Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

“Another of the little toys I’ve acquired from the Thayan,” Pristoleph explained, though he knew he didn’t have to.

“Where am I?” Devorast asked.

His voice was strong and full, though from his appearance Pristoleph had expected something less voluminous-as thin, anyway, as the man himself.

Pristoleph walked across the room, passing close to the man but otherwise ignoring him until he reached the other door and pulled it open.

“This way, please,” the ransar said then stepped through the door without waiting to see if Devorast followed him.

The sitting room was comfortable, but not as garish as the more “public” rooms of Pristal Towers. The artifacts and art were from the far corners of Faerun, the furniture upholstered in Shou silk, the carved sandstone that surrounded the fireplace imported from Zakhara. Pristoleph went to a delicately crafted cart made from what looked like spun gold and poured himself a glass of Sembian wine.

“Would you like one?” he asked Devorast.

When Pristoleph turned he saw that Devorast had stepped to the tall, arched window that looked out over the city, facing west.

“Pristal Towers,” the ransar said. “Welcome to my home.”

“Am I free to go?” the man asked, still looking out at a sky he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Are you refusing my hospitality?”

“I have been your guest for …”

“Fourteen months,” Pristoleph said.

“What more could you wish of me?”

Pristoleph took a long sip of wine and said, “It’s quite good, really. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a glass?”

Devorast nodded, and the gesture betrayed impatience. Pristoleph made sure to take his time pouring the wine, but Devorast made no complaints. Instead, he continued to stare out the window.

“The city hasn’t changed much in fourteen months, has it?” Pristoleph said, stepping to the window and holding out the tallglass.

“No,” Devorast said as he took the glass. “It has not changed at all.”

Pristoleph smiled at the subtext apparent in Devorast’s cold gaze. He sat and motioned for Devorast to do the same. Devorast lowered himself with a barely-audible grunt onto the divan across from Pristoleph.

“There we are,” said the ransar. “Now we can converse like two gentlemen.”

“I am not a gentleman, Ransar,” Devorast said. “You may be, but I am a prisoner.”

“You are no longer a prisoner.”

“Then I am free to go?”

Pristoleph nodded, but Devorast did not stand.

“I imagine you’re curious as to the state of the canal,” Pristoleph said.

Devorast replied, “Only if there is something I can do about it.”

“Well,” said the ransar, “I do hope so. Progress over the last fourteen months has been deplorable. They’re barely farther than they were when you were first detained.”

“And so you’ve dug me out of the hole you buried me in so I can finish it?”

Pristoleph found himself smiling, though by all rights he would never have allowed such impertinence from someone in Devorast’s position. But the truth of the Cormyrean’s words gave him some leeway.

“I’ve dug you out of your hole because I know you didn’t kill anyone,” Pristoleph said. “At any rate, I know you didn’t kill Senator Horemkensi.” “And Surero?”

“Your friend is being released and sent on his way even as we speak.”

Devorast nodded and Pristoleph knew that was as much of a “thank you” as he was ever going to get-and maybe more of one than he deserved.

Pristoleph took another sip of wine, noticing that Devorast hadn’t touched his, then he said, “Though I know you didn’t kill him, I do know that you made him … well, let’s say a sort of ‘cuckold’ for some months while you led the construction of the canal in secret. Do you deny that?”

Devorast looked him in the eye and took his first sip of wine.

“Let’s say that was worth fourteen months,” Pristoleph said. “Just to keep up appearances, you understand.”

Devorast took another sip of wine.

“There’s something I have been waiting some months to ask you,” Pristoleph said.

“You knew where to find me.”

Pristoleph laughed, ignoring the part of himself that told him he should have been offended, and said, “Indeed. At any rate, I wonder if you can tell me now-why?”

Devorast lifted an eyebrow.

“Why would you work so hard to finish a canal that Little Lord H would have gotten all the credit for? Why help him? Why build it in the first place if so many people, so many powerful people, especially since the death of Osorkon, were aligned against you?”

“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, “and find 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 once-and if you’ve met her, then you certainly understand-and 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?”