“You wouldn’t understand.”
And from that answer, Pristoleph understood everything. He set his tallglass on the table between them and rubbed his hands together so Devorast wouldn’t see them shake.
“I have made some inquiries,” the ransar said, “andfind that you have very few close associates and no wife. No family.”
Devorast nodded.
“So you have never known the love of a woman?” asked the ransar.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Devorast answered, and seemed content to leave it at that.
“I have,” Pristoleph pressed on. “I do, I mean. At least, I believe I do. Her name is Phyrea.”
Devorast sipped his wine, and there was something in the way his eyes moved that made Pristoleph’s inner heat flare for the briefest moment. Devorast blinked, noticing the rise in temperature.
“You know her,” Pristoleph said.
“We have met.”
“I never thought, when I was a younger man, that I would ever love a woman the way I love her. Women for me were always… difficult. At first I didn’t have enough gold, then I had too much. But then Phyrea. I had only to look upon her onceand if you’ve met her, then you certainly understandand that was it. It was as though she ensnared me, or was it that she embraced me? I don’t know.”
Devorast just stared at him, but it was Pristoleph’s turn to refuse to speak.
“I don’t know what to say,” Devorast finally said, and Pristoleph felt in that moment as though he had achieved the impossible.
“In ways I’m often loathe to admit,” said Pristoleph, “I have surrendered a part of myself to her, a part that I will never get back, that is hers to do with as she will. And no matter what she does or what intrudes from outside, I will never regain that part of myself, and will never want to.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Devorast said, and Pristoleph got the feeling it was something the Cormyrean didn’t want to admit to himself, let alone to another. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Yes you do,” Pristoleph dared. “You have done the same with this canal of yours. That is why you would be content to work in the shadow of a buffoon like Horemkensi. That is why you will sit in a dungeon for more than a year and come out wanting nothing more than to go back there and start digging again.”
“Are you asking me to do that?” Devorast asked. “As the Ransar of Innarlith?”
Pristoleph said, “I am.”
“And who will the men pretend to take their orders from?” Devorast asked.
“They will take their direction from you.”
“And who will I answer to?” Devorast asked.
“You will answer to me,” said the ransar.
“No,” said Devorast.
Pristoleph closed his eyes and sighed.
“I will finish it,” Devorast went on, “but I will do it for myself. I will do it for the work, for the doing of it, not for you, or for Innarlith, or for any ship captain who expects to make an extra silver piece from it. If you mean for me to do it, leave me alone to do it.”
“Your own way,” said the ransar, “with no oversight? No budget? No restrictions?”
“I can tell you precisely how much it will cost you,” Devorast said, and Pristoleph almost winced at the power of the sheer self-confidence the man radiated, “down to the last copper.”
Pristoleph said, “On your way out, write that figure on a sheet of parchment. Gather yourselfeat, sleepfind your man Surero, and get back to work. Build it for whomever you please, however you please, but I will hold you to the number on that sheet of parchment. Down to the last copper.”
26
16 Nightal, the Year of Wild Magic (1372 DR) The Thayan Enclave, Innarlith
And what will it cost me to ensure that this stays between us?” Wenefir asked as he hefted the mace, obviously impressed with its perfect balance.
Marek Rymiit didn’t tell the priest what he was thinking, of course, but instead lied. “My dear Seneschal, I assure you that all our transactions are made within the confines of the strictest, most impenetrable confidence. In fact, I won’t even ask you who it is you intend to hide this beautiful piece from.”
Wenefir rolled his eyes and said, “I am willing to pay for your silence, Master Rymiit, but if you assure me I already have it, I will have to hold you to that.”
“And you wouldn’t hold me to it if I did ask for coin?” the Red Wizard risked, and was answered with just the frigid glare he’d expected from the Cyricist. Time to calm things down. “I jest, of course.”
“Fire and ice?” the priest asked, examining the platinum-inlaid mithral head of the enchanted weapon.
“You have merely to speak the word ‘inflae’ and the head of the weapon will burst into flame,” the Red Wizard explained. “It will burn hotter than ordinary firebut as long as you hold the mace, it will not burn you.”
“And the ice?”
Marek took note of the strange look that fell over the priest as he asked that question. Though it wasn’t an emotion he was personally plagued by, Marek thought the seneschal looked guilty.
“The word is ‘cahlo’, “said the wizard.
“Netherese…” Wenefir sighed.
“You’re familiar with the ancient tongue?”
Wenefir shook his head and laid the mace back into the felt-lined duskwood box. He closed the lid with a gentle touch and flicked the clasp closed.
Marek sank into a leather chair and regarded the priest with a curious eye. The door opened and Marek nodded to the apprentice wizard who looked in.
“Some wine, perhaps?” Marek asked Wenefir, who shook his head, looking down at the box with a distant expression.
Marek waved the apprentice away and the door closed.
“How many Thayans live here now?” Wenefir asked.
Marek shrugged and smiled. He had no intention of replying in any further detail. Instead, he asked, “What is it, Wenefir? There’s something on your mind, my old friend.”
“Are we friends?” the priest asked. “I didn’t think we were.”
“There isn’t a word for precisely what we are to each other, Wenefir,” the Red Wizard answered, meaning to be cryptic in his response. “But I suppose ‘friends’ will have to do.”
“I suppose so,” the priest answered.
“So?”
Wenefir sighed, maybe just for effect, and said, “Pristoleph has freed Ivar Devorast and that alchemist of his.”
Marek blinked and put a hand to his heart before he realized maybe he should try to pretend he wasn’t surprised. But then, even someone who knew as much as Marek Rymiit knew had to hear everything for the first time.
“I suppose Devorast will return to work, then,” the Red Wizard guessed.
“He was pulled out of an eight by eight cell in the dungeons under the Palace of Many Spires yesterday, and I understand he’s already on his way north.”
“Well,” Marek said with a sigh, “I suppose that is the ransar’s prerogative. Surely, though, as his seneschal, you had some influence on that decision.”
“I suppose people could get that impression,” the priest grumbled, his normally reedy voice surprisingly deep. “I have been his oldest and most loyal confidant for more years than I want to enumerate, but my opinion seems less and less relevant to him.”
“Oh?” Marek prodded. “And who has the ransar’s ear if not for you?”
“That woman…” Wenefir started, but wouldn’t let himself finish.
“It’s been my experience,” Marek said, not letting Wenefir stew too much over the fair Phyrea, “that men like Pristoleph rapidly tire of women like Phyrea.”
“Beauty fades?”
Marek laughed and even Wenefir cracked a smile.
“Beauty like Phyrea’s shan’t fade for many, many years to come, Seneschal,” Marek said.
“Her influence on him will last as long, I fear.” Marek shrugged that off.
“I’m surprised at you,” Wenefir went on. “I suppose I’m always surprised at you… but you as much as anyone helped make Pristoleph ransar, and to let that idiot girl, that mad woman, bend his ear…”