Erin Evans - Lesser Evils

Havilar marched her toward a likely looking storefront. The shopkeeper didn’t greet them as they entered, only eyed them with a puzzled stare.

“Well met,” Havilar said. “D’you sell cloaks?”

The man blinked at her. “Sell the fabric,” he said slowly. “Got a few readymade. Used, all of them.” He jerked his head toward the far end of the shop. “Over there.”

Havilar dragged her sister over to the shelves of colorful cloth, the rack of shabby clothing. “How long do you think it takes to make a cloak?” she asked.

Farideh looked back over her shoulder at the shopkeeper, who’d moved around his counter to keep a better watch on them. “Awhile, I suspect. We’d need a tailor. And more coin. Just look at the worn ones.”

Havilar wrinkled her nose. “These are hideous . Better you wear your burned-up one than this.” She pulled out a roughspun cloak large enough to cover Mehen.

“Add some ribbons,” Farideh said, turning back to the store.

Havilar chuckled. “Not enough on the plane to make it pretty.”

The rest of the shop held a jumble of items peculiar to the sorts of wares adventurers and wayfarers sought out. Cheap, sturdy goods alongside the sort of flashy items a person who’d fallen into sudden coin might splurge on. Weapons. Jewelry. Magical implements.

And a shelf of thick, beautifully bound books that shimmered with the suggestion of waiting magic. Ritual books.

Farideh ran a light touch over the buttery leather spines. They were far finer than the book Tam carried. She wondered if the spells were finer, too-the far-speaking one instead shouting to the heavens; the temporary chapel erecting a splendid temple; the binding circle blocking out the very Hells-

She stopped, eyes locked on her tawny fingers pressed to a cream-colored book. “Havi?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you remember the spell you did?” Farideh asked. “The one that called Lorcan from the Hells originally? How did you do that?”

“A scroll,” Havilar said. “A ritual thingy. Garago had it shoved behind some books.”

Farideh’s pulse sped up. “Do you recall what it looked like?”

“Bunch of runes and lists of things to use. A drawing of the circle you were supposed to do alongside it. I didn’t get to read it too much. It burned up when I did the spell.” Havilar came to stand beside her. “Why?”

“Curious,” Farideh said, taking her hand back.

Havilar peered at her. “I was only joking,” she said. “You should leave Lorcan be. He’s probably dead and if he’s still alive, he’s still trouble.”

“He was more help than trouble in Neverwinter,” Farideh said. “Do you really expect me to leave him for dead?”

“It would be smarter,” Havilar said. “He might have been a help, but he’s still a henish .”

But not the worst. Farideh thought of Lorcan’s wicked, clever sister, of the promise Sairche had left her with in the ruins of Neverwinter. “You will come back eventually,” she’d said. “You will accept my offer. It’s just best if you decide to do so on your own.”

It was Sairche who’d told Farideh that Lorcan had made the pact with her because she was descended from one of the first true, infernally pacted warlocks in Faerun, Bryseis Kakistos. The heirs of that coven of warlocks were rare, Sairche had said, but none so rare as the heirs of the Brimstone Angel, Bryseis Kakistos. There were only four, she’d told Farideh. Four in all the known world, including her.

Five, Farideh had realized, if you included Havilar.

Lorcan had assured her no one knew about Havilar at the time. Since then, who knew what had changed, what had happened? There might be a veritable auction house of devils vying for the right to corrupt her impulsive, eager sister. Vying for the right to claim Farideh, too. And the only devil in the Hells who would tell her what was going on was Lorcan himself. He might dissemble. He might twist her words around to trap her with a false understanding. But Lorcan, she knew, never lied to her.

If I leave him be, Farideh thought, then I don’t know what comes next.

Havilar stood, braced as if for an argument, and for a moment, Farideh thought of telling her everything: Bryseis Kakistos and collector devils, Sairche and Lorcan’s promise, and what might be on the horizon. She’d have to tell Havilar eventually, she knew.

“I said I was just curious,” Farideh told her. “Lorcan can handle himself.”

“Go ask the shopkeeper how long a cloak takes,” Havilar said. “I don’t want to borrow any of these from you.”

Normally, Farideh would have begged off. Normally she would have protested she didn’t want a cloak anyway, so who cared if it was nice or not. Normally, she would have done everything she could to avoid talking to the unfriendly shopkeeper.

But suddenly, there was a chance she might rescue Lorcan and keep Havilar safe. Heart in her throat Farideh walked straight up to the wary shopkeeper. “How much are the ritual books?” she said quietly.

Again, the man said nothing, his eyes flicking from her horns to her tail to the faint tatters of shadows along her arms.

“It’s a simple question,” she said, calm and measured as she could. A little haughty maybe. A little sharp. The way Lorcan might have said things. “How much?”

The shopkeeper looked past Farideh, at Havilar holding up a blood-red cloak whose mud-stained hem came only to her calves. She looked up at the two of them. “Can you make this longer, do you think?” she called.

The man looked back at Farideh. “I can’t sell you that. You’re not of age.”

“Of age for what?”

“For magic. You’ll not get me into trouble with the Lords. Buy a cloak or go.”

Farideh glowered at him. She could feel the powers of the Hells pulsing up through her feet, the curl of shadow blurring her form. Stop it, she thought. Relax.

“My, my,” a man’s voice said behind her, “you are giving this young lady a lot of trouble, Amael.” Farideh hadn’t heard the man come in, and by the shopkeeper’s jolt of surprise, neither had he. The stranger smiled at her through a trim, dark beard studded with jet beads. His tousled hair bore more of the ornaments, and the rich, heavy robes he wore were a rainbow of shadows, making his blue eyes stand out like beacons. His gaze pierced her for a breath, then slid to the startled merchant.

“Master Rhand,” the merchant said, and if it were possible, he sounded even warier than when he’d spoken to Farideh. “Didn’t see you there. This a friend of yours?”

“Not yet,” the man said, and the hairs on Farideh’s arms stood on end. “Tell me,” Master Rhand continued. “When did the Lords pass a law that placed an age barrier on purchasing ritual books?”

The merchant shifted. “Just seems proper. Ought to be a law, anyhow.”

“Show her your wares, Amael.”

To Farideh’s surprise, after a moment of staring at the man, the shopkeeper snorted and reached under the counting table. He hauled out a thick book bound in rusty-colored cloth and dropped it on the table. The yellow, wrinkled pages exhaled a breath of dust and aging ink.

“Fari!” Havilar called. “Come try this one on. See if it fits over your horns.”

“You can have this one,” he said. “Came in earlier this morning and I haven’t had time to get a wizard to look at it. Sixty-five and you and your double get out of my shop.”

Farideh swallowed. “Thirty.”

The shopkeeper peered at her again. “It’s a proper ritual book,” he said in half puzzlement, half protest. “Might look a bit shabby, but that’s what you get for such a good price.”

Behind her Master Rhand chuckled. “Thirty,” she said again.