Volume 3, Chapter 39: The Tables Would be Turned
Sand took a moment to compose himself, rubbing his face. It seemed as though half of Luskan owned him by this point; but if it had bought Torio her life, perhaps then it was worth it. Technically, he could now count himself among the ranks of the Brotherhood – a small consolation. He left the small study at a half-jog, moving past silent guards and a few servants, and entered Nivarra's room. "Yes, mistress? You called?" He moved quietly to her side, his blue eyes expectant.
Nivarra was rustling through scraps of parchment in the small alcove behind her vanity, her voice excited. "Come, we haven't much time...the sun is already going down." She stepped from the alcove, placing a stack of papers onto the vanity, her eyes gleaming almost wildly, lips parted slightly in excitement. "There's not enough room here; we'll have to perform the ritual down in the cellars. Fitting, regardless...the Lady of Shadows thrives underground." She moved to Sand examining his face perfunctorily. "Are the servants gone?"
Sand needed desperately to catch his breath - trial, slaves, Brotherhood, Nightbringer. Victory, satisfaction, fear, betrayal. If it wasn't for his incredible mind, he was certain he would have erred somewhere along the way by now. "Yes, all the slaves are gone. Most of the paid servants have gone home for the day - only a handful remain, mistress."
He began helping her organize the papers. "We need to wait until midnight to perform the ceremony. It will take me about an hour to prepare the necessarily runes on the floor of the room you select. We will also need a dagger that has never before seen blood." He moved back into his small chambers, rummaging through the jars until he found the crushed obsidian stones. What else? Powdered moonbeam crystals. He gathered up all the components they had stolen or purchased and then rejoined her in the alcove, dropping the pouches on the desk. "We have all the materials we need, mistress. Now, to wait."
Nivarra stepped around him back into the bedroom, staring around her for a moment. Her pulse was racing steadily, quickly, beneath her skin; there was a nagging, uncertain doubt at the back of her mind, that whispered, but what if it doesn't go the way you plan?
She glanced back at Sand, standing in the alcove. He lost the trial for you...he will not fail in this ritual, either. Her eyes narrowed slyly as she reached out, sinking her fingers into the front of his robes and pulling him against her. "You did well, my pet," she said silkily. "My father never suspected a thing. Well - not until the end, I suppose." She stroked her fingers up his chest, her eyes flashing dangerous and cold in the candlelight of the rapidly dimming room, the last bright orange glow of the sunset disappearing outside the window. "It's upon us, my pet; soon, the spirit of the Dark Lady herself will be present in this house...and it's all because of you." She pressed her mouth against his, pushing his lips open, exploratory, her eyes falling shut for a moment.
Sand realized he could now refuse her advances; the geas no longer made him agree to anything she wanted - not his will, his mind, his body.
But if he resisted, she would suspect something. And then his bargain with the Hosttower would be off.
Kissing her now, in a way, was worse. He no longer had the geas on which to blame all his actions. He wrapped his arms around her, standing slightly on tiptoe to reach her mouth more easily. "Mistress, are you making up for the punch your father threw at me?"
"Greetings, then, Adyla. Follow me." The cleric tottered up from the servants' quarters through the halls. It was too quiet now and her footsteps seemed to echo loudly. It made her a little nervous, this big mansion being so emptied and belonging to that young girl Nivarra. They stood before Nivarra's door and the cleric knocked twice before opening it slightly. "Mistress Nivarra, your new serving girl is here."
Nivarra made a disgusted noise low in her throat before pulling back slightly from Sand, half turning to the door. "Well, bring her in already, then."
Alysin entered, Torio following closely on her heels. Nivarra's eyes flicked over her briefly, dismissing her as she took in the slight form, the lackluster brown hair...the girl looked inordinately young and wilting, an image not helped by the slender, slight up-turning of her nose that gave her features a somewhat childish cast.
"This is Adyla," said Alysin calmly.
Torio's eyes fixated on the scene before her, an icy, burning rage trickling through her veins, shot with a deep, hollowing pain. Nivarra's hands clutched at Sand possessively, her face flushed and lips slightly parted as she gave Torio the once-over, her gaze patronizing and condescending. She could feel her fingernails digging into her palms; Sand's hands were resting lightly at the back of Nivarra's neck, a few limp strands of dark hair resting between his fingers, and she could feel herself trembling slightly with fury.
You're a fool, Torio Claven, rushing back here like a whipped, moon-eyed girl with a head full of poetry and sawdust....
She smothered the cold, triumphant voice at the back of her mind, and stared hard into Nivarra's eyes for a moment... and then she dropped her gaze and fell into a slight, bobbing curtsey, muttering "Mistress."
Nivarra said, sharply, "I suppose you'll do." She extracted herself from Sand with businesslike aplomb and smoothed her dress down. "You can start by helping me here." Her fingers fluttered at Sand, disregarding. "Go find a suitably empty cellar downstairs and prepare what you must, then return to me as soon as your finished. And slave..." her eyes were glowing as she glanced at him. "Do take your time; I don't want any mistakes, this evening." She gestured to Torio, and pressed the panel on the wall, returning her vanity to its original spot and closing off the alcove. "Come, come, girl, I've no patience for tarrying around." She sat down, and Torio, after a sharp glance at Alysin, moved to help Nivarra prepare for the night, her eyes flicking to Sand's face only briefly.
Sand gathered up the supplies and made his way down to the cellars. He moved from room to room until he found one that only had some empty barrels and burlap sacks. These he shoved into the hallway so that the entire room was clear. He leaned against the door frame, staring at the charcoal grey dirty floor in front of him.
He didn't have to perform the ritual now that the geas was removed; perhaps he could pretend to do it and fail? All it would take would be a few mispronounced words, a few incorrect components.
And perhaps instead of a Nightbringer, you accidentally turn her into a medusa...
No, Sand had never been one to experiment with living creatures, even while at the Hosttower. But now that she wasn't forcing him to, and the Brotherhood hadn't given him specific instructions either; perhaps he could just trap her somehow and keep her bound until the Hosttower came for him. And her, likely.
But could he really do that to her? Betray her like that? Sand had to admit it was very apropos in a city like Luskan; the Brotherhood would probably pat him on the back for such a move. But now, he had a certain amount of careful affection for her. She wasn't treating him nearly as badly as she was before, now that he was bending over backwards to please her. Sand had seen how Dornan had treated her; he would be amazed if any young girl didn't grow up into that cold, harsh mistress he knew so well by now.
He could spirit her away – like he had done with Torio. She must have some distant relative, an aunt or grandparent in another city where he could teleport her. It would be a chance for her to have a new life, a new identity, one that did not rely upon her father's plots and the Hosttower's machinations. The girl would surely curse his name but what would she be able to do? With him as a Hosttower mage, she wouldn't dare risk re-entering Luskan again – and perhaps over time, she would come to thank him. Sand realized with a bemused chuckled that the shackles of servitude apparently had fit him well; he was barely remembering what being a free elf felt like. There was nothing she could do to him anymore.
He dropped the sack with all the materials on the ground and turned around, taking a tentative step towards freedom…
"Sand of Neverwinter, and once Sand of Luskan, and of Luskan again," the infernal Mephasm addressed him suddenly from the far shadows, "So often a tool in the instruments of much lesser minds. A wizard of great power, so often powerless - though such is the natural justice of this plane."
The devil floated forward and the shadows around him melted away. His face was cold and expressionless, but his words were genuine, "I offer your freedom from the fools that would use you, and the power to take revenge upon them. Or anyone else you so chose."
Sand's steps faltered as he heard the familiar voice, that had so often drifted in his direction from the summoning circle in the Keep. For a moment, it was like he was back in Neverwinter again, back safe...
He turned slowly. "Mephasm. You pick a strange and yet oddly fitting time to be coming to me with an offer." The elf's mind was racing; Ammon Jerro had made dozens of infernal pacts and had essentially survived, taking with him a few lovely glowing tattoos as souvenirs. And Sand, while his own knowledge of the Hells was painfully thin, knew striking a good bargain would lie in a game of words. His game to win. "My freedom? You can break the geas the Brotherhood has placed upon me? And what do you seek in return, my blue friend?"
Mephasm paused briefly, acknowledging the elf's sarcasm for what it was. The devil was no friend to anyone, and it could not be any other way: compassion and mercy had no place in the laws of the outer planes, where millions spent anguished eternities for such choices in life. Still, Mephasm knew, as Sand knew, that as limitless as his power was, he was bound to the unbreakable terms of the bargain itself. Indeed, Mephasm had plenty to offer those who knew who to ask.
"There is one way to end the geas," Mephasm said, "And you and I both know it will mean the end of you. If you finish the ritual, your usefulness will be outlived to the woman, and you will become a tool of the Brotherhood thereafter."
He looked at Sand intently. "To escape this fate, you must do as I ask. First, the woman Nivarra's ritual must be completed by you. In spite of the risk it entails, you will do so without harm - I will assure that. Though you think it unwise, she must become the Nightbringer. Do so, and the geas will be shattered instantly." Mephasm raised a closed fist, digging his nails into his long palm, then releasing them free bloodlessly.
He then stared at Sand with penetrating eyes. "But I require something of you in exchange. A being of such power cannot be allowed to roam free, however - she could do much harm to this world and many others. You must control her." He paused, noting the wizard's ears sharpen with interest, "As long as she lives, she is yours to command."
"The terms of our deal cannot be negotiated." Mephasm said resolutely as he extended his hand in offering. "Do you accept?"
Sand held up his hand and then paused. The devil had said the terms were non-negotiable; if they had been negotiable, what would he have changed? He found it very curious that Mephasm would both want him to complete the ritual and fear her power on Abeir-Toril. There was something odd in that and Sand definitely knew the motives of the fiend were not for the greater good of his health or Faerun.
Still - he was getting both his freedom and the power to control this avatar of Shar, which might just be the instrument they would need to turn the tide against the King of Shadows. If she could tap directly into the Shadow Weave, he would be able to use her to disrupt Garius' plans. Then he would like to see Nevalle or Nasher try to yank him along as their dutiful pet wizard and spy. He would like to see the Hosttower toy with him then.
The elf looked up into those infinitely powerful and evil eyes and for the small fraction of a moment, felt a deep cold, mistrust sink through him. Something was definitely afoot but he was now grasping at flimsy straws for his freedom, desperately trading one master for another. He always seemed to be trading up however, his masters becoming more cruel, more powerful...
He shook his head lightly - he had nearly gone willingly into the embrace of the Hosttwer of the Arcane. And that was the one place he had vowed he would never return. Sand closed the remaining distance between him and Mephasm and shook the icy blue hand.
Mephasm's grip was firm and the softness of his aged skin was unsettling. "Our bargain is made, Sand of Neverwinter." He said, shaking his hand and letting his long nails curve around the wizard's palm casually, "Now go, and do what must be done to get that which you rightly deserve."
Sand stepped back and watched the azure fiend shimmer and then fade from view. For a long time, Sand merely stood rooted to the spot, mulling over the events. The bargain had seemed safe enough; he hadn't bartered with his soul or anything foolish like that. Not that there was anything he could do now. This certainly was an eventful day; he was half expecting Garius to show up next and offer him a coveted spot by his side.
He looked down at his palm and started at the sight of a glowing glyph, which moved like quicksilver over his skin. An infernal mark. The warlock would be proud.
Sand re-entered the small cellar room and dumped out the contents of the bag. Using some chalk, he drew out a circle on the rough stone floor and then scattered the crushed stones and gem on his outline. He poured the vial of fiend's blood over top the powdered components, making a dark, sticky mess. Pulling out his notes and ignoring pointedly the twisting tattoo on his hand, he began copying out the ancient runes into the floor, using the feather of the achaierai dipped in the krakken ink to write it all out.
A half hour later he was done. His knees were sore from kneeling on the cobblestone and he stood slowly, wincing as he stretched his legs and back. The glyph seemed to glow brightly, approvingly at his handiwork and Sand returned back up the stairs to find Nivarra and wait for the darkest part of the night.
Torio had, with slightly fumbling fingers, helped wash, dress, and prepare Nivarra for whatever in the hells the woman was planning; she had donned a slim, smooth gown that was the deepest shade of black, purple iridescence shimmering through the fabric, and had made Torio help her put on a complicated necklace that dangled strangely symbolic, tiny amulets around her throat. She had been instructed to draw painstakingly delicate symbols around the palms of her hands and up her arms, and Torio's back, neck, and fingers were throbbing painfully by the time she was nearly completed from bending over and working with the tiny stick of charcoal.
She could feel the cool knives pressing against her skin as she worked, the small jar of poison a dead weight in her skirt pocket. If she could just get five seconds with the woman's back turned...
But it was somewhat useless; Nivarra's eyes watched her in the mirror constantly, her gaze sharp and wary, and Torio found herself thinking ungracious thoughts about her appearance...hair is so thin, her entire body is thin, she looks like a half-strangled scarecrow...
And then when she had finished, and had straightened, the woman in front of her looking like some dark-robed mystic, her hands had gone discreetly behind her back, attempting to work the knives from beneath her sleeves...
And then the door opened, and Sand reappeared, and Nivarra stood and moved away from her.
The woman glanced back at her. "Go on, run off and make yourself useful...see if the kitchens need help, or have the healer show you around. Guard! My maidservant is leaving."
And then the uniformed man was at her elbow, leading her out, and she could only glance back as the door shut behind her, cursing mentally in frustration.
Nivarra stared at Sand speculatively. "I trust you had no problems downstairs?" She glanced out the window; full dark was upon them, the last vestiges of sunlight wiped from the sky. "We have some time yet, wizard...I need to go over my portion of the ritual; make yourself busy." She sat down at her vanity, spreading sheaves of parchment in front of her; they both knew that she had her small contribution to the spell already memorized backwards and forwards, but she couldn't stop the nervous bubble of anxiety from rising up in her chest, and staring at the words in front of her gave her a small amount of comfort as she waited for midnight to come.
Sand sidestepped the new serving girl and then examined the symbols on Nivarra's hands and arms. "Good. These are accurate. Your serving girl is skilled with writing." He went to his chambers and collected vials of healing potion. His eyes took in the small room; he would not be feeling any regret at leaving it all behind tonight.
If all went well, he would be free from Luskan before the sun rose in the east tomorrow morning. He didn't care if he would have to swim out of the accursed city; he didn't even care if he drowned at sea at this point - so long as he didn't die in Luskan. But if he did it all correctly, he'd be out of Luskan and he would begin searching for Torio. And when he found her –
He had no idea what he would do.
He curled up on her bed, watching Nivarra study her notes. A few hours time and the tables would be turned and she would belong to him.