Just then all she wanted was to sit in a lavender-scented bath, close her eyes, and soak as much in the silence as the water.
You’ve already become one of us, you know, the little girl said. You just don’t know it yet.
Phyrea looked at her, met her eyes, and smiled. The girl faded away.
And that was when she heard her name.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Leave me alone. I’ll die soon enough.”
Phyrea.
She shook her head and was about to speak, when the voice came again.
Stay away from the canal.
“Ivar,” she said, and her eyes flickered open.
She sat up in the tub and looked behind her. There he wasmade of the same violet light as the rest of them.
Phyrea, I know you can hear me.
“Ivar,” she whispered. “Can you see me?”
She looked at his eyes, but they didn’t meet hers. He stood, his feet an inch off the floor, and he looked up at the ceiling. When he spoke, the movement of his lips didn’t quite match the sound of his voicea voice that sounded in her head, but not in her ears.
Tell Pristoleph. It isn’t safe.
“Where are you?” she asked, the sound of her own voice so loud in the otherwise silent house that it startled her. I’m not there. I’ll find you. She blinked and he was gone. “Ivar?” she whispered.
She gasped and held the breath. She rose to her knees and came part of the way out of the bath water. There was no sign of him, and no sound in either her ears or her head. Tears welled in her eyes and she wiped them away with a lavender-scented forearm.
“Ivar?” she whispered. “What’s happened?”
There’s no one here named Ivar, the man with the scar on his face said.
The cool violet glow once again mixed with the candlelight, but she didn’t look at it. She knew it wasn’t Devorast.
“He was here,” Phyrea whispered.
No one was here, the man said.
They didn’t see him, Phyrea thought. They didn’t hear him.
She let herself sink back into the tub so that only her face was above water.
“Why would he warn me away?” she whispered.
Because he is finished with you, said the old woman.
He doesn’t want you anymore, the melancholy woman added.
“He looked like you,” Phyrea whispered. “Is he dead?”
She sat up straight in the tub, her jaw clenched tight and her hands shaking.
“He’s dead,” she said, again too loudly, startling herself and sloshing water from the tub. It splashed onto the knife, which slid a few inches across the slick marble floor.
“Is he dead?” she whispered, and reached for the knife.
She gasped for a breath and felt her chest tighten around her heart as though her own body meant to squeeze the life out of her.
“Ivar?” she gasped. “Are you alive?”
No, the old woman said. He’s dead.
He has to be dead, the little girl said.
There’s only one way to see him now, said the sad woman.
Phyrea sank the blade of the kitchen knife into her forearm and screamed through the pain that made her hands stop shaking. She cut herself again and she could breathe.
She held her eyes closed until the initial wave of pain passed, then she opened them to see that the room was lit only by the orange glow of her candles.
57
23 Tarsakh, the Yearof Lightning Storms (1374 DR) Pristal Towers, Innarlith
The forces aligned against you are too great,” Wenefir said.
He stared at Pristoleph, waiting for some response, but the ransar sat in silence, staring at the crystal balls. Not one of them showed anything but a reflection of the room in which they sat. They had stopped working all at once, and the arcane words that Marek Rymiit had given Pristoleph failed to bring them back to life.
“Ransar?” Wenefir asked.
Still Pristoleph sat in silence, ignoring his seneschal. “Pristoleph…” Wenefir said.
Pristoleph’s hair flickered on his head, and Wenefir brought to mind the spell that would keep him from being burned should the ransar’s temper once again get the better of him.
“Is it raining?” Pristoleph asked.
“Whpardon me?” Wenefir responded. “Is it raining… outside?”
Pristoleph nodded. “Yes, Ransar.”
“I thought so,” said Pristoleph. “I could feel it.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may,” Wenefir pressed on, keeping his voice low and calm. “I’m convinced you must allow Kurtsson and Aikiko to finish the canal their way. Master Rymiit will provide for the operation of the portal. He’s willing to entertain a mutually acceptable arrangement for the collection of tolls and associated fees for that service. The Thayan Enclave will maintain the magic and guarantee its safety and accuracy.”
Pristoleph smoothed one of his eyebrows with the tip of a finger. Wenefir had never seen that gesture.
“As your closest advisor,” Wenefir went on, “I advise you to agree to this.”
“Do you?” Pristoleph asked. He didn’t seem surprised, and Wenefir could tell he was disappointed.
“There’s nothing for it, Pristoleph,” he said.
The ransar smiled and said, “There’s always…”
After a moment, Wenefir realized that Pristoleph didn’t intend to finish his thought, so he said, “Is it that bad? Is it really some defeat?” “Wenefir-“
“It has come down to a simple choice,” Wenefir interrupted, and pressed on even when Pristoleph turned to give him a dangerous look. “The time has come to choose between Ivar Devorast and Marek Rymiit.”
“Has it?” Pristoleph asked, his eyes flashing yellow. “Has it really come down to that? And of course you would have me chose the Thayan.”
“The Thayan, yes,” Wenefir said. “And why not? It was the Thayan that helped make you ransar, after all, not Devorast. You want a canal. You want ships to stop in Innarlith from the ports of Cormyr and Sembia on their way to Baldur’s Gate and Waterdeep, and vice versa. What could it possibly matter to you if those ships float on water or on magic?”
Pristoleph looked away, again staring at the blank, useless crystal balls. Wenefir sighed and his shoulders sagged.
“I’m tired,” Wenefir said.
“Tired of me?” the ransar asked. “After all these years?”
Wenefir took a moment to consider his answer then said, “No, Pristoleph. The truth is I still admire you. In-ways that I’ll probably never understand I’m still that gutter kid, the castrated chimney rat that you rescued, that you dragged up with you into a life worth living.”
“What then?”
“I’m tired of being dragged,” Wenefir admitted, “up or otherwise.”
“I didn’t drag you to Cyric,” Pristoleph said.
“Careful, now,” Wenefir replied, bringing to mind a prayer that would do much more than protect him from fire. “Invoke his name at your peril, Ransar.”
Pristoleph sighed and ran his fingers through his flamelike hair.
“Why not choose everything?” the priest asked.
“Everything?”
“Everything,” Wenefir replied. “The Thayan’s magic, the support of the senate, the rights and privileges of Ransar of Innarlith, and the canal.”
“I thought I had,” the ransar said.
“Is that what you wish me to convey to the Thayan?” Wenefir asked.
He waited while Pristoleph sat in silence. It didn’t appear as though the ransar was thinking it over. He seemed to just be sitting there. Wenefir hoped that was a good sign. He’d never seen Pristoleph, not in the forty-four years of their friendship, resign himself to anything, but Wenefir hoped there was a first time for everything.