Philip Athans - Lies of Light

“I am happy to report,” Marek said before the even more wary black dragon could assume the worst from her playful question, “that my efforts to civilize the trade in enchanted items and spellcraft in Innarlith has met with some success of late. It is a credit to the city of your birth.”

Phyrea forced a smile and said, “Any foreigner can have his way with Innarlith. It’s to your credit only that you have tamed the other foreigners.”

Marek laughed that off and said, “You hold so low a regard for your own city, I wonder why you stay here.”

That elicited a look so grave Marek was momentarily taken aback.

“Please, Marek,” Insithryllax said, “you’ll offend the girl.”

When the Red Wizard regarded his old friend, he was happy to see no trace of real concern on his face.

“Please do accept my-” Marek started.

“No,” Phyrea cut in. “Don’t bother. Of course I hold this cesspool in low regard.” She paused to listen to something, but the tea room was characteristically quiet. “Of course I do.”

Marek put the cup to his lips and whispered a spell, hiding the gestures as a momentary indecision over which of the little pastries to sample.

… him the sword , a voice whispered from nowhere. It was a strange sensation. Marek had heard voices in his head before, had often communicated in that way, but it was something else entirely to hear a voice in someone else’s head. It’s for you .

Then a woman: We meant it for you .

And a little boy: If you give it to him, we will be cross with you .

Marek resisted the urge to shudder. Instead he took a sip of tea and studied Phyrea’s face.

She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, but she looked older than he knew her to be. She’d seen only twenty summers, but to look at her eyes he’d say she was fifty.

“You’re not well,” he ventured.

She shook her head, but told him, “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard the things you’ve been saying about that horrid man,” Marek said. “You know, that ditch digger?”

“Devorast,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and said more loudly, “Ivar Devorast.”

Use the sword on him , a man all but screamed at Phyrea and Marek brought to mind a spell that he hoped could save his life if she followed that order.

Devorast , the little boy whined. I hate him. You need to kill him with the flam … the flam …”

“The flamberge,” Marek said aloud, risking that the ghosts would realize he could hear them.

Phyrea looked him in the eye for the first time that day, but before Marek could do so much as smile she looked down at the tightly-wrapped bundle at her feet-a sheet of soft linen precisely the dimensions of a sheathed long sword, tied together with twine.

No! one of the spirits screamed.

Wait , breathed another.

“You’ll be able to tell me …” she started, but was interrupted by the boy.

I’ll hate you if you give it to him. He’ll kill you with it. He wants to kill you .

She shook her head.

“I will make a study of it,” he promised her. “And I won’t give it back.”

We’ll shred your mind if you let him take it away , said the voice of an old woman.

It was for you , another ghost whimpered.

“I can’t hand it to you,” she said and took a sip of her tea. She grimaced.

“Leave it on the floor then,” Marek told her. “I’ll take it with me when I go.”

Don’t let him , a woman moaned. Plea-

His spell had run its course, but Marek had heard all he needed to hear of the voices in Phyrea’s head.

“I hate to keep bringing him up, as he seems to upset you so,” Marek said. “But I wish you would tell me why you’re so opposed to the Cormyrean and his ludicrous mission. After all, isn’t he, like me, a foreigner manipulating the weaknesses of the city you hate so? Why, one would think you’d have invited him to tea with us.”

“I hope you two will never meet again,” she said. “And anyway I don’t care about the canal. I hope it is finished … anyway it makes no difference to me if it is or isn’t, as long as Devorast-” and only someone as astute as Marek Rymut could have detected the pause in her voice just then-“doesn’t get to see it through.”

“Well, then …” Marek chuckled. “Still, I wonder why Willem Korvan.”

“What?”

“I know you’ve mentioned his name to a number of people,” he pressed.

With a shrug Phyrea answered, “My father thinks highly of him. And he’s a foreigner. Why not him?”

“Why not Devorast?” Marek continued to press.

Phyrea paused, almost froze in place. It appeared to Marek as though she searched deep within herself for an answer.

Or is she listening to the ghosts again? he thought.

“Because,” she finally answered, “I hate him.”

Marek took a breath to speak, but stopped himself when he realized he didn’t know who she was talking about. Did she hate Devorast or Korvan? Or both?

9 Kythorn, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

THE LAND OF ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

Under any other circumstances, Marek would have demanded complete silence. He would have roared that order in a magically-enhanced voice loud enough to burst the eardrums of the offending parties, and he would have followed the order with threats so cruel the sound of them could peel the paint from a wall.

But he didn’t do that. He unwrapped the sword to the accompaniment of saws and shovels, shouted orders and pained grunts, and stone grating against stone and hammers clanging on hot metal. As anxious as he’d been to examine that fascinating flamberge of Phyrea’s there was still work to be done on his keep, after all.

The huge black dragon alit several paces away, scattering some of the black firedrakes that had been bent to their work beneath him. They scampered out of his way as he moved to the unfinished wall and craned his massive, serpentine neck down to regard Marek.

“Ah,” said the dragon, “there you are.”

The linen sheet came away from the scabbarded sword, and Marek stifled a giggle.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” the Red Wizard said. “Such craftsmanship.”

“Elven,” Insithryllax said, betraying a dragon’s appreciation for the finer things.

“I believe so, yes,” Marek agreed. “And do you feel it?”

“How could I not?”

“Such a powerful enchantment,” the wizard said.

The dragon made a show of sniffing the air in front of him and said, “Necromancy.”

“Yes,” Marek replied.

“What do you want with it?”

Marek looked up at the wyrm and smiled. Behind him, ringing the flat-topped hill upon which his keep was being built, was the sprawling camp of his army of black firedrakes.

“They’re almost ready, aren’t they?” Marek said, ham-handedly changing the subject.

The dragon snorted, releasing a puff of gray-black mist that made Marek’s eyes itch even from a distance.

“Sorry,” the dragon said when Marek blinked and rubbed his eyes.

“Part of the joys of your friendship,” the Red Wizard quipped. “But be that as it may”-he pulled the wavy-bladed sword from its scabbard-“how could I not want a weapon such as this?”

“But you?” asked the dragon. “A wizard?”

“Phyrea thinks that anyone who is killed by this blade is reanimated in some state of undeath,” Marek said.

“Is she right?”

Marek shrugged and replied, “Care to try? Haven’t you always secretly wished to be a dracolich?”