“I’m all I ever needed to be, and all you ever need from me,” Devorast said. “A man.”
“No,” she said, even while wishing it was true. “That can’t be. That can’t be all.”
The stiff leather bodice fell away.
“I’ve said things about you,” Phyrea told him as he put his hand to the side of her face. His palm was warm and rough. “I’ve hurt you.”
He kissed her on the cheek, and she leaned against him. She put her hands on his forearms. The thin tunic he wore was made of rough material, cheap peasant clothes.
“I poison people against you,” she told him as his tongue played on her ear. Her body quivered at his touch. She couldn’t quite breathe. “I hurt you on purpose.”
“No, you don’t,” he whispered, then kissed her on the mouth.
She tried to melt into him, tried her best to disappear into his embrace, but couldn’t.
“If you tell me to stop, I’ll stop,” she said when their lips finally parted. “If you demand my obedience, you’ll have it. If you want me as your wife, your harlot, your slave, or your mistress, you will have me. I will remake myself to whatever standards you impose. I will erase myself if that’s what you wish. I’ll cut myself. I’ll kill myself. I’ll-“
“Do none of those things,” he said into the skin of her neck. “You don’t need to do anything to satisfy me, the same way I’ll never do anything simply to satisfy you.”
Tears streamed from her eyes.
“I can’t have you, can I?” she asked.
“Not the way you mean,” was his answer.
She cried while he held her for a little while, and she only stopped when she realized that in that time, she hadn’t heard one of the voices, or seen a single apparition. She hadn’t wanted to hurt herself, though she’d offered to.
“I have to destroy you,” she told him even as she let him carry her to her bed. “This world is too small for you.”
He moved to kiss her again, but she stopped him.
“There are people who are trying to stop you,” she told him, though he must have already known. “They’ll succeed, too, because it’s easy to do what they do. It’s the easiest thing in the world to tear a man down, to pick at his flesh till there’s nothing left of him but bones. I can’t watch that happen. Do you understand me?”
He smiled in a way that made Phyrea’s heart seem to stop in her chest.
“I won’t let you live to be so degraded,” she whispered as he finished undressing her. “Not by them.”
Those were the last words either of them spoke that night, and the ghosts didn’t come back until Devorast finally left.
14
5 Kythorn, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith
Marek Rymiit couldn’t see the ghosts that haunted Phyrea, but he knew they were there. Though he was no necromancerenchantments were more his cup of teahe knew enough of the ways of the undead. He knew their power and their sharply delineated limitations. Over the past few tendays he’d learned more and more about the spirits that had taken up residence in that poor little rich girl, that tortured daughter of a wealthy idiot, and he found himself inventing more and more excuses to see her.
“My apologies, gentlesir,” Phyrea said to Marek’s oldest friend, “please help me to pronounce your name.”
“ln-sith-riU-ax,” the black dragon said, enunciating each syllable with great care. In the guise of a human, he smiled at her without the barest sliver of interest.
“Insithryllax,” the girl repeated. “It’s an imposing name. To look at you I would have to say you are Chondathan, but that doesn’t sound like a Chondathan name.”
“I suppose,” the disguised dragon replied, “that I’m more Mulhorandi than Chondathan, but the name is… a very old one.”
Marek caught the twinkle in Phyrea’s eyes that told him she might have been close to figuring out that Insithryllax was no more Mulhorandi than Marek was a field mouse.
“How are you enjoying the tea, my love?” Marek asked her, returning the twinkle.
She did her best not to look him in the eye when she answered, “I’ve never been one for tea, Master Rymiit, but I’m sure it’s wonderful.”
“The leaves are harvested on Midsummer’s eve from the slopes of one particular mountain high in the Spine of the World,” he told her, inventing every word of the preposterous tale as he went along. “Ore slaves carry them whole to a shop in the heart of fair Silverymoon, where they are purified with spells granted by the grace of Chauntea. One must have a signed writ from the Lady Alustriel herself to buy it.”
Phyrea laughed and said, “Somehow I doubt you possess such a writ, Master Rymiit.”
“You wound me with the truth, my darling girl,” he responded with an entirely false chuckle. “The owner of the tea shop knows someone who knows someone who knows someone.”
Phyrea nodded, making it plain she’d lost interest in stories about tea she didn’t even drink. Instead she looked at Insithryllax.
“The way your eyes dart around the room,” she said to the dragon, “constantly on the lookout forwhat? Another mad alchemist? A rival wizard determined to resist the inevitable? I was under the impression that no such attacks have come for some time.”
So, Marek thought, you’ve been studying me, too. Well done, girl. But tread lightly.
“I am happy to report,” Marek said before the even more wary black dragon could assume the worst from her playful question, “that my efforts to civilize the trade in enchanted items and spellcraft in Innarlith has met with some success of late. It is a credit to the city of your birth.”
Phyrea forced a smile and said, “Any foreigner can have his way with Innarlith. It’s to your credit only that you have tamed the other foreigners.”
Marek laughed that off and said, “You hold so low a regard for your own city, I wonder why you stay here.”
That elicited a look so grave Marek was momentarily taken aback.
“Please, Marek,” Insithryllax said, “you’ll offend the girl.”
When the Red Wizard regarded his old friend, he was happy to see no trace of real concern on his face.
“Please do accept my” Marek started.
“No,” Phyrea cut in. “Don’t bother. Of course I hold this cesspool in low regard.” She paused to listen to something, but the tea room was characteristically quiet. “Of course I do.”
Marek put the cup to his lips and whispered a spell, hiding the gestures as a momentary indecision over which of the little pastries to sample.
… him the sword, a voice whispered from nowhere. It was a strange sensation. Marek had heard voices in his head before, had often communicated in that way, but it was something else entirely to hear a voice in someone else’s head. It’s for you.
Then a woman: We meant it for you.
And a little boy: If you give it to him, we will be cross with you.
Marek resisted the urge to shudder. Instead he took a sip of tea and studied Phyrea’s face.
She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but she looked older than he knew her to be. She’d seen only twenty summers, but to look at her eyes he’d say she was fifty.
“You’re not well,” he ventured.
She shook her head, but told him, “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard the things you’ve been saying about that horrid man,” Marek said. “You know, that ditch digger?”
“Devorast,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and said more loudly, “Ivar Devorast.”
Use the sword on him, a man all but screamed at Phyrea and Marek brought to mind a spell that he hoped could save his life if she followed that order.
Devorast, the little boy whined. I hate him. You need to kill him with the flam… the flam…”
“The flamberge,” Marek said aloud, risking that the ghosts would realize he could hear them.