seemed to recognize her. The cambion grinned.
“I’m Sairche,” she said, “although I’m certain Lorcan’s already told you all about me.”
The girl regarded her with a stoniness that Sairche had to admire. She was wise enough to be afraid, and wiser still to hide it. Skilled too-if Sairche had been a mortal, she might have thought the girl wasn’t cowed.
“It’s polite,” Sairche said, sitting down beside her on the edge of the fountain, “to give your name as well.”
“Is it?” she said.
“Yes. Especially”-Sairche gestured at the people around them, particularly at a knot of tiefling children racing back and forth trying to grab at the leader’s tail-“when in unfamiliar company?” She drew a bead of magic, the beginnings of a spell, to her fingertips. “You don’t want to insult me, do you?”
The girl hesitated. “Farideh.”
“Well met, Farideh,” Sairche said. “Waiting for Lorcan?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you like being his warlock? I imagine he’s rather tiresome. All flash and temper.”
“I don’t know. I’ve no one to compare to. Why are you here?”
“To get to know you better, of course.” Maybe give you someone to compare to.” Sairche leaned in closer as if sharing a secret. “He’s never mentioned,” she asked, “why you?”
Farideh shook her head. “I said yes?”
Sairche smirked. Such a foolish answer. “Anyone can say yes. But a warlock is a bit of a burden, isn’t it? You don’t
Farideh watched the street and didn’t respond.
“There are essentially two kinds of devils who pact with warlocks,” Sairche said. “Harvesters and collectors.”
“Those sound the same.”
“Only because you don’t know what they mean. Harvesters are after souls. That’s the price of the pact, or sometimes they spend their efforts corrupting their charges.” She shrugged. “They find it amusing. But the result is that their warlocks are not meant to be in the world long, especially if they’re not corrupting anyone new. Collectors”-and she gave Farideh a long, appraising look-“are after sets. They want warlocks that match. Certain traits. Certain bloodlines. Certain circumstances. Gets them a little prestige in certain circles.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Lorcan has what’s called a Toril Thirteen. Thirteen warlocks descended from the original thirteen tieflings who made the Pact Infernal with Asmodeus himself. It’s a tricky set, as you can imagine.”
Farideh plucked at her cloak. “He has twelve other warlocks?”
Sairche grinned. Poor little lamb. “Indeed. But he seems to spend an awful lot of time around you. I wonder why that is? I’m not an idiot,” she said gently. “You’re not his paramour. The fact that he thought I’d believe that means either
“Oh?”
“I think he’s desperate to hide you,” Sairche said. “There’s a very rare heir among a Toril Thirteen. The descendent of Bryseis Kakistos, the Brimstone Angel herself. Only three other devils have collected Kakistos heirs. Lorcan must have one. I think it’s you.”
“And?”
Sairche chuckled. “And if that’s you, you have quite a little bargaining chip my brother’s been keeping from you. There are collectors scattered across the Nine Hells who would do … well, anything
The girl searched Sairche’s face, as if she were trying to decide whether to believe her or not. Oh, Lorcan had her good-but he had counted on her never finding out about Bryseis Kakistos, Sairche wagered. On no one ever offering Farideh something better.
Farideh pursed her lips and looked away, off toward the north. “Four,” she finally said. “There are four of … us?”
Another good reason not to keep warlocks, Sairche thought. Mortals focused on the damnedest things. “Three and yourself. You have some long-lost cousins out there, I suppose. Is that it?”
Farideh shook her head. “It’s not as many as I would have thought. There must be lots of devils looking out for … that sort of heir. A Brimstone Angel.”
“Loads,” Sairche promised.
“Is there any way to block their eyes?” She swallowed. “I mean, if you didn’t want to be overwhelmed by collectors.”
“Possibly,” Sairche said. “But I don’t see why you should. There are plenty more suitable options for you. Why not consider them all?”
“I’ll think about it.” She stood as if to go.
“What’s there to think about?” Sairche said. “The sorts of devils that want a Kakistos heir include the peers of archdevils.” She stood too, and looked down her nose at Farideh. “Unless … you have
Farideh shook her head, her expression distant. Perhaps Sairche had read her wrong. “It simply isn’t the sort of thing I intend to jump into again. Good day.”
Sairche hooked her arm into Farideh’s before the girl could stop her. “I’ll see you home. We can talk on the way, as you must have a hundred questions for me. You’re staying in that old temple that Rohini’s holed up in, correct?”
“How did you-”
“The best thing about temples,” Sairche said, her voice low and gossipy, “is that the scrying glass my brother’s so fond of doesn’t work so well through the blessings. You’ll be safe inside.”
“I’m …” She looked down at Sairche’s arm. “I have some errands to run before I return there.”
If she thought to flee with such a pitiful excuse, she was mistaken. Sairche had only a short time before Lorcan found a way to Neverwinter, and she’d better have his warlock set on leaving before then. Sairche squeezed Farideh’s arm more tightly. “Then I’ll come along with you.”
“Just a little farther,” Yvon called back to the orc, who’d told him rather brusquely he was called Goruc. He looked up at the sky, gauging the passage of time: they would be early. He smiled to himself and wondered if Goruc would take that as a comfort or a threat. The path widened into a little grove, and Yvon gestured broadly at the empty space. “And here we are.”
The “grove” Yvon brought Goruc to was no such thing: it was a single pine tree. In the center, the oldest trunk rose up, so thick three men together could not stretch their arms around it. From that trunk, snaking branches, warped by spellplague and themselves as thick as birch trunks, had become roots, plunging back down into the needle-strewn ground, and giving birth to new trunks that sent out new root-branches.
Yvon found himself a seat on one of the low-slung trunks and watched as Goruc spent several moments winding his way around the spellscarred pine, his eyes tracing connections between branch and trunk as complex as any cavern map.
He came around the main trunk and his gaze dropped to the level of his face. Yvon smirked to himself. There was a symbol burned into the tree, overlapped by fresh branches. Goruc reached out and pushed aside enough of them to show … three triangles arranged to form a larger triangle. He frowned and ran a finger over the charred wood.
There was a rustling from the other side of the grove. Yvon kept watching the orc.
Goruc went completely still. He gripped the axe in both hands and edged his way around the thick trunk, scanning the shadowy wood. “What was that?”
Yvon shrugged. “A squirrel? How is it you know the tieflings?”
Goruc’s eyes kept moving over the trees and the shadows created by the low sun. “Got a mutual acquaintance.”
A branch moved behind him.
