Richard Byers - The Reaver

“She doesn’t know my true intentions. You’ll need to watch what you say.”

“Oh, that sounds promising. But don’t worry. I’ll follow your lead. If I didn’t know how to lie, some harbormaster would have hanged me long ago.”

Evendur Highcastle savored the gleaming and clinking of the gold and platinum pieces spilling through his fingers back into the coffer. He’d claimed his share of plunder as a pirate, but the sums were paltry compared to the treasure that came to the hierophant of a thriving religion.

Flecks of his spongy fingers dropped along with the coins, but noticing things like that no longer troubled him. He’d come to understand that no matter how thoroughly he rotted, he’d remain as strong as ever, and he didn’t care that his appearance was horrific. To the contrary. Even as a mortal man, he’d liked inspiring fear. It was as pleasurable as it was useful.

Although if Imbras Ilshansa was frightened, the pudgy, brown-haired young Impilturian concealed it with the aplomb of an accomplished envoy. “I hope the gift is satisfactory,” he said.

Evendur turned away from the coffer and the eight others like it and back toward the emissary and the deep, round pool at the center of the chamber. “It’ll do for a start. But the proper term is ‘offering’. Or ‘tribute’.”

“I beg your pardon,” Imbras said. “ Offering , of course. And, I trust, the first of many. If Impiltur thrives, it will naturally pay homage to the goddess who nurtures it.”

Evendur grinned. “Just what kind of nurturing are you looking for?”

The envoy hesitated. “Well, Wavelord, if you would have me speak frankly … Folk in my land are turning to the worship of Umberlee in increasing numbers, and that, plainly, is exactly how it should be. Unfortunately, in many cases, they’re the same people most dissatisfied with the Grand Council. Thus, their faith often becomes a justification if not a vehicle for riots, rebellion, and anarchy.”

“Yet if Impilturian waveservants preached their sermons just a little differently, they could channel all that anger in a useful direction.”

“The people have the right to be angry,” Imbras replied. “The Grand Council has failed them, and the reason is that such a body is by its very nature incapable of effectively governing a realm. Impiltur needs to restore the monarchy.”

Evendur grunted. “Before my rebirth, I didn’t pay much attention to royal bloodlines. But I believe House Ilshansa claims such a tie to old Imbrar II.”

“I freely acknowledge,” Imbras said, “that my uncle hopes to take the throne. Why shouldn’t my family assert our claim when it’s by far the most legitimate? And once we’ve united the realm, we’ll finally drive out the demon cults that have plagued us for decades.”

“If Umberlee gave Impiltur-and House Ilshansa-such a glorious future, ‘homage’ wouldn’t be enough. Your folk would have to worship her before all other deities.”

“The Queen of the Depths will be the patron deity of the royal family and any noble or merchant who hopes to find favor in our eyes. Her temple will be the grandest in every town.”

“In that case-”

A roar sounded from the center of the room and echoed off the wall. Startled, Evendur and his petitioner jerked in the direction of the noise.

A whirling column like a waterspout rose swaying from the well. Such a manifestation unquestionably involved one of the forces or intelligences to which Evendur was attuned, and he focused his will to probe it.

But before he could begin, the water spun outward and swept him up along with Imbras. They tumbled in an impossible whirlpool that filled the chamber but evidently refused to spill out the doors and windows.

As Umberlee’s Chosen and an undead besides, Evendur had no fear of drowning, but it enraged him to have the element of which he was the rightful master turned against him. He grabbed for the source of the disturbance with his thoughts, his intent now less to comprehend or communicate that to rend and smash.

An opposing power slapped-or perhaps flicked-his awareness back inside his skull with an effortless violence that jolted him. He belatedly realized there was only one entity that could do this, and that might mean he was in real trouble after all.

When he reached out again, his psychic tone was deferential. Unfortunately, it made no difference. The Bitch Queen rebuffed him again, and with equal brutality.

The watery vortex slammed and scraped him against the chamber walls until he feared that even his preternaturally powerful body would come apart. He felt a pang of dread at the possibility of enduring eternity as a detached head or something similarly broken and helpless.

Then, at last, the whirlpool drew in on itself and dumped him on the floor. A waterspout rising from the central pool once more, it took on definition until it was the looming torso of a blue-green woman with seashell ornaments and a cloak made of jellyfish.

Common sense suggested that the water couldn’t simultaneously hold the steady form of a woman and swirl, but even so, Evendur felt that somehow, he could still see the raging tumult of the waterspout as he looked at her. Or maybe the violence was in her smile, all but unbearable with an infinite love of ruin.

Not unbearable to her Chosen, though, and given that, unlike Imbras, Evendur was still intact, he dared to hope he retained that status. He clambered onto his knees and bowed his head. “Goddess,” he said.

In response, pain ripped through him, and he cried out. The torment was Umberlee’s way of telling him she was angry. And that he would be wise to hold his tongue.

“I tasked you to be my hunter,” snarled the Queen of the Depths. “To seize the Morninglord’s Chosen and offer him up to me. And instead I find you playing at diplomacy .” Her malice lashed him again, and then again.

Jerking, Evendur endured the bursts of agony as best he could. A part of him wanted to protest that on other occasions, the deity herself had commanded him to forge alliances like those he’d been pursuing in Impiltur, but he sensed such a plaint would only further enrage her. Reason and fairness were alien to her nature.

After perhaps twenty strokes of the psychic lash, the punishment stopped, although the lingering anger in her voice made it sound as if she might yield to the urge to resume at any moment. “Because of your blundering,” she said, “Red Wizards have seized the Chosen of Lathander. They’re sailing east from Westgate to give him to Szass Tam, who will then put him to death.”

Inwardly, Evendur flinched. This truly was bad. He was supposed to kill the boy prophet in a sacrificial ritual that would both augment his mystical power and discredit the reborn faith of Lathander in the eyes of those who might otherwise have credited its message. According to Umberlee, it was the one sure way to ensure the supremacy of her church across the Sea of Fallen Stars, and it obviously couldn’t happen if the infamous lich lord of Thay slew the child instead.

“Seize the boy,” the goddess said. “Do it with your own hands, and do not fail. You can catch the Thayans’ galley in the straits between Pirate Isle and Gulthandor.”

The towering figure of water lost cohesion as she ceased inhabiting it. With a splash that soaked Evendur all over again, the brine plunged back down into the well.

Though he no longer needed air to survive, the habits of life still lingered, and he took a long, steadying breath. Linked as he was to the Queen of the Depths, he generally rejoiced in her transcendent ferocity. But not when she directed any measure of it in his direction.

He strode through the temple until he found one of the senior waveservants. He told the priest what he wanted done in his absence, then returned to the pool.