“Thank you,” she said. “I think it’s a story people have forgotten.”
Easy to do. And it is my pleasure to enlighten you. When you are finished with this part of the spell, perhaps we can delve further into these lost tales. Perhaps there are other things that have been kept from you.
She smoothed the map open and searched the spellbook for the incantation the Book had mentioned, her heart a little lighter … but she couldn’t help but wonder why Lorcan had never told her. Even if he’d kept secret the nature of collector devils and the implications of a Toril Thirteen set, the story of Bryseis Kakistos would have made her far more comfortable with the pact far sooner.
Maybe he thought you’d give in and corrupt like any other warlock, a little voice said.
Tell me, the Book said, who laid those spells on you?
Farideh ran a hand over her upper arm, feeling the raised edges of the infernal shapes through the thin cotton. What else could it mean? “It’s part of the pact. It ties me to the Hells. To a devil in the Hells.”
A most … protective master, the Book mused.
She pursed her mouth. “He’s not my master.”
The Book chuckled again. Your pardon.
She finished the line of runes-neat enough, she hoped. “What now?”
There should be a very long section near the center of the book about components.
Farideh paged ahead, past field after field of neat, close-spaced handwriting describing the long development of ritual after ritual.. She could only imagine how many years it had taken someone to craft the tome.
She frowned. “Where did this book come from?”
Where do any books come from? The imagination and effort of the wise and determined.
“No,” she said, “I mean, this is a book about ritual magic, and you said there was no such thing in Tarchamus’s day. That there was no need for such things.”
There wasn’t, the Book said. The rabble of wizards made all sorts of magic by abusing the powers of the Weave. And a few worked around it, like Tarchamus. If you should like to know more about the origins of magic like yours, I should be happy to point you in the proper direction.
“Tarchamus was a warlock?”
Oh my, no, the Book said. But he did come up with terribly clever ways around the limitations of the Weave by seeking the powers of the planes.
“And the ritual book?” she said. “How did it get here?”
The Book was quiet a moment. Left by some earlier visitors, obviously, it said. I don’t know why you couldn’t figure that out.
Farideh didn’t argue, and went back to searching for the pages on components, but in the back of her thoughts, she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of person would abandon a book so clearly valued as this one.
Mira made herself close the book, but marked it for later. Just a misfiled ledger of caravans passing through Low Netherese cities-no hint at all of what she was supposed to be looking for there-but, Watching Gods, how many little jewels of information lay gleaming just under the surface of such ephemera! Why did this city need so much lumber when it lay near a forest? Conflict with the elves? A rot afflicting the trees? Border skirmishes with another city? Why did that city see half as many caravans? Fewer people? More resources? A more insular council?
A whole world came to life in such mundane details. Patrons like the Harpers might want magic scrolls and spellbooks, maps to lost ruins and treasure hoards. But a graveyard? A midden heap? A record of commerce? Mira would trade a hundred magical weapons for such rich artifacts.
A shadow fell across her as someone stepped into the space between the shelves.
Maspero. She pulled down another book. “Can I help you?”
“You can tell me you’re not wasting my time,” Maspero murmured. “You know well what happens when my time is wasted.”
Mira gritted her teeth. “We’ve found the library,” she said, “ahead of the Shadovar. You’ll have your spells. I don’t see how we’re wasting your time.”
“And yet your Harpers can’t find my spells,” he said. “I have to wonder, is it because they’re not so clever as you said, or because they’re stalling until those reinforcements they keep mentioning arrive? Those two need to be taken out. Now.”
She mastered herself and turned. “Why would we do that?” she said, sweeter than she felt. If there was one danger to working with Maspero, it was managing his impatience. “Everyone is getting along fine, everyone’s working so well. You kill any one of them and you’ll lose the rest. Would you like to dig this place out with only Pernika to assist you? I promise this is the best way to get what you want.”
Maspero sneered. “What you want doesn’t seem to be what the Zhentarim want.”
“To be honest, Maspero,” Mira said coldly, “I don’t think the Zhentarim know what they want. Graesson sends assassins after your people and prizes, Naliah cuts off your caravans, and that damned Vaasan nearly killed you two months back. ‘The Zhentarim are a fractured organization, imagining they still have world-spanning powers,’ isn’t that what you said?”
“And the Harpers are a bunch of dandies playing hero in the twilight,” Maspero said. “It makes neither of us less dangerous.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her nearer. “And regardless of what the Cyricists are doing, I’m in charge of this expedition, understand? You play nice or your dear old da will get a chance to see how much the Zhentarim are not dandies.”
Mira smiled, even though Maspero’s grip was hard enough to leave bruises. “The Zhents may sneer at how far the Harpers have fallen. They may tell themselves again and again that the lot of them are only fops with secondhand harps and grand ideas.
“But you ought to know better,” she went on, even as he twisted her arm. Her eyes watered. “You’ve seen my father. You’ve seen his chain. And let me tell you, in case you’ve missed it: nothing would suit him better than playing hero to save his only daughter from a mad Banite.”
Maspero held her tight. “You’re playing both sides,” he accused.
“The only side I’m playing is the one that gets this site examined properly.”
“When they figure out who they’re working for, your site won’t matter.”
“You miss the plane for the portal,” she said. “Listen: the Harpers loathe Netheril. Their hatred of Shade is the only thing that kept them from dispersing altogether. This library may be the only place in the world that holds the secrets Shade lost when it shifted planes. No Harper would stand aside and let the Shadovar take those secrets back. In particular, not Tarchamus’s eruption spell.”
“I’m well aware-”
“And,” Mira went on, “it was Risen Netheril who destroyed Zhentil Keep. Who brought down the Black Network enough to let the Cyricists take control from your god and his exarch. The Harpers may not wish to bow to the Zhentarim-and my father least of all-but when the choice is to work alongside each other or bow to Shade and Shar over them … no one would choose the latter.”
Maspero was quiet a moment. He let go of her arm.
“If they work out who we work for,” she said, rubbing the bruise, “remind them of that. My father in particular prides himself on being reasonable. If there’s a zealot among them who wants to act out some chapbook scene, he’ll put a stop to it for you. So long as you stay reasonable.”