The Fractured Sky Read online

  In Heaven,

  An Angel Bargains with Demons

  “Everything the angel tells you is truth,” Aliisza said. “Every promise he makes to you will be honored. He cannot help it. It is his nature.”

  “That’s not what I asked you,” Kaanyr said. “Can you see any trickery in his offer? Have I established the parameters solidly enough? Is there anything I am missing?”

  It’s not what you think you see that gets you, Aliisza thought. That’s only what he distracts you with. It’s what you never expected that will be your undoing. And you’ll deserve every last bit of misery from it, you bastard.

  But Deals with Demons are

  Never What they Seem

  THOMAS M. REID

  The Empyrean Odyssey

  Book I

  The Gossamer Plain

  Book II

  The Fractured Sky

  Book III

  The Crystal Mountain

  November 2009

  Also by Thomas M. Reid

  The Scions of Arrabar Trilogy

  Book I

  The Sapphire Crescent

  Book II

  The Ruby Guardian

  Book III

  The Emerald Scepter

  R.A. Salvatore’s

  War of the Spider Queen

  Book II

  Insurrection

  DEDICATION

  To Jim Lowder,

  who’s always there with good advice

  and even better friendship.

  Prologue

  Kashada the Nightwraith stood very still and waited, watching a doorway from the opposite side of Helm Dwarf-friend’s great hall. It was late, and only a few lanterns burned, turned low to save oil. The hall, which soared three stories high with balconies ringing it at each level, lay shrouded in shadows. Kashada would not be seen among them.

  A wisp of a girl in a nightshirt entered the hall from that far doorway. Though the other figure also stayed among the shadows, Kashada could see her plainly. It was Ansa, the Dwarf-friend’s lover. The girl padded across the hall in Kashada’s direction. Her shoulder-length curls bounced gently in a most provocative way as her hips swayed a tiny bit more than necessary.

  Kashada grinned to herself in the darkness of her hiding place. Tramp, she thought. Dwarf-friend likes them saucy.

  As the young woman passed the great table and its high-backed chairs, Kashada settled a bit deeper into her own shadows, comforted by their cloaking darkness. She brought a spell to mind, a simple trick that would allow her to become a shadow herself should Ansa hesitate and perhaps sense her presence there. Despite her seeming innocence, the girl was anything but, and Kashada the Veiled One would not risk ruining Zasian Menz’s plan by getting caught spying.

  Ansa reached a passage leading from the great hall and proceeded down it. As she disappeared from view, Kashada slipped from her hiding place and followed silently after. The shadow-garbed woman reached the hallway and peeked around the corner: the girl stood a few paces away, her back to Kashada. At the far end of the hall, Zasian strode toward them from Helm Dwarf-friend’s private chambers. It seemed to Kashada that Ansa cringed. Perhaps Ansa did not wish to be seen, but it was clearly too late.

  Kashada watched as Zasian strode toward Ansa and stopped directly in front of her. “Look at me, child,” he said, and he reached out to lift her chin with his finger.

  The girl shivered at the man’s touch, and Kashada had to stifle a chuckle. It was not a shudder of timidity, but of lust. She wants to bed him, too! the Veiled One thought, amused.

  If Zasian noticed, he did not react to it. “You know you shouldn’t be out here,” he said, “especially not dressed as you are.”

  The man continued his admonishment, but Kashada stopped listening. She used the time to study the girl, scrutinizing every detail. She would need to duplicate Ansa’s image as perfectly as possible when the time came. The nightshirt did little to hide the younger girl’s shape, and Kashada noted the plump curves with a mixture of appreciation and jealousy.

  It has been far too long since I truly looked that … firm, the woman mused.

  As Zasian continued to speak, he pulled a pendant from his pocket. He strolled around Ansa, explaining many things to her, but Kashada ignored him. She focused on the face, the green eyes, the dimples. She established every last feature firmly in her mind’s eye. It would need to be perfect to fool Dwarf-friend.

  When she was certain she could become Ansa in every way, Kashada turned her attention to Zasian’s words once more. “Get yourself out of sight, and don’t let me catch you out like this again.” His tone was stern, and he pointed down the hall.

  “Yes, my lord,” the girl said, and she turned and practically ran from him.

  When Ansa had vanished through another door, Zasian turned to where Kashada hid. He did not look directly at her, but let his gaze sweep back and forth along the hall. “Well?” he asked, walking slowly, scanning the shadows. “Did you see enough?”

  Kashada shimmered into view, letting the darkest of the shadows slide from her. She made a gesture and spoke a soft word, manipulating other bits of shadow. They swirled around her, clinging to her in wisps, changing her appearance. In a matter of heartbeats she was no longer Kashada the Nightwraith. Instead, she stood before Zasian as the girl in the nightshirt.

  “Yes, my lord,” Kashada said, shifting her voice to mimic Ansa’s. She giggled softly.

  Zasian frowned and began to circle her, inspecting her form. Kashada followed him with her eyes, shifting her weight and cocking one hip to the side as she had seen Ansa do. She felt his gaze and, despite herself, she felt a tiny shiver run through her.

  “It will serve,” the man said, sounding unimpressed. He returned to stand in front of her.

  Kashada grimaced. You do a better job, she thought.

  “You understand what must happen?” Zasian asked.

  Kashada glared at him. “We have discussed this many times, priest,” she said. “I am no novice at these intrigues.”

  “Nevertheless,” Zasian replied, lifting his nose in a haughty manner, “I must be certain. Cyric will brook no failures on your part.”

  “Nor will Shar stand for any on yours,” Kashada shot back. “Do not presume to lecture me, Menz. I know my task, and my burden. You just make certain you fulfill your end of this bargain.”

  Zasian studied Kashada’s face for a moment, then gave her a curt nod. “Very well,” he said. “Remain hidden and wait for the others to arrive. It may take time before we can begin.”

  Kashada smiled in mocking sweetness at Zasian. He cocked his head to one side, frowning again, but before he could say anything more, she stepped back into the deeper shadows and vanished.

  The priest of Cyric shrugged and walked away, moving toward another wing of the Master’s Hall.

  Time passed slowly, but Kashada had the patience to endure it. She had spent more than a few nights cloaked in darkness and silence, waiting. Events would unfold when they were ready, not when she desired. Secrets and betrayals were most effective when left to simmer.

  After a while, Zasian returned with three others following him. Two men and a woman crept along the hall. The first, a short, stocky fellow in a leather jerkin, wore an array of small blades on numerous belts draped across his body. He had a satchel slung over one shoulder with a weighted net dangling half out of it. Behind him strode a woman, a warrior in heavy mail and brandishing a mace. A taller, thin man brought up the rear, a wand clutched in his hand as his loose trousers and shirt billowed out behind him. Kashada remained hidden and watched as the entourage walked by.

  Kashada bristled when the woman passed her position. The Sharran could feel the cloying, sickening radiance of holy power waft
from the warrior and knew she bowed to Torm without even needing to see the badge upon her armor. The sensation turned her stomach.

  The priestess of Torm slowed a half-step, wrinkling her nose as though she smelled something distasteful.

  The Nightwraith shrank back, deeper into the shadows that hid her, and held her breath.

  The armored woman turned from side to side as though listening and looking for something. Behind her, the arcanist tapped her shoulder and urged her forward. She frowned and gazed absently around for a heartbeat or two longer, then she nodded and continued.

  Kashada exhaled in relief.

  At the end of the hall the prowlers paused before the door leading into Helm Dwarf-friend’s chambers. Zasian gestured and said something too quiet for Kashada to hear. The shorter of the two men vanished. A moment later, the other male made a gesture and a red-framed doorway of energy appeared before him. The man stepped through and then he, too, vanished, the doorway winking out behind him. Finally, the woman raised her mace and shoved herself through the door. Zasian remained, watching.

  Kashada stole from her hiding place and slipped down the hall toward him, darting from shadow to shadow.

  No sounds issued from within the chamber beyond the door. Whatever was happening, someone had made sure through some means, magical or otherwise, that it didn’t rouse the rest of the hall.

  When she drew close, Kashada paused. She watched the priest, waiting for a sign. Zasian turned toward her and nodded.

  With a flick of her fingers, Kashada’s body melted into the darkness and she found herself in a shadowy mirror-world of the one she had departed. The features were all there, identical in size, shape, and placement, only different. Everything looked less solid to the woman’s eye, and the colors appeared washed out, gray and dull. Only the shadows themselves seemed real, somehow more physically firm than the surfaces upon which they were cast.

  No versions of Zasian or anyone else stood within that hall.

  Kashada paid no mind to the surreal quality of the place. With practiced ease, she flowed along the shadows, coming up to and then passing through the wall separating the hall from the chamber beyond, the one she knew served as Helm Dwarf-friend’s bedchamber. She found the room to be in a similar condition to the passageway behind her. Shadow versions of all the furnishings sat arranged within the confines of the chamber, but of the Master of the Hall, there was no sign.

  Kashada moved to a darkened corner and undid the magic of her spell. Instantly, reality returned to normal, and the light of hated Selûne shining through the slats of the shutters revealed the mounded form of someone in the bed. Kashada stood unmoving for a moment, watching the sleeping figure while listening for any signs of disturbance from the chamber beyond the door. Nothing emanated from that place, and Helm Dwarf-friend slept soundly.

  Smiling, Kashada crawled into bed beside the man and snuggled up against him. Helm snorted once and rolled toward her, one thick arm coming to rest draped across her waist.

  Kashada waited.

  A deep thunderous rumble tossed the room around, and Kashada nearly pitched from the bed. She gave a little shriek as Helm cursed and sat up.

  “What was that, lover?” Kashada asked, her voice disguised as Ansa’s. She huddled close to the man at her side and tried to sound frightened.

  “By the Lady’s horn, I don’t know!” he rumbled, flailing to free himself from the bedcovers. “I’m going to find out, though.” He drew up his trousers. “Stay here,” he added, turning to look at Kashada. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Very well,” Kashada replied, pulling the covers around herself. “Hurry, lover.”

  Helm gave her a quick smile and a wink before yanking his shirt over his head and heading out the door. In the chamber beyond, a commotion arose. Kashada watched as Helm reached the door and yanked it open. The man took one stride through and drew up abruptly just as a blazing white light filled the chamber from some source out of Kashada’s line of sight.

  Kashada heard several gasps, and someone murmured, “Blessed angels!” It was not difficult for her to cower in the sheets and wait as she had been told. She did not want to come face to face with a holy being. The thought turned her stomach.

  Take the fool alu and be gone, Kashada thought. Don’t come sniffing in here.

  She heard a voice ring out. “By Lord Tyr’s justice, we claim this fiend for our own purposes.” Its tone was thunderous, charged with power. “Do any among you offer reason we should not?”

  Some faint murmuring reverberated from the chamber, but none dissented against the speaker.

  “Very well,” the being continued. “Then this one shall not trouble you again.”

  Kashada blinked. The blazing light was gone.

  Helm turned and looked to Kashada. He nodded once, satisfied that she was safe, then slammed the door. She could hear him, his voice muffled through the portal, demanding to know what in the everlasting Hells was going on.

  It took the rest of the night to sort everything out.

  By morning, Helm Dwarf-friend was convinced that the city had come under attack, and that his own life had been targeted by a fiendish creature who had attempted to disguise herself as Ansa. His seneschal Zasian, acting on reliable information, had brought a team to the Master’s chambers just in the nick of time. The alu had been defeated, and angels in the service of Tyr had taken her away for judgment.

  Helm was exhausted when he finally returned to his chambers the following evening. Ansa was there, of course, ready to soothe his tired muscles with her soft, delicate body. She tended to him with all the care and warmth of a young, vibrant lover, and the Master of the Hall did not suspect a thing. When he was asleep not long after, Kashada smiled to herself.

  Soon it would be time to raise her secret temple to Shar, within the very heart of Sundabar. And when she was ready, Kashada would bring the Dark Goddess’s revenge upon all the North.

  Chapter One

  The wind howled and buffeted Zasian, and he fought against it. Learning to fly in dragon form was harder than coercing magical energies to aid him in flight. The priest struggled to familiarize himself with subtle shifts in frame. He practiced flexing muscles he never imagined possessing before. It was not easy.

  He had to work all the harder because of the distractions. The wind certainly made things more difficult, but that was a mere inconvenience, an occasional jarring shift that he could account for and dismiss. A gust or down shear might startle him, but it would not ruin him.

  He felt some residual queasiness from the mushrooms Aliisza had introduced into the dragon’s system, too. The occasional rumble or twitch deep in his belly led him to suspect that they were not completely purged. He hoped they would not become a greater problem.

  The dragon fighting to regain control of his own body was far more dangerous. Zasian could feel the being’s rage, sense the overwhelming power tucked away, pounding futilely against the dweomers he had erected to contain him. Though he trusted that the magic was strong enough to withstand the raw fury of the dragon, he had to be careful not to succumb to his crafty wit.

  That’s not quite right, the dragon would say. You’re too stiff with the tail. You must let it glide, not twitch. If you’ll allow me, I’ll demonstrate.

  But of course Zasian would not relinquish control, even for an instant. To do so would mean death for him. Still, he admired the beast’s efforts, his desire to live. Despite the panic the dragon must have felt from not being in control, he whispered, suggested, always so reasonable, so helpful.

  I understand your fear, dragon, Zasian said, but your efforts are wasted. I know your mind better than you do. My course is set. I know the inevitability of what must happen. You cannot undo this. The dragon grew quiet, and Zasian could feel his fear grow.

  He ignored the beast, and the journey continued.

  Eventually, the dragon renewed his efforts, but Zasian was prepared. He fought the dragon with the same growing ease with wh
ich he battled the unfamiliar shape and muscles.

  A searing pain filled the priest’s abdomen, and for a startled breath or two he feared that it was the dragon, finally finding some crack in his prison, at last reaching out with some energy to stab at Zasian’s presence from within. But the dragon seemed just as surprised as he, and before the beast could take advantage of the priest’s confusion, Zasian had his guard up again.

  But he was going to be sick.

  Damned mushrooms, Zasian thought. I must land. He began to look everywhere below him, desperate for a safe haven. Another sharp, white-hot pain shot through the priest, and his fear of injury and falling to his death overcame his cautious hesitation. Even if there were any cursed celestials nearby, he would just have to risk it.

  The priest spied a smallish bit of land, an uprooted, inverted mountain bobbing and weaving in the tempestuous winds. It slipped in and out of view several times, obscured by the racing, roiling clouds, but Zasian kept his bearing true and half-flew, half-tumbled to its upper surface.

  Another sharp agony rammed into his gut as he flopped onto the open space atop the nodule of rock. A handful of scrawny trees whipped around in the fierce breezes, but at least they offered him some cover from unwanted eyes.

  Not that anything would be out and about, trying to fly through this, Zasian thought.

  He marveled again that the House of the Triad was in such an uproar. It was not known for anything other than idyllic weather, but Cyric’s efforts to drive a wedge between Tyr and Helm must have been going better than expected. Zasian almost laughed, imagining the natives’ consternation and panic over the disruption to their beloved paradise. A chortle almost escaped his wyrmish maw, but yet another shooting pain turned the sound into a grunt of anguish.

  He really was going to be sick.

  Zasian was fully in the act of retching something up, struggling to control both the writhing, twitching body and the sentience that wanted it back, when he realized the cause of his distress.