Shadowstorm

by Paul S. Kemp

  A diabolical face appeared on the wall and lunged out of the plaster to hang in the air before her—a devil sent her by Shar, or Volumvax. Horns jutted from the brow to shadow the malevolent eyes.

  Elyril recoiled in surprise but recovered herself quickly.

  “Speak,” she ordered the image. “Where is the book to be made whole?”

  The fiend licked its lips, mockingly smiled a mouthful of fangs, and spoke to her in a tongue that she could not understand, but with such power that the words nauseated her.

  She knew there was truth in the speech, if she could only understand. She needed more minddust.

  She reached for her tin of drugs, took a pinch between her fingers, and inhaled, but the face withdrew into the wall, smirking. She clenched her fists in anger.

  “I do not understand!”

  Her voice took physical form and bounced off the walls and around the room.

  “… not understand … not understand …”

  Kefil raised his head and looked around the room. To whom do you speak? The fire is long dead. There are no shadows on the wall.

  “What? You lie.”

  But he did not. The fire behind her was dead. She was alone in the darkness. How long had she been sitting so? How could there have been shadows without the fire?

  Kefil stood, sighed, and stretched. What is it you wish to understand, Mistress?

  Elyril pulled a nearby wool blanket about her. The minddust made her skin sensitive and the blanket chafed. She threw it aside.

  “The location of the book to be made whole. The nature of the sign.”

  So that you may free the Divine One?

  Elyril smiled and nodded. “So that I may sit at his side as the Shadowstorm darkens the world.”

  Kefil scratched his ear with a hind leg. Perhaps you will never know the location of the book or the nature of the sign. Perhaps Shar will keep this secret from you always. Perhaps not knowing will drive you mad.

  Elyril glared at the mastiff.

  “And perhaps I shall make a rug from your pelt.”

  Kefil said nothing more.

  Elyril spent the rest of the night praying and trying to wrest information from the darkness. But Shar held her secrets, and the truth of events lay just beyond Elyril’s reach.

  CHAPTER TWO

  15 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

  The slim stone towers and high walls of the Abbey of Dawn perched atop a rise in southeastern Sembia, not far from the coast of the Dragon Sea. The three tapered spires of the abbey’s east-facing chapel gave the impression of reaching for the heavens, of something about to take flight. The polished limestone walls and accents of rose-colored stone glittered in dawn’s light.

  A pear orchard and a patchwork of barley and vegetable fields stood within the shadow of the walls—the harvest had already been brought in—and beyond that lay only the whipgrass of the plains, clusters of yellow and purple wildflowers, and copses of larch and ash. The winding wagon path that meandered through the plains from Rauthauvyr’s Road to the north was barely visible in the swaying grass. Few used the path. The abbey served as a cloister for servants of Lathander and was almost entirely self-sufficient. Most who came spent years there.

  As an adolescent, Abelar had worked the barley and turnip fields, carted bushels of pears from the orchard to the abbey, drawn water from the wells. The work had taught him the value and nobility in a day’s hard labor.

  As a man, he had stood watch on the abbey’s walls and rode forth with his fellows of the Order of the Aster to do battle against darkness. His time in the Order had taught him the value of strong steel and courageous men and women.

  But those days seemed far in the past. He had been away from the abbey for months. Schism had rent Lathander’s church, had taken root in the abbey, and Abelar had been declared unwelcome. It saddened him that the abbey at which he had sworn his life to Lathander had become a kiln where heresy was hardened and the Morninglord’s faith weakened.

  “Abelar?”

  Abelar’s mind returned to the present. He sat atop his mare, Swiftdawn, amid the whispering grass, perhaps half a league from the abbey. The wagon path stretched before him. The rising sun warmed his cheek.

  “You spoke?” Abelar asked Regg, who sat beside him on his roan mare, Firstlight.

  “I asked if you were certain of this course,” Regg said.

  Road dust covered Regg’s cloak and plate armor, and several days’ growth of beard covered his cheeks. Regg eyed the abbey the way he might a skittish colt. Like Abelar, Regg also served Lathander, but he had not taken rites at the Abbey of Dawn.

  Abelar nodded. “I am certain.”

  Regg’s mare, sweaty and road weary, turned a circle and snorted in the cool air. Abelar’s mare, too, snorted. Perhaps they smelled a wolf in the wind. Abelar stroked Swiftdawn’s neck and whickered. She tossed her head but calmed.

  Abelar and Regg had left the rest of the men in a village to the northwest and journeyed to the abbey alone. Abelar had been concerned that his appearance at the head of an armed force would be misconstrued. He had come to mend the rift as best he could. He needed to persuade with words, not weapons.

  “Swiftdawn and Firstlight do not share your resolve,” Regg said, patting his nervous mare.

  “Our brethren are within that abbey, Regg.”

  Regg stilled Firstlight and scoffed. “Brethren? They are Risen Sun heretics. They look for their so-called Deliverance while the world collapses around them. What have they done since Mirabeta took power? Even Morninglord Duskroon in Ordulin sits idle. His silence ratifies Mirabeta’s claims to power. I hardly recognize our faith, Abelar. Those who lead it are fools.”

  Abelar shook his head. “Lathander leads it, Regg. But some who follow have lost their way. They are misguided, but not fools. They will heed us. They will see the light.”

  He hoped that saying the words would make them so. The Risen Sun heresy had originated months ago and spread like a wildfire among many of Lathander’s clergy, including those at the abbey. The heretics asserted that the Deliverance, an event in which the Morninglord would remake himself as the ancient sun god Amaunator, was imminent. The heretics so focused on gaining new converts and preparing the way for the Deliverance, which they presumed would not only remake Lathander but also usher in a new era of worship and hope, that they lost sight of the church’s duty to Faerûn. They wanted Lathander to change the world for them, rather than changing it themselves in Lathander’s name.

  “They will not heed us,” Regg said. “And they may arrest us. They banished you, Abelar. Abbot Denril sent you from them.”

  Abelar nodded. “That, he did.”

  The memory pained him. Abelar had learned how to wield a blade and shield from Denril, long before the priest had become Abbot and taken charge of the abbey. Denril had sponsored Abelar’s entry into the Order of the Aster after Abelar, at eighteen winters, had saved a passing caravan by slaying a rampaging ogre single-handedly. Denril also had presided over Abelar’s dismissal from the Order and the abbey after Abelar had refused to acknowledge the truth of the Risen Sun heresy. Their parting had been bitter.

  “He is as much politician as priest,” Regg said with contempt.

  “You underestimate him,” Abelar said.

  Regg looked at him from under his bushy brows. “I pray you are correct, but fear you are not. He would gain much were he to turn you over to Mirabeta.”

  Sunlight caught the flecks of mica embedded in the abbey’s smooth walls and they sparkled like a dragon’s trove. The stained glass arches set into the upper windows of the chapel’s towers flashed in the sun.

  When he had first come to the abbey, Abelar had sometimes snuck out before dawn just to sit in the grass, commune with Lathander, and watch the light from the rising sun grace the abbey. He missed the feeling of those days. They had been … innocent. It had been easy then to know friend from foe, right from wrong.

  Much had changed.

>   “They will be at Dawnmeet,” Regg said.

  “We will give them time to finish,” Abelar said, and turned Swiftdawn so that she faced the rising sun.

  Regg did the same and they held their own Dawnmeet service, reciting a brief prayer together.

  “Dawn dispels the night and births the world anew,” they said in unison. “May Lathander light our way, show us wisdom, and in so doing, allow us to be a light to others.”

  They dismounted and took a meal of hardtack in silence. Like everyone in Sembia, they rationed their food. The priests in Abelar’s company used their spells to provide the men with enough food to stave off hunger, but Abelar hoarded it like it was gold.

  After they had eaten, they remounted and rode toward the abbey.

  “The guards in the gatehouse will soon see us coming,” Regg said. “They will be prepared for our arrival.”

  “Aye,” said Abelar. He held his shield forward, in plain view, so that the rose of Lathander emblazoned on it would be visible.

  Elyril and Mirabeta sat at a small table on the open-air balcony of the three-story tallhouse that the overmistress occupied while in Ordulin. Elyril wore a simple, long-sleeved dress to shield her pale skin from the morning sun. Her dark-haired aunt wore a formal green day gown.

  A banner flying Sembia’s heraldry—the raven and silver—hung from the roof eaves above them. Smaller pennons flanked it to either side, both flying Ordulin’s golden wagon wheel on a field of green. All three flapped softly in the gentle breeze. The hum of conversation and the rumble of wagons carried up from the cobblestone street below. Elyril heard the occasional order barked by the uniformed Helms who kept the pedestrian traffic at a discreet distance from the overmistress’s tallhouse.

  One of Mirabeta’s mute serving girls, pole-thin and sunken-eyed, stood unobtrusively near the open double doorway that led into the tallhouse. Mirabeta had brought her own staff to Ordulin from Ravenholme.

  “The sunlight is pleasant,” Mirabeta said.

  Elyril and her aunt breakfasted on dried currants, day old bread, and a light, fruity wine from Raven’s Bluff.

  “It is,” Elyril lied.

  Mirabeta glanced up at the pennons. “I think I will change Sembia’s colors to something that includes the Selkirk falcon.”

  The overmistress smiled, obviously pleased at the thought. She still held the same satisfied air she had worn since a rump session of the High Council had elected her War Regent. Elyril did not share her aunt’s sense of ease. Since setting the Sembian civil war into motion, she had received contact from neither Volumvax nor the Nightseer, and her communions with Shar had resulted only in frustration. She did not fully understand her role in events and her ignorance irritated her. She felt herself on the verge of a revelation, but always it remained just out of reach. Only increasingly frequent use of minddust allowed her to endure the uncertainty.

  “Malkur Forrin is returned to Ordulin,” Mirabeta said. “The Hulorn escaped him. I received the news yesterday.”

  “That is regrettable,” Elyril said. “How did the Uskevren manage to escape? Perhaps word of events reached him on the road?”

  “I have no details yet,” Mirabeta said, and sipped her wine. “My envoys to Cormyr and Cormanthyr report a favorable response to our overtures. Both the Regent and the new Coronal appear to accept the premise that our … current troubles are and should remain an internal Sembian affair.”

  “That is welcome news, aunt.”

  In truth, neither Cormyr nor the elves of Cormanthyr were in positions to take sides in the Sembian conflict. Both had recently fought wars of their own. Sighs of relief in Arabel and the elven halls had probably greeted Mirabeta’s gentle demand that they remain neutral in Sembia’s conflict.

  Footfalls approached from within the tallhouse. Mirabeta’s chamberlain, Turest Gillan, appeared in the doorway. A defect of birth—common among the Selkirks’ inbred servants—caused his heavy-lidded eyes to look in two different directions. Tufts of gray hair jutted this way and that from his overlarge skull.

  He stood in silence, waiting to be recognized. Elyril watched his form blur and shimmer, moving rapidly through time. He changed from adolescent to elderly and back to his fifty or so winters in the span of a heartbeat. Only Elyril seemed to notice the changes.

  “Turest?” Mirabeta said at last.

  The chamberlain bowed, avoiding eye contact, not an easy matter for a man who looked in two directions at once. Mirabeta would flog even her chamberlain for presuming to look her in the face. Elyril had once heard the chamberlain scream while being punished. He had a pleasant, high-pitched screech that amused her.

  “A credentialed messenger has arrived, Overmistress. He bears a missive under seal from Yhaunn.”

  Mirabeta swallowed a currant and dabbed her mouth with a hand cloth. “Verify that the message is genuine. If so, bring it to me and extend such courtesies to the messenger as are appropriate. If not, bring it to me and have the messenger fed to the dogs.”

  “Yes, Overmistress.”

  Elyril and Mirabeta shared a curious glance as Turest exited the balcony. The mute serving girl, as quiet as a ghost, moved to the table and refilled their wine goblets, then returned to her station.

  Elyril said, “Perhaps Endren Corrinthal has died in the Hole.”

  “Tymora has never favored me with such good fortune,” Mirabeta said, but smiled nevertheless.

  Turest returned shortly thereafter, bearing an ivory scroll tube traced in gold, its cap sealed in wax. He presented it to Mirabeta.

  “Rynon has examined it and assures me that it bears no baleful magic or poison, Overmistress. The seal appears genuine.”

  “Well done, Turest,” said Mirabeta.

  Turest bowed, nodded at Elyril, and withdrew from the balcony.

  Mirabeta examined the seal for herself, hummed her satisfaction, and cut the wax with her thumbnail. She popped the lid and withdrew several sheets of rolled vellum, also officially sealed. She broke the seal, unrolled the vellum, and read. Her expression changed from curious, to alarmed, to angry.

  Elyril set down her wine glass. “Aunt?”

  Mirabeta stared past Elyril. “Yhaunn has been attacked. The Nessarch reports that much of the lower city is in ruins. A kraken of enormous size rose from the sea and destroyed the lower districts.”

  Elyril could not keep the shock from her voice. “A kraken? Such a creature has not been seen in decades!”

  Mirabeta continued. “He estimates over a thousand are dead and several times that are displaced. The docks are destroyed. The city’s forces beat the creature off but a simultaneous raid on the Hole freed Endren Corrinthal. The attack from the sea appears to have been timed with the attack on the Hole. Endren and his rescuers leaped down a mineshaft but no bodies were found. Divinations confirm he is alive, but cannot locate him.”

  Elyril stared at her aunt, absorbing the import of the words, before softly speaking a curse so vile the mute serving girl gasped. Elyril waved the little wretch from the balcony. “You are dismissed. Begone. We are discussing matters of state.”

  When they were alone, Elyril said, “It could not have been Abelar Corrinthal who freed Endren. We have reports of him to the southeast. Who, then?”

  “We have no word,” Mirabeta said, crumbling the missive in her hands. “Damn it all.” She glared with heat across the table. “I should have executed Endren in the public square. It was you who advised placing him in the Hole, Elyril.”

  Elyril kept her false face in place and her anger in check. She adopted a look of contrition.

  “True, aunt. It seemed well advised at the time. I apologize for failing you.”

  Abasement always sated Mirabeta’s anger. Her gaze softened and she made a dismissive gesture. “It was well advised at the time. Had we executed Endren, the civil war would have been fought on Ordulin’s streets rather than in the countryside.” She rocked her wine glass on its stem. “In any event, the Nessarch asks for as muc
h aid as we can spare. Yhaunn’s docks need to be rebuilt.”

  Elyril nodded. Yhaunn was the primary port through which Ordulin received its stores of food and supplies. Rebuilding its docks as rapidly as possible would be a priority.

  “Allow me to fly Ordulin’s standard in Yhaunn, aunt. That will assure the Yhauntans that Ordulin supports them fully and will allow me to investigate the details of Endren’s escape. Perhaps there is more to be learned.”

  Mirabeta nodded. “A sound idea. Travel to Yhaunn as my ambassador. I will order the appropriate credentials prepared. Inform the Nessarch that aid is on the way. Then find out what you can about the escape. If there are traitors among the Yhauntans, I want them found out and made into examples. This time, the examples are to be public, Elyril.”

  “Of course, aunt,” Elyril answered.

  “Use magical transport. I want you in Yhaunn quickly.”

  “I will arrange for Rynon to transport me there.” Elyril leaned back in her chair and thought through what she had heard. She said, “The timing of the kraken’s attack and the attack on the Hole were not coincidental. And neither Selgaunt nor Saerb has the service of mages capable of controlling a kraken.”

  “We are of like mind. The affair lends credibility to rumors of an alliance between Sembia and the Shadovar.” Mirabeta put a finger to her lips in thought. “Perhaps it is time to seek an ally of our own?”

  “Aunt?” Elyril asked.

  “Later, Elyril. Let me think more about the costs.”

  Elyril could do nothing but accept the words. Despite her attempts to know all she could about her aunt’s affairs, Mirabeta kept some secrets to herself.

  Elyril tapped her fingers on the table, eyeing the magical ring with which she communicated with the Nightseer.

  “The Shadovar are said to be formidable mages, but few in number.”

  Mirabeta nodded absently. “At the moment, the Shadovar are beside the point. The rebels in Selgaunt and Saerb must be made to pay for the destruction at Yhaunn.”