Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

She held her eyes closed until the initial wave of pain passed, then she opened them to see that the room was lit only by the orange glow of her candles.

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

PRISTAL TOWERS, INNARLITH

The forces aligned against you are too great,” Wenefir said.

He stared at Pristoleph, waiting for some response, but the ransar sat in silence, staring at the crystal balls. Not one of them showed anything but a reflection of the room in which they sat. They had stopped working all at once, and the arcane words that Marek Rymut had given Pristoleph failed to bring them back to life.

“Ransar?” Wenefir asked.

Still Pristoleph sat in silence, ignoring his seneschal. “Pristoleph….” Wenefir said.

Pristoleph’s hair flickered on his head, and Wenefir brought to mind the spell that would keep him from being burned should the ransar’s temper once again get the better of him.

“Is it raining?” Pristoleph asked.

“Wh-pardon me?” Wenefir responded. “Is it raining … outside?”

Pristoleph nodded.

“Yes, Ransar.”

“I thought so,” said Pristoleph. “I could feel it.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may,” Wenefir pressed on, keeping his voice low and calm. “I’m convinced you must allow Kurtsson and Aikiko to finish the canal their way. Master Rymut will provide for the operation of the portal. He’s willing to entertain a mutually acceptable arrangement for the collection of tolls and associated fees for that service. The Thayan Enclave will maintain the magic and guarantee its safety and accuracy.”

Pristoleph smoothed one of his eyebrows with the tip of a finger. Wenefir had never seen that gesture.

“As your closest advisor,” Wenefir went on, “I advise you to agree to this.”

“Do you?” Pristoleph asked. He didn’t seem surprised, and Wenefir could tell he was disappointed.

“There’s nothing for it, Pristoleph,” he said.

The ransar smiled and said, “There’s always …”

After a moment, Wenefir realized that Pristoleph didn’t intend to finish his thought, so he said, “Is it that bad? Is it really some defeat?”

“Wenefir-”

“It has come down to a simple choice,” Wenefir interrupted, and pressed on even when Pristoleph turned to give him a dangerous look. “The time has come to choose between Ivar Devorast and Marek Rymut.”

“Has it?” Pristoleph asked, his eyes flashing yellow. “Has it really come down to that? And of course you would have me chose the Thayan.”

“The Thayan, yes,” Wenefir said. “And why not? It was the Thayan that helped make you ransar, after all, not Devorast. You want a canal. You want ships to stop in Innarlith from the ports of Cormyr and Sembia on their way to Baldur’s Gate and Waterdeep, and vice versa. What could it possibly matter to you if those ships float on water or on magic?”

Pristoleph looked away, again staring at the blank, useless crystal balls. Wenefir sighed and his shoulders sagged.

“I’m tired,” Wenefir said.

“Tired of me?” the ransar asked. “After all these years?”

Wenefir took a moment to consider his answer then said, “No, Pristoleph. The truth is I still admire you. In ways that I’ll probably never understand I’m still that gutter kid, the castrated chimney rat that you rescued, that you dragged up with you into a life worth living.”

“What then?”

“I’m tired of being dragged,” Wenefir admitted, “up or otherwise.”

“I didn’t drag you to Cyric,” Pristoleph said.

“Careful, now,” Wenefir replied, bringing to mind a prayer that would do much more than protect him from fire. “Invoke his name at your peril, Ransar.”

Pristoleph sighed and ran his fingers through his flamelike hair.

“Why not choose everything?” the priest asked.

“Everything?”

“Everything,” Wenefir replied. “The Thayan’s magic, the support of the senate, the rights and privileges of Ransar of Innarlith, and the canal.”

“I thought I had,” the ransar said.

“Is that what you wish me to convey to the Thayan?” Wenefir asked.

He waited while Pristoleph sat in silence. It didn’t appear as though the ransar was thinking it over. He seemed to just be sitting there. Wenefir hoped that was a good sign. He’d never seen Pristoleph, not in the forty-four years of their friendship, resign himself to anything, but Wenefir hoped there was a first time for everything.

“Where is Willem Korvan?” Pristoleph asked.

Wenefir blinked and shook his head, surprised by the question.

“Wenefir?” the ransar prompted.

“No one knows,” Wenefir replied.

“He will have to be found,” Pristoleph said. “He must be put down for the murder of Surero.”

Wenefir didn’t smile, but he wanted to. He said, “I’m certain that between Marek Rymut and myself, with Cyric’s blessing, he will be found. And when he is, he will face the ransar’s justice.”

“And in return for that,” Pristoleph said, “I will have to allow Kurtsson and Aikiko to finish the canal. I will have to betray the promise I made, the word I gave, to Ivar Devorast.”

“Yes,” Wenefir said, not happy with the way things were starting to go.

“And the fact that Devorast is a better man than any of them together, a greater man, a man more worthy of so great an undertaking, matters not at all.”

“I understand that it matters to you, my friend,” Wenefir said. “But you are ransar now. Not every decision is an easy one, and not every decision can be made based on your admiration for one man’s ideas.”

“The world turns on the ideas of one man.”

Wenefir chewed on his bottom lip, for all appearances considering the ransar’s point, but instead he just stood waiting.

“That’s not much of a trade for one murderous senator,” Pristoleph said.

“It’s not the canal for Korvan,” Wenefir said, stepping forward for emphasis, because he absolutely needed to be heard. “If you allow Marek Rymut’s people to finish the canal, you will be allowed to remain as ransar.”

Wenefir didn’t breathe again until it became painful. He knew Pristoleph wouldn’t like anything about the words “be allowed to,” but knowing him for more than four decades gave him only moderate insight into what he would do in response.

“Do you have an answer I can convey to the enclave?” Wenefir asked.

“No,” Pristoleph said, not looking at him, barely raising his voice enough to be heard. “Your services as seneschal are no longer required.”

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

THE CANAL SITE

Phyrea called his name again and again but there was no answer. The rain pounded from the night sky, and thunder rumbled all around her. The deluge drowned out her voice, but still Phyrea worried that Ivar Devorast was dead.

After seeing his spectral form she thought that she should have listened to him and stayed away, but finally she decided she had to go there. She had to find him and see him. She had to know one way or another if he was alive or dead.

“I’ll leave him,” she shouted into the driving rain. Rainwater mixed with spittle flew from her lips. Her long dark hair was plastered to her head, and her light riding silks and wool vest were so heavy, her shoulders slumped under the weight. “Ivar!”

She pulled on her horse’s bridle and the animal shook its head out of her grasp. She turned and grabbed the leather strap again, sneering and growling at the horse until its head bowed and it took a step forward. A deafening crash of thunder seemed to burst the sky apart and the horse started again. The beast rose up on its hind legs, jerking her arm. A stab of pain lanced through her shoulder before her fingers slipped from the bridle and she swore.