by Paul S. Kemp
“I tried to contact it and received no response. It does not appear damaged. What can you see?”
Brennus cast a series of divinations. With each spell, his expression showed increasing puzzlement.
Rivalen knew his brother could study a subject for tendays at a time. “Speak, Brennus. What is it?”
Brennus shook his head. “I am not certain. The mythallar is weakened, though it appears to hold enough power for our purposes.
But …”
“But?”
“But I cannot elicit even a superficial response from the sentience. For the moment, it’s as inert as any other mythallar.” Rivalen frowned. “Has its mind been destroyed?”
Brennus shook his head.
“No. The intelligence still exists. My spells detect the mind. But it is … torpid.” He looked down on the mythallar in puzzlement. “As if hibernating.” He looked at Rivalen. “To heal, perhaps?”
“Can we awaken it?”
Brennus shrugged.
Rivalen offered his disappointment to the Lady of Loss as sacrifice. Even if the mythallar’s sentience was forever lost, the crystal might still be used.
“It can serve our purpose, asleep or awake.”
Brennus nodded absently, still puzzling over the mythallar.
“I am going below,” Rivalen said.
Brennus cocked an eyebrow and looked at his brother in astonishment. “Below? Now?”
Rivalen nodded and removed the ancient Sakkoran coin from his pocket. Thousands more were probably scattered on the sea floor. If he found a quality specimen, perhaps he would add it to his collection.
Seeing the coin, Brennus jested, “I do not think the kraken will charge you a fee for transport.”
Rivalen smiled and said, “I want to see the ruins.”
Brennus grew solemn, nodded.
Rivalen lowered himself onto the kraken’s head. Ssessimyth’s flesh was rubbery, cold, and slick, but Rivalen sat on his knees and kept his balance. He took his holy symbol in hand and offered an imprecation to Shar. Magic coursed through him and the tingle in his chest told him the spell had taken effect—he could breathe water.
He followed with the arcane words to another spell and when he felt the magic charge his hands, he spun shadows from the air and shaped them with his fingers into a short rope and a barbed piton as long as his forearm. By the time he was done, both were as solid as if they were real.
“What are you doing?” Brennus asked, but he must have guessed, for he floated backward a few paces.
“Remain still,” Rivalen ordered Ssessimyth, and he drove the shadow spike deep into the kraken’s flesh. The gargantuan creature seemed not to notice. Rivalen looped the rope of shadows through the piton’s eye and held both ends in his hands.
Brennus shook his head and smiled. His fangs—a royal affectation—glinted in the starlight.
“Descend to the ruins,” Rivalen said to Ssessimyth.
The kraken immediately dived under the surface and shot downward like a bolt from a crossbow. The terrific speed almost stripped Rivalen from his perch, but his great strength, enhanced by the darkness, allowed him to keep his hold on the shadow rope. He expelled the air from his lungs and inhaled to fill them with water. The ever-present shadows around him held the cold and pressure of the depths at bay.
Led downward by the soft red glow of the mythallar, the kraken dived for the bottom of the Inner Sea toward a city that had last been in the light of the sun over two thousand years earlier.
The silence and isolation underwater surprised Rivalen. Sediment clouded the sea, probably churned when the kraken had left the bottom. It was like moving through mist. Rivalen could see only a short distance in front of him despite the light of the mythallar.
After a time, the kraken leveled off, partly rolled its body, and began to wheel a slow circle. Rivalen clutched the rope, leaned over, and looked down.
The ruins of Sakkors materialized out of the misty murk like a specter. The destruction shocked Rivalen. The inverted mountaintop upon which the flying city had stood had come to rest on its side. The position made the once-horizontal plateau into a vertical cliff. Caves in the cliff suggested the activity of creatures, but Rivalen saw no life. Perhaps whatever creatures had lived there had moved on or died.
The sideways landing had dumped the city off the plateau. Thousands of buildings lay in a heap on the sea floor at the base of the artificial cliff. Rivalen recognized the outlines of some of the structures—the shattered dome of the temple of Kozah, the once-tall spire of Xolund’s tower. Rivalen wondered what Xolund’s final thoughts might have been as his city fell into the sea. He wondered what the Source’s thoughts must have been. He shook his head and remembered a day, thousands of years earlier, when he had walked the streets of Sakkors, when he had taken counsel with Xolund himself. Sakkors had not been as grand as Shade Enclave, but it had been a beautiful city nevertheless.
And it would be again.
Rivalen thanked Shar for sparing Shade Enclave the fate of Sakkors. He promised her that he would resurrect the sunken city. He would bring it up from the bottom and back into the air, just as Shade Enclave had emerged from the shadows to fly again in Faerûn’s sky.
Through the mental connection of his spell, Rivalen willed the kraken to move closer. He longed to examine the mountaintop in more detail.
The powerful magic that had first severed the top of the mountain from its root appeared also to have preserved it nearly intact, despite the impact and the passing of years. This bade well. The Shadovar of Shade Enclave could repair a damaged mythallar, could use magic to rebuild a city in a month, but Mystra’s Denial—an edict issued by the goddess of magic in response to Karsus’s Folly, an edict that prohibited the casting of certain powerful spells once common in ancient Netheril—made it difficult and costly for even the most high to cast the spell necessary to remove the top of a mountain and use it as a base for a floating city. Mystra’s Denial meant that the empire could never be fully replicated.
But a new Netheril could rise. The raising of Sakkors would be its harbinger.
Rivalen decided that he had seen enough. He took the thurhn from his pocket and dropped it into the depths. It reflected the red light of the mythallar as it sank, tumbling, to the ruins. He would recover his coin when he recovered the city.
He took one last look behind him, committed the ruins to memory, and commanded the kraken to surface.
He found Brennus waiting for him, still hovering over the sea. Rivalen was still able to use his spell to fly, so he leaped off the kraken’s back and recited a minor magic that dried his clothing and gear.
“What did you see?” Brennus asked.
“The destruction of the city is complete,” Rivalen answered. “But the mountaintop is intact. You should see it, Brennus. The spire of Xolund’s tower is discernible, as is the temple of Kozah.”
“Kozah. That is a name I have not heard in a long time.” Brennus smiled slightly. “But, no. I do not want to see it until it joins Shade Enclave in Faerûn’s sky.”
Rivalen nodded and smiled, feeling satisfied. The first task set to him by Shar and his father was almost complete.
“We should inform the most high that we have been successful,” Brennus said.
“Agreed.”
Brennus put a hand on Rivalen’s shoulder. “And I have some thoughts about how to awaken the mythallar’s sentience.”
Days later, far removed from Sakkors and the Inner Sea, Rivalen sought his father, the Most High Telamont Tanthul. Striding into his father’s parlor, pennons of shadow formed spontaneously in the caliginous air and clung to his high collared silk shirt and linen breeches. Rivalen had become so accustomed to the touch of the shadows over the centuries that he scarcely noticed them anymore. Shadows saturated Shade Enclave just as the Inner Sea saturated Sakkors.
Dim lights provided the only illumination in the rich, duskwood-paneled chamber. A thick gray rug decorated with an azure spir
al motif covered the floor. Plush chairs and two claw-foot divans provided seating. Books and scrolls covered most of the walls in the circular chamber. The Most High’s mammoth darkwood desk sat centermost, itself covered in scrolls and tomes. Rivalen’s father read voraciously everything he could find. Rivalen knew that the Most High had made a secret arrangement with the keeper of tomes, the master of Faerûn’s greatest library, Candlekeep. The most high had provided the keeper with some rare tomes from ancient Netheril, written in the original Loross. In return, the keeper allowed the most high—through his agents, of course, or in disguise—full access to Candlekeep’s collection.
Rivalen spotted his father on the far side of the parlor, standing before a magical wall map of Faerûn. Rivalen saw no sign of Hadrhune, his father’s counselor and Rivalen’s chief rival for his father’s ear.
“Central Faerûn,” said the most high, and the magical map changed perspective, expanding to show the details of the heartlands of Faerûn—Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dalelands.
Rivalen prepared to announce himself but the most high said, “You and Brennus have found Sakkors. Its mythallar is ours.”
Rivalen no longer bothered to ask how his father knew what he knew.
“Yes, Most High.”
The most high turned to face him. His knowing, platinum-colored eyes stared out of a narrow, expressionless face. Rivalen had inherited his father’s sharp nose and imperial bearing. His father’s royal cloak, originally violet, was so dark as to be almost black. As much shadowstuff as flesh, Telamont seemed to float rather than stand. The outline of his body blurred with the darkness in the room. Shadows swirled constantly around him, longer and thicker than those that circled Rivalen. The shadowstuff had not yet so consumed Rivalen. But it would.
“Well done, Rivalen.”
The most high’s praise was hard won. Rivalen enjoyed the moment.
Telamont moved past Rivalen to the darkwood desk and removed the crystal stopper from a bottle of nightwine. He poured two glasses and gave one to Rivalen. Rivalen held it but did not drink; he never did.
“The mythallar is undamaged?” his father asked.
Rivalen swirled the nightwine, inhaled its piquant aroma. “Structurally it is undamaged. And its magic appears intact, if somewhat weakened. But the sentience within is … unconscious. At this point, it is nothing more than a slightly weakened, ordinary mythallar.”
The most high sipped his drink and frowned. “The sentience in the mythallar would be a formidable weapon to add to our arsenal. Awaken it, Rivalen.”
“Easier spoken than accomplished, Father. Brennus has learned the name of someone we believe may be able to awaken it. I wanted only your permission to proceed.”
“Who is this person you seek?”
“A mind mage who travels the Dragon Coast. He is of no political consequence and will be missed by no one.”
“A mind mage? Unusual in this age. This will not distract you from other matters?”
“What other matters?” Rivalen asked.
Telamont smiled enigmatically. “You have my permission, Rivalen.” He clasped his hands behind his back and floated back to the wall map.
Rivalen followed, thoughtful.
“We should proceed with the raising and reconstruction of Sakkors,” the most high said. “Your brothers Yder and Clariburnus should lead the effort while you and Brennus pursue this mind mage.”
“As you wish, Most High.”
“Yder and Clariburnus are to use all resources at our disposal. I want the city rebuilt within the month.”
“Yes, Most High.”
A month would be an ambitious timeline, but with magic and slave labor—especially that of the krinth, a strong but dull race born of slaves and shadow demons—it could be done.
Rivalen stood at his father’s shoulder and studied the map. It showed Sembia centermost: roads, cities, towns, temples, all clearly marked. Rivalen had long advocated moving against Sembia, a rich realm with fertile upcountry farmland and several southern ports.
Rivalen had discussed the plan with his father at length, had planted the roots of Sembia’s overthrow long ago, even before Shade Enclave had returned from the Plane of Shadow. Rivalen controlled cells of Sharrans in almost all of Sembia’s major cities.
The most high said, “The Heartlands are ripe, Rivalen. The Rage of Dragons has weakened them. Drought has weakened them. The Rain of Fire has weakened them. Their internal political squabbles and this elven Return have weakened them. We must not let them rot on the vine.”
“Most High?” Rivalen asked, not daring to hope.
Telamont continued, “We have spent over a year scrabbling in the dirt, looking for trinkets from the empire while we sought alliances with the child kings who now rule Faerûn. Wasted efforts, I think. Do you agree?”
Rivalen licked his lips and carefully worded his reply. “We have recovered what magic there is to recover from the ruins of the empire, Father. That time is past. And our attempts at diplomacy have been met with scorn and mistrust. Cormyr and Evereska still blame us for the depredations of the phaerimm. The elves that have Returned to Cormanthor gather strength while we speak. The time for diplomacy, too, seems past.”
The most high gestured at the map, indicating all of Faerûn with a wave of his arm. “Faerûn is covered by petty realms ruled by petty kings, little better than the Rengarth tribesmen who once peopled the lands under the flying cities of the empire. Even the elves have degenerated into barbarism. What have any of them accomplished since the Fall? The Empire of Netheril gave them the pinnacle of magic, arts, and science, and they preserved none of it.” His father faced him, his platinum eyes aglow. His voice softened. “What is now Sembia once was called Arnothoi by the elves. Did you know that, Rivalen? It was all rolling forest and grassy meadows.”
“I did, Most High.” Rivalen’s collection included a coin of magically preserved, polished wood from Arnothoi. He knew the elven realm’s history.
The most high pointed to upcountry Sembia, not far from Daerlun. A wisp of shadow spiraled from his fingertip and kissed the map. “I walked a meadow there with Alashar, long ago. A stream divided it in two. Goldslips covered the banks. Your mother loved how the flowers looked in the sun.”
Uncomfortable, Rivalen said nothing. His father seldom waxed sentimental, and the subject of Rivalen’s mother, Alashar, always made him squirm. Rivalen had murdered her, after all.
Telamont exhaled a cloud of darkness. “Let the Sakkoran mythallar be the last artifact of old Netheril that we seek. Trying to resurrect the old empire is a fool’s task. Instead, we will build a new one. Do you agree?”
“You know my thoughts on this, Most High.”
“You have prepared the way in Sembia, yes?”
“All is ready, Most High.”
“Proceed, then.”
A thrill went through Rivalen and he saw Shar’s will made manifest in the news. “Shar favors your course, Father.”
The most high’s eyes narrowed. “She has given you signs?”
Rivalen’s hand went to the holy symbol around his neck. “Yes. Ever since Variance recovered The Leaves of One Night, the Lady has been generous with her favor.”
Variance Amatick was Rivalen’s underpriestess and archivist, second only to Rivalen in Shar’s hierarchy in Shade Enclave. Over a year and a half earlier, she had recovered a lost book long sought by Shar’s faithful—The Leaves of One Night. Rivalen purported to have locked it away in the temple’s vault. In truth, he bore it with him always. The book revealed Shar’s one moment of weakness. Most of the faithful believed that the moment had passed long ago; Rivalen knew that it had not yet occurred. But that was a secret he kept to himself.
Telamont said, “If Shar has spoken to you clearly, Rivalen, inform me of her words.”
“You know I should not,” Rivalen answered. “The Lady’s secrets are for the ears of her high priest. Forgive me, but that is the way of her faith, Father. Of your faith.”
The most high’s eyes flared.
“I am the Most High, Rivalen. And your father.”
Rivalen did not quail. “I am her high priest and servant.”
“You are also a servant of the most high,” said a voice from behind them—Hadrhune’s sibilant, reptilian voice. Rivalen turned to see Telamont’s chief counselor rise from one of the parlor’s chairs, dripping shadows. He clutched his ever-present darkstaff in his hand.
Rivalen had not noticed him upon entering. He wondered if Hadrhune had been in the room the entire time.
Hadrhune continued. “Your loyalty is to the most high first, Rivalen Tanthul. To Shade Enclave second, and to your goddess only third. Or so it should be.”
Rivalen glared. “A false choice, Hadrhune. The interests of all three are aligned.”
Hadrhune smiled. “I wonder what would happen should they become misaligned? What would you do, Prince?”
Rivalen held Hadrhune’s gaze. “I would never allow them to become misaligned.”
“So you say,” Hadrhune said, and waved a hand dismissively.
“Enough, Hadrhune,” Telamont commanded. “Rivalen, enough.”
Both men stared at one another but bowed before the most high’s anger. Rivalen’s father went on. “We must respect my son’s religious zeal. He answers to what he believes to be a higher calling. Isn’t that so, Rivalen? Shar has called you to a greater purpose, has she not?”
Rivalen stared at Hadrhune and nodded.
“And Hadrhune seeks only to serve me and this city.”
“As do I,” Rivalen said tightly.
Telamont nodded and shadows flowed from him. “The time has come to build a new Empire of Netheril. See it done, Rivalen. Find this mind mage first, if you must. But see it done.”
“As you wish, Most High.”
Rivalen gave Hadrhune a final look and turned to leave. As he walked from the parlor, he realized that he had been standing in the room at the very moment when a new Netherese Empire had been conceived. He gave Shar praise and thanks.
Now he had one man to kill and another to capture.
CHAPTER TWO
