The Godborn

by Paul S. Kemp

  The Leaves of One Night were said to articulate Shar’s moment of greatest triumph—a ritual that would destroy a world—but also to suggest her moment of greatest weakness.

  Of that Rivalen was doubtful.

  He longed to read the book. He desired an end. He was tired; he existed only to complete the Cycle of Night, only to end Toril. And when that was done, either his goddess would reward him after death or he would pass into nothingness. Both appealed to him more than the state in which he currently existed.

  Both Shar and Rivalen were aware that the powerful were moving in Toril. They knew that the gods and their Chosen were plotting, that something was happening with the overlapping worlds of Abeir and Toril. Wars were being fought all across Faerûn, the Silver Marches, the Dalelands. Rivalen understood those events no better than anyone, but he didn’t need to, because he knew that all of it was for nothing. When he succeeded, the gods, their Chosen, and everyone else would precede him into the void, and then he would follow them to his own end.

  Distantly, numbly, he admired Shar’s ability to turn what had been his zeal to preserve himself into a zeal to end himself. When he’d first turned to her worship, when he’d murdered his mother to seal his oath to Shar, he’d done so, strangely, with a sense of hope. He’d recognized even then that everything must one day end, that Shar would have her eventual victory, but he’d thought that worshiping her would allow him to extend that day far into the future and that in the meanwhile he’d have power to make the world as he wished it.

  How she must have laughed at his naiveté. How she must have laughed hundreds of times, thousands of times on other worlds, with other nightseers, whose worship started in hope and ended in nihilism and annihilation.

  “My bitterness is sweet to the Lady,” he whispered.

  Lightning split the sky. Darkness reigned. Shar’s eye looked out on the world in hunger.

  Chapter Five

  Vasen stood toward the rear of the abbey’s northern courtyard, near a columned gate, arms crossed over his chest. A mail shirt and breastplate sheathed him under his traveling cloak. Sword and dagger hung from his weapon belt. His pack, stuffed full with the supplies he’d need for the journey, as well as some extra for needy pilgrims, lay on the ground near his feet. His most important possession, the rose holy symbol given him by the Oracle, the symbol that had belonged to Saint Abelar, hung from a lanyard around his throat.

  The air smelled damp, rife with the promise of autumn’s coming decay. Distant thunder rumbled in the black, starless sky, vibrating the earth under his feet, threatening to drop rain on the open-air courtyard. The gathered pilgrims did not seem to mind. At the moment, they did not see the darkness. They were, instead, awaiting the light. They had their backs to Vasen—young and old, thin and fat, tall and short—facing the high balcony that jutted from the side of the abbey’s sanctum, where the Oracle would soon appear.

  Cracked, age-pitted flagstones paved the courtyard, trod underfoot for decades by groups of pilgrims just like those who stood upon them now. The stones in the center of the courtyard had been inlaid with colored quartz to form a sunburst pattern, a symbol of Amaunator’s light, defiant in the face of the perpetual darkness. None of the pilgrims stood upon the sunburst. Instead they surrounded it, orbiting it in faith.

  Roses of gray stone, petrified by the passage of the Spellplague’s blue fire a hundred years earlier, bordered the courtyard on three sides. They had been red and yellow once—or so Vasen had heard—but now they, like the sky, were forever gray, their forms eternally fixed, unchanging, bound forever to the valley.

  Like Vasen.

  Vasen felt eyes on him and turned. Orsin stood beside him, a larger pack than even Vasen’s slung over his shoulders. Vasen had not heard him approach. The man’s quiet was disconcerting, as was his gaze, with his eyes like opals, as if he were not man or even deva but some kind of construct.

  “You move with less sound than a field mouse,” Vasen whispered to him.

  The corners of Orsin’s mouth rose slightly in a smile. “Old habits.” He cleared his throat. “Is it acceptable if I remain?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since I’m not of the faith,” Orsin explained. “I’d understand if you wanted me to wait outside the courtyard and—”

  Vasen shook his head. “No, no, stay. The Oracle’s light won’t diminish in the presence of your Mask-shadowed soul.”

  Orsin grinned and lowered his pack to the ground. “Nor your shadowed flesh.”

  “Indeed,” Vasen said, and smiled. “Is this also ground you stood upon in another life?”

  He meant the words as jest, but Orsin seemed to take them seriously, and glanced around.

  “Not this particular ground, no. But I’ve stood on the ground to your right hand before.”

  Shadows leaked from Vasen’s hands. “A joke, yes?”

  Orsin smiled and nodded. “A joke, yes.”

  “You’re more than a little strange.”

  Orsin clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, then, quite a pair are we.”

  Vasen chuckled. “Quite a pair.”

  For a time they stood beside one another in silence. Vasen admitted that Orsin at his side felt right, and the feeling struck him oddly. He had no one in his life he’d call friend, never had. Comrade, yes. Trusted ally, brother in faith, these he had in abundance. But a friend? He had none. His blood, the shadows that clung to him, set him apart from everyone else.

  Except Orsin. And while they weren’t exactly friends, he certainly felt . . . comfortable with the deva.

  A distant chime rang from somewhere within the abbey and its sound cut through the murmur of the pilgrims. They fell silent as the chime sounded ten times, a ring for each hour of daylight at that time of year.

  “Dawn follows night and chases the darkness,” Vasen whispered.

  The chiming ended and the pilgrims shifted as one, their collective movement an expectant assurance over the cobblestones. They inhaled audibly as the Oracle emerged from an archway, his hand on his dog, Browny, and stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the courtyard. “The Oracle,” one of the pilgrims whispered.

  “Look at his eyes,” said another.

  Kindled by Amaunator’s touch, the Oracle’s eyes glowed orange in the dim light. His colorful robes seemed illuminated from within, a stark contrast with the dull gray of the day. He seemed more real than the world, too bright for Sembia’s drab air, a portion of the sun come to earth. Age lines seamed his clean-shaven face, crevasses in his flesh. His platinum holy symbol hung from a thong around his neck—a rose in a sunburst.

  Vasen’s hand went to the symbol he wore, a rose, the symbol of Amaunator in his morning guise of Lathander. It felt warm to the touch, sun-kissed.

  The Oracle patted Browny, and the magical dog lay on the balcony beside his master. Putting his hands on the balustrade, the Oracle stared down at the assembled pilgrims. Vasen imagined him seeing not the world but the possibilities of the world. A smile pulled the Oracle’s lips from his rotted teeth and he raised his hands. Heads bowed, including Vasen’s, including Orsin’s, and a reverent hush fell.

  “His light keep you,” the Oracle said, his voice forceful, portentous.

  As one the pilgrims and Vasen looked up and recited the ritual answer. “And warm you, Oracle.”

  The presence of so many faithful warmed Vasen’s heart, as it always did. It pleased him that, for the moment, at least, no shadows leaked from his skin.

  “You braved the journey to this abbey to see the light that lives in the darkness.”

  “Yes, Oracle,” the pilgrims answered.

  “You need not have come. The light lives not here but in each of you. We are all but humble servants to the Dawnfather.”

  Smiles around, murmured thanks, nodded heads.

  “I hope that the time you spent here, although brief, has kindled a blaze in your heart.”

  More nods and murmured assent.


  “Carry that with you always as the world changes around you. The path ahead is fraught for all of Toril. Be a light to others, a torch in the deep that shows the way. Will you do this?”

  A resounding shout. “We will!”

  The Oracle nodded. “I have met with each of you, seen for each of you.”

  Orsin shifted his feet at that and Vasen didn’t miss it. The Oracle continued:

  “I know you all would have preferred to remain longer. But it is important now that you return to the lands of the sun, before the war in the Dales, a war that has already cost many of you a great deal, makes it impossible to get you safely through. Go forth with his light and warmth upon you. Be a light to a world in which war and darkness threaten.”

  “Bless you, Oracle,” said many.

  “Thank you, Oracle,” said others.

  “The light is in him,” said another.

  And with that, the Oracle backed away from the balustrade. Browny stood and came to his side. The Oracle placed his hand on the large canine’s shoulder and the two of them moved off into the abbey.

  The moment he removed himself from view, the pilgrims turned to one another smiling, laughing, embracing, alight with the Oracle’s blessing. Vasen turned to Orsin.

  “You seemed affected by his words when he mentioned a seeing. Did he see for you?”

  “He did,” Orsin said. “The first day I was here.”

  Vasen was mildly incredulous. “The first day? But you’re not. . .”

  “Among the faithful? Very good. He knew that.”

  Vasen had never heard of the Oracle performing a seeing for someone not of the faith. “Then what did he—” He stopped himself mid-question. “Forgive me. His words are for you alone. I was just . . . surprised to hear this.”

  Orsin wore a peculiar expression, a half smile, perhaps. “As was I. And I’ll tell you what he told me, if you wish.”

  Vasen stared at Orsin but said nothing.

  “He told me to walk in the woods of the valley this day, and to do so exactly where we met.”

  Shadows curled out of Vasen’s skin. His eyes went to the balcony, now empty. “That’s what he told you?”

  Orsin nodded. “He wanted us to meet, I presume.”

  Vasen nodded absently, puzzled.

  “When do we leave?” Orsin asked.

  “Right now,” Vasen said. He stepped forward and called for the pilgrims’ attention.

  Faces turned toward him and he watched their expressions fall. They’d gone from looking upon the face of the Oracle, lit with Amaunator’s light, to looking upon Vasen, with his dusky skin and yellow eyes.

  “The Oracle has spoken. Today is the most auspicious time for us to leave.”

  Resigned faces, nods.

  “I’ll lead the squad of Dawnswords that will take you back to your homes.” Shadows leaked from his skin, wisps of night that diffused into the dusky air. More nods.

  “I didn’t lead you here, but I’ll lead you back. I’ve made this passage many times. The rules are the same going out as they were coming in. Stay close together. You experienced the pass coming in and know how easy it would be to get lost there. Don’t heed the voices of the spirits. They won’t harm you. Once we’ve cleared the mountains, make little noise. The aberrations of the plains are attracted to sound. As we near the Dalelands, we’ll have to watch carefully for Sembian troops. We know ways to get through. Fear not.”

  The import of his words caused the pilgrims’ expressions to cloud. He saw fear settling on them, watched it fill the lonely places in their spirit that their courage had left vacant. They’d always known in theory what it would mean to once more dare the dark of the Sembian plains and run the gauntlet of an ongoing war, but the reality of it, its immediacy after only ten days in the valley, was hitting them now.

  Vasen continued, his tone even. “Be aware of your surroundings. You’re all eyes and ears until we see the sun. Signal to me or another Dawnsword if you notice anything that causes you alarm. Anything. And if I or another member of my squad gives you an instruction, follow it without question or delay. Your life and ours may depend on it. Do you understand?”

  Nods all around, murmured assent.

  The youngest of the pilgrims, a boy of ten or eleven, took hold of his mother’s hand, fear in his wide eyes. She absently mussed his hair, her own gaze distant, haunted. An elderly gray-haired woman, so thin she looked like a bag of dry sticks, smiled crookedly at Vasen.

  He winked at her, smiled. “I’ll die to keep you safe. My oath on that. Now, gear up. Your packs are already prepared and await you in your quarters. We leave within the hour.”

  “Only an hour?” someone asked.

  “The Oracle has spoken,” Vasen said, and that was that.

  The pilgrims filed past him as they returned to their quarters to gather their packs. Several touched his shoulder or offered him a thankful gaze. He smiled in return, nodded.

  After they’d all gone, Orsin grinned and said, “Your words didn’t brighten them quite so much as the Oracle’s.”

  “My work isn’t to brighten their spirits, but to keep them, and you, alive.”

  Orsin shouldered on his pack. “Very good. I guess we’ll soon know how well you do your job.”

  Gerak approached the campsite in a half hunch, an arrow nocked, senses primed. The ground all around showed pits from the creature’s heavy tread. The creature had flattened his tent, tore the tarp, scattered the logs from the fire. Fitful streams of smoke leaked from the spread embers. With almost no light to work by, Gerak fumbled through the mess of the campsite and sought his cloak. He found a shred of it stomped into the muck, another shred elsewhere, and his heart fell. The creature had torn it to bits and trod it underfoot. He found a few more bits of it but not the part with the pocket, not the part with the locket.

  He sank to the ground near the remains of the fire, put his hands on his knees, and tried to figure out how he’d tell Elle about losing it.

  “So much for good luck,” he muttered.

  He’d spend the night hungry and cold. He never should have ventured out of Fairelm. Instead, he should have packed up with Elle, left the damned village, and headed for the Dales.

  He felt the vibrations in the ground at the same time the creature’s roar split the night. Adrenaline had him on his feet in a heartbeat, an arrow nocked and drawn. The creature barreled out of the darkness, all flabby bulk and sour stink and ear-splitting roars. He fired, and the whistle of his arrow was answered with a satisfying thunk and pained shriek as it sank to the fletching in the creature’s flesh.

  But the bulk kept coming. Gerak backstepped, dropping his bow and trying to draw his sword, stumbling on the broken, muddy earth. His boot stuck in the muck, tripped him up. He fell onto his back as he pulled his blade free.

  The creature rushed him, snarling, slobbering, arms outstretched, clawed fingers reaching for him. Shouting with fear, he stabbed his blade at its midsection as one of its hands slammed into the side of his head.

  Pain. Sparks exploding before his eyes. He flashed on the creature devouring the pheasants, bones and feathers and all, and imagined himself consumed entirely, clothes and bones and flesh.

  Instinct and adrenaline kept his hand around the hilt of his blade even as his body went numb and the creature’s bulk fell atop him and drove him a hand span into the soft earth, a grave of his own making. His breath went out of him in a whoosh. The creature spasmed atop him, a mountain of stinking flesh, its bulk crushing him. A huge hand closed over his face and shoved his head into the sodden ground. Water from the saturated earth got into his eyes, nose, his mouth. Panic seized him as he inhaled water. Desperate, terrified, he stabbed and stabbed with his blade. Distantly he was aware of warmth, the pained snarls of the creature, its shifting bulk atop his body. He couldn’t breathe. More sparks, his field of vision fading to black. He was failing, dying. He blacked out for a moment; he didn’t know how long, but when sense returned he realized that the
creature was no longer moving.

  He’d killed it?

  He was too exhausted and pained to feel much relief. Its stink filled his nostrils; its weight made it hard to breathe. He was face to face with its bloated countenance. Its eyes were open, thick black tongue lolling from its mouth. The brown eyes gave Gerak a start.

  They looked entirely human, almost childlike.

  Squirming to the side, he maneuvered himself from under the creature and stood, covered in mud, blood, and stink. He stared down at the creature’s bulbous form, the folds of flesh, the network of burst veins on the surface of the skin. The tip of his sword stuck out of its back.

  With a grunt, he rolled the creature over so he could retrieve the blade. The rags it wore were the muddy, torn remains of a homespun and trousers. He pulled his blade free, wincing at the stink it freed. He remembered the lanyard he’d seen, and used his blade to lift a fold of flesh at the creature’s neck.

  Hung from the lanyard was a charm, a dirty cube of amber.

  At first his mind refused to draw the conclusion. He stood perfectly still, eyeing the charm, the clothes, insisting that it wasn’t what he thought it was.

  But it was. He knew the charm. It had belonged to a little girl from Fairelm, Lahni Rabb.

  But her family had left Fairelm days earlier. Had it killed her and taken the charm? Or. . . ?

  He stared at the creature. Its hair. The brown, childlike eyes. The torn homespun.

  The reality hit him and he vomited into the grass until his stomach had nothing left to give. He sagged to the ground.

  “Lahni,” he said. It seemed obscene to connect her name to the bloated, twisted form before him, but it was her. He was sure of it. And he’d killed her. Some magic or curse had changed her into something awful and then he’d killed her.

  “Gods, gods, gods,” he said.

  He tried not to think about what might have happened to the rest of her family.

  Sickened, he cast his blade away and kneeled beside her—the tiny, waifish young girl he could still picture running and laughing in the village commons. He reached out a hand but did not touch her.