by Paul S. Kemp
“Your citizens are not yet accustomed to our presence,” Rivalen said.
“They will become so, in time,” Tamlin said.
Rivalen smiled and said, “I think you are right.”
They rode in silence for a time before Tamlin turned the discussion to a matter that had troubled him since learning of it. He said, “Mister Cale succeeded in freeing Endren Corrinthal. Our spies confirm it. Yet I have heard nothing from Endren or Abelar.”
Rivalen eyed Tamlin sidelong. “Perhaps, having gotten what he wishes, Abelar Corrinthal no longer considers an alliance with Selgaunt necessary. Perhaps he hopes that the overmistress’s army will break itself on Selgaunt such that he never need put himself or his holdings at risk. Perhaps Erevis Cale spoke ill of you and your alliance with us.”
Tamlin frowned, uncomfortable with how closely Rivalen’s words mirrored his private thoughts. “I think not,” he said slowly. “Abelar seemed an honorable man to me.”
“You thought the same of Erevis Cale, I suspect. Pain and loss, my Lord Hulorn. I have seen it countless times. Men remain men. But whatever the Corrinthals intend, know that you may rely upon me and my people. And I feel that I may rely upon you and yours. That will be enough. We will prevail against whatever comes.”
To that, Tamlin made no reply. He wished, all of a sudden, he had not sent his family away. For the first time in a long while, he wished his father was alive. He felt isolated entirely. He had only Rivalen and Vees.
“Yhaunn is in ruins, Prince,” he said. “I have scried it myself. Our spies speak of a monster from the sea.”
Shadows snaked around Rivalen’s head and hands. “Your spies are well informed. We control a kraken, Hulorn, and it attacked Yhaunn at my command. I thought the scale of the attack appropriate, given our need for a large distraction.”
Tamlin had suspected something large, but not a kraken. “A kraken!? You used a bound kraken to attack a Sembian city? Hundreds of civilians are dead. You should have told me your intent. I would have forbade it.”
Rivalen turned on him, his eyes hard. The shadows around him churned, as if in agitation, but when he spoke his tone was mild.
“Squeamishness is seldom rewarded in war, Hulorn. Do you think Mirabeta’s army will hesitate to raze Selgaunt if it serves her purpose?”
Tamlin took the Prince’s point. “Of course not, but …”
Rivalen continued. “Still, I should have informed you of the details.” He half-bowed in his saddle. “My apologies.”
Tamlin suddenly felt embarrassed for raising the matter. He did not enjoy the thought of women and children dying in the kraken attack, but the Prince’s point was correct. War was war. He made a dismissive gesture. “I should not have mentioned it. You are correct, of course. Mirabeta has forced us to fight a war, so fight a war we must. I suspect matters will get worse before they improve.”
“You can be certain of that,” Rivalen said.
“Can the kraken be used to secure the seaways? At the least, it can prevent a naval assault on the harbor?”
Rivalen nodded. “It was wounded in the attack and is difficult to control. But I will see to it, Hulorn.”
Tamlin considered, said, “Could it attack Saerloon if we had need? Only if matters become extreme, of course.”
“It could,” Rivalen said with a knowing smile and a nod. “Though I suspect Lady Merelith has or soon will take precautions against such a move.”
“No doubt,” Tamlin agreed.
They moved north toward the Khyber Gate. The huge wood and iron slabs had been closed for the night, but the work of reinforcing them continued. The workmen, laboring by torch and glowball, halted in their labors to look upon the Hulorn and the Shadovar. Tamlin and Rivalen dismounted and received a briefing from Mernan, the stooped, elderly engineer supervising the work. Tamlin had less than a score of quality engineers in his service. He valued them as highly as platinum.
“New crossbeams reinforce the gates, my lord,” Mernan said, gesturing at the oiled iron beams that reinforced the gates at the top and bottom. “A second bolt will soon be forged. The hinges are strong and well set into the stone. They are unassailable from the outside.”
Tamlin nodded, pleased at the rapid progress.
Rivalen strode over to the gate and the workmen parted before him, eyes wide. He placed a hand on the wood and shadows flickered from his fingertips. The workmen murmured and whispered, their tone distrustful.
To Tamlin, Rivalen called, “I can provide spellcasters who can further bolster the strength of the gates.”
“The wood is enspelled,” Mernan answered irritably. “Bolt and hinges, too. Our mages saw to that.”
“Not well enough,” Rivalen said. He placed both hands on the huge gate and recited a series of arcane words. Despite his understanding of magic, Tamlin did not recognize the spell. The workmen backed off, fearful.
Mernan protested loudly. “My lord,” he said to Tamlin.
Rivalen completed his spell and parted his hands. In response to his gesture, an arch-shaped opening formed at the base of the gate, large enough to give passage to three horsemen abreast. The workmen gasped. Mernan’s protest stuttered into silence. A group of a half-dozen refugees on the other side of the gate rose from their bedrolls and wagons to stare wide-eyed at the magical aperture.
Rivalen held his palms outward, uttered a single magical word, and the aperture disappeared as if it had never been. Mernan rushed forward to touch the wall where the hole had been.
“It is solid,” he said.
Rivalen nodded at the engineer and turned to Tamlin, though he spoke loud enough for all to hear. “The overmistress’s forces will not have a mage among them who is my match in the Art, but the spell I just used requires not mastery, but mere competence.”
Tamlin took Rivalen’s point, took it gratefully. He said, “We welcome any additional magical aid you can offer.”
“Indeed,” said Mernan, with grudging respect. Even many among the workmen nodded.
“I will see to it,” Rivalen said.
The two remounted and continued along Selgaunt’s walls to its other gates. Everywhere it was the same—teams of workmen labored into the night to improve the city’s defenses. Tamlin took heart from their diligence. They passed several squads of armed men. The Helms and Scepters had been collapsed into one force. Rorsin and Onthul were doing good work in training them to act cohesively, and using them to drill the militiamen.
“The city is nearly ready,” Rivalen observed. “You have capable men and women here.”
Tamlin nodded, though he did not feel ready. “When will your additional forces arrive?”
“Five hundred of our elite fighters will arrive as soon as they can be spared. Construction of their barracks is nearly complete, and the conversion of the tavern to our embassy continues apace. The Most High has our forces engaged in other matters, but those will wind down soon enough.”
“We will have time,” Tamlin said, feeling the chill in the air. “Mirabeta will wait until the spring to attack.”
“Perhaps,” Rivalen answered, and Tamlin heard doubt in his tone.
“You think she will move sooner? This year?”
“I do not know, Hulorn. The overmistress is unpredictable.”
Tamlin shook his head. “I dislike this. Settling in for a siege.”
“It is the only course, at the moment,” Rivalen answered. “Mirabeta’s forces outnumber yours substantially. If the overmistress attacks, Selgaunt must hold for a time. That is all. Aid will come. My people stand with yours, and I with you.”
The words brought Tamlin great comfort. He looked around at the towering walls and the strong men and women who worked them. “If we must hold, we will hold,” he said, and tried to believe it.
Later, as they prepared to part, Tamlin said to Rivalen, “I would like to discuss your faith with you again. Sometime soon. I would know more of Shar than the tavern tales I’ve heard in the past. She, at leas
t, has sent you to us while the priests of other gods abandon the city.”
“She has, indeed,” Rivalen said.
Tamlin nodded, said, “For now I would ask that you keep the nature of your faith quiet. As you said, it could be misunderstood.”
Rivalen reached out and put a hand on Tamlin’s shoulder. The Prince’s shadows curled around Tamlin’s arm. “Of course, my Lord Hulorn. And I look forward to further conversations. I am always eager to teach new students about my faith.”
Tamlin chuckled.
“You are amused?” Rivalen asked.
“Yes,” Tamlin said, still smiling. “But not with you. I was just imagining Vees’s reaction if he were to learn the nature of your faith.”
Rivalen joined him in laughter.
After bidding farewell to the Hulorn and stabling his mount, Rivalen discarded his false face—that of mentor and father figure to the malleable Uskevren boy—and activated his sending ring. He reached out for Vees Talendar.
Nightseer? Vees asked.
Where are you, Dark Brother?
Vees delayed a moment before answering, In the Lady’s sanctuary, praying. Shall I—
Rivalen ended the magical connection, pulled the night about him, and whispered, “The secret sanctuary of the Lady on Temple Avenue.”
The shadows answered him and swept him in a breath from the street in the Noble District to the secret fane of Shar on Temple Avenue. He appeared in the main worship hall, amongst the benches. At the front of the hall, a single candle burned on the dark altar, the stone surface draped in a cloth depicting a black disc ringed in purple.
A cloaked form knelt before the altar—Vees Talendar. He held his hand before his face, eyeing the amethyst ring on his finger, no doubt awaiting a response from Rivalen. When he did not receive it, he shook his head, turned back to the altar, and whispered the Thirteen Truths, beginning with the first.
“Love is a lie. Only hate endures. Light is blinding. Only in darkness do we see clearly. Forgiveness is false …”
Rivalen stepped into the shadow space and materialized behind Talendar. He took the nobleman by his shoulders and jerked him to his feet. Talendar exclaimed in surprise.
Rivalen hissed into the nobleman’s ear, “In the darkness of the void, we hear the whisper of the night.”
“Nightseer! It is you. I am—”
Rivalen, much taller than Talendar and as strong as an ogre in darkness, took Talendar’s hair in one fist and lifted him off the ground. The nobleman squealed in pain and hung in his grasp like a marionette, kicking.
Rivalen began again. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “In the darkness of the void—”
“Heed its voice,” Talendar said through gritted teeth, swatting at Rivalen’s hand. “Heed its voice, Nightseer.”
Rivalen dropped him to the floor in a heap. Talendar scrambled to his feet, rubbing his scalp, breathing heavily. He turned to face Rivalen. “If I have given you offense—”
The shadows around Rivalen churned, reflecting his anger. “If you lie to me before this altar, Dark Brother, I will kill you where you stand.”
Talendar’s face fell. “I would not lie to you, Nightseer.”
“Erevis Cale is a shade,” Rivalen said. “This you knew. Yet you did not see fit to tell me. Why?”
Talendar’s eyes widened with surprise and fear, then moved to the floor, the wall, anywhere but Rivalen. He started to speak, stopped, started again, stopped. Rivalen knew that Talendar must have rehearsed an answer to the question a hundred times, but the rehearsed answer was a lie, and Talendar dared not speak it.
“Speak now or you will die for holding your silence,” Rivalen commanded.
Talendar bowed his head. He closed his eyes and winced as he spoke. “I wished to keep a secret from you, Nightseer. That is the reason. It was petty. I see that now. I—”
“Turn around,” Rivalen ordered him.
Talendar looked up sharply, his face pale. He licked his lips. “Nightseer, I apologize if—”
“Turn around.”
Talendar stared into Rivalen’s face, blinked, nodded, and slowly turned around. His body was as tense as a bowstring. The sound of his rapid breathing echoed off the stone walls of the hall. He stood hunched, awaiting his fate.
For a moment Rivalen let him wonder what doom awaited him. He put a shadow-shrouded hand on the back of Talendar’s neck. The nobleman gave a start at the touch. Darkness streamed from Rivalen’s hand, wrapped around Talendar’s throat.
“Nightseer, please,” Talendar said, his voice quaking.
Rivalen caused the tendrils to tighten around Talendar’s throat. The nobleman gagged, grasped at them, but could not loosen their grip. Rivalen tightened them further and said, “The Lady smiles on secrets well kept, Dark Brother. But this was not such. Next time, consider well what you tell and what you do not … and why.”
Rivalen would not kill Talendar—yet. He dispelled the shadowy tendrils and Talendar fell to the floor, coughing and gasping for air.
“Forgive me, Nightseer,” he croaked.
“Look upon that altar, Dark Brother. If you are guilty of another such lapse, I will see you laid across it and opened. You will enter Shar’s realm not as her servant, but as her sacrifice.”
Talendar, on all fours, stared at the altar and began to shake. In a quavering voice, he said, “Love is a lie. Only hate endures. Light is blinding …”
Rivalen turned himself invisible and rode the shadows out of the temple to an alley on Temple Avenue. He appeared near a crowd of refugees—two couples with their children—huddled for warmth around a burning brazier.
He moved past them and onto the avenue. Glowballs and burning braziers lit the street. The stars glowed between the notches of the towers, spires, chapels, and shrines of Selgaunt’s many gods. He noted each of them in turn—Leira, Milil, Sune, Oghma, Tymora, a handful of others.
“All is fleeting,” he said to them.
CHAPTER FOUR
18 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cale, Riven, and Magadon materialized on a grassy knoll in a light rain. Riven put his hands on his knees and coughed black phlegm until Cale thought the assassin would surely vomit. Magadon, looking like he might fall over at any moment, sagged to the ground. Cale, too, felt the life-draining effect of Furlinastis’s breath. His breathing was ragged; he felt as if his chest were in a vise.
“Are you all right?” he asked them.
Riven nodded between coughs. Magadon took a deep breath and looked to Cale.
“I am well.”
They stood atop a low hill dotted with shrubs and a twisted tree that looked like a gallows. The ruins of the once grand city of Elgrin Fau crouched in the deeper darkness of the valley below.
Creepers, stunted shrubs, and twisted trees overgrew the city’s ancient streets. The weathered hulks of stone buildings—once shops, residences, and temples—stood in silent rows like gravestones. Piles of rubble dotted the ruins here and there. Tall statues, worn featureless by the eons, stood sentinel over the silence.
Even in death the city felt magisterial, with its grand arches, carved columns, and broad, pavestone plazas. Cale wished he could have seen it under the sun, filled with life.
The temple of the Seekers of the Sun, its dome still intact, rose futilely into the darkness. After Kesson Rel had banished Elgrin Fau to the Plane of Shadow, the worshipers there had never again seen the sun. The followers of light had died in darkness.
Cale’s gaze focused on the black clot in the center of the city. He could not see through the murk but he knew an enormous cemetery stood there. It had once been a park or commons, but the residents of Elgrin Fau had converted it to a graveyard in order to bury their dead within the soil of their city. A magical portal stood in the center of the cemetery, a monument placed there by Kesson Rel to mock the citizens after they had died and been transformed by hate and Kesson Rel’s magic into undead.
Riven controlled his coughin
g fit, wiped his mouth, and said, “Explain yourself, Mags. Now.”
The threat in Riven’s voice turned Cale around.
Magadon did not even look up at the assassin. “What do you mean?”
Riven stepped into Magadon’s space, his hands on his saber hilts. Magadon looked up.
“Play stupid and see if I play along,” Riven said.
“Riven …” Cale began.
Riven held his stare on Magadon. “I saw you when the dragon attacked, Mags. You didn’t move a step. You stood there like a sacrifice. Why?”
Cale, too, had witnessed Magadon’s inexplicable passiveness. “I saw it, too, Mags. What were you thinking?”
Magadon climbed to his feet. “It happened too fast,” he said, but there was a lie in his tone.
Riven’s eye narrowed. “A lie. Explain yourself.”
Magadon looked into Riven’s face. “And if I don’t? What will happen that is worse than where I’ve been? Than where I am?”
Cale understood then. He stepped forward, put his arm between his two comrades, and opened up some space. Riven glared at Magadon before walking away.
Magadon spoke to Riven’s back, his tone vaguely taunting. “Tell me, Riven. What will happen? I’m already half dead. What do you think you can do?”
“That’s enough,” Cale said.
Magadon glared at Cale. “Don’t you dare pity me. Ever.”
Riven turned around and his voice dripped contempt. “You giving up then, Mags? That devil stole half your soul and now you want to surrender the other half? You want to die? Is that it?”
Magadon could hold Riven’s gaze for only a moment before looking away.
To Cale, Riven said, “I’ve seen that look in the eyes of other men, men who despise themselves, men who make mistakes intentionally because they don’t have the balls to handle their own affairs.” He turned back to Magadon and said, “You want to die, die. I gave you my dagger. It kills just fine. But don’t put us at risk because you won’t sheathe steel in your gut. You hear me?”
Magadon looked up, but looked away just as fast.
