fury to dislocate reason

Some idiot is talking to Pharaun. Another Master, Vizaeth gathers, though of what he dreads to think. His hair is a mess, brassy and tangled up in a knot at the back of his head, and he’s wearing what’s clearly last night’s makeup. Quite what someone like that can have to say to Pharaun is a mystery, and what’s more, it’s delaying the lecture. Vizaeth drums his manicured nails on his notebook and hisses a frustrated sigh through his teeth. Crawl back to whichever bed you were kicked out of already.

And then, of course, the day gets worse.

Viconia Despana stalks into the room, stopping dead in the doorway to survey what she doubtless regards as her territory, ripe with prey, uncaring that she’s in the way of the apprentice behind her. Her eyes fall on the small male at the front of the hall, gazing docilely around the room, a sweet-faced boy who arrived with the tragic mess fawning over Pharaun. Viconia shrieks like a banshee before rushing over to snare him in her arms. Vizaeth rolls his eyes. That would be her type; too young to know better, fresh meat to grind beneath her heel.

He could help. Warn the new apprentice to keep away from females like her. But no-one ever warned him, and experience is the best teacher, so they say. Lolth helps those who help themselves. Let the boy figure out his own salvation.

The two of them glance at him, whispering with heads bowed together. Viconia’s enlisting him into her schemes already; well, let her. Despite her best efforts, Pharaun has kissed him again, fucked him twice now, and the second time was better than the first—he could move that time, worship Pharaun as he deserves. The taste of him lingers on Vizaeth’s tongue, and he knows his is still on Pharaun’s, because Pharaun let him stay in his bed afterwards, kissed his neck until he begged for mercy, then for more.

Pharaun’s bed still smells like him. Viconia can only wish for such influence.

Lolth’s teeth, the idiot is still talking to Pharaun—how can he possibly have so much to say? They nod to each other, and Pharaun…Vizaeth’s breath snags in his throat. Pharaun smiles, a twist of lips and a flick of appreciative eyes, and it’s the same way he looked at Vizaeth paralysed on his floor, naked in his bed. It’s not a look that’s meant for anyone else, it belongs to him.

He’s so busy trying to work out how this can be happening that he doesn’t notice until it’s too late that Viconia and her thrall have taken the seats next to him. His nails carve furrows into his palms. He doesn’t have time to care what she’s planning, Pharaun is being bewitched by this…this interloper!

The thrall whispers something. Vizaeth ignores it and breathes deep. The back of his mind itches, and he soothes it with the fact that he’ll be back in Pharaun’s bed soon enough, and can cleanse whatever foul influence has ensnared him.

“A fine morning to you all,” Pharaun begins. Vizaeth unclenches his fists. Finally. “Before I proceed with today’s lecture, I’m pleased to introduce a visiting Master from Ust Natha, who will be aiding me today, not least for his experience on the subject: Master Rai’gy Despana.”

Despana?

Acid in the back of his throat. He stares in horror from Viconia to Rai’gy to the thrall, and it all falls into nightmarish place. The same hair, the same unblinking-eye pin, the same sneering cast to their features—she’s brought her family to Sorcere. The doe-eyed thrall isn’t her lover, he’s her brother, and the idiot simpering over Pharaun, making Pharaun smile at him is…is also…

Vizaeth bites the inside of his lip so hard he tastes blood. He should have seen this coming. He knows better than to let his guard down, and now she’s going to try to fuck him again.

At the front of the hall, Pharaun is wrapping up his explanations of the aberrations that dwell in the Far Realm, and as he does so, Master Despana begins sketching out a pentagram on the floor. He’s going to conjure something, this is why he’s here, to provide a demonstration. The sigils are complex, layered all over one another around a wide, wide space. Whatever he calls will be large. Powerful.

The seed of an idea threads black roots through Vizaeth’s mind as they’re called down to the front. Despana warns them to be careful. The circle mustn’t be disturbed. Break the circle and you break the spell, freeing whatever you’ve called.

Loose planar beings have a tendency to turn on their summoners.

The class gathers round, all of them disgustingly eager to watch the interloper cast. Pharaun steps back, letting Despana take the summoner’s position at the top of the circle. He leans against his lectern, twining a lock of hair around his finger, and he’s not looking at Vizaeth, only at Despana, and there’s a bruise on his neck where there wasn’t one yesterday, and Pharaun, look at me, you have to look at me, please.

A column of blue fire erupts from the circle. When it clears, the aberration looms over them, and despite the circle’s size, it’s still barely contained. Raw, red skin strains over hulking muscle, clawed hands curl and uncurl, hanging low enough for the knuckles to scrape the floor. It bares its black lips in a snarl as it lunges for Despana—sparks erupt as it collides with the arcane barrier, and several apprentices start back in alarm. The creature gnashes an overabundance of yellowed teeth, enraged at its imprisonment.

“This,” Despana says, “is a foulspawn. Straight from the Far Realm, and very angry.”

The fury in the foulspawn’s blank, white eyes is a perfect match for what’s beating in Vizaeth’s heart. They’re kin, he and it. They both share the same desire—to see Despana’s innards strewn across the floor.

The barrier feels as though it’s flaying the skin from his hand as he forces it through. He focuses on Pharaun to transmute the pain, matching their magic as he did before. Pharaun’s breath is in his lungs, they share the same shape, two bodies and one purpose. He can feel their heartbeats align, power surging, he can already hear Despana’s death rattle.

Someone tackles him and Vizaeth snarls; Viconia fucking Despana has her bony arms around his waist, dragging him away from the circle. He flings a hand out, catching her under the eye and she flinches—that’s right, take your medicine like a good girl—and though he stumbles, she’s too late, the foulspawn is loose. It bellows triumphantly, seeming somehow larger now that the circle has failed. In its monstrous shadow, Viconia looks terrified, stricken by a bout of familial concern as the foulspawn lunges at Rai’gy. She starts forward, but Vizaeth snags her by the hair and yanks her back. She’s not going to get her way, not this time.

Then somehow she’s out of his grip. Her hand snaps forward, blinding pain erupts in his face and he goes down with a howl—fucking bitch, of course she brawls like a street rat! The class is in a panic around him, the foulspawn still roaring fit to sunder the Abyss. Through the tears streaming down his face, Vizaeth can just about make out Viconia glaring down at him, his brother’s old ally Veryan Xolarrin clinging pathetically to her arm.

Clearly, Xolarrin hasn’t learned a thing about who best to align yourself with. That’s fine. Vizaeth can give him a reminder.

Over the hue and cry, Pharaun’s smooth voice intones a banishment—ruined by the addition of Despana’s unqualified squalling—and the fo
ulspawn vanishes in a blaze of blue fire. Pharaun shakes out his hands.

“I think,” he says lightly, “that was exciting enough for today’s lesson. Next week I expect six pages on the Far Realm and foulspawn, the details of which I will leave to you. That said, apprentice Thaezyr, apprentice Despana, I—we need to speak with the both of you. The rest of you are dismissed.”

The class files out, snickering behind their hands, sharing glances and disdain like candy, and why wouldn’t they? Suffering is sweet when it’s not your own. Vizaeth struggles to his feet, head pounding, vision blurry. He’s barely upright before a snarl of magic from the younger of Viconia’s brothers has him on the floor again. His throat spasms and a shriek of laughter echoes hysterically in the near-empty lecture hall.

He fights, resisting the spell with all he has, but whatever the thrall’s cast won’t budge. The little bastard crouches over him, head cocked, cold malice in his eyes. He looks at Vizaeth like a moth he’s eager to pull the wings off of, and, convulsed with maniacal laughter, Vizaeth has just enough presence of mind to wonder if Viconia knows a demon has borrowed her brother’s skin.

“Nalfein Despana! Enough!”

The spell cuts out abruptly. Vizaeth roll to his knees, gasping, retching, blood and bile stinging his throat. His face is hot, flushed with humiliation, and he can feel the careful decoration of his eyes streaking down it in ruins. He’s a mess, a monster, and once again Viconia has painted him this way in front of Pharaun. He’s going to rip out all her precious hair and cram it down her throat—she wants to fight like a Stenchstreets brat, she can die like one. He’ll carve her into a summoning circle, feed her brothers to whatever Lolth sends him, she can go to the Demonwebs screaming how fucking sorry she is!

A hand grabs the back of his robes and hauls him to his feet

“When I said foulspawn were dangerous, were you listening?” Rai’gy Despana demands.

Vizaeth is foulspawn beneath his feverish skin, white-eyed, red-raw fury in a circle about to collapse. He presses his lips tight over teeth that vibrate in their sockets, aching to tear into Despana’s badly made-up face and rip it from his skull. Words are like broken-glass grinding out of his laughter-torn throat.

“I listened when Master Mizzrym said it.”

“But you knew, regardless, that what you were doing was unsafe?”

“Master Mizzrym could have handled it,” Vizaeth snaps. “He’s a far better wizard than you.”

“And what if he couldn’t?” Despana ignores the slight. “If your stupid idea killed both of us?”

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to—”

“Shut up.” Despana cuts him off. “You put your classmates in danger over a bout of petty jealousy. You put yourself in danger over a bout of petty jealousy. I say this with all due respect: what you did was reckless and stupid, and you’re very lucky Pharaun didn’t immediately throw you out of Sorcere over it.”

“He would never,” Vizaeth spits at him, even as terror swirls through his gut. Pharaun wouldn’t, he can’t, they’re bound now, Pharaun won’t send him away—

Pharaun clears his throat. “Why don’t I speak with apprentice Thaezyr privately?” He flicks a glance at Viconia, who looks as furious as Vizaeth feels. “I believe your sister needs a word as well.”

She needs more than a word, Vizaeth thinks, as the Despana’s—all three of them—slink from the lecture hall. But they’ll collude with one other out there, what else is family for? She’ll get away with everything. Again.

He can’t breathe properly. He tries without success to stop the tears that well from the throbbing pain in his nose, which is definitely broken, and he hates the infirmary, but he can’t let it stay like this, he’ll be hideous.

Pharaun would never forgive him for that.

When the Despana’s are gone, Pharaun sighs, and hops up to sit on one of the frontmost desks. He hooks one knee over the other, leaning his elbow on his thigh and his chin on his hand.

“Trying to steal my spellbook is one thing,” he says. “I can appreciate a self-improvement scheme. But if you’re going to try to get someone killed, have a little subtlety. Master Despana is right; I could throw you out of Sorcere for such carelessness.”

“You can’t!” Horror wraps strangling hands around Vizaeth’s heart. “Don’t make me leave, Pharaun, please, I—”

“Master Mizzrym,” Pharaun says, mildly. Vizaeth clamps his mouth shut. “And I’m not going to. You’re not the first apprentice to think disrupting a summoning circle is a good idea, and you certainly won’t be the last, but if you ever—” he rises now, and the few inches he has on Vizaeth become miles, his voice dark and hard and cold, “—if you ever pull a stunt like that in one of my classes again, I will throw you to the Archmage’s mercy, and Lolth knows the Baenre have done a damned fine job breeding that trait out of the family.”

None of this lecture should be directed at him. The people who deserve it are snickering outside in the corridor at this very moment. Despana has done something to Pharaun’s mind, Vizaeth is sure of that now. He has to fix it. A dispel, maybe? He can’t think clearly, so for now he ducks his aching head and swallows blood along with his anger.

“Yes, Master Mizzrym.”

“And leave apprentice Despana be,” Pharaun adds, his tone lightening. “For one thing, you shouldn’t have let her break your nose in the first place, and for another, retaliating now is as obvious as you can get. You’re a Menzoberranyr. Act like one.”

He returns to his lectern, stooping to gather up the papers that fell in the chaos of the foulspawn’s escape. Vizaeth wipes blood from his mouth, wincing when he catches his nose.

“Infirmary,” Pharaun says, without looking at him. Vizaeth hesitates. “I will compel you if I have to, apprentice Thaezyr. Go.”

Vizaeth rushes from the hall as Rai’gy Despana enters, sans siblings, and the Abyss is apparently smiling on him for now, since the other Despana’s are nowhere in sight, the corridor blessedly empty. He’s halfway to the infirmary when he realises he’s left all his books in the lecture hall, and he wouldn’t care, but his spellbook is among them. He can’t risk Despana getting his filthy hands on it.

His nose will wait. Vizaeth turns on his heel, and races back towards Pharaun’s classroom.

The lecture hall is locked. He’s only been gone a few minutes; has Pharaun already left? He has no more classes today, perhaps he’s returned to his quarters. Good. He deserves a rest. Vizaeth’s about to get his lockpicks out when he hears soft laughter behind the door. Pharaun’s laughter. He drops to his knees and presses his eye to the keyhole with dread climbing his spine.

Pharaun is half-naked in Despana’s lap, the two of them up against the wall. Pharaun’s head is bent to Despana’s neck, and Vizaeth’s hand goes to his throat, to bruises faded from flesh but embedded in his soul. The small, wet sounds of lips on skin echo softly in the empty hall, mixed with murmuring voices. Too low to make out everything, but what Vizaeth hears is enough to turn his stomach.

“…could stay in Menzoberranzan…” Pharaun says. “Archmage Baenre would…”

“…dalliance…all I can stand,” Despana replies. He touches Pharaun’s face as if he’s allowed to, and there’s deep violet stain smeared over both their mouths, Pharaun ruined at the hands of Viconia’s whore of a brother. “…only so much backwater politics I can take.”

“…you’ll leave me?” Pharaun’s smiling, Vizaeth can hear it in his voice. “My dear Rai, I…”

This is wrong, so wrong, and yet he can’t tear his eyes away, hoping and hoping the enchantment wears off, that Pharaun realises what’s been done to him. But he doesn’t. He’s kissing Despana’s throat again, Despana pawing at him like a starving animal, his unworthy hands all over Pharaun’s perfect skin.

“I don’t know what love tastes like…” Some fell acoustics carry all Pharaun’s words to him this time, and each one drives a butcher knife between his ribs. “…but if it’s anything like you, I need more.”

Vizaeth shoves a hand into his mouth to stifle his scream. They’re tangled together, Pharaun lost to him now beneath Despana’s rutting. Skin breaks, blood floods his mouth, and still pressure builds in his head, a howling firestorm his teeth can’t control. He shoves away from the door, staggering, near-blind. All he can see is the two of them, Despana where he should be, desecrating everything that matters, and he has a knife in his belt, he can pick that lock, it’s nothing, the whore is distracted—Pharaun, why don’t you stop him, now I have to stop him, I have to—

Retaliating now is as obvious as you can get.

His hand drops from his mouth. Blood spatters the floor, the only sound in the empty corridor. He’ll heed Pharaun’s words. He’s a Menzoberranyr. He can be patient. And he knows how to look like, talk like, act like Pharaun, and though it means he’d have to suffer Despana’s hands, he’s suffered worse, and the look on his face when Vizaeth rips out his throat with his teeth will be worth it.

Infirmary. Fix himself, and then he can fix this.

Lolth helps those who help themselves, after all.