Philip Athans - Whisper of Waves

“Not at all, Madam Korvan,” Inthelph replied. “The ransar is still more sensitive than usual, too, after that terrible, bold theft of a priceless family heirloom right from this very palace.”

“Really?” Thurene gasped. “How awful. How long ago did that happen?”

“What was it, Willem?” the master builder asked.

“Six months or so?” Willem answered, his mind elsewhere.

He let them lead him back inside and when they stepped back into the noise and frivolity of Osorkon’s Midsummer revel, Willem knew precisely where to begin. He knew whose vision would stand among the soaring monuments of the Palace of Many Spires and whose name would forever be etched in its stone, and Willem Korvan knew he would be neither of those men.

19 Marpenoth, the Year of the Wyvern (1363 DR)

FIRST QUARTER, INNARLITH

Ivar Devorast lived in a hovel. It was the only word for it, though perhaps “shack” might have been appropriate, or even “shanty.” Willem could see through the gaps in the clapboard walls and water dripped from the rusted tin roof in half a dozen places. Devorast had rearranged the spare, threadbare furniture based on the demands of the leaks rather than esthetics or traffic flow, so it was difficult for them to see each other, sitting in chairs set askew and on opposite ends of the single, dark room. Though the hour was getting late, the sun beginning to kiss the horizon, Devorast wouldn’t light his last candle until it became entirely necessary.

“I will bring you candles, next time I come,” Willem said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Devorast was quick to reply.

They sat in silence for a while again, listening to the drips tap into the buckets and pots Devorast had arranged on the floor.

“Saves a walk to the well,” Devorast said, startling Willem as much because he’d been caught staring as that he couldn’t remember Devorast ever initiating a conversation.

Willem tried to laugh but couldn’t and ended up coughing through a confused grunt.

“There’s no reason to be uncomfortable, Willem,” Devorast said. “We have chosen the lives we’re living.”

“You didn’t choose this,” Willem risked, looking around at the decrepit dockside shack.

“I chose the path that led here,” Devorast replied with a shrug.

“I know you better than that,” Willem said.

“Do you?”

They looked at each other, feeling the heft of the air between them.

“Yes, Ivar, I think I do.”

Devorast stared at him, his eyes as clear and commanding as ever, despite their residence in his unshaven face, a face that was growing to match the horrid little house.

Sensing that Devorast wouldn’t let him off easily, Willem continued, “I know that you never intended to end up here. You’ve always said that a man controls his own destiny, that a man who sets his own course will arrive at his intended destination, whatever that may be, in due time.”

“In due time,” Devorast concurred with a smile.

“Oh,” Willem said, sharing the smile. “Oh, that’s it, is it? This is but a rough patch on the way to your eventual, what … mastery of all you survey?”

“Not quite,” Devorast replied, looking down at his lap. “No, I don’t intend to be any man’s master.”

For the first time Willem noticed that Devorast was holding a silver coin, passing it through his fingers in an absent-minded way that seemed unlike him.

“Your last silver?” Willem asked, knowing full well he was being rude and forcing himself not to care.

Devorast didn’t look up when he said, “One last piece of silver, for luck, or perhaps I’ll spend it on some candles.”

“Then what?”

Devorast looked up then, shrugged, and said, “Something tells me, old friend, that that’s why you’re here this evening.”

Willem’s face flushed, and he struggled to hold Devorast’s gaze.

“Willem?”

“Of course,” Willem said finally. “Of course, Ivar. For Waukeen’s sake …”

“I don’t do anything for Waukeen’s sake.”

Willem chuckled and said, “Of course not … the atheist. Well, then don’t thank Waukeen, but me.”

“I suppose this is another project for which you will receive all the credit?” Devorast asked without the slightest trace of animosity or accusation.

That bothered Willem most of all.

“Really, Ivar,” he said, “you shouldn’t be so … blase about this. It pains me, taking advantage.”

“You aren’t taking advantage of me,” Devorast replied. “If I don’t want to do it, I won’t.”

“And starve?”

“And do something else,” Devorast said, and all Willem could do was nod in response. “So, speak.”

“The Palace of Many Spires,” Willem said, latching on to his old friend’s gaze.

There was a sparkle in Devorast’s eyes when he said, “Go on.”

“The ransar has tired of living in someone else’s house, apparently, and he’s decided to make his own mark on the palace,” Willem explained. “He wants another tower, the tallest spire yet. The master builder is responsible, of course, so if you’re curious who will get the credit, there you are.”

“You want me to design it, to do all the arithmetic, to make it stand for millennia, and you will be the middle, copying the plans and sketches and figures so that this dolt Inthelph can bury himself in the ransar’s gold and bask in the glory of this civil achievement for the rest of his petty, miserable life?”

“By the gods, Ivar,” Willem said, sharing a laugh with his friend, “I think that constitutes a formal speech from you. I never thought you capable of so many words in a single sitting.”

Devorast turned his attention back to the silver piece.

“Really, Ivar,” Willem went on, “shall I leave you so you can sleep it off? You must be exhausted.”

“I’ll live,” Devorast said, his laugh fading away, “and I’ll do it.”

Willem nodded and immediately started to think of an excuse to leave.

“Have you met him?” Devorast asked.

Willem widened his eyes in hopes of a clarification, but when he realized they were sitting in the dark, and Devorast’s attention was on the coin, he said, “Met whom?”

“The ransar.”

“Osorkon?” Willem replied. “Yes, I have, more than once, at formal functions. State functions and such. I attended his Midsummer revel, in fact.”

“I’ve been looking at this silver piece,” Devorast said. “It must be new, because it’s minted with a picture of him.”

“I’ve seen them,” Willem said, all at once overwhelmed with curiosity. “It’s a reasonable likeness, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

It was hard to tell in the dark room, but Willem thought Devorast nodded.

“I can front you a few gold, Ivar, if-”

“That’s not it,” Devorast interrupted. “I was just wondering, honestly, about this man: the Ransar of Innarlith. Here’s a man who, by his own strength of will, has his likeness stamped into every coin in the realm.”

“Azoun was no different,” Will said.

“No, he wasn’t. Still, I can’t make myself understand how a man can do that. How a man can crave and keep power over other men.”

“Please, Ivar,” said Willem, “I’ve never met a man, the ransar included, less inclined to that sort of hubris than you. If anything about our relative positions in Innarlith strikes me as strange at all it is that you’re not the ransar yet yourself.”

“I never wanted to be the ransar,” Devorast said, and Willem thought he sounded sincere. “I never want to be ransar.”

Willem waited through a seemingly interminable stretch of drip drip drip , but Devorast never finished that thought.