Brimstone Angels

CHAPTER TEN

Neverwinter 13 Kythorn, the Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)

Farideh was a problem. An unknown.

No, Rohini thought, watching the girl as she scrubbed heavy sample jars. Not so unknown. The coincidences laid atop each other, too thick to be ignored: Lorcan’s warlock in Neverwinter. Lorcan’s warlock, who traveled with a dragonborn who thought she was his daughter. Invadiah’s son’s warlock, who always seemed to be watching Rohini.

Rohini leaned against the wall and gnawed at a thumbnail. Too many coincidences meant something was brewing.

It must be Invadiah. If Invadiah wanted to keep an eye on Rohini, her son’s pretty-faced tiefling would make a fair spy. But Invadiah would surely know Rohini would suspect something the moment the tiefling’s connections came out-and there was no scenario where they wouldn’t come out. Rohini was nothing if not thorough. He has a Toril Thirteen, Invadiah had said, had taunted. She should have seen this coming.

But then there was Lorcan: How did Lorcan fit? Would he try to undermine his mother? Would he have tried to undermine Rohini without Invadiah’s prompting? As far as Rohini knew, not a devil in the Hells who knew of Lorcan thought he was anything but useless, the reason Invadiah had no more offspring-she didn’t want another one like him.

But if he had a Toril Thirteen … well, you had to be a little clever to manage that, Rohini knew. Was he clever enough to play a fool and slip beneath the notice of most of Malbolge too? Was he clever enough to train his warlock to act like a babe in the woods? How clever did Invadiah know he was?

The question of what to do with Farideh was no different, a matter to be most thorough and thoughtful about. To kill her would send a message to Invadiah. Better still, to dominate the warlock and make her act according to Rohini’s will. Make her kill Lorcan. Make her feed Invadiah the sort of lies that would label Lorcan an oathbreaker. Invade her form and take her to the Hells, an assassin with no will and a disposable body.

I will show them what they’ve miscounted in me, Rohini thought. I will punish the erinyes for all they’ve-

Rohini calmed herself. Those were ancient thoughts, suited to another era, another battle. The erinyes were not the succubi’s enemies, however they antagonized one another now, however they’d clashed in the Blood Wars before. It might sting to defer to the erinyes as her betters, but it was far, far better than being the wisest demon in the chaotic Abyss.

And the fact that the same Ascension that granted the erinyes mastery over the succubi also took away the erinyes’ wings-and their beauty-soothed that sting a little.

A little, but not much.

For if someone tore the truth out of the secret center of Rohini’s thoughts, there was nothing she wanted so dearly as the promotion that would transform her into an erinyes. She would take their ugly hooves, their heavy fangs, their monstrous forms for the proper fear and respect they garnered. To be a succubus was to be overlooked. To be thought mad and weak. To be deemed a devil’s whore. Even Rohini, who they rightly feared, who Glasya honored with a mission into Stygia, still sat low on the devils’ precious hierarchy for being only a succubus.

For the moment. She would miss her wings. She suspected all the erinyes did.

Rohini kept watching the girl, who for once was not looking at Rohini, but looking back over her shoulder at her twin twirling the broom like a polearm.

It seemed lately that every time Rohini looked up, there was Lorcan’s tiefling giving her a troubled stare. Though, she admitted, it was possible that it was the other one some of the time. She couldn’t seem to tell them apart. One has a glaive, she thought. One has a rod. One has the gold eyes, one has the silver one.

What either was watching for, Rohini couldn’t fathom. To another eye, the girl would seem perfectly innocent-but Rohini knew better. Who had ever heard of a guileless warlock? There was no point in such a thing.

Rohini chewed her lip. Whatever was happening, it was anything but simple.

Much as it boiled in her brain, Rohini had other, more important things to attend to. She would have to decide what to do about the girl later.

Farideh looked over at Rohini then, held her gaze a moment and nodded in acknowledgment, as if she’d known all along Rohini was watching. As if she knew what the succubus was thinking.

Rohini nodded back, accepting the challenge. Farideh could make things as complicated as she liked; Rohini was anything but simple herself.

Havilar didn’t care for Rohini or her ideas about good uses of time and building character, but she had to appreciate the hospitaler’s punctuality. The very second Rohini headed down the corridor, Havilar knew she wouldn’t be back for ages. She shoved her broom into a corner, blurted an excuse about needing to use the privy to Farideh, and went to the kitchens instead. She snatched a clay pitcher full of water and a couple of mugs and brought them to the courtyard on the other side of the temple.

Brin, covered in sweat and stone dust, looked up as she came out and smiled. “Did you get it?”

“No, I couldn’t find Mehen.” Havilar set the pitcher and glasses on one of the larger blocks and pulled herself up beside them. The courtyard was as large as one of the sick rooms she’d been made to clean and littered with shattered rocks and pieces of glass and molding. A pleasant breeze stirred the air, and the only sound was a robin chirping on the roof. “Rohini probably has him up on the roof, she’s so good at giving people exactly the wrong chore.” She poured water for both of them. “I had to sweep and mop. Meanwhile, Farideh Fumblehands is washing knives and glasses and things for the healers. And you’re hauling stone.”

“Ha ha,” Brin said. “Better than sweeping.”

Havilar smiled. She hadn’t lied when Farideh asked if she were fond of Brin. “Fond” was an awfully strong word, after all. But she was so tired of Farideh’s gloomy attitude. She’d slipped off yesterday to see him, and had fun for a change. She was starting to wonder if Brin might be fond of her. Or at least, more fond of her than he was of Farideh. And when she teased him, he always laughed.

“Are you going to tell me why you wanted the bounty form at least?”

He shrugged. “I just wanted to see it again. It’s funny, I started thinking maybe I imagined it. Maybe it’s not really Constancia.”

“Maybe. It’s a common name, is it?”

Brin shrugged again. “I don’t really know. She’s the only one I’ve met, but I … I haven’t met all that many people.” He stared glumly at the ground between his feet. “How much are you getting for her?”

“A thousand, I think. Pretty good, but then, no one really offers a bounty until they’re desperate enough to offer something worthwhile. It is a bit odd that they don’t specify her crimes. What did she do?”

Brin sighed. “Nothing.”

“Real nothing or you-don’t-want-to-say nothing?”

“She … she was supposed to be keeping an eye on me,” he said. “And we had an agreement-she wouldn’t accompany me everywhere if I’d report in at regular intervals and not avoid my tutors. It was just between us. And … I took advantage of that.”

Havilar wrinkled her nose. “I don’t blame you. Why’s she got a bounty then?”

“Our family’s probably angry. I suppose we both betrayed our oaths.” He paused. “She took care of me. She’s always taken care of me, in her own way. She’s not … Constancia’s not like a mother. She’s rule-bound, obsessively focused, bossy, ill-tempered, and she never listened when I told her.… Well, she might have been difficult, but I never wanted to get her into trouble.”

“She sounds like Farideh,” Havilar said, and then wished she hadn’t. “How come you don’t have a bounty?” Brin turned scarlet, and Havilar giggled. “Don’t worry. I won’t hunt you down.”

“It’s complicated,” he said after a moment. “It’s my family.”

Havilar thought of Farideh, her pact and her snotty attitude and the fight with Mehen. “Say no more.”

Brin chuckled. “You make it sound as if you have things so rough. But you three stick together. Mehen’s never told you … I don’t know, that you had to be a milkmaid. That you’d be a disappointment if you weren’t a milkmaid. That your whole reason to be on this plane was to be a milkmaid and you were flouting the gods themselves if you didn’t want to be a milkmaid.”

Havilar thought of the way Mehen had pressed her to take up the glaive-it had been everything she wanted, and she’d never questioned it. But she’d also never thought about being a milkmaid or a merchant or a traveling bard.

Maybe you can find some other daughter who isn’t such a disappointment. That was just Farideh’s fit of temper, but suddenly Havilar wondered if Brin and Farideh had more in common than they realized. A sick feeling of nerves crept across her lower back, and her tail started lashing.

Brin flushed again. “I suppose that’s just how it works. You sacrifice things for your family even when they drive you mad, because they’re your family and you couldn’t bear to see them get hurt.”

“Yes,” Havilar said quietly.

“Thank you for the water.”

“You’re welcome.” She grinned at him, though she didn’t feel cheerful just then. “No whiskey in the kitchens.”

He chuckled, but he didn’t sound like he meant it either. “Havi?” he said after a moment of unbearable silence. “Do you know anything about Selune?”

“She lives in the moon?”

Brin shook his head, as if she’d gotten the answers wrong. “Sorry. I know you.… It’s just I saw Tam yesterday, before you came, and he has this statue-”

“Oh,” a new voice said, “pardon me.”

Havilar reluctantly looked back over her shoulder at the robed half-elf standing in the entryway. The priest smiled hesitantly at them and came a little closer.

“I didn’t know we had any ‘new recruits’ working out here,” he said. “You’re doing a fine job.” He gave them a little bow. “I’m Brother Vartan, the head of the researchers here.”

Havilar and Brin introduced themselves and answered Brother Vartan’s questions about what had brought them there, where they were from, and such. They kept coming. This was not how Havilar had expected things to go. But then he started in on their religious educations.

“I’m Tymantheran,” Havilar said flatly, knowing it tended to end such discussions quickly. It did not.

“Ah, a fragment of Abeir,” Brother Vartan said. “My work is largely focused on the Spellplague, you know, and the deaths of the gods. I don’t suppose you were ever near to the Plaguewrought Land?”

Havilar shifted. “I don’t know where that is.”

“Are you familiar with the Order of Blue Fire? You really ought-”

“I was brought up in service to Torm,” Brin interrupted. “And … Helm and Tyr, of course, were frequent subjects of … study … with their mantles being … er …” He turned to Havilar. “Havi, why don’t you go find Farideh. I’ll stay and chat with Brother Vartan. You can come get me later and we’ll all have supper.”

Havilar drew back, as startled as if he’d shoved her off the block. Brother Vartan was already excitedly yammering about dead Helm and dead Tyr and other bloody planes, and Brin was nodding along as if the lecture were worlds more interesting than she was.

“All right,” she said, her tail still lashing furiously. She slid off the block and went back into the temple.

Worse, he wanted her to find Farideh. She might not know anything about dead gods or other realms, devils or even boys-but she knew enough to know that was a terrible sign.

Farideh pulled the last of the glass retorts from the scalding rinse water and set them, ends up, on the drying cloth to steam themselves dry. She wiped her hands on the cloth she’d wrapped around her waist like an apron, then tossed the cloth beside the glass. Her hands and arms were dry and flushed from the hot water and soap. For all Havilar had whined about sweeping, Farideh would have gladly traded her.

“Havi?” she called out as she walked into the adjacent wardroom. It was empty but for a few acolytes packing small crates of supplies-a dark-skinned boy, a half-elf girl with a bright red braid, and a young dwarf with a spiky beard. They stopped talking when she called out. Farideh stopped in her tracks. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought … I was looking for …”

“Sorry?” the girl said with a chuckle. “Watching gods, you’re polite. Nothing to be sorry for.” She looked at Farideh’s scalded hands and clucked her tongue. “Oh, you were on wash duty. Laundry or laboratory?”

“Laboratory,” Farideh said, pulling down her sleeves to hide the brand marks.

“I’ll bet Rohini didn’t even tell you about the salve. Josse? Would you?”

The boy pulled a small tin off one of the high shelves. The girl popped it open and scooped out a daub, beckoning Farideh closer. She grabbed hold of Farideh’s hands and smeared the greasy yellow paste into them. It smelled of beeswax, lavender, and sulfur.

“Stinks a bit,” the girl said with a smile, “but your hands will be glad for it. I’m Anda, this is Josse, and that’s Eberk. You’re not ‘Havi,’ so you’re … Feria?”

“Farideh,” she said, rubbing the salve into her chapped hands. “Thank you. Well met.”

“Did the Order send you?” Josse asked. “Or one of the other temples?”

Farideh shook her head. “We’re not acolytes. Rohini offered us work. We’re only in Neverwinter for the moment.”

“Good,” Eberk said with a scowl. “Enough to do around here. Temple’s falling down around our ears, Helm’s Hold’s taken on the interestin’ casualties, and Brother Vartan’s got a mind to close the Chasm, replace all the windows, and bring dead Mystra back for the rededication asides.”

“We’re going to Helm’s Hold now,” Anda said. “Supply trade. If you’re done with your chores, you’re welcome to come along.”

“Oh!” Farideh flushed, pleased and embarrassed. “No, I’m afraid I have … other things to attend to. But thank you. Another time.”

Anda shrugged, oblivious to how rare and special the offer had been. “Suit yourself.” They set the lids on the packed crates and filed out of the room.

Another time she would have gone with them, Farideh thought, poking her head out into the corridor and searching for signs of Rohini or Havilar. But not now-she had more important things to do.

For the first time since she’d reached Neverwinter, Farideh was alone.

She didn’t bother to stop by her room, to grab her cloak or her rod or her sword. If she had, she might have run into Havilar or Brin or Mehen and they would want to know where she was going and why. They’d all have reasons for why she shouldn’t go, for why she should do things differently.

None of that matters, she told herself, not for the first time. She was going back to speak to the shopkeeper, to find a way to get control over her own pact. She didn’t need others weighing in on that.

The day was still young and fiercely bright. The newly plastered buildings glowed with the summer sun and the clouds overhead sped by as if they didn’t want to block the sun too long. People crowded the streets, heading to and from shops, construction, and the woods beyond with baskets, tools, and braces of game. Farideh plunged into their midst.

Farideh still wasn’t used to walking in Neverwinter, to passing in the streets as if there were nothing odd about that. Perhaps it was that way in all large cities, perhaps it was only Neverwinter. Regardless, people’s attentions-if they ever settled on her-seemed to take her in and then let her go. She was as inconsequential as anyone else, and it made her a little giddy.

With so many people around, Lorcan ought to continue leaving her be. She slid a hand up her sleeve and ran her fingers over the raised shapes of her brand. Nothing. He hadn’t so much as needled her in two days.

She ought to be glad, to have the space to seek out other warlocks, to think about changing her pact without Lorcan pressuring her. But she was worried. He’d never gone so long without making himself known.

Maybe Mehen is right-the thought flitted through her head before she could stop it, and she pursed her lips. Mehen was right about some things: Lorcan was dangerous. Lorcan was less predictable than she’d like. Her life would be simpler if she weren’t a warlock.

Mehen still wasn’t speaking to her, and it left a heavy, twisted feeling in her stomach. They’d fought before, he’d cursed her stubbornness before-but never like this. She’d run into him that morning, as she carried dirty linens to the laundry.

“Good morning,” she’d said quietly. “How did you sleep?”

Mehen had looked at her blankly, as if he weren’t certain she was actually there at all. As if he didn’t care what she had to say.

She forged ahead anyway. “I’m sorry. About the other night. We should have told you Brin did the healing. It seems silly now, but at the time … I didn’t want you to be angry at him. And you were already angry at me, so … that seemed easier.”

Mehen stared at her, cold and silent. He rocked slightly on his feet.

“Are you all right, Mehen?” she asked.

“No,” he said in hard tones. She stepped back.

“Oh.” She took another step back. “I suppose you’re busy. Helping Rohini?”

“Orcs,” he said. “In the wood.” He glared at her with such intensity, that she flushed. He was still angry. He still blamed her.

She’d excused herself and bumped into Rohini, who’d smiled at Farideh in her cold, syrupy way and sent her off to wash the researchers’ glass … and all the while stood in the next room and glowered and stared and made Farideh feel as if she were under a glass herself, before storming off for no apparent reason. There was something about Rohini that didn’t sit well. Never mind, Farideh thought. Not your concern. Concentrate on fixing the pact. Concentrate on proving Mehen wrong.

Perhaps Lorcan was right-of course he was, he was always right. Mehen did think she was a fool and naive. He saw the pact as akin to her handling a blade too heavy and sharp for her clumsy skills. But if she learned the spells to control it, if she leashed Lorcan a little better …

This isn’t for Mehen’s sake, she told herself. It’s for mine.

As if there were anything she could do to change anyone’s opinion of her anyway. Mehen was still furious. Havilar was still sulking and snapping at her for some slight Farideh hadn’t figured out yet. Lorcan was ignoring her.

Which is what you want, she thought. Except it wasn’t really.

Pulled in two directions, her only hope was to find a path down the middle. Her only hope lay in the shop before her, with the yellow door and the sign that read “Claven’s Armory and General Goods.”

Farideh looked at her hand on the door handle.

You can still change your mind, she told herself. Lorcan’s wicked smile overwhelmed her thoughts.

The bells on the door jingled as she passed into the shop.

The shopkeeper looked up from measuring out a length of rope for a customer and smiled at her. “Ah! You came back. I’ll be with you in just a moment. Kalam!” he called toward the back of the shop. A young man with a scruffy beard stuck his head out between the curtains, a book in his hand. “Would you mind setting a kettle on the fire for tea? And then why don’t you take a break, walk about in the fresh air and get something to eat.”

The young man glanced at Farideh and raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” He ducked back behind the curtain, and Farideh kept herself busy and her thoughts calmer admiring the potions on the shelves. The sunlight bouncing off the polished floors caught in the potion of vitality she’d picked up before like a slice of the summer sky. Beside it, bottles of a thinner red liquid shimmered through each other, deep as rubies.

“Welcome, welcome,” the shopkeeper said as the bells rang again. “I’m so pleased you came back. Admiring my wares, hmm?”

“They’re very lovely in this light,” she asked. “Are they all for healing?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “All the ones out here. Come, come. I have tea and some cakes you’re welcome to. But first, I’m Yvon Claven.”

She smiled nervously. “Farideh.”

“Well met, my dear.” He ushered her behind the curtain and pulled out a chair at the small table there. As Yvon brought tea and cakes and cups and saucers, Farideh looked around the large back room. On one side, high shelves packed with boxes reached to the ceiling, and a rack hung with armor in need of repair dominated one wall, each piece tagged with names of owners and blacksmiths. The farther side of the room was given over to leatherworking, and hides of a dozen sorts waited to be shaped into armor. She peered at the grayish hide draped over the table, and wondered what sort of monsters one hunted in Neverwinter.

“You must have a thousand questions,” Yvon said, sitting down. “But I insist you have a cake before you start.”

Farideh took one gingerly, all too aware of the thin gruel she’d had for breakfast. “Thank you. I do have so many questions. But one is more pressing than the others. It’s about my … Lorcan, my devil.”

“Oh?”

“He is …” She searched for the proper term. “A bit aggressive. I want to keep the pact, but … I cannot keep on the way we have. Is there anything I can do?”

“Of course,” Yvon said. “You’re free to change your pact. I suspect it hasn’t mentioned that?”

She shook her head. “How?”

Yvon poured the tea. “Find another devil. Preferably a stronger one, in case it gets it into its head to hold on. But you’d prefer that anyway-there always comes a time to move up.

“Or,” Yvon added after filling his own cup, “you can kill him. He’ll come back eventually, but usually they’re vain enough to stay away. Still, you ought to get a replacement-no sense in tempting fate.” He chuckled to himself. “Lector’s first pact was with an imp, of all things. It took him years to get rid of it. He ended up having to lure it into a temple of Amaunator where their priests sorted it out. Sugar?”

“Oh. Yes. Please.” He dropped two brown lumps into the tea-it had been a long time since Farideh had had sugar, or tea for that matter. She wrapped her hands around the mug.

The steam rising out of her cup curled like the shapes of her brand. She nibbled on the cake thoughtfully. A stronger devil. It wouldn’t be Lorcan. It might be a devil who left her alone. It might be someone who she didn’t have to worry about saying no to. It might be someone who gave her more impressive spells. It might be better.

And, too, it might be worse. She wouldn’t be so foolish as to say Lorcan was good, but she was not worried that he might force her to do anything unspeakable. Yet. All else aside, she knew Lorcan.

“Is it possible … Do you think there’s a way to keep the same devil, but … tighten its reins?”

Yvon smiled and sipped his tea. “No. As far as the devils are concerned, they hold the reins. And in a sense, they do. If you try to reason them out of that mindset, at best you’re only arming them with ways to needle you. The key, it seems, is not to hand the reins over too easily.” He gestured for her to drink her tea and put another biscuit on her plate.

She sipped reluctantly. The tea was bitter and earthy under the sugar, and it burned her tongue a little. Kill Lorcan, take on a different devil’s pact, or continue as she was. They were not the choices she’d hoped for.

“It isn’t easy,” Yvon said. “And to think you’ve been going at it all alone.” He clucked his tongue. “At least you have a little power, yes? It’s not as if you’re stuck with Lector’s imp.”

“A little, yes,” she said. She broke a piece off the biscuit and pressed it nervously to crumbs between her fingers. “I know most people would say it’s foolish of me, but … most days, I’m glad of the pact.”

Yvon leaned forward and gave her a very solemn look over the rims of his spectacles. “I wouldn’t say you’re foolish for that. After all, without the pact, you wouldn’t have seen the truth of the wider world, the path to true power.”

It was a strange way to say it, but Farideh supposed he was right. If she hadn’t taken Lorcan’s pact, she would still be in Arush Vayem, she would never have seen a Neverwinter full of tieflings, she would not know she was capable of protecting a caravan or trapping a bounty.

“And I would guess this Lorcan is the one who introduced you to the Raging Fiend?”

Farideh set her cup down and frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Asmodeus. The king of the Hells. We often prefer his epithet.”

“Oh.” The king of the Hells’ own blood runs in your veins. “Yes. I mean, I knew some things. Before.”

The bells over the door jingled as a customer came in. Yvon shook his head with a weary smile. “Business intruding on pleasure. I’ll be just a moment.” He stood and passed through the curtained door.

We often prefer his epithet. Farideh sighed. There was so much she didn’t know about warlocks. A whole way of speaking of devils, for one. She wondered if Lorcan’s lady had such an epithet. She took a bite of teacake.

When she heard the rasping voice from the front room, her mouth dried up, threatening to choke her on her mouthful. “I’m looking for people. Not things. A boy, a dragonborn, and a pair of tieflings.”

“Oh?” Yvon said. “Friends of yours?”

Farideh stood too quickly, scraping the chair against the floor, her heart in her throat. The voice continued, “One of the tieflings wields a glaive. The other has a silver eye. Have you seen them?”

“Perhaps. I believe I saw two tieflings of that description just the other day. Young ladies?”

“Yes. Where are they?”

“I must admit I don’t know,” Yvon said. “Are they friends of yours?”

Farideh crept to the curtained door, angled her head so she could see through the sliver of a gap between the pieces of fabric. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.

The orc from the forest, the one who had shot Havilar, the one who returned in her nightmares, stood in Yvon’s shop, a naked axe in his hand. Yvon listened to him as politely as he had anyone who came into his shop, giving no clue that he might have noticed things weren’t quite right.

The orc curled his lip. “Good friends. You tell me where they are.”

“As I said, I don’t know.” Farideh felt her shoulders drop. At least Yvon knew that much. “But I believe I can be of some assistance to you. You see, they were looking for someone I am acquainted with. If you’d like, I could bring you to our mutual friend right now, and he might be able to shed some light on where your friends lie.”

The orc peered at Yvon, as if he didn’t quite believe his luck. He turned the axe over in his hand several times. “Now?”

“As soon as I get my things.”

The orc snorted. “I’ll be outside.” The bells jangled again, and Farideh stepped back from the curtain just as Yvon came through. The kindly expression had grown tight.

“I don’t need to ask if you know him,” he said.

“He tried to kill me,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He almost killed my sister. I don’t know why he’s hunting us.”

Yvon squeezed her arm. “It will be all right. We’ll take care of him, don’t you worry. I had hoped to invite you to our gathering this afternoon, Farideh, but under the circumstances, I think that is a poor plan. Come along.” He ushered her through the closed door, down a set of stairs, and through a dark cellar room that felt as if it were much larger than the building upstairs. Yvon led her through the dark without hesitation, and aided her up another flight of stairs. He unlocked a second door and held it wide as she exited into a small yard with a quartet of chickens and a dozy donkey.

“Wait here a bit until I’ve led him away.”

“You must be careful-”

Yvon held up a hand. “You’re not to worry, remember? We can handle him. Now, later on, after nightfall, if you’d like to come back, we’ll have a more informal meeting right here. You can meet Lector and the others. And I’ll let you know that your little problem is taken care of, all right? We protect our own.” Farideh nodded and stepped back.

“Keep clear of the wood for a few hours,” he added, and he shut the door tight.

“Why?” she asked, but the door was closed and Yvon was gone. Why should she stay out of the wood? Why should she even think of going into the wood? Perhaps he was going to get the garrison and they would sweep the forest for more orc assassins. Perhaps Yvon’s friends didn’t want to worry about her seeing them kill the orc. Perhaps they were worried she was too new to use her powers. She remembered the orc’s cruel eyes and shuddered.

Yvon had told her not to worry, but she had a very bad feeling that things were going to turn out differently than he’d expected.