Philip Athans - Scream of Stone

When the wemic backed out of the room and closed the door, Pristoleph turned and waved Wenefir to one of the two overstuffed armchairs that had been pushed close to the fire. Though it was a warm summer day, Pristoleph wanted the fireplace stacked high with hot-burning wood. Wenefir knew well his ability, inherited from his mysterious father, when it came to fire. If Wenefir sat as close to the hearth as he, Pristoleph could immolate the priest at will.

Though Pristoleph had known Wenefir long enough to see that the priest was rather less than comfortable with the arrangement, much less the heat, he played the dutiful guest and sat before the fire.

“You have come here with a message,” Pristoleph said as he lowered himself into the chair facing Wenefir. “Speak.”

Wenefir worked to suppress a smile that made Pristoleph seethe. The smile disappeared when the fire blazed bright and hot, and the priest blinked and edged away from it in his seat.

“Anyone else would have run,” Pristoleph said, offering his old friend a smile and willing the fire back to its normal state.

Wenefir seemed unsure as to whether to nod or shake his head. “You have nothing to fear from me, Pristoleph, and I have nothing to fear from you.”

“We’ll see if that still holds true after you’ve delivered your message,” Pristoleph said with a tilt of one eyebrow.

Wenefir cleared his throat and said, “As a neutral third party, representing only the Temple of the Delicate Chaos, I have been asked to inform you that the senate intends to meet on the morrow to rescind your charter as ransar and bestow the title to another, with all rights and privileges of the office, thereby putting a stop to the civil unrest that has brought the city-state to her knees.”

Pristoleph smiled, though he wanted to scream. He nodded, though he wanted to lash out. The fire burned just a little hotter, though he wanted flames to fill the room.

He knew what Wenefir had meant by “all rights and privileges.” Whomever they chose to replace him would command the black firedrakes.

“I can still fight,” Pristoleph said.

“The senate hopes that you will step aside,” said Wenefir. “For the good of-”

“That’s enough,” Pristoleph interrupted. “That’s enough.”

Wenefir pressed his lips together and waited, looking Pristoleph in the eye.

“As a neutral third party….” Pristoleph mused.

“As a friend,” Wenefir replied.

“There are hundreds in the city still loyal to me,” Pristoleph warned. “And I have the wemics still, and am not without surprises of my own.”

“I have been told to tell you that the senate begs you-” he paused for effect-“ begs you, Pristoleph, to put an end to this.”

“That is their one demand?”

Wenefir nodded in a way that made it clear there would be others.

“I will talk to them,” Pristoleph said. “But I will need certain guarantees.”

“It would be my honor to convey any message you have back to the senate.”

“I want safe passage out of the city for two people, and the wemics,” Pristoleph said.

“The barbarians are mercenaries,” Wenefir said. “No one will stop them from going home, if they go home in peace.”

Something about the way he’d said that curled under Pristoleph’s skin.

“And the two?” Wenefir asked. “Yourself and Phyrea?”

“Phyrea and Devorast,” Pristoleph said.

Wenefir winced, though he couldn’t have been surprised.

“Agreed,” the priest said.

Pristoleph let his body sink into the leather chair. He looked as deeply into Wenefir’s eyes as he could.

“Is that all?” the priest asked.

“A neutral third party,” Pristoleph repeated.

Wenefir smiled.

Pristoleph sat there staring at his old friend sweat for a long moment, wondering if the priest realized he’d been caught negotiating, that he’d agreed to something no “neutral third party” had a right to agree to.

“Safe passage,” Pristoleph said again. “The wemics will remain until Phyrea is safe at Berrywilde, and Devorast is on his way to Shou Lung.”

Wenefir blinked and nodded. “You have the word of the Senate of Innarlith.”

Pristoleph cleared his throat and clenched his teeth together to keep himself from laughing.

“And then everything goes back to normal,” Wenefir said.

Pristoleph smiled and allowed a chuckle to bounce out of his throat.

“Yes, well,” he said, “the crown weighed heavily on my brow after all.”

8 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

THE SISTERHOOD OF PASTORALS, INNARLITH

Pristoleph watched as one of the sisters helped Phyrea into a chair. Her brow narrowed and she blinked, but the grimace, the grunting, and the tears were gone. It hurt her to move, but not as bad.

“You’re looking better every time I see you,” Pristoleph said.

Phyrea glanced at him, smiled, then turned her attention to the sister, who arranged a napkin on her lap and took the pewter cover off a tray of food. The smell of the steamed vegetables and fish stew reminded Pristoleph that he hadn’t eaten himself in-how long? He couldn’t even remember. The aroma didn’t make him feel hungry, though.

“I want you to leave the city,” he said.

Phyrea had been about to dip her spoon into the bowl of stew, but she froze. She didn’t look at him, but glanced instead at the sister. The young acolyte shifted uncomfortably, trying with all her will not to look at either the ransar or his wife. Finally, the girl turned and stepped to the door.

“Unless you need anything else …?” she asked Phyrea, and the way she said it, it was as though she was begging for Phyrea to say “no.”

Phyrea obliged the sister, who stepped out and closed the door behind her.

“I want you to go to Berrywilde,” Pristoleph said before Phyrea had a chance to speak. “Wait for me there.”

“If I ask you why, will you tell me the truth?” she asked, setting her spoon down and folding her shaking hands in her lap.

“Of course I will,” he promised.

“Then I won’t ask you why,” she said. He blinked at that, but let it go. “I’m still not well.”

“Considering the extent of your injuries,” Pristoleph replied, “it’s Chauntea’s own miracle that you can walk, let alone speak and feed yourself. I’ll ask the sisters to send acolytes with you to help, and we’ll hire a new staff.”

Phyrea shook her head and stared down at her plate.

“You’re healing quickly,” he said. “And it’s been … how long?”

“Forty-six days,” Phyrea said, glancing up at him with a flash of reproach.

“Forty-six days,” he repeated.

“I know what’s been happening in the city,” Phyrea said, either looking down at her lap or sitting with her eyes closed-Pristoleph couldn’t tell. “The sisters have been keeping me informed. As much as anyone could be in the midst of a bloody civil war.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it that,” Pristoleph said, though that’s precisely what it was. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“Are you going to kill them all?” she asked. “Marek Rymut, Meykhati, Nyla … the whole senate? Or are they going to kill you?”

“Neither,” he said, “unfortunately.”

She looked up at him and the look in her eyes made him so profoundly sad he had to turn his back on her. A lump lodged itself in his throat.

“I don’t care if I’ve failed Innarlith,” he said with some difficulty. “I don’t even care if I’ve failed myself-though it makes me a hypocrite of the first order to admit that. But if I thought for a moment that I’d failed you, I’d throw myself in the lake.”