mind began to soar from her body, her desires splitting into physical and spiritual.
Ivar Devorast had gone away. She didn’t know where. Even Surero had lost touch with him. Phyrea had made inquiries at once subtle and overt, public and private, desperate and resigned. He was gone as though he never existed. His great undertaking had been ripped from him and gifted to the loudest-squealing toadies of the ransar. Tendays or longer had passed since she’d even thought of it.
And as she made love to her husband on their wedding night, as cursed as it may have been, she even let herself, for the briefest of moments, forget there was an Ivar Devorast. But that brief moment had passed.
A shrill scream tore through her as though she was being sawed in half. Though the sound came from inside her head, still her eardrums trembled against its onslaught. Her body tensed and every instinct in her made her fling Pristoleph from her. She scrambled away from him, but only a few inches, before her legs curled up, her knees knocked her chin, and her eyes pressed so tightly closed her temples began to throb.
Pristoleph’s voice came to her as if from the bottom of a deep well. He called her name, confused at first, then insistent. She didn’t want to hear any real emotion in his voice, not just then, so her own mind masked the fear and desperation, the uncertainty that poured over her. His hand wrapped around her arm and she trembled but didn’t push him away. Tears burned her eyes, hotter even than his touch.
“I can make them go away,” he all but shouted into her ear. His breath scalded her. “Let me help you.”
She shook her head and was only barely conscious of telling him no.
The little girl screamed again, and Phyrea sobbed and stiffened. When the apparition began to break thingsa vase, a mirror, a windowpanePristoleph leaped from the bed, his hair dancing on his scalp like flames.
“Go away!” he roared at the room itself.
She screamed the word “No,” over and over and over again until the little girl stopped screaming and started laughing.
Never let him say that again, the man with the scar warned her.
We will kill you both if you let him say that again, the old woman threatened.
And it will hurt, said the little boy.
Then they went silent all at once. Nothing more was broken, and the feeling of them fled her. Phyrea let a convulsing sob vibrate through her sweat-soaked flesh then wiped the tears from her eyes.
“No,” she whispered.
Pristoleph stood naked before her, heat radiating from his body, and she could tell that if he touched her then she would be burned. She felt herself smile when she thought of the painthe pain that would make it go awayand she reached out for him.
Pristoleph took a step back away from her.
Embarrassed, she drew the satin sheet up to her shoulders to cover her nakedness, then turned her face away from him to cover her shame.
7
2 Alturiak, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR) Temple of the Delicate Chaos, Innarlith
“You seem very certain of Senator Pristoleph’s desires,” Wenefir said, his eyebrows crunched together in thought. “Has he said as much to you?”
“Does he have to?” Marek Rymiit asked. He smiled at the Cyricist who sat across from him. Wenefir’s bloated, too-soft body reeked of stale perfume and sweat. The gold and silver goblet in his hand had been drained and refilled eight times by an emaciated boy in a clean white tunic. The boy’s face was as soft and as clean as his clothing, but his eyes appeared almost dead. Even Marek didn’t want to imagine what so youthful a servant must have been put through to burn so much of him away. “What else is there for him?”
“I assure you, Master Rymiit, the subject of the Palace of Many Spires has come up between the senator and myself on numerous occasions. Not only has he never expressed an interest in the position, but he has repeatedly criticized those who covet it.”
“They say it is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” said the Thayan, “and we both know the same holds true for menbut for genasi, who knows?”
Wenefir bristled at the word genasi, and Marek returned the look with a smile.
“I am no fool, Priest of Cyric,” the wizard said. “Our friend’s… father, was it?… was a native of the Elemental Plane of Fire.”
“Careful, Master Rymiit,” Wenefir warned, then once again emptied his goblet.
The boy stepped up with the ewer, but the Cyricist waved him away.
“Ever careful, thank you, Master Wenefir,” Marek replied with a wink. “I have friends and close associates among the planetouched, as among other races. I hold no prejudices in that regard.”
“But some in this city do,” Wenefir said.
“As a foreigner myself, I can assure you that you are indeed correct. Should Pristoleph wish to continue to keep his secret, as open as it might be among those with more than the most rudimentary education, so be it. I have kept and will continue to keep secrets aplenty on his behalf and others’.”
Wenefir nodded and waved that train of thought away. They both had secrets, they all had secrets, and both he and Wenefir knew that their secrets would be kept as long asand only just as long asit was in the keeper’s best interest to hold them.
“If it’s true what you say of his ambitions,” Wenefir said, “and I am not saying it is true, then this marriage is even more disastrous. Is it not?”
Marek shrugged and smiled broader. “Phyrea is a delightful girl, just the type that Pristoleph anddare I utter his cursed nameIvar Devorast are most drawn to. Or so I’m told.” He winked at Wenefir, who grimaced. “I think she’ll add an air of refinement and culture, not to mention her father’s numerous contacts, to our friend’s social arsenal, don’t you?”
“No,” Wenefir replied, not bothering to mask his surprise-even outrage at Marek’s sudden change of opinion. “No, I most certainly do not. First of all, her father’s contacts fled him the second his life was beaten out of him with his own leg.”
Marek searched the priest’s mien for any hint that he knew it was Marek who had arranged that ignoble death, but if he did know, he didn’t betray himself.
“Secondly, it is well known throughout the city-state that Phyrea is mad, and I don’t mean that garden variety madness that strikes all the scions of the aristocracy in their youth, but well and truly insane. If anything, an association with her will do him damageconsiderable damage. I was certain you agreed with me on that, at least, and not long ago.”
Marek shrugged in a theatrical way he hoped wouldn’t too deeply wound the Cyricist.
“Well,” said the Thayan, “I suppose I’ll have to summon that prerogative we touched on earlier.”
” ‘Cyric smiles on those who change their minds,’” Wenefir recited, but it was plain he didn’t believe itat least not just then. “But still… ”
“But still,” Marek said, “it seems to you as though my stated loyalty to Senator Pristoleph is in question.”
“No more in question than your stated loyalty to Ransar Salatis.”
Marek took that opportunity to lift his too-heavy goblet and sip the cloying, sweet wine. Wenefir swallowed, too, doing his best to mask the trepidation he obviously felt at having challenged the Red Wizard. Even in the safety of his secret, monster-infested temple, Wenefir had to know how powerful an enemy Marek Rymiit would bethe same way Marek knew that Wenefir was hardly a man to be trifled with.
“Here we sit,” the Thayan said, “in a temple dedicated to the Mad God. I know that your own loyalty is to that master. I think it goes without saying that when all is said and done my loyalty is to a certain tharchion far, far away in my beloved homeland. But alas, all has not been said or done, so here we are. You threw your lot in with Pristoleph early, I hear, and have maintained that even after you found a new, much more powerful and compelling master to serve. I have remained loyal to the highest bidder, while nurturing a loyalty to the next highest.”
“And Pristoleph is the next highest?”
