the godsdamned
“I don’t suppose you know this devil’s name?”
“Lorcan.”
Rohini went as cold as if she’d been thrown bodily into a chapel full of priests casting blessings. “Lorcan?”
The dragonborn nodded. “She says he’s a cambion, but what I know is he looks like a young man, but with a devil’s form. Wings and horns and such.”
“I know what a cambion is,” Rohini snapped. If Invadiah’s son was in Neverwinter, was he there to aid the erinyes? Or undermine her? Or just undermine Rohini? Had Farideh been the one who’d jostled Mehen from his domination? This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Does she tell you what Lorcan says to her? What he asks her to do?”
“Sometimes,” the dragonborn said. “Sometimes she tells her sister, and Havilar tells me. And what she doesn’t tell Havilar, she keeps to herself.”
“Then you don’t know what Lorcan wants or where he has himself hidden.”
The dragonborn shook his head. “He came when the orc attacked, and then left. I don’t trust him.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rohini scowled. Bargaining with Invadiah’s spoiled son would be an enormous waste of her time. The cambion would probably think he had some sort of leverage. But if she didn’t, there was always the chance she was going to rile Invadiah. What was he up to?
Perhaps he was up to nothing-perhaps she should be asking about Invadiah.
She considered Mehen a moment, wondering if it was worth having to dispose of the tieflings and the human, to risk Invadiah’s anger or subterfuge, to get a dragonborn for Anthus’s servitors. It wasn’t.
Rohini smiled.
“You mentioned there were orcs?” she said. He nodded. “Are there more in Neverwinter Wood?”
“Swarms,” the dragonborn said. “Scouts from Many-Arrows, they say.”
“Perfect,” Rohini said.
The Hall of Justice was not a Tormish temple, not really. But looking on it, Brin still felt as if he might throw up.
Before the catastrophes that had rocked Neverwinter, before the Spellplague that had remade the world, the Hall of Justice had been a temple to a god called Tyr. But Tyr had died-as so many gods had in those days-and his priests found their prayers unanswered. The temple beside the river had stood the century since, the plasterwork giving way here and there to time, earthquakes, and the furious volcano.
Then came Lord Neverember, who took over the temple as his own and filled it with new priests whose god was still listening, to soften the fact he’d commandeered the temple. There were holy champions inside now, performing the rites to Tyr alongside those of Torm, and more guarding the doorway, but it was not a Tormish temple. Not really.
Brin still hesitated at the opposite side of the road.
Even if there are Tormish priests and paladins in there, he told himself, they aren’t Tormtar. They wouldn’t be the brutally efficient sort of holy champion he knew from the Citadel. In fact, Brin felt pretty certain that if Constancia came to the Hall of Justice looking for him, she’d first dress down the two plinth-heads slouching on either side of the door and giving the medusa-eye to passersby. They were holy champions, by the gods, they could bloody well stand up straight! If her squire brought her a breastplate that dull, she’d give him a nail brush and an hour to remedy it!
Brin shuddered. Ye gods, if he came back smelling of puke Havilar would never let him hear the end of it.
Nothing for it, he told himself. He needed to make sure Constancia found him. He’d already gone to the southern gate and told the guards his name-his real name-where he was, and that he was expecting his cousin to arrive. They’d chased him off for pestering them, but they’d remember if Constancia showed up asking.
The Hall of Justice seemed the next likeliest place she might go-but would she, if there was a bounty on her head? Would she take the risk?
Should Brin be taking the risk?
He thought of the orcs, of the way he’d panicked when the twins appeared, of Constancia’s perpetual expression of disappointment. Now was not the time to be a coward. He took a deep breath and started to cross the road.
The door to the temple swung open as Brin reached the foot of the stairs, and of all people, Tam came out. He spotted Brin, and an almost maniac look overtook the expression of disconcert he’d worn.
Brin started to turn, but the silverstar was quicker. He grabbed Brin by the shoulder and stopped him in his tracks.
“Ah,” he said. “My assistant. Come along. I need your help with some rituals.” He steered Brin on the road north, toward the river. Brin went along, too startled to fight at first and then a bit relieved he wouldn’t have to face the Tormish priests.
“Why is it,” Tam said once they’d gone a ways, “when I ask after a young man of your description traveling from Cormyr, does the ranking priest of Torm turn gray and ask that I bring you in to speak with him?
