Phyrea did as she was told, her head tilted to one side, listening. She didn’t hear anything for the longest time and was starting to let the ghosts know of her impatience when the first voice echoed into the limits of her hearing. Muffled by walls and distance, she couldn’t make out any words, but the volume increased as the voiceno, voicesneared.
“… khazark wants you to know,”one of the voices said and it sounded as though they were right outside the room, “he’ll tell you. Otherwise, remember your place.”
The man spoke Mulhorandi, a language Phyrea’s father had insisted she be tutored in. She’d never thought she’d have a chance to use it. The common tongue and Chondathan were all she’d really ever needed, but at that moment she silently thanked her father, wherever he was.
“My apologies, Master,”said the other voiceyounger, a boy. “Shall I await the khazark here?”
Phyrea wondered who or what a “khazark” was, but wished the boy wouldn’t wait for himor itanywhere near the room she was in. She’d promised herself she’d get the flamberge back without killing anyone.
“No,” the man said, and Phyrea fought back the urge to sigh in relief. “The khazark may be very late in retiring tonight. There is much to prepare for.”
Phyrea didn’t like the sound of that, but she did like the sound of their footsteps receding.
Step carefully, the man with the scar advised.
You can take the sword, said the old woman.
Phyrea shook her head slowly. Surely Marek had cast some spell to fasten the weapon to the wall so that no one could remove it without magic equal to or greater than his, or he’d at least trapped it, like he’d done the window and the chest of drawers.
He didn’t think anyone would get in here, the little boy said.
Arrogant, said the old woman. Hike that in a man.
Phyrea shivered and reached up for the sword. It lifted easily off its hooks, and the weight of it in her hands was familiarat once comforting and disquieting. Nothing exploded or leaped out at her.
Go out the way you came, the man with the scar said.
“Thank you,” Phyrea whispered into the darkness.
The man with the scar on his face materialized just long enough to smile at her. Phyrea had to stand there for a moment to calm her shakinga spasm that made her whole body quiverthen she went back out the window.
69
10 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) The Chamber of Law and Civility, Innarlith
Wenefir knew precisely where he stood. It had all been explained to him by Marek Rymiit. Should Pristoleph acquiesce to the senate’s demands and peacefully step down, the Temple of the Delicate Chaos would be allowed to come up from underground. Wenefir would not just be allowed, but would be assisted, in spreading the word of the Mad God to the people of Innarlith. Worship of Cyric would finally come out into the open, and Wenefir was confident that, given that chance, Cyric’s word would take hold of the city and never release it. Ransar? What would that be compared to the spiritual leader of thousands of souls enslaved to the whims of the Prince of Lies?
He walked into the senate chamber alongside Pristoleph. Wenefir could feel the heat radiating from his old friend. Though his face was impassive, impossibly calm in the face of a senate that had come to hate him so deeply they were willing to plunge their own city into civil war, the heat revealed his simmering anger, a rage that literally boiled just below his placid exterior.
Those senators who had had the courage or ambition to attend the session seemed to feel it, too, though none of them came close enough to Pristoleph to feel the heat. Only a very few of them even tried to look Pristoleph in the eye, and most of those who tried, failed to hold the ransar’s powerful gaze.
Pristoleph didn’t even spare a glance in the direction of the black firedrakes. The creatures that used to be his most trusted bodyguards lined the walls of the chamber, hands on long spears and other weapons, and dark passion in their eyes. Wenefir recognized a few of them, “men” who had held posts in Pristal Towers, but their murderous eyes betrayed no shred of the loyalty that had once been so resolute.
Wenefir didn’t let the presence of the black firedrakes rattle himhe was rattled enough as it was, merely from the dense, hot air of the room. Black firedrakes aside, all he had to do was play his role and wait, and Innarlith would be Cyric’s, and by default, his, soon enough.
“Welcome, Pristoleph,” Meykhati said from the dais, his omission of the title ransar was neither unexpected nor unnoticed. “You will have the ear of the senate, and you will not be harmed.”
Meykhati didn’t have to say that. It had all been decided, negotiated, decided again, then renegotiated and settled in the last two days. Pristoleph didn’t appear to have heard the senator. Instead, he walked to the dais, stood next to him, and cleared his throat.
The senators in attendance took their seats, all eyes fixed on Pristoleph. They waited to hear a message they had been given in writing in advance, a message penned in part by Marek Rymiit, in part by Meykhati, and in part by Pristoleph. Wenefir knew that if Pristoleph merely spoke those words and walked away, everything would go back to normal, the streets would calm, the wemics would go back to the Shar, and Cyric’s Black Sun would rise in Innarlith. Sweat beaded on Wenefir’s forehead.
“I come before this assembly for the last time,” Pristoleph beganthe words taken verbatim from the prepared statement. Wenefir took a deep breath. “i will speak my piece, then I will step down as your ransar.”
There was a general murmur in the chamber that made Wenefir cringe. The senators had the nerve to feign surprise.
“But before I go,” Pristoleph went on, “there is something that I must say.”
Wenefir’s head spun. That wasn’t part of the statement. Pristoleph was supposed to have begun thanking people who helped him get where he was. Wenefir scanned the huge chamber for Marek but didn’t see him. How could the Thayan not be here? Wenefir thought. His own internal voice had gone shrill with panic. Cold sweat began to soak through his robes and the scar between his legs began to itch.
“Perhaps you wish to reconsider,” Meykhati warned Pristoleph. “The senate’s patience is voluminous but has its limits. For the sake of peace”
“To the Abyss with peace,” Pristoleph shot back, and Meykhati shrunk away before clearing his throat and puffing out his chest, his eyes darting around the chamber for fear that his colleagues had seen him flinch. “I will speak, and you will listen.”
The assembled lawmakers fidgeted and murmured to each other. One of them stoodAikikoand turned to march out of the chamber. Pristoleph watched her go, his yellow-hot gaze boring into her back. She stumbled on the steps at the end of the aisle and turned. Wenefir saw the fear in her eyes and thought, She looks like I feel.
“If any more of you would like to go,” Pristoleph said. “You know where the doors are.”
That stopped Aikiko in her tracks and she turned, standing at the end of the aisle. She fidgeted, not sure what to do. with her hands, and Pristoleph stared at her for a moment that seemed as endless as it was heavy.
“In the long history of Faerun,” Pristoleph said, his eyes finally leaving Aikiko to bounce around the senate chamber, “change has come in many forms, both good and bad. Empires have risen and fallen, whole races have emerged only to be washed from the face of Toril, and even the gods have tread the land upon which we stand this very dayand even they died like the mortals that bow before them. All of these moments, all of those beginnings and endings, have come at the hands of a man. It wasn’t Mystra who brought low the Empire of Netheril, but a single arch-wizard who gave himself the power of a god. And in that spirit, Ivar Devorast came here from Cormyr to change the face of Faerun for all time, to leave a mark upon the very rock and soil, to dig a river where none existed before, to redraw our maps and change everything in the process. Some of you supported that goal. Others of you opposed it. Some of you watched from afar, content to get on with your lives either way. But not one of younot one of you useless, pointless bureaucratsrecognized the truth of the canal, or of Ivar Devorast, or of me.”
Some of the senators looked angry, some appeared cowed, but all of them remained silent. Meykhati’s face went red, but he too didn’t speak.
