“Do you have any other demands, my boy?” Marek asked.
He paused, but the creature offered no argument. The wound in his cheek was part cut and part burn. Marek wasn’t sure if his creation could feel pain, but he knew that Willem knew that Marek could kill him with that dagger, and that was enough.
“When Devorast is dead,” Marek went on, “you will have another to kill, as quickly afterward as possible.”
Still the creature stood and waited, and Marek couldn’t really be sure Willem heard a word he said.
“Devorast is not the only one who has been granted safe passage out of the city,” Marek said.
68
8 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) The Thayan Enclave, Innarlith
It’s up there, the man with the scar on his face told Phyrea. lean sense it. lean feel it. Like an itch.
Her lips parted, but she didn’t even draw in a breath to speak. She wanted to ask the ghost if it was that sword, the flamberge, that had killed him, that had made him what he was. But she knew better than to make any noiseeven the faintest whisper.
It was, the man answered anyway, and a cold chill shook Phyrea. You knew that.
She stood in the shadow of a bluetop tree, its leaves rustling in the warm summer breeze. The night was dark, a high overcast blocking the moon and stars. The streets of the Second Quarter were lit only well enough to confer a false sense of security to the residents, but not brightly enough to disturb their slumberor their illicit comings and goings.
Above her rose the imposing stone wall of what used to be Marek Rymiit’s house. No one in the city seemed to notice the momenteven the monththat it stopped being another palatial Second Quarter townhouse and had become one corner of a walled enclave, a little piece of the realm of Thay in the heart of Innarlith.
Wait, the little boy whispered into her head.
Phyrea leaned back into the deeper shadow of the tree and didn’t make a sound. Footsteps approached and faded without pause. She couldn’t see who’d passed, but it didn’t matter. It was the people on the inside of the enclave she had to worry about.
Are you certain you can climb that1? the sad woman asked, and Phyrea’s lips twisted into a smirk.
It’s all right, the little boy whispered.
Go, said the man with the scar.
Phyrea crossed from the tree to the wall in three long strides. Her fingers played at the spaces between stones, finding holds all on their own. When she lifted herself up, the tips of her fingers went slightly numb, but otherwise gave no argument. Her toes, protected only by shoes of soft, thin leather that most people would call “slippers,” helped her toes cling to spaces too small for them to properly fit into.
And here, the old woman said from somewhere close by, as though she too climbed the wall next to Phyrea, you said you were too sick to travel.
Phyrea didn’t answer, keeping her attention fixed on the walla crack big enough for two fingers, a mislaid brick that served as a ledge for one toe. She had told Pristoleph that she still felt the effects of her injuries, that she had trouble walking even. But that was a lie. The sisters had done Chauntea’s work, and done it well.
“Never felt better,” she whispered into the rough stones, her voice so quiet the breeze snatched it away even as it passed her lips.
Pause, if you can, the man with the scar advised, under the windowsill.
Is someone there? she asked without speaking.
I’m there, the little girl answered. I’ll tell you when it’s safe.
Phyrea let her doubts jab out of her mind. She wanted all of the ghosts to know that she didn’t trust the little girlas if she trusted any of them.
I’m here, too, the man with the scar assured her.
Phyrea reached the window, and paused as the apparitions advised. She heard sounds echo from the tall, thin, arch-topped windowsomeone moving around inside.
Wait, the little boy whispered.
Phyrea looked down at the uppermost branches of the bluetop, twenty feet below her, and there was another ten or even fifteen feet to the ground. She held herself to the wall with one toe of her left foot, the leather sole of her right foot, two fingers of her left hand, and three on her right. The breeze ruffled her hair, which she’d tied back out of her face. The leather pants and tunic she wore had been oiled so they wouldn’t creak, and her short sword was strapped tight to her back so it wouldn’t bounce and clank when she moved.
Her left hand began to shake.
Just one moment, the man with the scar promised.
Phyrea couldn’t hear anything.
Now, the little girl said, the word accompanied by the feeling of a sneer.
Phyrea waited, even though her right foot began to slip.
Come in, the man with the scar said, and Phyrea reached up with her right hand and took hold of the wooden windowsill. The heavy leaded glass was hinged like a door and had been left open. Phyrea held the windowsill with both hands and pulled up so that her eyes just peeked over the sill. She let both her feet hang, but not dangle.
The room was dark, and the lack of moonlight didn’t help. For all Phyrea knew she could have been staring at a dozen battle-ready Red Wizards, standing staring at her in the darkness.
There’s no one here, the man with the scar said, and he faded into view. He stood, a figure made of violet light, in the center of the room. The light that formed him failed to illuminate his surroundings.
“Are you lying to me?” she whispered.
The ghost shushed her and shook his head.
The ring, the old woman said, and it sounded as though she was behind Phyreaand perhaps she was, floating thirty feet in the air.
Phyrea closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated on the coolness of the metal band on the ring finger of her right hand. The ring had been a “gift” from Pristolephpurloined by her many months before. She had used it to take a sort of inventory of Pristal Towers, and since then had never bothered to use it. She couldn’t imagine a place with more magic in it than her husband’s house.
She opened her eyes and the ghost of the man was gone, but other things glowed with a similar cool, self-contained light. The window she clung to was ringed with yellow, as was a squat chest of drawers. A wide, high feather bed glowed a sickly green, and a similar hue lit a bearskin rug on the floor in the middle of the chamber. A tray had been set out on a little table, and whatever was in the graceful crystal carafe glowed blue. The sword on the wall was as red as the flames of the Nine Hells.
Don’t touch the frame of the window, the man with the scar said.
Phyrea drew in a deep breath and steadied her shaking arms.
“I’m not sure…” she started to whisper, but stopped herself.
It’s yours, the old woman said. It’s ours, said the little girl.
You can’t let him have it, the sad woman nearly sobbed. Hasn’t he taken enough?
Phyrea didn’t want to listen to them, but not because she was afraid of their liesshe wasn’t, not any morebut because she knew they were right. The f lamberge was hers, and she should never have given it to the Thayan. Phyrea knew she couldn’t undo everythingright all the wrongs she was responsible forbut she could get the sword back and return it to Berrywilde where it belonged.
She flexed her arms and curled her abdomen. Muscles that had only recently been knitted back together by the prayers of the priestesses of Chauntea resisted at first, but quickly enough surrendered to the force of her will. She drew herself up to a handstand, then bent at the waist so her legs stuck out at a right angle, pointing away from the window. She paused like that for a moment, a part of her reveling in the feeling of once again being in complete control of a body that she’d honed, in secret and for all the wrong reasons, into the most insidious weapon’ in Innarlith.