Chapter THREE
2 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cale and Riven materialized on the Wayrock, outside the Temple of Mask. Sunlight, alien after the darkness of the storm, cast the temple’s shadow out before it. Cale and Riven stood within the column of darkness. Rain dripped from their cloaks.
Both men turned and looked back toward Sembia but the Shadowstorm was too far away to see. Cale saw only the rocky ledges of the Wayrock and the boundless blue-gray of the sea. White clouds dotted the sky. There was no indication of the black lesion spreading across Sembia, across Faerûn.
Still staring into the distance, Cale said to Riven, “Never do that again.”
Riven, too, stared over the sea. “I do what needs done, Cale. Get clear on that. I’ll do it again next time, and the time after that. You don’t get to give up.”
The truth in Riven’s words stung. Cale faced him. “I wasn’t giving up.”
Riven said nothing. He didn’t need to. Cale sighed, looked away. He was tired and did not understand how Riven was not.
“How do you keep fighting, Riven? Why? Not for Sembia.”
Riven made a dismissive gesture. “No. Not for Sembia.”
“Then?”
Riven tapped the holy symbol he wore around his neck, the black disc. “This is why. Mask wants Kesson Rel dead and his divinity returned to him. That is enough of a why. Should be enough for you, too.”
Cale stared at the disc, at Riven’s face. “It’s not.”
“Then find something that is. This is a long way from over.”
Cale shook his head. “You don’t understand. You can’t.”
Riven stared at him for a moment. “You’re tired. I see that.”
Cale looked Riven in the eye, grateful for even that little bit of shared understanding.
“Yes. I’m tired.”
Riven’s face did not change expression. “It’s a lot of weight.”
“It is.”
“Bear it. We can only see this through together. You see that, yes? Find a way to stay with it.” When Cale said nothing, Riven went on, “Cale, you didn’t kill Jak. You didn’t. And you didn’t take Magadon’s soul, and you didn’t make that Uskevren boy join with the Shadovar. You’re carrying weight that is not yours to bear. No damned wonder you’re tired.”
Cale heard the words, heard the sense in them, but they did nothing to ease the burdens he bore. Safe, far from you. That was what his god had said to him.
“Let’s go,” he said and started up the drawbridge.
Magadon stepped out of the darkness of the temple’s interior and appeared in the archway. The mind mage looked as thin and dried out as an old stick, wan, with circles the color of bruises under his eyes.
“Mags,” Cale said, and tried not to wince at Magadon’s appearance.
Riven’s two dogs bolted through the archway past the mind mage and for their master, a blur of brown fur and wagging tails. Riven knelt to meet them, rubbed heads and sides. They growled playfully and jumped on him.
Magadon walked up to Cale, wavering in his stride like a drunk. He looked even paler in the light.
“You all right, Mags?” Cale asked.
“I want off this island, Cale,” he said. “Now.”
Each time Magadon said “Cale” instead of “Erevis,” Cale felt it like a punch in the stomach. He and Riven shared a look. Riven stood and pointed at the temple.
“Go on,” he said, and the dogs darted back inside. To Magadon, he said, “You don’t look well.”
“That’s because I’m not.”
“Then why leave the island now?” Riven asked. “Stay. Get better.”
Cale saw anger in the crease between Magadon’s eyes, quickly suppressed.
“My own affair,” Magadon said.
“Is that right?” Riven said.
Cale reached out to touch Magadon’s shoulder. The mind mage recoiled but Cale persisted, taking his thin shoulder in hand.
“Listen, Mags. Kesson Rel is here, in Faerûn. He opened a rift. The Calyx is pouring through. It’s rolling across Sembia.”
A spark touched tinder in Magadon’s white eyes and something kindled there. Cale decided to take it as hope and was pleased to see it.
“Where? We’ve got to kill him, Cale. I can use the Source to …”
He stopped, white eyes wide, perhaps realizing he’d said too much. He took a step back, and his gaze darted about, as if looking for an escape.
“The Source?” Cale and Riven said in unison.
Magadon licked his lips, steadied himself.
Cale spoke softly. “What are you talking about, Mags?”
Riven did not speak softly. “We nearly died taking you out of the Source. The Hells if you’re using it for anything again. The Hells if you’re leaving this island. You’re not yourself. You’ll wait—”
Magadon’s face contorted with rage. He emitted a roar and bounded forward for Riven, hands reaching as if for the assassin’s throat.
Riven put a short, sharp kick in Magadon’s gut and the mind mage doubled over at his feet, gasping, coughing, retching.
“Damn it,” Cale said to both of them.
Nayan and Vyrhas materialized out of the shadows in the archway of the temple.
“It’s all right,” Cale said to them, and waved them back. “Go, Nayan. It’s all right.”
The shadowwalker looked at Magadon, at Cale, then at Riven. He nodded, bowed, and melded back into the darkness.
Magadon recovered his breath and rose to his knees. He glared at Riven and an orange glow formed around his head, rage leaking from his skull.
Riven had a blade at his throat in a breath.
“I feel a tingle in my head, Mags, and I open your throat. I mean it.”
Magadon, his pale face flushed, stared fury at the assassin. The orange glow faded.
“You’re an addict, Mags,” Riven said. He lowered but did not sheathe his blade. “And I know a lot about addicts. And you’re. damaged. You’re no use to us until you’re well.”
Magadon coughed, started to stand. Cale tried to help him but Magadon shook him off irritably.
“I’m worse than that,” the mind mage said, standing. He burst into a giggle and the sound made Cale uneasy. “Much worse. And I’m never going to be well.”
He wobbled on his feet and Cale put an arm around him, held him upright. His shadows coiled around the mind mage, supporting him.
“We will kill Kesson Rel,” Cale said, trying to ignore how light Magadon felt in his arms. “Take what he took, give it to your father, make you whole. We’ll do it, Mags.”
Magadon grabbed a fistful of Cale’s cloak, the gesture one of desperation. When he spoke his voice cracked but he sounded more like himself. “I need myself back, Cale. I’m falling so fast. You cannot understand …”
Riven started to speak but Cale silenced him with a glare. To Magadon, Cale said, “We will see it through, Mags. But Riven is right. This is not your fight, not like this. You’ll be a problem for us, not a help. You know that. If we need you, we’ll come for you.”
Magadon pulled away and looked Cale in the face. “And if I need you?”
Cale shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean if you can’t do it, if you can’t take back what Kesson Rel stole, then I want you to kill me. I need you to. I can’t do it myself but I can’t go on this way. Either of you. Hells, get Nayan to do it. He’s been watching me and thinking the same thing.” Magadon ran a hand through his hair, over his horns. “My thoughts, Cale. I don’t know what I might do. I can’t continue this way.”
It took Cale a few moments to produce a reply. “Mags, it won’t come to that.”
“If it does.”
“Mags—”
“If it does!” the mind mage said, and tears glistened in his eyes. He looked at Riven, at his blade. “You’re both killers. I know it. You know it. Tell me you’ll do what needs done.”
Cale just stared, his throat tight, his mouth unable to work.
Riven sheathed his saber and looked Magadon in the face. “I always do what needs done, Mags.”
Magadon stared at Riven, his breath coming fast. He nodded once, turned, and walked back into the temple.
“Come, Nayan,” he said to the shadows as he passed under the archway.
When he was gone, Riven said, “What’s next?”
Cale stared after Magadon, his thoughts racing. “What?”
“What’s next, Cale?”
“With Mags?”
“No. With Kesson Rel. The Shadowstorm. Hells, Mags too. It’s all the same.”
Cale shook his head, still unnerved. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Cale turned to face the assassin. “That’s right. I don’t know. I need some time.”
“I doubt we have much,” Riven said, eyeing the archway into which Magadon had disappeared.
Cale nodded, stuck his arm outside of the shadow of the spire and into the sun, melting away his hand. He stared at the stump.
“No. Not much.”
Tamlin sat in his father’s walnut rocker, in his father’s study, among his father’s books, books Tamlin had never read. He’d spent his life in the shadow of his father, in the shadow of his father’s things.
That was over now.
Selûne had set and no lamps illuminated the darkness. Cool night air and dim starlight bled in through the open windows. He sat alone, thinking, the creak of the rocker on the wood floor eerily similar to Vees’s screams. Tamlin smiled.
Vees had been false to Tamlin, false to Shar. He had deserved death on her altar. Tamlin recalled with perfect clarity the cold hard feel of the dagger’s hilt in his palm, the warm, sticky feel of Vees’s blood on his hands. He recalled, too, the golden eyes of Prince Rivalen, aglow with the approval Tamlin had never received from his father or Mister Cale, approval that he no longer craved.
He was his own man, and all he’d had to do to become so was give himself to Shar.
Holding in his hand the small, black disc that Prince Rivalen had given him as a meditative aid, he confessed to Shar in a whisper what would become his Own Secret, a truth known only to himself and Shar.
“I have never felt so afraid, or so powerful, as I did when sacrificing Vees.”
Clouds blotted out even the minimal starlight, and darkness as black as ink shrouded the room, closed in on him, pressed against his skin. A chill set the hair on his arms and the back of his neck on end, raised gooseflesh. His breath came fast. He felt the caress of his new mistress, as cold and hard as the dagger with which he had killed Vees.
“Thank you, Lady,” he said, as the pitch lifted and starlight again poked tentatively through the study’s windows.
Tamlin’s conversion to Shar had birthed not only a new faith but ambition. He wanted to be more than a servant to Shar, more than his own man. He wanted also to equal then surpass Mister Cale, to transform his body into that of a shade. And he wanted to surpass his father by ruling not merely a wealthy House, not even merely a city, but an entire realm.
He nodded to himself in the darkness, still rocking. He was not his father’s son. If he was born of anyone, it was Prince Rivalen and the Lady of Loss.
“‘Love is a lie,’” he said, reciting one of the Thirteen Truths that Prince Rivalen had taught him. “‘Only hate endures.’”
Footsteps carried from the hall outside the parlor. A form stepped into the doorway. Even in the darkness Tamlin recognized the upright posture and stiff movements of Irwyl, the Uskevren majordomo.
“My lord?” Irwyl called. “Are you within the parlor?”
Tamlin stopped rocking. “Yes. What is it, Irwyl?”
“Were you speaking just now, my lord?”
“To myself. What is it, Irwyl?”
Irwyl peered into the darkness, unable to pinpoint Tamlin’s location. “There is news from Daerlun, my lord. A missive from High Bergun Tymmyr about your mother.”
Tamlin felt little at the mention of his mother. She would not understand what he had done, or why. Perhaps she would even condemn him for it. No matter. He served another mistress, now.
“What are its contents?” Tamlin asked. Irwyl had permission to open and read all documents sent to Tamlin in his official capacity.
Irwyl cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. “High Bergun Tymmyr has made your mother, sister, and brother his personal guests. He asks that you allow him to offer them sanctuary in Daerlun until events in the rest of Sembia resolve themselves. He promises to show them the utmost hospitality.”
Tamlin understood the message behind the message. Daerlun had declared its neutrality in the Sembian Civil War. No doubt it had promises from Cormyrean forces to aid it should battle be brought to its walls. Cormyr had long coveted Daerlun and Daerlun, on the border between Cormyr and Sembia, was in many ways more Cormyrean than Sembian. So the high bergun, having heard of Selgaunt’s victory over Saerloon’s forces, wanted to inform Tamlin that his family would be held hostage to ensure that Daerlun be left out of the conflict to pursue its alliance with Cormyr. For the time being, that suited Tamlin. He had other concerns. Daerlun could wait.
“Acknowledge receipt and understanding, Irwyl. Thank the high bergun for his kindness and let him know that I will repay it in kind. Use both my official and my personal seal.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Irwyl lingered.
“What is it, Irwyl?”
“Will my lord be retiring soon? The hour grows late.”
Tamlin leaned back in the rocker. “I think not. I am enjoying the darkness.”
Irwyl cleared his throat. “As you wish my lord. May I retire, then?”
“Yes, but before you do, please send for Lord Rivalen and inform the gatemen that he is to be given entry. I need his counsel. He will be awake.”
Tamlin knew that the shadowstuff in Rivalen’s body obviated his need for sleep.
“Yes, Lord. Anything else?”
Tamlin glanced around the parlor, at his father’s detritus. It was time to make Stormweather his, then Selgaunt, then Sembia.
“Tomorrow I want the parlor emptied of my father’s things. New furnishings, Irwyl, for a new beginning.”
Irwyl said nothing for a time and the darkness masked his face. Tamlin wished that he were a shade, that his eyes could see in darkness as well as daylight. He felt betrayed by his mere humanity.
“Very well, Lord,” Irwyl said, his tone stiff. “A good eve to you.”
“And to you,” Tamlin said.
Irwyl left him alone with the night, with his goddess. He found the solitude and the darkness comforting but could not shake the chill.
Rivalen sat alone in the darkness of his quarters, his mood as black as the moonless sky. The broken pieces of his holy symbol lay on the table before him.
The requirements of his faith had declared war on the needs of his people. The priest was at war with the prince. He needed to resolve the situation, satisfy both.
Shadows boiled from his flesh.
For millennia Rivalen had kept his faith and civic duty in an uneasy truce, the needs of the one separated from the demands of the other by the gulf of time. Rivalen knew the world eventually would bend to Shar and return to darkness and cold, but he had believed he had many more millennia still, that he could accomplish his goals, and those of his people, before Shar reclaimed the multiverse. Oblivion seemed always in the future.
But synchronicity had disabused him of his delusion. The Shadowstorm was happening now, devouring the realm needed by Shade Enclave to secure its future and resurrect the glory of Netheril.
He must choose his faith or his people.
“Mustn’t I?” he said. He held a Sembian raven in his hand. Tarnish blackened the silver.
“Obverse or reverse,” he said, turning it in his fingers, seeing the late overmaster’s profile on one side, the Sembian arms on the other.
Hope had been his transgression, he realized. He had hoped to resurrect the Empire of Netheril and return his people, and Faerûn, to glory. He had hoped—later, much later—to summon the Shadowstorm that would herald the beginning of the world’s end. Events had proven him a fool. The Lady of Loss spurned hope and expected her Nightseer to do the same. Rivalen had learned the lesson but wisdom had come too late, and its tardy arrival did nothing to assuage his bitterness, his rage.
Shar had chosen others for her instruments. A priestess he had thought to use and discard had betrayed him, stolen The Leaves of One Night. And a mad heretic, once a priest of Mask but now a servant of Shar, had brought forth the Shadowstorm and lurked in its dark center as it devoured the realm Rivalen had thought to annex for his people.
Rivalen had murdered his own mother for his goddess, but his goddess had kept from him a profound secret—he was not to be the cause of the Shadowstorm; he, and his hopes, were to be its victims.
And he sensed deeper secrets still, corpses buried in the fetid earth of Shar’s darkness. They would rise when she saw fit, but not before.
He tried to accept matters, but failed. The shadows around him whirled, filled the room, poured forth through the shutter slats and into the night.
“I will not have it,” he said, turning the coin more rapidly.
A soft buzzing sounded in his ears, grew in volume, clarified. A sending. He almost countered it but decided against it.
In his mind he heard the voice of his father, the Most High.
Faerûn’s powerful will not stand idle for long while this Shadowstorm darkens Sembia. End it, Rivalen.
The Most High’s imperious tone pulled at the scab of Rivalen’s already wounded pride but he kept his irritation from his tone.
I will do what I can, Father.
Hadrhune’s divinations have revealed the possibility of a Sharran at the root of the storm. Perhaps you are not equipped for this task?
The mention of the Most High’s chief counselor, a rival to Rivalen, rankled.
Hadrhune’s understanding, as always, is limited. The Sharran behind the storm is a heretic. I will see to him and it. Meanwhile, please remind Hadrhune, and yourself, that I have raised Sakkors, shattered Saerloon’s forces, and given you Selgaunt. Soon I will add to it all of Sembia.
There will be nothing to give if the Shadowstorm is not stopped. End it, Rivalen. Soon. Other matters in the heartland proceed apace. This is a distraction.
Other matters?
The connection ceased. Apparently his father, too, had secrets.
Rivalen swallowed his irritation and decided to interpret his father’s sending as a sign. Kesson Rel was a heretic. And Rivalen would not allow centuries of planning to unravel so that a heretic could serve the Mistress and destroy the realm Rivalen had thought to make. The Lady wanted the Shadowstorm. She had it. But Rivalen wanted more time, and Sembia. He would find a way to have both.
He put the silver raven on the table and set it to spinning on its edge. A word of minor magic kept it upright and whirling. He watched it, obverse to reverse to obverse to reverse.
“I choose both,” he said. “Faith and city.”
He would contain the Shadowstorm and claim what was left of Sembia. And if that made him a heretic, then so be it. The Lady knew his nature when she had chosen him as her Nightseer.
He held his palm over the pieces of his holy symbol and spoke the words to a mending charm. Tendrils of shadow spiraled around the disc, pulled them together, made them whole.
“If Kesson Rel is your true servant, then let him be the victor. If not, then let it be me.”
Outside, darkness obscured the stars. Rivalen nodded.
“Thank you, Lady.”
The enspelled raven continued to spin, obverse, reverse.
Abelar and Jiiris stood in the rain and watched the ink of the distant storm digest stars, its lightning casting the world in ghastly viridian. Abelar surmised Elyril’s involvement, Shar’s involvement, and felt the Calling in his soul, the same Calling that had pulled him in his youth from a life of privilege to one of service to others. He thought of his son and denied it.
“There are dark forces there,” Jiiris said and put her hand to the rose of Lathander she wore at her throat.
“Yes,” Abelar said. He had no holy symbol to hold so he put his hand in hers and found it offered equal comfort.
She smiled at him but the expression faded when her eyes fell on the empty chain around his throat, where his own holy symbol had once hung. She looked away as if to spare him the embarrassment of staring at a scar.
“There is always atonement,” she said softly, not looking him in the face.
“There is nothing for which I must atone,” he said, surprised at the sharpness of his tone.
She looked at him, saw him. He saw the concern in her expression.
“You worry for me,” he said. “You should not.”
“No?” Her eyes showed disbelief.
“No. I am free now, Jiiris.”
“I did not realize you had been bound.”
“Nor had I.”
Seeing her confusion, he smiled softly and led her back into the tent. “Come. You will be soaked.”
After they entered, He glanced at Elden to ensure he was still asleep—he was—then drew Jiiris to him. She did not resist and he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
“I have loved you a long time.”
She flushed but held his gaze. “And I you. But …”
“But?”
She looked away and he saw the jaw muscles working under her cheeks as she masticated whatever she intended to say. “But we cannot do this now. I cannot do this. You are … hurting. You almost lost your father, your son, and have turned from the faith that has sustained you for—”
His anger rose at the mention of his faith and his words came out in a rush, a flood through the ravine of his rage.
“Lathander’s church is presided over by heretics who stood idle while this, all this, happened. He still grants spells to them. Did you know that? Why would he do that?”
She shook her head, her eyes welling. “He has his purposes.”
Elden stirred, groaned in his sleep, and Abelar quieted his voice. He didn’t want to wake Elden, didn’t want to hurt Jiiris.
“His purposes? How often must we assume that events will work out to his purposes? Why should we be the playthings to him? How much am I to endure in service to the Morninglord? At what point does service become base servitude? At what point am I to say, ‘enough’?”
She winced at the words, placed a hand on his chest, as if to keep him from proceeding further.
“When it is my son, Jiiris. That is when it is enough. When my wife died in childbirth, I praised Lathander for the life he had brought forth even in death. When my father was imprisoned, I fought in Lathander’s name the forces of she who had imprisoned him. When darkness fell across Sembia and the priest who trained me in the faith did nothing to stem its tide, I thanked Lathander for the chance to be a light in the darkness. But when my son was taken and tortured …” He looked into her face, at the rose at her throat. “That is too much. If that is his purpose, then his purpose can burn.”
She blanched, but stood her ground and defended her faith, the faith that had once been his.
“You sound like the heretics you’ve often condemned. How often have I heard you admonish them for waiting for the Morninglord to do their work for them? He does not reveal himself to us that way, Abelar.”
Perhaps she had thought to strike him hard, but he did not perceive even a glancing blow. He took her by the arms.
“Have I been waiting, Jiiris? Have I been idle? I have taken the fight to evil my entire life and have been rewarded with one calamity after another. Through it all I have been steadfast, but …” he looked past her to Elden, sleeping in a bed of furs, “… he has gone too far. And I am tired of being tested.”
“Faith is not a test—”
“It can be nothing else!” He found himself shaking her gently, and released her with surprise. Elden stirred, rolled over onto his side, but did not awaken. Abelar spoke in an intense whisper. “What it cannot be is a hole into which I pour everything and from it receive nothing. That is not faith, Jiiris. I renounce it. I renounce him.”
She looked as if she had been struck hard. Saying the words aloud rather than merely thinking them crossed some indefinable barrier, put a chasm between his present and his past that he would never be able to cross. He hoped it had not put a chasm between he and Jiiris.
“Listen to me,” he said gently. “I see clearly now for the first time in a long while. There is light even where Lathander is absent. Who saved both my father and son? Who, Jiiris?” She simply stared and he answered his own question. “Servants of Mask. There is light in them.”
Jiiris shook her head. “No, Abelar. Saving Elden was a good thing, a wonderful thing. But I saw into those men when they stood in this tent. They are not good men. Not like you.”
“You judge them harshly. We are what we do, Jiiris.”
“No. We are what we are and sometimes that shows in what we do. But sometimes it does not. Hear this, Abelar. Before Elden fell asleep, he told me a bad man saved him from the other bad men. Do you hear? Children’s eyes see clearly.”
Elden rolled over in his furs and opened his eyes. His bleary eyes focused on Abelar.
“Papa?”
To Jiiris, Abelar said, “We will talk more of this later. For now, assemble my father and the leaders of the company. We must see the refugees to safety. There are not enough men here to stand against Forrin’s army and whatever storm Shar has brought to Sembia. Tell them to begin preparations.”
Jiiris’s eyes widened at his words. “But I thought …”
He took her by the shoulders. “I have turned from Lathander but not from the people of Saerb, not from you. I am the same man I was two days ere.”
She looked into his eyes and nodded.
“Papa?”
Abelar went to his son, sat beside him. Elden reached up a small hand. Abelar took it between his.
“I am here,” he said. “And I am not leaving again.”
Elden studied his face. “You diffent, Papa.”
Abelar nodded, felt his throat tighten. The eyes of children saw clearly, indeed.
Rivalen watched the coin spin, and pondered. He would have to kill Kesson Rel, but he did not know if he could do so.
Rivalen knew some of Kesson’s history. He had been a servant of Mask who later converted to Shar. After becoming one of Shar’s most powerful servants, being invested with a shard of divine power, he had succumbed to insanity and embraced heresy. Eventually the Lady of Loss had banished him to an isolated pocket of the Plane of Shadow, the Adumbral Calyx. There, he’d been left, forgotten.
Until now. Now he had emerged from his exile and brought the Calyx with him, threatening the delicate plans Rivalen had spent decades cultivating.
“Why now, Lady?” Rivalen asked the darkness. “Why here?”
Rivalen studied his remade holy symbol, noted the ghost of the fracture still visible on its surface. The line dividing his symbol reminded him of the divisions in his faith. Shar tolerated heresy, rewarded the heretic. Why? The answer was hidden in the dark folds of the Lady’s secrets.
He placed the holy symbol in an inner pocket and decided that he did not need to know. But he did need information about Kesson Rel.
He activated the magic of his amethyst ring and thought of his brother. He felt the connection open.
Rivalen? Brennus asked.
I need you to learn all you can of Kesson Rel. Everything there is to know. He must die, Brennus.
A long pause, then, Very well. I have already learned that he is quasi-divine. Did you know that, Rivalen?
Yes. Rivalen did not know how or why Shar had infused Kesson with divine power, but he knew it had been done. Continue your attempts to locate Erevis Cale. Kesson Rel served Mask before turning to Shar. I do not see coincidence. There’s a knot here. We must untie it.
Agreed.
What have you learned of Cale’s woman?
Another long pause. Nothing of her. She is gone but not dead. I cannot make sense of it.
Rivalen sensed reticence through the connection. Is there something else, Brennus?
No.
Rivalen knew Brennus was lying but did not press. Brennus, too, was entitled to some secrets.
Inform me when you learn anything, Brennus. We will need to face Kesson Rel, and soon. Much turns on your success.
I know.
The connection closed and a knock on the door of the study brought Rivalen’s mind back to his surroundings.
“Speak,” he called.
“The Hulorn has requested your presence at his family’s estate, Prince.”
Rivalen knew the time to be two hours or more past midnight. Apparently the Hulorn did not find sleep appealing. Rivalen understood why. After murdering his mother in Shar’s name, Rivalen had feared his dreams and slept fitfully for months. Tamlin had murdered a onetime friend. His sleep would be troubled for a time.
“Inform the Hulorn that I will attend him directly.”
The doorman announced the arrival of Prince Rivalen and Tamlin stood as the prince’s dark form filled the parlor’s doorway. Rivalen’s body merged with the darkness, the boundaries of his form indeterminate from the night. Glowing golden eyes hovered in the ink of his face, the two guiding stars of Tamlin’s new life.
“Prince, thank you for coming.”
“Of course, Hulorn. Sleep eludes you?”
Tamlin shook his head. He knew Rivalen could see the gesture clearly. “Not at all. I am … energized. And I am enjoying the darkness.”
The shadows around Rivalen swirled slowly. The darkness carried him into the room.
“So you are.”
The Shadovar prince glanced around the wood-paneled study, at the books and scrolls that filled the shelves. Tamlin would have offered him a chalice of wine, but he knew Rivalen did not partake.
“An impressive collection,” said the prince.
“My father’s. Sit, please.”
Rivalen sat at the small table with the chessboard atop it, before black. Tamlin took the seat opposite. He had sat across the same table from his father many times, usually to receive this or that admonishment for one failure or another. He felt more comfortable with Rivalen than he ever had with his father.
“Do you play, Prince?” Tamlin asked.
“I did. Long ago. I gave it up after my mother died.”
He picked up the black king and the shadows shrouding him enveloped it.
“I am sorry,” said Tamlin.
“Thank you. My interest in chess waned when I realized that it is a transparent contest where one can see an opponent’s forces and their movement. Life is rarely so clear.”
“Truth,” Tamlin said, nodding. “Myself, I was never a skillful player. My father and Mister Cale played often.”
“Mister Cale,” Rivalen said softly, and the shadows around him churned.
“I am going to be rid of it tomorrow,” Tamlin said. “All of it. The books, the furniture. All of it.”
Rivalen’s eyes flared and he placed the king in the center of the board, exposed.
“I understand completely.”
Tamlin had no doubt the prince did. He rose to pour himself a drink, navigating the study in the darkness. When he reached the sideboard, he said, “The high bergun has taken my family into custody. He hopes thereby to ransom Daerlun’s safety.”
Rivalen looked up from the board, his golden eyes veiled. “They could be retrieved, Hulorn. Shall I arrange it?”
Tamlin realized that something of import turned on his answer. He found a glass, a bottle of wine, and poured. He tried to determine the vintage from taste—Thamalon’s Best Red, he thought. At least four years old.
“I am grateful for your offer, Prince. But the presence of my family would be a distraction to me just now.”
“Indeed,” Rivalen said again, the comment half question, half observation. “Families are sometimes a … distraction.”
Tamlin returned to the chess table, chalice in hand. “You and your brother seem to complement one another well.”
“We Tanthuls have had two thousand years to learn to work together,” Rivalen said. He picked up the queen, studied it, a frown playing at the corners of his mouth. “But we, too, have had our … disagreements.”
Tamlin smiled, thought of Talbot and the arguments they’d had over the years.
“Have you shared your secret with the Lady?” the prince asked as he replaced the black queen.
Tamlin nodded, running a fingertip over his holy symbol. “I have.”
“That is well.” Rivalen leaned back in his chair and his tone lightened. “I would like a coin from the treasury, minted this day. Is that possible? You’ve recently started minting your own coins, yes?”
A request so ordinary from the prince surprised Tamlin. “A coin? Of course. May I ask why?”
“I am a collector of coins, particularly those minted on or stamped with dates significant to me. They help me keep track of history.” Rivalen eyed him across the chessboard, looking so unlike Tamlin’s father. “And today is one such date.”
Tamlin took the point, raised his glass in a salute. He wanted the night to last, wanted the pristine coldness of the moonless hours to continue forever, wanted the discussion with Rivalen to go on and on. He felt at home, comfortable in the study for the first time he could recall. He leaned forward. “Tell me more about the Shadowstorm. How should we deal with it?”
“Brennus is examining it, but we have determined that the Shadowstorm is the creation of an ancient being, a one-time servant of Shar who holds the same heretical notions as those held—once held—by Vees Talendar.”
Tamlin felt a small pit open in his stomach at the mention of his one-time friend. Darkness filled it.
“As for how we deal with it,” Rivalen continued. “We use it.”
“Use it?”
“It began in Ordulin and is moving west toward Saerb and Archendale. It does not yet reach farther south than the midpoint of the Arkhen. It will, but we have some time. For now, Ordulin is gone and what remains of its army near Saerb will disband, surrender, or be consumed by the storm.”
Tamlin was vaguely disturbed by the obliteration of Ordulin but found comfort in the cold, hard touch of his new goddess.
“The Saerbian forces, too, stand in its path.”
Rivalen nodded. “True. But where was Saerb when Saerloon’s elementals shattered Selgaunt’s walls?”
“Defending its own holdings, I presume. Do you imply something else?”
“Hulorn, do you wish to rule all of Sembia?”
The question shocked Tamlin into silence.
“Do you?”
Tamlin re-gathered his nerve. “You know that I do, Prince Rivalen.”
Rivalen nodded. “Endren Corrinthal is a respected leader. He commanded the loyalty of many on the High Council before the overmistress dissolved it. Perhaps he would not look kindly upon your ascension. Perhaps, for the moment at least, the Saerbians should be left to their own devices. They are, after all, of no military use to you. It will not be an army that halts the Shadowstorm.”
Tamlin’s hand went to his holy symbol and ambition annihilated conscience.
“I take your point and agree with your recommendation.”
“Excellent,” Rivalen said. “And that returns us to Saerloon. Lady Merelith rules a city without an army. She broke it on these walls. She knows she must negotiate a peace. She may suspect the Shadowstorm to be a weapon unleashed by us against Ordulin. Before she learns otherwise, we should make Saerloon bend its knee to Selgaunt. And after Saerloon has surrendered, after the Saerbian forces are addressed, who will stand against Selgaunt’s consolidation of the realm?”
“Perhaps Daerlun,” Tamlin said, and sipped his wine. “But no other.”
“Not even Daerlun,” Rivalen said. “The high bergun is strengthened by the wall of a friendly Cormyr at his back. That wall will soon show cracks.”
“Prince?”
“Many matters are afoot, Tamlin. I ask you to trust me. Do you?”
Tamlin had come too far to hesitate. “I do.” “Then soon Sembia will name Selgaunt its capital and you its leader.”
“But the Shadowstorm?”
“We will halt it ere it reaches Selgaunt.”
“How?”
Rivalen looked across the table at Tamlin, irritation in his eyes. “Leave that to me, Hulorn.”
Tamlin could not bear the weight of Rivalen’s gaze. He felt, of a sudden, the way he had so many times when sitting across the table from his father. He looked into his wine chalice. The darkness turned the red wine black, made its depths limitless.
“I will obtain a Selgauntan fivestar for you, Prince,” he said, and disliked the boyishness in his tone. “From the mint, and made this day.”
“You are gracious, Hulorn,” Rivalen said, and Tamlin ignored the hint of condescension he heard in the tone.
Rivalen soon returned to his quarters and Tamlin did not sleep, could not sleep. He continually found himself rubbing his right hand on his trousers, as if to remove something offensive.
The morning brought a griffon-mounted messenger from Saerloon. Rivalen had been a prophet. The messenger bore a missive from Lady Merelith, requesting terms for the peaceful turnover of her city. Tamlin’s hands shook has he read it.
Let the hardships of the Sembian people end, she wrote. Let Saerloon and Selgaunt advance into the future in brotherhood.
Tamlin had heralds read the surrender on street corners and declared a holiday. The bells and gongs of Shar’s new temple rang all morning.
Tamlin composed a response with the advice of Prince Rivalen. He agreed to an end to hostilities, required that Lady Merelith and her court publically abdicate, that Saerloon accept a regent appointed by Tamlin, and that the city allow a garrison of three hundred Selgauntan and Shadovar troops barracks within Saerloon’s walls to ensure the peace.
“She will not accept these terms,” Tamlin said to Rivalen.
“She will,” Rivalen answered. “She has no choice. Choose as regent a trusted member of the Old Chauncel, perhaps one with mercantile ties to Saerloon. I will arrange the Shadovar contingent of the garrison.”
Cale wandered the island as the setting sun ducked under the horizon and painted the shimmering surface of the Inner Sea in red and gold. The cries of gulls gave way to the steady heartbeat of the surf on the shore. Night crept out of its holes and hollows and slowly stretched its dark hand over the island, a sea-beset, solitary dot of rock.
He eventually found himself atop the low hill where they had buried Jak. A few of the stones marking the grave had fallen from the cairn. He replaced them, missing his friend, missing … many things. To one side of him the night-shrouded sea stretched out to the limits of his vision, black and impenetrable; the other side, the shadow-wrapped spire of Mask.
He crouched with his forearms on his knees and stared at Jak’s grave. Patches of grass dotted the soil and poked up through the loose rock. Shadows curled around Cale, languid and dark. The wind blew and he fooled himself into thinking he smelled tobacco from Jak’s pipe rather than sea salt. He felt eyes on him and looked to the temple. The Shadowwalkers congregated there on the drawbridge, in the shadow of the spire, watching him. He did not welcome their regard.
They thought he was one thing; he was striving to be something else. He feared their reverence would root him in place, make him what they wanted.
Desiring privacy, he enshrouded himself in shadows and sank into their dark coils. He thought of his friend and sought words, found them, and confessed.
“I am trying to keep my promise, little man, but it is hard.”
The rush of breakers sounded in the distance. He had murdered the Sojourner to the same sound. Murder came easy to him, easier than it should for a hero. He felt saturated by darkness, permeated by it. There was no separation between him and it. He looked at his shadowhand, a tangible reminder that he would always exist fully only in shadow, complete only in the night. He reached into his pocket, felt there the small river stone the halfling boy had given him.
“You told me once that what we do is only what we do, not what we are. I think you were right, little man, but I wish you had been wrong.”
He shook his head, looked through the shadows with his shadesight, out across the dark, inscrutable sea.
“You would smile at the things I’ve done, Jak. But I feel … nothing. Something in me has changed, is changing, and what I am would not make you smile.”
Shadows boiled from his skin, swirled. He imagined it to be whatever was left of his soul, squirming from his flesh to flee the corrupted vessel in which it was forced to reside.
Looking back over recent months, he saw that he felt only anger with any acuteness. Other feelings were faint, blunt, sensed as if through a haze. He had loved Varra, but only from afar—love without passion. He had saved the halfling boy from trolls, saved Abelar’s son, tried to save Varra, was still trying to save Magadon, but all of it felt false, deeds done more out of duty than a genuine sense of compassion or love.
He was becoming more and more shadowstuff with each day, more inhuman. His promise to Jak was the only thing that tethered him to the humanity of his past.
“I am not a hero. It’s not in me, Jak.”
There were other things in him, darker things, things that good deeds could not efface, things that graveside confessions could not expiate. The shadowstuff was not merely part of him; it was consuming him. He saw in Rivalen Tanthul his own future—thousands of years lived in darkness.
“I’m tired,” he said, and meant it.
Around him the shadows took on weight, substance, presence. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he felt only mild surprise when the darkness whispered in his ear with the mocking voice of his god.
“Tired? Already? But things have only just gotten started. Try running for thousands of years. Then speak to me of tired.”
Cale did not turn, did not rise, refused to bow. His heart raced but he stared at Jak’s grave and kept a tremor from his voice.
“You are not welcome here, not now.”
“Why? Because you are communing with your dead friend instead of your god?”
“Yes. You are unwelcome.”
“So you said, but you called me. I heard you.”
Perhaps Cale had. He did not know anymore. Perhaps his soul whispered to the darkness in a voice the rest of him could not hear.
“Since when do you answer my call? You are a liar.”
Mask chuckled. “Quite so.” The god’s tone changed, took a threatening cast. “And speaking of liars. You have been a naughty priest, talking with archfiends.”
Cale’s breath caught. His heart lurched. The darkness around him roiled.
“You thought I did not know? Tut, tut. I see clearly into darkness and there’s no darker place than your soul.”
The words mirrored Cale’s own thoughts, but he summoned what defiance he could. “Then you know what I promised him and what that means for my promise to you.”
The shadows darkened, tightened around him, their embrace a restraint rather than an embrace. Mask spoke with a voice as hard and sharp as a vorpal blade.
“Those promises are yours to keep, priest. I will hold you to your word.”
Cale managed a half turn of his head, but saw only shadow, darkness. “You are a bastard.”
“Yes”
“I hate you.”
Mask chuckled. “It is not me that you hate. I understand your true feelings all too well.”
Cale refused to follow the words where they led. Irritation made him rash. “Do you still have that hole I put in your armor? Show yourself and I’ll give you another.”
Mask’s chuckle faded. “I keep it as a souvenir of our meeting. Do you still have that hole I put in you?”
Cale tensed. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Cale did. The shadows were hollowing him out, turning him into a shell of a man.
“I’d do it again, too.”
“That’s why you’re a bastard.”
“Among other reasons,” Mask said. “Some men in your situation would be grateful to me. What I gave you allows you to save those you want to save, to harm those you want to harm. I made you more than a man.”
But I can’t save myself, Cale wanted to scream. His anger boiled over, exploded out of him in a burst of words and darkness.
“This,” he fought through the restraints and held out his arms as the shadows roiled around his flesh, “has not made me more than a man. It’s made me less.”
Mask said nothing for a moment, then, “You understand that much sooner than I did.”
The words startled Cale. He started to stand but the shadows solidified, held him still, a penitent before Jak’s grave.
“Who are you?” Cale asked. “What are you?”
Mask sighed. “I am what I am. Once a man, then a god, then a herald of something … awkward. But always a thief and a debtor. Same as you.”
Cale did not feel up to parsing the words of his god. “I am tired.”
“So you said.”
“You are, too, yes?”
Mask said nothing.
Cale continued, “Tell me what is happening.”
“The Shadowstorm is come. Our debts are coming due. You understand well about debts. You’re as Sembian as anyone actually born there.”
“What kind of debts? Who pays?”
Mask spoke softly. “Old ones. And we all pay. It is not for me to break the cycle. Perhaps another will, in another place, another time.”
“What do you mean?” Cale asked.
“You keep your promise to me, priest, or the Shadowstorm will swallow all of Sembia. So complain to your dead friend, then go to what used to be Ordulin.”
“Used to be?”
“See it through, priest. Things are almost at an end.”
Cale’s anger forced shadows from his skin. He picked up a stone from Jak’s cairn, balanced it in his palm. He held Aril’s stone in one hand, Jak’s in the other.
“I will see it though. But not for you.”
He felt Mask at his side, felt the god’s breath on his cheek.
“I know. That is why I chose you for this. I want to tell you something, something I have said too rarely to those I’ve … harmed.”
Cale froze, fearful of what would follow. Shadows leaked from him in pulses, an echo of his racing heart. “I’m sorry,” Mask said.
Cale heard sincerity in the words. He tried to turn, but failed.
“You said you were a herald? Of what?” A thought crossed his mind, then, an awful possibility. “Do you … serve her?”
But the moment was lost. Mask was already gone. The sound of the distant surf returned. Cale remembered to breathe. It took him some time to recover and when he did, he put a hand on Jak’s grave.
“I will do what I can, little man.”
When he dissolved the shadows around him, he found the Shadowwalkers no longer on the drawbridge. He stood and rode the shadows into the temple. He turned his form to shadow, invisible to ordinary sight, even that of the Shadowwalkers, and walked the halls seeking Magadon. He found the mind mage alone in a small, stone-walled meditation chamber, balled up in the corner. Faint starlight shot through a high, narrow window and divided the cell in half, light and dark, a line separating Cale from Magadon.
Stress lined the mind mage’s face; his hands were fists. A vein pulsed in his temple, the visible manifestation of the storm raging behind his closed eyes. He murmured to himself. Cale could not understand the words.
Cale shed his shadows, turned visible.
“Mags.”
Magadon shook his head, murmured louder, wrapped his arms more tightly around his legs, as if trying to hold himself together.
“Magadon.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Mags, it’s me. Erevis.”
Magadon opened his eyes, the movement so slow his eyelids could have been made of lead. The whites of the mind mage’s eyes glowed in the darkness.
“Cale.”
The mind mage’s voice sounded far away, and Cale wondered in what far realm his thoughts had been wandering.
Cale stepped into the cell, across the spear of starlight, and kneeled beside his friend. Magadon smelled of old sweat, a sick room. Cale put a hand on Magadon’s shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
The black dots of Magadon’s pupils pinioned Cale. “No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Cale stood, extended a hand to Magadon. “On your feet.”
Magadon took his hand, rose.
“I’ll fix this, Mags. I’m going now.”
Magadon licked his lips and blinked away sleep. “I want to come with you. I should be part of it.”
“You know you cannot be there. But I want you to link us and keep us linked. Can you? Or is it too much?”
Magadon consulted his will, nodded. “I can do it.”
“If you need me, if anything happens, if you … start slipping, you tell me.”
Magadon held his eyes for a moment then nodded.
“No farther, Mags.”
Magadon smiled, and Cale saw in it the last bit of hope wrung from the husk of his deteriorating mental state.
“There’s not much farther to fall, Cale,” Magadon said.
“Do it,” Cale said.
Magadon closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. He winced as a red glow flared around his head. Cale felt the irritating itch root behind his eyes, the effect of the opening mental connection.
It will need to be latent most of the time, Magadon projected.
Cale noted that Magadon’s mental voice sounded deeper than it had previously, more like his father’s voice.
If you need me, Cale said. Tell me and I’ll come.
Magadon nodded. Cale squeezed his shoulder and left him with his thoughts, with the war in his skull. The moment he left the cell, he felt the connection go latent.
Cale sought Nayan, found him sitting alone in a dining hall lit only by the two thin tapers melting away into their holders. Looking upon him sitting there, Cale decided that the Wayrock Temple had become a mausoleum, where the dead and dying sat alone in dark stone rooms.
The small man wore a loose shirt and trousers and a sense of purpose. He stood as Cale entered. A plate of bread and cheese sat on the table before him. Cale was distantly pleased that Nayan had not heard him approach.
“Sit,” Cale said. “Eat.”
Nayan tilted his head in gratitude. His body sat but his eyes never left Cale’s face.
“The Shadowlord visits you in physical form,” Nayan said.
“Sometimes.”
“You are blessed.”
Cale chucked. “So you say. Nayan, I need you and the others to remain here and watch over Magadon.”
Nayan’s expression did not change, but the shadows around him surged. “You are leaving?”
“For a time. With Riven.”
“We would accompany you. Serving the Right and Left hands of the Shadowlord is what brought us here.”
“You will be serving me by watching my friend. He cannot be left alone. But he cannot come with me.”
Nayan studied Cale’s face, and finally nodded. “Where are you going?”
Cale thought about the answer for a moment. “To kill a god,” he said, and exited the hall to find Riven. He found the assassin in the central hall on the second story, his two dogs in tow. They wagged their tails at Cale but did not leave their master’s side.
A question lodged in the lines of Riven’s brow, then smoothed into an answer.
“Found something, after all, I see.”
Riven could read him.
“Something,” Cale acknowledged, thinking of Mask, of Magadon, of Jak.
“What next, then?” Riven asked.
The shadows around Cale swirled. “We tell Abelar the nature of the Shadowstorm so he can get the refugees out of its path.”
“Then?”
“We kill Kesson Rel. Or die trying. Mags is nearly gone.” Riven inhaled, nodded. “Plan?”
“Go to Ordulin. Find him. Kill him.”
Riven chuckled through his goatee. “Must have taken you a while to come up with that.”
Cale smiled despite himself. He still found the rare demonstrations of Riven’s humor as incongruous as beardless cheeks on a dwarf.
“That double of him that we fought back in the Calyx,” Riven said. “The real him will be stronger than that.”
Cale nodded. “I know.”
Riven looked away, nodding, finally bent down and pet his dogs, the gesture one of farewell. He stood.
“There’s nothing for it. Let’s gear up.”