by Paul S. Kemp
Cale put a hand on his shoulder. “Mags?”
Magadon shook his head, made no eye contact with Cale. When he spoke, his voice quavered.
“I don’t know what I want. Godsdammit. Pieces of me have been falling off since we parted a year ago. The Source, my father. I’m falling down, here.” He looked up at Riven. “I’m falling down, Riven.”
Riven stalked over, his eye burning. He took Magadon by the other shoulder.
“Stand up, then,” the assassin said, and shook him gently. “Stand up.”
Magadon looked into Riven’s face, into Cale’s.
“We need you with us, Mags,” Cale said. “Are you with us?”
“Are you?” Riven asked.
Magadon looked away, looked back at them. Finally he firmed up and nodded.
“What’s left of me is with you.”
Cale decided it would have to be enough. He turned to Riven.
“Well enough?”
Riven looked only at Magadon. “We are all neck deep in this, Mags. All of us. There’s no giving up. Not now. Not ever.”
Magadon nodded and the patter of rain filled the silence.
“Now,” Riven said to Cale. “You said you’d tell us everything. Start talking.”
Cale said, “Let’s get out of this damned rain first.”
“Follow me,” Magadon said, and led them away from the city until they found a small copse of twisted trees as large as mature oaks. They sheltered under the broad leaves, which kept most of the rain at bay. It was too damp for a fire, so they huddled near the bole and stared at one another through the darkness.
Magadon and Riven waited for Cale to speak. Cale framed his thoughts and spoke in a low tone.
He told them of his encounter with Mask in an alley in Selgaunt, of the god’s ominous warnings regarding Sembia and the Cycle of Shadows. He told them of how he had attacked his own god and gotten tossed about like a child’s doll for his pains. He told them of his promise to take from Kesson Rel the divinity that Kesson Rel had stolen from Mask long ago. They knew that he had promised the same thing to Mephistopheles as ransom for Magadon’s soul. He told them of the book he had taken from the Fane of Shadows, how it had erased itself and begun rewriting itself back to front. He told them, finally, of how Mephistopheles had taken it from him. When he finished, no one spoke for a time.
“Well?” he asked them.
Riven shook his head. “Dark, Cale. Dark and empty.”
Cale said, “Agreed.” He looked each of them in the eye. “Now is the time to walk away. I chose this path. Kesson Rel, Mask, and Mephistopheles are my problems. The promises are mine to keep. If you’re not—”
“Nobody is walking away, Cale,” Riven said.
Magadon nodded. “I’ve got nowhere to go.” He cleared his throat and eyed Cale and Riven. The rain slicked his black hair. His horns glistened. “What now, then?”
Cale answered, “The gate in Elgrin Fau.”
Riven and Magadon eyed him. Magadon said, “The gate is guarded.”
“And we had a go at it before,” Riven said.
Cale nodded at both of them.
A darkweaver guarded the gate, together with an army of wraiths—the dead of Elgrin Fau.
“We barely kept our skins last time,” Riven said.
“Matters stood differently then,” Cale answered.
When they had faced the darkweaver and wraiths the first time, Cale had not known how to control the powers granted him by the shadowstuff. Neither had Riven. Both of them did now.
“True enough,” Riven said. He rummaged in a belt pouch for his pipe, found it, and started to fill it.
“We do not know where the gate leads,” Magadon said.
Cale acknowledged the point. “No, we don’t.”
Riven struck a tindertwig on his boot, shielded its small flame from the rain, and lit the pipe. Around the stem, he asked, “You think it leads to Kesson Rel?”
Cale nodded his head. “I do, but there’s only one way to be sure.”
Riven blew out a cloud of smoke. “What about Selgaunt? You leave the Uskevren boy to that Shadovar and he will suffer.”
Cale knew. But Tamlin had made his choice. And Cale had made his. Cale’s duty was to Magadon, and to his god. Not to Tamlin, not to Sembia.
“Korvikoum,” he softly said, invoking his favorite concept from dwarven philosophy. Choices and consequences, the dwarves taught. Cale had learned the lesson well. Tamlin soon would, too.
He looked his friends in the face.
“Get some rest. We are as safe here as anywhere. We will take a few days to recover some strength.” He looked meaningfully at Magadon, who looked as if he had not eaten a decent meal in months. “Then we go at Elgrin Fau.”
The rain stops after a few hours. I sit in the darkness under the strange trees, feeling nothing for them. My bond with the world is broken. I am separate from it, alien.
I hesitate to seek my mental focus. I know I must do so—if I am to be of any use to my companions, and to myself, I must be able to call upon my mental abilities—but I fear what I will find, or not find.
I finally work up the strength, close my eyes, and sink into my consciousness. For a time I swim in thoughts, memories, and ideas. I sharpen my concentration and feel around tentatively.
Immediately I confirm that I am less than I was. A scarred hole in my center evidences what my father took, what he yet holds. What’s left of me swirls around the hole like a maelstrom. I see my desire for the Source. It permeates my being. And I see more. I see that there is no separation within me any longer, no wall to separate man from fiend.
And the fiend is strong.
The fiend finds tempting the thought of murdering Cale and Riven in their sleep. The man resists. The man feels compelled to kill first Rivalen Tanthul, for giving me over to the Source, then to kill my father, for taking what he took.
The fiend finds the man’s bloodlust amusing.
Part of me wishes to die but I do not know if it is the man or the fiend that urges suicide.
I am afraid—afraid to live, afraid to die. It is unbearable.
I feel eyes upon me and know that Cale is not sleeping.
I remain attached to my mindscape but open my eyes to let the outer world register.
Cale is lying on his back. His eyes are open and staring at me. He holds his silk mask in his hand and I presume he has been praying to his god. I wonder how much he sleeps. His eyes—glowing yellow on the Plane of Shadow—pronounce him inhuman, half a man.
But he is half a man because the rest of him is shadowstuff. I am half a man because the rest of me is gone.
There is a question in his eyes. I have no answer.
He rises, checks to ensure that Riven is asleep, and approaches.
I see the concern on his freshly-shaven face and know that he is my friend. I come out of my mind to see him fully.
He crouches across from me and I am reminded of another time on the Plane of Shadow when we spoke across a fire and first became friends. We had been different men, then. And there is no fire between us now, only darkness.
He speaks in a low tone. The shadows cling to him like black gauze.
“Can’t sleep?”
I shake my head. “I am preparing to meditate.”
He nods, looks away, looks back at me. He wants to say something. Finally, he does.
“I will fix this, Mags.”
He is making promises to himself, not to me.
“I do not know if this can be fixed, Cale.”
He looks at me in earnest. “Why do you say that?”
The words come out before I can stop them. “I am … not myself. I am afraid of what I am.”
The words hit him hard. He has said similar things of himself. He nods and looks away. His fist is clenched around his mask, though he tries to hide it from me.
“I fear I have only a short time, Cale. There is a darkness in me that will overwhelm the rest if I don’t … s
top it.”
He takes my meaning and looks back at me sharply.
“Do not even think it,” he hisses. “I do not care what Riven said. I will fix this.”
There is no doubt in his tone, his eyes. I have never met anyone like him.
“I have a hole, Cale,” I say, and put my hand on my breast, my heart. “Here. And I swear to the gods that the rest of me is slowly slipping inside it. I’m trying to keep myself, but I feel myself falling. Every moment a little more of me slips away.”
He leans forward, seizes me both with his eyes and his hands.
“You’re done slipping as of this moment. This far and no farther. Understand?” He shakes me, unaware of his strength, of my weakness. “This far and no farther.”
I stare into his face—the face of a believer—and only one response is possible. “Very well, Cale,” I say, and change the subject by nodding at his mask. “I am sorry you are in this situation with Mask.”
He leans back, eyes still burning. “It was my decision and I would make it again.” He looks down at the mask in his hand. “Besides, this is nothing new. Our relationship has been nothing better than fitful, anyway. He still answers when I pray. That is enough.”
I nod, try to smile. He does, too, but quickly turns serious.
“You told me once that blood does not make the man. That our soul is our own, always.”
I nod. I had said something like that to him, once. It seems long ago.
“Remember that,” he says.
He stands, pats my shoulder, bids me get some sleep.
“Cale,” I say. A confession rushes up my throat.
He looks down at me, yellow eyes concerned. I see no judgment in them. “The creatures on Sakkors …”
He nods, waiting.
“They are called krinth. They are slaves to the Shadovar.”
I hesitate. He bids me continue. “I … think I did things to many of them, Cale. Opened their minds while I was … with the Source. Rivalen Tanthul made me do it. It hurt them, changed them. But …”
He kneels down, looks me in the face. “But?”
I shake my head. The fiend is laughing at me. I want to tell Erevis that I took pleasure in altering the krinth, in exercising my will over them, but I know he will not look at me the same way if I do.
“Nothing,” I say. “That is all.”
He knows I am lying but does not press. Perhaps he wants to know nothing more. Confessions, after all, change both those who give them and those who hear them.
“Rest, Mags,” he says, and returns to his bedroll.
I close my eyes and return to my mind, to my battle.
I am a ghost, haunting myself.
For two days, they awoke to the same darkness in which they had slept. The Plane of Shadow never saw a dawn. Darkness was eternal.
Power filled Cale’s mind. Despite his conflicting obligations to god and archfiend, the Shadowlord continued to answer his prayers. Cale did not understand it, not fully, but did not need to.
Each day after sleeping, Riven sat up, coughed, spit, and lit his pipe. The dark smoke curled into the dark sky. Magadon always sat apart from them, without armor, without his backpack full of gear, with only a dagger for a weapon. To Cale he seemed lost. Cale was determined to help him find himself again.
Throughout the days, Cale used a minor conjuration to summon food and water, mostly stew in bowls made of bread. The three men ate, smoked, talked, shaved, checked their gear and weapons, and idled away the hours. The time passed slowly, but Cale could see Magadon regaining his strength. He ate more and more and Cale was pleased to see it.
“I am ready,” Magadon said to them on the second night.
Cale and Riven nodded.
“Tomorrow, then,” Cale said.
The next morning they took their fill of breakfast in silence. Afterward, they stood and readied themselves.
Cale held his mask and drew Weaveshear. Darkness leaked from the blade in lazy strands. Riven checked the buckles on his armor, tested the balance on both his sabers. Magadon sheathed the dagger Riven had given him on Cania.
“Mags, can you link us?” Cale asked tentatively. “Do not, if it will … make things worse.”
Riven looked a question at him, but Cale ignored it.
Magadon shook his head. “It does not make it worse. It just reminds me of what is.”
The mindmage looked to Riven, to Cale, and Cale felt a soft tingle under his scalp.
We’re linked, Magadon projected. He held out his palm and a yellow ball of light formed above it. The light flared, lengthened, shaped itself into the form of a blade.
Riven whistled softly and chuckled. The assassin patted Magadon on the shoulder. “Looks like you do have a weapon. Good to have you back.”
Magadon nodded at Riven. To Cale, he projected, I’m with you. For as long as I can be.
Whatever the price, Cale answered, I will fix it.
Magadon smiled softly, an indulgent smile, and closed his eyes in concentration. A green glow haloed his head, spread to his arms, torso, and thighs, and sheathed him in force—armor made from his mind.
They were ready. Cale looked his friends in the face.
“I will put us directly into the cemetery, as near to the gate as I can. Ignore the wraiths as much as possible and move right for the darkweaver and the gate. All we need to do is get through it.”
Magadon nodded. Riven tapped the holy symbol that dangled from a chain around his neck.
“We go,” Cale said. He pictured the cemetery of Elgrin Fau in his mind, pulled the shadows about him, and moved them there.
CHAPTER FIVE
20 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
Elyril arrived in Yhaunn with Kefil and donned the appropriate false face. She made her required appearance before the Nessarch, the rotund and bearded Andilal Tharimpar. She endured Andilal’s ham-handed flirtations as she stood at his side and looked out of a Roadkeep balcony and down on the descending terraces of the city. The thin spires of Glasscrafters’ Hall, capped with orange domes that looked like flames, dominated the skyline of the city’s center. Beyond and below it, in the lower terrace, the dock ward lay in ruins.
Elyril expressed concern and resolve on her aunt’s behalf, and agreed to tour the destruction of the docks with the Nessarch’s aide and son, Kalton Tharimpar, an entirely ordinary man of thirty or so winters with pale skin, a thin beard, and curly brown hair. When the time came, she inhaled minddust and brought Kefil along on a thick leather leash.
“That is the largest mastiff I have ever seen,” Kalton said. He wore a fox-trimmed cape over his high-collared shirt and tailored breeches. A heavy blade hung at his side. He eyed Kefil warily.
“He has been my companion since childhood,” Elyril said, and patted the dog’s massive head. Drool dripped from his enormous jowls. He licked Elyril’s hand and stared distaste at Kalton.
They took a carriage down the city, across the ramp bridges that connected the various terraces, until they reached the docks. There, they disembarked.
Elyril shook her head at the immensity of the destruction. Piles of shattered stone and splintered wood littered the dock ward. Most of the city near the shoreline lay in ruins. Dislodged piers jutted askew from the still muddy waters. All around her, the innards of crumbled buildings lay surrounded by the ruins of their skin. Kalton offered his hand and assisted Elyril through the destruction, smiling ingratiatingly but staying to one side of Kefil.
“Milady can see that progress has been rapid.”
Elyril saw nothing of the kind but nodded anyway. Teams of laborers used carts and mules to clear the debris as best they could. Nods and curt bows acknowledged Elyril and Kalton, but nothing more. The workmen were too intent on their tasks. Kefil growled at shadows.
“He seems an aggressive animal,” Kalton said.
“He is,” Elyril agreed.
Flotsam from the destruction congealed like a scab along the shoreline. An enormous, con
cave depression in the mud and stone marred the shore where the kraken had beached for the attack. Countless gulls wheeled in the air, cawing. Others prowled the mud for morsels.
“The creature was enormous,” Elyril said.
“Unlike anything I have ever seen,” Kalton said, his voice somber. “I assisted a ballista crew. We hit it three times. I think it could have been a hundred. The creature felt nothing.” He looked about. “But we will rebuild. Did Milady ever visit the stiltways before recent events?” He pointed to Elyril’s right, at an entire block of collapsed wooden buildings. The remains of stilts stuck up out of the ruins like shards of bone. Elyril thought them comical.
“I did not,” she said.
“That is regrettable,” Kalton said. “They were the soul of the docks. Shop upon shop, all on stilts and interconnected with ladders, swings, and chutes. I loved it as a child. Crime there had become a problem in recent years, but still …”
“Drugs?” Elyril asked.
Kalton nodded. “Of all kinds.”
Elyril wished she had seen it, indeed.
Kalton firmed up and said, “But that, too, we will rebuild, better than before.” He pointed toward the northern end of the harbor. “The northern piers suffered damage only from the rush of water. Most are salvageable and, as you can see, several remain usable.”
Split logs reinforced some of the northern piers. Four caravels flying the heraldry of Raven’s Bluff sat at anchor near them. Dock workers swarmed over ships and docks, unloading crates and barrels. A half-dozen carracks floated nearby, awaiting their turn to unload.
“I am shocked at the destruction,” Elyril said, though she was amused at the many ghosts of the dead that lingered around the wreckage, particularly around the stiltways. They floated here and there, grimacing. Kefil snapped at those within reach. Elyril continued. “The attack was outrageous, outside the bounds of decency.”
Kalton licked his thin lips and looked about at the destruction. “On that we are agreed, Milady.”
She put a hand on his forearm and saw the eager gleam it elicited in his eye. Kefil growled a warning.
“The rebels will be made to pay,” she said. “I assure you of that. And my aunt soon will send additional aid to assist with the rebuilding here.”
