Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

He opened his mouth to scream, but when he did his eyes fell on the corpse of his mother and he heard the sound of her blood, dripping at first then pouring over the lip of the single step that led into the parlor.

A barely-audible rattle escaped his wide-opened mouth.

He climbed to his feet, using the wall to steady him, and burst out the front door. The street outside was quiet, and he soon found the cold embrace of a dark alley. There he clawed at the brick wall and tried to think about what he’d just done. He tried to weep, but quickly forgot why, and instead just clamped his teeth shut and shook his head.

There’s another, he thought. There was a better one.

A better-what? He didn’t know.

He staggered away, not even conscious that his lips mouthed the name “Halina.”

19 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

PRISTAL TOWERS, INNARLITH

Had Wenefir not thought to cast a spell to protect him from the ravages of heat and fire, he likely would have been dead after his first few breaths in Pristoleph’s private chamber. The braziers had all been piled high with wood, and torches blazed so bright and hot on sconces all along the walls that the already black stone behind them was beginning to melt.

And in the center of that furnace stood Pristoleph, his strange red hair replaced by a crown of dancing, sizzling flame. His eyes blazed yellow and smoke began to billow from his robes.

“Ransar,” Wenefir called, feeling he had to shout over the roar of the flames. “Pristoleph-how long have you been in here?”

Pristoleph looked at him and shook his head, making the flames on his scalp quiver.

Wenefir swallowed and looked away, terrified by the genasi’s fiery gaze.

“Ransar,” he said. “Please. Let me help you. What is it you require?”

“What is it I require?” the ransar shot back, and though he didn’t want to look, Wenefir thought flames shot from his mouth and smoke puffed from his nostrils. “What is it I require?”

The heat grew so intense that even Wenefir’s Cyric-granted spells began to fail him.

“Please, Pristoleph,” he said. “You’ll burn the place down. For the Mad God’s sake, please.”

Pristoleph took a deep breath and the flames died down a little-as if he’d drawn them into his lungs.

“Better,” Wenefir said, risking a smile. “Thank you.”

“I don’t suppose you can explain what happened while I was away,” the ransar said, his eyes losing some of their fire but none of their intensity.

Wenefir swallowed again and said, “You left Willem Korvan in charge. I-”

“I left no one in charge, Seneschal,” Pristoleph interrupted. “Devorast trusted Korvan. That was his mistake. I trusted the Thayan, and that was mine. Tell me, Wenefir, my oldest friend, which was the greater mistake?”

“Perhaps neither,” Wenefir chanced.

A spark of yellow darted through Pristoleph’s eyes when he said, “The nerve of them.”

“It was a risk on their part, indeed,” Wenefir concurred. “But perhaps there was no real effort to undermine your authority.”

“Undermining Devorast undermines me,” said the ransar.

“As you have said, Ransar, but consider this,” Wenefir said. “Korvan, Kurtsson, and Aikiko were trying to help. Perhaps there was a difference of … vision, but-”

“Damn it, Wenefir!” Pristoleph shouted, and all of the fires burst hotter and bigger to punctuate it before moderating once more. “There can be only one vision.”

Not fully understanding, Wenefir replied, “But surely you agree that Devorast could never have finished something so great on his own.”

Shaking his head, Pristoleph said, “Something so great can only be done by one man alone.”

Wenefir, his eyes narrow and his brow furrowed, shook his head.

“You don’t understand, do you?” the ransar asked.

Wenefir replied, “Not entirely, no, but I think I understand you, Pristoleph. After all this time, who but me could?”

“And?”

“And I hope that you will see that no harm was done to you while you were away.”

Pristoleph looked deep into Wenefir’s eyes, and the Cyricist’s knees shook.

“I have your loyalty, still, after all this time?” asked Pristoleph.

“You do,” Wenefir said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Then do this,” Pristoleph commanded, the fires rising when he squared his broad shoulders. “Send for the wemics, and have them place the Vaasan wizard Kurtsson, Senators Korvan and Aikiko, and the Thayan Marek Rymut under arrest.”

“Under arrest?” Wenefir asked, stalling. Despite the dangerous heat in the chamber, the priest’s blood ran cold. “On what charge?”

“For Willem Korvan, the charge is murder,” Pristoleph said, and Wenefir almost gasped at the look of grief that came over his old friend. “He murdered the alchemist Surero in clear view of at least one witness. Beware, though, he is no longer human, but some sort of diseased undead.”

“And the others?”

“Treason.”

“But the Thayan-”

“What of him?” Pristoleph asked through clenched teeth. The fire on the top of his head blazed hot yellow and Wenefir had to blink and turn his face away.

“He is not, technically … legally speaking, one of your subjects, Ransar,” Wenefir explained. “He stands on Thayan soil when he is in his enclave, and I surely doubt that he’ll leave there until you-” he paused and swallowed once more-“forgive me, Ransar … cool down.”

“Thayan soil….” Pristoleph sneered.

“Perhaps an investigation first,” Wenefir suggested, hoping to stall the ransar in any way possible. “If we have the proper evidence, an appeal can be made to the Thayan authorities. After all, Marek Rymut is not without superiors of his own.”

“An investigation …” Pristoleph growled. He seemed to be biting his tongue. “Very well. But Willem Korvan is a murderer, and he became a citizen of the city-state of Innarlith when he became a senator. Find him and destroy him.”

Wenefir, caring not the slightest bit for the fate of Willem Korvan, bowed and got out of that room as fast as he could.

20 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

THE SISTERHOOD OF PASTORALS, INNARLITH

The wall was high, but not impossible to climb. Willem looked up and saw the glow of the broken glass that had been mortared to the top of it, reflecting the wan light of the coming dawn. He dug his fingernails-talons, really, that had grown an inch in one night-into the space between the smooth rocks. Moving slowly but with purpose, he scaled the wall. When the broken glass tore his trousers and bit into his legs, he didn’t care, and he didn’t bleed.

Willem dropped to the mud between two shrubs and kneeled in the darkness of the wall’s shadow. He moved his head from side to side, and though he didn’t actually draw any air into his lungs-he no longer needed to do that-he was sure of the smell of her.

The name came to him once more-Halina-but it faded as quickly as it came, and there was only his quarry, his prey. There was only a goal he didn’t understand.

He crossed the manicured grounds, his chin up, his nose trolling the air for the scent. He found it again, and it was as though a finger formed in the air to point him in the right direction.

He followed the scent to a shorter stone wall, one more ornamental than the high wall that surrounded the place.

Willem didn’t know exactly where he was. He was on the grounds of some kind of building, and there was something about that building, about the ground itself, that repelled him as much as the scent attracted him.