Chapter TWELVE
6 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cale, Riven, and Rivalen left behind the statue of Shar and Mask and strode across the crumbling earth for the double doors of the temple. Octagonal gongs flanked the doorway.
Cale eyed Rivalen sidelong and reminded himself not to trust the Shadovar, shared interest or no. Cale’s god might serve Shar, but Cale did not serve a Sharran.
“The doors are enspelled,” Rivalen said. He held forth his holy symbol and incanted a counterspell without breaking stride. The doors, carved from a rich black wood and inscribed with writings in the same script as that on the statue, clicked and swung open. A lingering spell caused the gongs to sound a deep, funereal chime. Dry air carried the fading, distant smell of incense. Cale swore he heard whispers in the wind but they faded before he could make out any words.
Riven bounded inside, blades bare and leaking shadows.
“Nothing,” the assassin called back.
Cale let Rivalen follow then fell in behind him.
Behind them, the moans of the specters grew louder. Cale looked back, saw the gray cloud of spirits rise into the sky and hurtle toward the temple.
“Quickly,” he said.
Following the pull of his divination, Cale led them through a black-tiled foyer, vaulted halls, and darkened corridors. Shadows swam in languid spirals within the crystalline walls, or coalesced from nothingness in the air before them. For a reason he could not articulate, Cale thought of the Fane of Shadows.
They found all of the halls and chambers empty even of debris. The structure remained intact but it had been gutted, a mummified version of a temple with only a hint of a dark past to haunt its halls.
The floors groaned, buckled, and shook as more and more of Ephyras fell into the void outside. Dust fell from the ceilings. Cracks opened in the walls.
Paintings here and there repeated the iconography of the Mistress of Night and the Shadowlord, her herald. Cale could not long look at them. The images had a dreamy, surreal quality, as if produced in a fit of madness or a drug haze.
Eventually they entered the large central chamber under the faceted dome. The ceiling soared above them. A horseshoe shaped altar of black stone sat centermost. Inlaid stone formed images on the floor—a black circle bordered in purple and within it, offset from its center, another black circle, bordered in red—the Shadowlord’s circle within Shar’s circle, the one orbiting within the other.
Magic-sculpted shadows formed an image on the interior of the dome above. A female figure, her face hidden in the shadow of her black cloak’s hood, descended from a storm of roiling black clouds. Lightning presaged her approach. Already on the ground before her was a man, clad in black and steel, and cloaked in shadows.
The herald, preparing the way for the mistress.
Riven put a hand on Cale’s shoulder, pulling him back to himself.
“Look there,” the assassin said, and pointed with his chin at a small item sitting atop the altar—a tarnished chalice of silvery metal. Thin streams of shadows leaked from its contents, circled its rim.
The shadows leaking from Cale and Rivalen mirrored those emerging from the chalice.
“Is that it?” Riven asked. “It’s just sitting here waiting for us?”
“There is no one else on this world to bother it,” Rivalen said, his voice soft. “And Shar’s temple will not fall until the world ends.”
“Mask’s temple,” Riven corrected, and Rivalen smiled.
“Come,” the shade prince said, and started forward.
Enshrouded on Sakkors in shadows and dark thoughts, Brennus felt the ring on his finger open the magical connection between himself and Rivalen.
Brennus, his brother said. We have gained the temple but this world will soon end. Is there anything I must do to prepare for the freeing of the divinity in Kesson?
Brennus stared at the amethyst and silver ring, his anger and the shadows around him seething. He wanted to tear the ring from his finger, never hear his brother’s voice again.
Brennus?
Take the chalice, Brennus said. I am still determining the rest.
Rivalen’s irritation was palpable. Determine it faster. We will face Kesson upon our return.
Then delay the confrontation, Brother, Brennus said, and said that last as if it were a curse. Lie if you must. Dissembling is one of your strengths.
What did you say?
Brennus had overstepped. I am overtaxed, Rivalen. Listen to me. The sequence of spells you will need to cast upon the release of the divine power is nuanced. But you will need the chalice as a focus. Take it from the temple and keep it with you. I will contact you again when I am certain of the rest.
He broke off mental contact before Rivalen could respond. He stared at his mother’s necklace, into the face of the complicity he would feel if he did nothing to avenge her murder.
But doing something meant disobeying his father, perhaps sacrificing the possibility of a new Empire of Netheril.
He cursed, and slammed his fist on the table.
Cale, Riven, and Rivalen approached the altar in reverent silence. Outside, Ephyras quaked under Shar’s onslaught and the moaning of the specters rose above the whistle of the wind.
The chalice—beaten, tarnished silver chased with tiny black gems that spiraled around its stem—sat atop a black altar cloth. Thin ribbons of shadow curled from its rim. The three men stared at it for a long moment.
“Such a small thing,” Riven said, sheathing his blades.
But Cale saw into it, through it. The chalice was simply the doorway, a drink but a symbol. He placed Weaveshear in its scabbard, stepped forward, and reached for the chalice.
Riven grabbed his hand, staring a hole into his face. “Are you certain?”
“It is the only way,” Rivalen said from behind them.
Cale nodded and Riven released him. Cale was walking in the steps of Kesson Rel, he knew, trailing him like a shadow. He put his hand, his shadow hand, on the chalice and found it cold, the cold of a grave. A jolt went through him, a charge from head to toe. He lifted it and discovered it weighed much more than it should.
Riven and Rivalen, perhaps involuntarily, crowded close. The shadows around Rivalen mixed with those around Cale, those of the chalice. Riven stood in the midst of their collective darkness.
Cradling the chalice in both hands, Cale held it close and looked within.
An oily, glistening liquid filled it to perhaps a quarter of the way. But Cale knew the chalice’s depths went on forever, that the substance within, and the power it embodied, extended much deeper than the shallow depths of the cup. The darkness in the chalice reached back through time and worlds to the creation of the multiverse. He was looking upon the power of a god, the primal stuff of creation. Shadows leaked from it, and him, in languid ribbons.
The moans of the specters grew louder outside, the wail of the wind more pronounced. Ephyras continued to die, its corpse falling into oblivion. Its death throes rocked the temple, shook dust from the walls. Cracks like veins formed in the floor, spreading from wall to wall.
“Drink!” Rivalen said. “The end is coming.”
Pieces of the dome cracked, broke, and fell in a rain of crystal to the floor. Riven and Rivalen shielded themselves with their cloaks. Cale stood in the midst of the ruin, untouched, transfixed by the chalice. The wind screamed through the openings in the dome, carrying with it the hateful, desperate moans of the specters. Dust and darkness swirled.
“Cale?” Riven asked.
“If this goes wrong,” Cale said to Riven, and nodded at Rivalen. “Kill him.”
With that, he lifted the chalice, let the cool, greasy liquid touch his lips, and drank.
Brennus lived in the space between the betrayal of his mother and the betrayal of his father. He could not long hold that ground. Either he honored his mother’s memory by exacting payment from her murderer, or he did as his father instructed.
He didn’t know if he could live with himself if he did nothing to avenge his mother.
But if he acted, Sembia could be lost and his father would kill him.
He ran his fingertips over his mother’s necklace, the necklace that had been brought to him as if by providence. He recalled the moments he had shared with her, the joy. He had experienced little of either since her death.
He made up his mind, nodded to himself, and activated the communication ring.
Rivalen, when Kesson Rel is dead, the divine power in him will flow to the empty vessel, Kesson’s successor, the Chosen of Mask who drank from the chalice. Here are the sequence of spells you must cast, using the chalice as a focus, to take that essence for yourself.
He recited a series of incantations and abjurations.
Thank you, Brennus, Rivalen returned. You have done well.
Brennus cut off the magic of the ring. The darkness around him deepened.
He had just murdered his brother. The spells he had named for Rivalen would not capture Kesson’s divine power for Rivalen. They would cause the power to consume him.
He put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. He didn’t know how long he sat there before a tug on his cloak caused him to look up.
His homunculi sat on the table near him, the leathery skin of their brows creased with worry.
“Master sad?” one asked.
Brennus inhaled, sat up. The darkness around him was a shroud. “No.”
Both of them smiled and held out their hands. “Treat, then?”
He smiled tiredly, took two paper-wrapped sweetmeats from his cloak, and handed them to his creations. They squealed with delight and ate with vigor.
His mother would have laughed. She would have said, That is quite a family you have, Brennus.
Indeed it was.
Power entered Cale, wormed its way through him completely, hollowed him out. In an instant he lost whatever humanity remained in him and became a shell, the temple at the edge of nothing made flesh, intact but empty.
And as much in danger of crumbling.
He dropped the chalice and fell to his knees. His scream mingled with that of the wind and the specters. The hole yawned in him, an emptiness that needed filled. His mind spun. Jumbled thoughts ricocheted around his brain.
He struggled to get his intellect around what had happened, what was happening. The chalice did not contain divinity. It contained revelation, realization, the possibility of divinity that skulked about in the silence of the human soul. But the possibility was so large, so consuming, that a mortal form awakened to it could not long bear the truth before it simply disincorporated.
Unless it realized its potential.
Shadows whirled around him, angry appendages of darkness lashing out at the world. He threw his head back in another scream and saw that the entire dome of the temple had not collapsed. A small portion remained intact—the black image of Shar, the Lady of Loss, looked down on him.
His scream died. His humanity died. And Riven was at his side.
“Are you all right?”
Cale clutched at Riven and shook his head. “No.”
“What happened?”
“It gave me nothing,” Cale said. “It just … prepared me to receive the power.”
Riven cursed and looked back at Rivalen. “There’s no weapon here!”
He started to rise, his hand on a saber.
Cale stayed Riven’s hand, shaking his head. “This is not his fault.”
Rivalen leaned forward, his eyes aglow, his brow furrowed. “What do you feel?”
“Empty,” Cale said, and leaned on Riven as he stood. He felt heavy, thick, weighed down by what he might become. “We need to get to Kesson. We can separate him from the divinity, take it back.”
“But we have to kill him to get it, Cale,” Riven said. “We faced him already. You saw—”
“You did not have me with you, then,” Rivalen said.
“Who are you again?” Riven spat at the Shadovar.
“We have to find a way,” Cale said. “If we cannot kill him, and soon, this will kill me.”
Riven cursed again.
“The Saerbians pass over the river,” Cale said to Rivalen. “We have to help you now. You do not need hostages. Let them go.”
Another tremor shook the temple. The far wall cracked, crumbled, collapsed.
“Let them go,” Cale said again.
Rivalen eyed him, nodded, and specters poured in through the walls, the collapsed dome, all of them with arms outstretched, their translucent faces twisted by desperation.
Cale understood their language and read their lips.
Help us, they said, but the words only came out as moans.
“I cannot,” Cale said. They were dead, along with their world.
Rivalen grabbed the chalice, whispered a word, and it vanished into his palm. He reached out and started to pull the shadows around them.
Above, another tremor shook the temple and the image of Shar in the dome broke loose, fell intact toward the floor, toward Cale. She would crush him, them.
The darkness grew deep and Cale felt the lurch of movement between worlds.
They materialized in the depths of the Shadowstorm, on the shore of Lake Veladon.
The storm bore down on the refugees. Abelar decided to take it as truth that Regg and the company had slowed it, that their sacrifice had given it pause. He stared at the darkness a long while, tried to pierce its veil through sheer force of will. He sought any sign of his company—a flash of light, the distant clarion of Trewe’s trumpet—but he saw only the storm, heard only the rain and thunder.
A peculiar feeling had hold of him. He felt unsettled, foreign to himself, as if someone else were living through his body. He had never before stood idle when darkness threatened.
But he had no choice. Elden’s safety was his foremost concern.
“I must live with myself.”
The roll of thunder mocked his claim.
He turned and looked south toward the Stonebridge. Sakkors hovered in the air, dark, foreboding, only partially visible through the rain and shadows. Large, winged creatures flew in threes and fours in the shadow-shrouded air around the city, their Shadovar riders leaning over their saddles to eye the land below for any refugees who might try to cross the river or sneak across the bridge.
None would. The refugees huddled in their wagons, carts, and tents, awaiting their fates. Lightning bolts lit the sky and the relentless, hungry thunder of the storm hammered at the camp, eroded the refugees’ spirits.
Abelar left off his self pity and walked among the refugees, peeked into tents, into carts, and offered words of encouragement. Again and again he saw the beginnings of surrender in their tired eyes. They did not have much time and they knew it. Fear polluted the air. They exhaled it with every breath.
“Darkness behind and darkness before,” said an elderly woman shivering in a wool blanket in the rear of a wagon. Fever and fear had turned her pale. “What will we do, Abelar?”
“Endure,” Abelar answered. They could do nothing else, at least for the moment. The word became the spell he incanted to all of them, though he knew it held no magic.
“Endure. Dawn follows night. Endure.”
When he had no more to give the refugees, he slogged through the mud and rain to the covered wagon in which his father and son sheltered. He found Endren standing outside, braving the rain to eye the storm. Endren’s weathercloak billowed in the wind. His moustache and beard drooped from the wet but Abelar saw no sag in his shoulders, no want in his spirit.
“Elden is asleep,” Endren said, seeing Abelar approach and anticipating his question.
“How’s he holding up?” Abelar asked.
“He’s wearing thin.”
“So are all the people,” Abelar said. “This sky drains hope.”
“Aye,” Endren said. “How are you holding up?”
Abelar smiled wanly. “I am wearing thin, too. But I still have hope.”
“As do I,” Endren said, and put a comforting hand on Abelar’s shoulder.
Together, father and son watched the lightning, the boiling black clouds. From a wagon nearby, audible in the small gaps between thunder, Abelar heard a woman’s sobs. He did nothing because there was nothing he could do.
“The storm has slowed,” he said to Endren.
“But not stopped.”
“No, not stopped. I have no word from Erevis Cale.”
“We have hours,” Endren said.
“Perhaps not that long.”
Lightning lit up the storm.
Endren turned to face him. “What will you do if the situation does not change?”
“I will mount the people double and triple on the company’s horses and attempt to cross the river.”
“The river is too fast for horse or man to swim.”
Abelar nodded. “We will charge the bridge. I will lead it.”
Endren stared at him but said nothing.
Both of them knew what a charge across the Stonebridge would mean for the refugees, should the Shadovar resist it. The refugees were not soldiers.
“Those who get over the bridge will disperse in hopes of avoiding Shadovar pursuit,” Abelar said.
Endren looked off into the darkness. “Let us hope it does not come to that.”
“Indeed. But we should prepare.”
“I will assist you with the mounts.”
“Someone must stay with Elden.”
On another day, at another time, he could have asked Jiriis to mind Elden. He trusted her and she loved him and his son. But Jiriis had ridden with Regg and the company into the storm, where Abelar should have been.
“I will do it alone,” Abelar said.
The shadows attacked in disorganized, chaotic swirls. Hundreds swarmed toward the Company, whirling frantically in an effort to get at the living. There were so many that Regg knew his company would be surrounded.
“Closed circle,” he said to Trewe, who announced the order with his trumpet. To Roen, Regg said, “You and the priests stand within the ranks. You are to keep us lit throughout.”
“Aye,” said the tall priest, and he turned, shouting orders to his fellow priests.
Men and women hurried into position, splashing through the rain and the mud. They stood shield to sword in a closed circle. Roen and his priests stood in their midst holding incandescent wands aloft, an island of light against which an ocean of night would break.
Or so Regg hoped.
Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed. The shadows closed.
The junior priests chanted a prayer to Lathander and held aloft their hands. A rose-colored hue expanded outward from their palms and touched every man and woman in the company. The magic of the spell calmed Regg’s heart and mind.
“The Morninglord has blessed our efforts,” Roen proclaimed.
The shadows began to keen as they closed, a sound like the screams of the dying.
Roen and the senior priests chanted the words to more powerful spells, and beams of searing white light went forth from their outstretched hands. The scythes of luminescence knifed through the approaching shadows and burned away a score of them. Two score took their place.
“The Morninglord is with you all,” Regg shouted, his voice as level as a planed board. He felt the heft of his sword and shield.
“And you,” they answered as one.
Behind the swarm of shadows were more shadows, more. The line of their glowing red eyes seemed endless. Regg whispered a prayer to the Morninglord that infused his shield and sword with the Lathander’s holy energy until both glowed a soft pink. Others along the line did the same, and flowers of rosy light bloomed in the darkness.
Beside him, he heard Trewe chanting in a whisper, not a spell, but a prayer nevertheless.
“We stand in the light. We stand in the light.”
Regg bumped his shield into Trewe’s blade. “Look under your feet.”
Trewe peeled his eyes from the shadows to look at the dead grass underfoot.
“That is your world,” Regg said. “One pace wide. You hold that ground.”
Trewe nodded and turned his eyes back to the horde of shadows. They drew closer. Some dived into the earth, some darted above, some came directly at the line.
Regg turned to measure his line one final time. The men and women stood in tight ranks, blades, shields, and wills all hard and sharp. Roen and his eight priests stood spaced in the center of the circle, illuminated in blazing light, the roses on their shields and breastplates catching the light and twinkling like stars.
Roen shouted an order to his fellow priests and all of them intoned prayers to Lathander. When they finished their spells, a faintly glowing sword composed of magical force appeared and took station beside each of them. Regg knew the weapons would defend the priests, attack whom they directed, allow them to focus on keeping the company in the light and holding the shadows outside the circle.
Regg turned from the light to the darkness, and braced himself as the shadows ate the distance. The unnatural pitch of the dark creatures’ keening stood his hair on end.
The undead swirled uncertainly as they neared the light of the company, but their hesitation lasted only a moment. Hundreds of shadows churned forward.
Moving into the light transformed the appearance of the shadows, sharpened the soft, dark borders of their forms and features. Regg caught glimpses of the men and women they had been in life. He saw shadowy ghosts of armor, weapons, and tabards featuring the wheel of the overmistress’s army.
He knew then what had happened to Forrin’s army. And he knew, too, that his company would have their chance to avenge Saerb after all.
“They wear the wheel of Forrin’s army!” he shouted. “Forrin’s army is come to face us at last.”
“For Saerb, then!” Trewe shouted, and others took up his call.
Red eyes grew large in his sight and Regg readied himself.
The company’s mounts stood in a group on the outskirts of the camp, heads lowered against the rain and thunder. They sheltered from the rain as best they could under a stand of three maples but the chill had many shivering. Firstlight and Swiftdawn neighed a greeting to Abelar.
Abelar moved among the horses, whickering, stroking flanks, and making soothing sounds as he saw to their tack and checked saddle straps. He stripped them of saddle bags and other unnecessary weight.
Firstlight and Swiftdawn followed him as he moved from horse to horse. Both nudged him with their noses and looked east to the storm, tossing their heads. Both knew battle was in the darkness.
“I know,” Abelar said, rubbing their noses. Like him, they were bred to fight darkness. Like him, they felt uncomfortable with idleness.
Presently he had the mounts ready to go. He stepped out from under the maples, eyed first Sakkors, then turned to the Shadowstorm. They had perhaps an hour and it would be upon them. He recalled the verdict of Roen’s divinations—the very air within the storm would drain a man of life, blacken his spirit, and raise him as an undead shadow. Abelar would not let his people, his son, die that way.
He imagined the members of his company fighting in the darkness, dying, arising to feed Kesson Rel’s black army. He feared that if the storm caught the refugees he would see faces he knew in the shadows that came to kill them, faces wearing judgment and screaming accusations.
You should have been with us, they would say. You could have made a difference.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, and ran a hand along Swiftdawn’s side. “Perhaps.”
He walked back to the camp, went to each wagon, to each cart.
“We ride within the hour,” he said to them.
Hope fired in their eyes but he quenched it with his next words.
“Bring nothing but a weapon. We must fight our way across the river.”
By the time he had completed his round of the camp, the refugees had emerged into the rain. Some sobbed, holding their children close. Others bore resigned looks on their faces and notched swords in their hands. Some carried farm implements that could double as weapons: axes, small scythes, hammers. A few bore hunting bows. Others fashioned clubs from wagon axles.
In pairs and small groups they made their way through the storm to the horses. Abelar cradled Elden in one arm and walked among them. He could not shake the feeling that he was leading them all to the gallows.
The rain worsened. The thunder and lightning grew more intense. Sakkors hovered in the distance, threat and promise. The horses whickered and stomped nervously in the storm. Abelar lifted Elden onto Swiftdawn.
“You come, Papa,” Elden said, and patted the saddle.
Abelar touched his son’s hand, but looked to Endren.
“Stay with him,” he said, and his father nodded.
Abelar walked among the refugees, assisted them into the saddle, and gave brief instructions to those with little experience on horseback. As he did, as he looked into their faces and saw the hope and trust they put in him, he knew that he would not be able to ride with Elden on Swiftdawn. He would have to leave his son after all. The realization put a hole in his stomach, but warmed his spirit.
When he had them all mounted, he stood on a toppled log and faced them. The darkness made their expressions hard to distinguish. He was pleased he couldn’t see them. He knew what he would have seen.
“Do not try to have your mount swim the river,” he said above the thunder. “It’s too wide and fast. We ride hard for the Stonebridge. I will lead you in this. The Shadovar will try to stop us. They will have steel and magic.”
Sobs interrupted his thoughts.
“Do not stand and fight,” he continued. “Flight is your best hope. If—” He stopped himself, cleared his throat. “When you cross the bridge, run away from the storm, as fast your mount will bear you.”
He saw men and women nod and firm up, saw others wilt and hug each other.
He hopped off the log and walked through them, back to Elden and Endren.
“You ride Swiftdawn with Elden,” he said to Endren.
“You come, Papa,” Elden said. “With me.”
Abelar blinked back tears, took his son from the saddle, and hugged him.
“I am coming. I’ll ride Uncle Regg’s horse. You take a ride with Grandpapa.”
He kissed his son on the head and gave him over to Endren.
“If you gain the bridge, give Swiftdawn her head,” he said to Endren. “Not even the Shadovar’s flying creatures will catch her.”
Endren nodded. “I’ve seen her run.”
Father and son embraced. Together, they lifted Elden into the saddle. Endren hopped up behind the boy.
“Are you afraid?” Abelar asked Elden.
He shook his head. “No, Papa.”
“Nor I,” said Abelar, rubbing Swiftdawn’s face. He leaned in close to Swiftdawn and whispered in her ear, “You are his, now.”
She eyed him, neighed, nuzzled his face. He turned and walked back through the refugees to Firstlight. He found his eyes drawn back to the Shadowstorm, where his company was fighting and dying. He regretted that he would not die with them.
He leaped into Firstlight’s saddle, feeling light for the first time in days. He turned her, drew his blade, and prepared to give the order to ride.
A hole of darkness formed in the middle of the group. Women screamed, horses reared, everyone backed away.
“Shadovar!” someone screamed.
From the darkness emerged Erevis Cale, Drasek Riven, and a third man blanketed in shadows—Rivalen Tanthul, Abelar presumed.
Rivalen’s eyes glowed golden. Cale’s glowed yellow.