Erin Evans - Brimstone Angels

“Another time perhaps,” she said.

The man looked at Vartan. “Perhaps.”

“Yes,” Vartan said, giving Rohini a hard stare. “Another day. Farewell, sir.”

The sweating man turned and walked away down the corridor without responding.

“Things were improving,” Vartan said. “Why did you chase him off that way?”

“Because you were losing him,” Rohini answered. “What did you say? What did you promise him?”

“That isn’t your concern.”

“Your concerns are my concerns. What did you promise him?”

Vartan’s dark eyes flicked over her face, as if he were trying to remember why he felt the need to tell her. “Access to my findings,” he said. “Access to Anthus’s findings-the ones we know about.”

Rohini shut her eyes. Whatever secrets Anthus had recorded, the Sovereignty not only knew about them now-they knew he had recorded them.

“He ought to see the merit in my goals,” Vartan said, frowning in the direction the Sovereignty’s agent had taken. “In our goals,” he amended. “Who wouldn’t see the virtue in curing the effects of spellplague? In resurrecting the dead gods?”

“Oh, Vartan,” she said. She looked up at him, making sure her eyes were brown and soft. He always paid attention when they were brown and soft. She reached out and laid a hand on his forearm, where he’d rolled his sleeve up from the heat. The muscles beneath her hand twitched, but Vartan didn’t break his gaze.

“It’s important,” she said, “that you convince our friend there that you are worth his time. You are not going to do so unless you give him something that he wants.”

“Something that he wants?” Vartan said.

“Yes. And he isn’t going to tell you outright what that is, so you are going to have to tease it out of him.”

“Tease it out of him.”

“I’m well aware it’s not your strong suit,” Rohini continued. “But you want to do it. You want to find a way into the Sovereignty’s good graces. And soon. We both know that.”

“We do,” Vartan agreed.

Rohini stood and stepped in close. She pressed her mouth to the half-elf’s cheek, and with that kiss, wrapped his every thought with a trust for her so complete he would not realize she’d planted every word in his head.

He blinked, glanced around at the hallway, and blinked a few times more. “What … what were we …”

“Those sound like very clever plans,” Rohini said. “I only wish Brother Anthus were still with us, that he could assure us of their brilliance.”

Brother Anthus, Vartan’s predecessor, had been well ensconced in the Sovereignty’s good graces when Rohini first came to Neverwinter. Anthus never pressed Sovereignty’s proxy past his limits. Unfortunately, he’d made the mistake of pushing Rohini past her limits, which wasn’t a mistake anyone made twice.

She smiled sweetly at Brother Vartan. “I have to return to the acolytes.”

“Oh, of course,” he said. “But … we must have evenfeast later to discuss things. I shall be in the chapel in contemplation. Would you meet me there?”

Rohini smiled because she could not shudder. It might have been old and without a dedicated cleric, but the chapel was still hallowed ground. It would still be colder than a sword in a snowdrift in the heart of the Fifth Layer. It would still force her away.

“Certainly,” she said. “Until then.”

She watched Vartan walk away. She would simply have to find some task to engross herself in-caught up laboring over some poor spellscarred fool, perhaps. Or listening to an acolyte’s private heartbreak. She would pin her curls up, soft and loose, and find someplace where the sun’s low light would paint her in heartbreaking colors. That was the sort of follower Vartan wanted in her, romantic and feminine, traipsing after him with doting eyes and all the right, breathy questions. He would never think to ask why she hadn’t come to the chapel.

Rohini was so distracted by her planning that she walked into the wardroom without noticing the acolytes, and the succubus had only a moment to register that the young man who’d spoken earlier was disregarding her instructions and casting a healing spell.

Before she could stop him, his prayer was answered and traces of divine magic burst out in a scattered wind that bit into the succubus’s flesh like tiny icy needles.

The succubus flinched. Broken planes, but she hated acolytes.

The day had dragged on for so long, and the waybread Havilar had eaten a few hours before was nothing but a memory and an unpleasant taste in her mouth, but as the caravansary edged into sight, Havilar perked right up. A bed would be nice, dinner would be excellent, but most of all, Havilar was craving company. They were close enough now to hear the shouts of a wagon master and the whinny of horses. The sharp laughter of a woman rose above it and for a moment, Havilar imagined herself that woman-wild and carefree and striking to any eye-

“Havi!” Mehen barked. She looked over her shoulder to see Mehen watching her pointedly, and Farideh shaking out a wrinkled, hooded cloak. Havilar stopped cold.

“Tell me you’re joking,” she said.

“Put on your cloak,” Mehen said.

“It’s hotter than a campfire!”

“Put. On. Your. Cloak. You can take it off when we know what we’re dealing with.”

Farideh was wrestling her hood over her horns. Havilar gave her a pointed look. Mehen worried too much.

Farideh returned the look with a stern, wordless glare of her own, as if telling Havilar to put her damned cloak on.

Havilar scowled. Farideh worried too much too. At least between those two, Havilar figured, she didn’t need to worry much at all. But she knew if she didn’t follow suit, they’d never get to the caravansary-the two worrywarts would insist they sleep in the woods for “safety’s sake.” Away from anyone interesting.

“I think,” Havilar said as they crossed the mostly empty courtyard, “we should spend some of the bounty on new cloaks. Pretty cloaks. Ones that don’t look like tents. Or itch.”

“Havi, put your hood up,” Farideh said, “please?”

“No one’s here,” Havilar said. “They make them with ribbons and things, you know?”

Her sister’s frown twitched into a smile. “Which would go so well with your glaive.”

“It would if I put a ribbon on Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers.”

Farideh laughed, and Mehen scowled back at them as they reached the inn. “Havi, put your hood up.”

The taproom of the inn wasn’t terribly crowded, but it was early yet, hardly sundown. Havilar surveyed the occupants-a handful of men, each sitting alone and wrapped around their ales; a raucous group playing cards and not paying attention to anyone else; a couple old wagon masters leaning against the bar. More than a few were staring at the trio. None of them looked remotely worth talking to.

“ M’henish, ” Havilar muttered. Farideh squeezed her arm, and despite herself, Havilar’s tail flicked nervously.

Mehen surveyed the room as well, looking for the bounty, no doubt. Havilar didn’t bother to look-she was sure Farideh was right. They had passed the dark-haired woman.

Mehen steered them to an empty table in the corner of the room and then went to the bar to pay for supper and lodging. Perhaps half those staring found something else to look at, until Havilar pulled her hood back a little-and a dozen pairs of eyes honed in on her.

“Havi-”

Havilar waved her off. “It’s too hot for that nonsense.”

In the shadow of her hood, Farideh flushed, but she said nothing. Good, Havilar thought. Maybe she was calming herself a little bit. Maybe she was worrying less about what a lot of boring old men thought. Havilar was sure Farideh would crave some company, too, if only she stopped worrying so much. Being driven out of Arush Vayem was the best thing that had ever happened to them-or it would be if she and Farideh would start taking advantage of it.