Brimstone Angels

Mehen stared at her, cold and silent. He rocked slightly on his feet.

“Are you all right, Mehen?” she asked.

“No,” he said in hard tones. She stepped back.

“Oh.” She took another step back. “I suppose you’re busy. Helping Rohini?”

“Orcs,” he said. “In the wood.” He glared at her with such intensity, that she flushed. He was still angry. He still blamed her.

She’d excused herself and bumped into Rohini, who’d smiled at Farideh in her cold, syrupy way and sent her off to wash the researchers’ glass … and all the while stood in the next room and glowered and stared and made Farideh feel as if she were under a glass herself, before storming off for no apparent reason. There was something about Rohini that didn’t sit well. Never mind, Farideh thought. Not your concern. Concentrate on fixing the pact. Concentrate on proving Mehen wrong.

Perhaps Lorcan was right-of course he was, he was always right. Mehen did think she was a fool and naive. He saw the pact as akin to her handling a blade too heavy and sharp for her clumsy skills. But if she learned the spells to control it, if she leashed Lorcan a little better …

This isn’t for Mehen’s sake, she told herself. It’s for mine.

As if there were anything she could do to change anyone’s opinion of her anyway. Mehen was still furious. Havilar was still sulking and snapping at her for some slight Farideh hadn’t figured out yet. Lorcan was ignoring her.

Which is what you want, she thought. Except it wasn’t really.

Pulled in two directions, her only hope was to find a path down the middle. Her only hope lay in the shop before her, with the yellow door and the sign that read “Claven’s Armory and General Goods.”

Farideh looked at her hand on the door handle.

You can still change your mind, she told herself. Lorcan’s wicked smile overwhelmed her thoughts.

The bells on the door jingled as she passed into the shop.

The shopkeeper looked up from measuring out a length of rope for a customer and smiled at her. “Ah! You came back. I’ll be with you in just a moment. Kalam!” he called toward the back of the shop. A young man with a scruffy beard stuck his head out between the curtains, a book in his hand. “Would you mind setting a kettle on the fire for tea? And then why don’t you take a break, walk about in the fresh air and get something to eat.”

The young man glanced at Farideh and raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” He ducked back behind the curtain, and Farideh kept herself busy and her thoughts calmer admiring the potions on the shelves. The sunlight bouncing off the polished floors caught in the potion of vitality she’d picked up before like a slice of the summer sky. Beside it, bottles of a thinner red liquid shimmered through each other, deep as rubies.

“Welcome, welcome,” the shopkeeper said as the bells rang again. “I’m so pleased you came back. Admiring my wares, hmm?”

“They’re very lovely in this light,” she asked. “Are they all for healing?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “All the ones out here. Come, come. I have tea and some cakes you’re welcome to. But first, I’m Yvon Claven.”

She smiled nervously. “Farideh.”

“Well met, my dear.” He ushered her behind the curtain and pulled out a chair at the small table there. As Yvon brought tea and cakes and cups and saucers, Farideh looked around the large back room. On one side, high shelves packed with boxes reached to the ceiling, and a rack hung with armor in need of repair dominated one wall, each piece tagged with names of owners and blacksmiths. The farther side of the room was given over to leatherworking, and hides of a dozen sorts waited to be shaped into armor. She peered at the grayish hide draped over the table, and wondered what sort of monsters one hunted in Neverwinter.

“You must have a thousand questions,” Yvon said, sitting down. “But I insist you have a cake before you start.”

Farideh took one gingerly, all too aware of the thin gruel she’d had for breakfast. “Thank you. I do have so many questions. But one is more pressing than the others. It’s about my … Lorcan, my devil.”

“Oh?”

“He is …” She searched for the proper term. “A bit aggressive. I want to keep the pact, but … I cannot keep on the way we have. Is there anything I can do?”

“Of course,” Yvon said. “You’re free to change your pact. I suspect it hasn’t mentioned that?”

She shook her head. “How?”

Yvon poured the tea. “Find another devil. Preferably a stronger one, in case it gets it into its head to hold on. But you’d prefer that anyway-there always comes a time to move up.

“Or,” Yvon added after filling his own cup, “you can kill him. He’ll come back eventually, but usually they’re vain enough to stay away. Still, you ought to get a replacement-no sense in tempting fate.” He chuckled to himself. “Lector’s first pact was with an imp, of all things. It took him years to get rid of it. He ended up having to lure it into a temple of Amaunator where their priests sorted it out. Sugar?”

“Oh. Yes. Please.” He dropped two brown lumps into the tea-it had been a long time since Farideh had had sugar, or tea for that matter. She wrapped her hands around the mug.

The steam rising out of her cup curled like the shapes of her brand. She nibbled on the cake thoughtfully. A stronger devil. It wouldn’t be Lorcan. It might be a devil who left her alone. It might be someone who she didn’t have to worry about saying no to. It might be someone who gave her more impressive spells. It might be better.

And, too, it might be worse. She wouldn’t be so foolish as to say Lorcan was good, but she was not worried that he might force her to do anything unspeakable. Yet. All else aside, she knew Lorcan.

“Is it possible … Do you think there’s a way to keep the same devil, but … tighten its reins?”

Yvon smiled and sipped his tea. “No. As far as the devils are concerned, they hold the reins. And in a sense, they do. If you try to reason them out of that mindset, at best you’re only arming them with ways to needle you. The key, it seems, is not to hand the reins over too easily.” He gestured for her to drink her tea and put another biscuit on her plate.

She sipped reluctantly. The tea was bitter and earthy under the sugar, and it burned her tongue a little. Kill Lorcan, take on a different devil’s pact, or continue as she was. They were not the choices she’d hoped for.

“It isn’t easy,” Yvon said. “And to think you’ve been going at it all alone.” He clucked his tongue. “At least you have a little power, yes? It’s not as if you’re stuck with Lector’s imp.”

“A little, yes,” she said. She broke a piece off the biscuit and pressed it nervously to crumbs between her fingers. “I know most people would say it’s foolish of me, but … most days, I’m glad of the pact.”

Yvon leaned forward and gave her a very solemn look over the rims of his spectacles. “I wouldn’t say you’re foolish for that. After all, without the pact, you wouldn’t have seen the truth of the wider world, the path to true power.”

It was a strange way to say it, but Farideh supposed he was right. If she hadn’t taken Lorcan’s pact, she would still be in Arush Vayem, she would never have seen a Neverwinter full of tieflings, she would not know she was capable of protecting a caravan or trapping a bounty.

“And I would guess this Lorcan is the one who introduced you to the Raging Fiend?”

Farideh set her cup down and frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Asmodeus. The king of the Hells. We often prefer his epithet.”

“Oh.” The king of the Hells’ own blood runs in your veins. “Yes. I mean, I knew some things. Before.”

The bells over the door jingled as a customer came in. Yvon shook his head with a weary smile. “Business intruding on pleasure. I’ll be just a moment.” He stood and passed through the curtained door.

We often prefer his epithet. Farideh sighed. There was so much she didn’t know about warlocks. A whole way of speaking of devils, for one. She wondered if Lorcan’s lady had such an epithet. She took a bite of teacake.

When she heard the rasping voice from the front room, her mouth dried up, threatening to choke her on her mouthful. “I’m looking for people. Not things. A boy, a dragonborn, and a pair of tieflings.”

“Oh?” Yvon said. “Friends of yours?”

Farideh stood too quickly, scraping the chair against the floor, her heart in her throat. The voice continued, “One of the tieflings wields a glaive. The other has a silver eye. Have you seen them?”