by Paul S. Kemp
“What did it say, this message?” she asked.
“It asked for my help,” Cale answered.
She nodded. Silence sat heavy between them. Cale wrestled with how to tell her he had to leave. Before he could say it, she asked, “Why don’t you share with me, Erevis?”
The question took him off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean …” she trailed off, searching for words. “Each night when you leave the meadow and do … whatever you do, I lay awake, terrified that you won’t come back. Did you know that? You have never told me where you go, what you do.”
Cale looked at his hands. “I didn’t … I thought you were sleeping. And you do not want to know.”
She looked at him. “Yes, I do. I see the bloodstains on your clothes. You try to wash them off in the brook but I see them. I’ve asked no questions about it, about anything, but …”
She looked away.
Cale said nothing, merely stared at his hands as if they had an answer. Shadows slowly rose from his fingertips. He watched them drift off into the night like smoke and made up his mind to tell her the truth. He turned in his chair to face her.
“Here it is, then. Sometimes when I leave here, I go to help some of the villages around us.”
She cocked her head. “Those villages are days away, Erevis.”
Cale nodded. “You know what I am, Varra. I can travel very fast through the darkness.”
She stared at him, eyes wide, and nodded at him to continue.
“While I’m away, I …” he gazed into the night, “… kill things. Creatures, mostly. Marauding monsters, trolls and the like. It’s gotten worse of late. But sometimes people. It depends. That is the blood you have seen on my clothing.”
He saw the shock in her eyes but pushed onward. “They are evil things, Varra. Evil men.”
She scooted back in her seat, as far from him as the chair allowed. He doubted she even realized it. He knew then that leaving was the right thing to do for her, too.
“Why do you do it?”
Cale swallowed. “Because I promised a friend once that I would try to be a hero. It sounds absurd, I know. But I meant it. And when I do … those things, I’m keeping the promise to save people.”
Varra stared into the woods. “The world is too big to save everything, Erevis.”
He shook his head. She did not understand. “I do not want to save everything. I just want to save something. I need to.” The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
Varra’s look was sharp enough to cut flesh. She studied his face. “Is that why you brought me from Skullport? Because you needed to save me?”
Cale could not look her in the eyes. His silence answered her well enough.
“You don’t love me?” she asked softly, and her voice quavered.
He did look into her eyes, then. He leaned forward and took her hands in his. She was so warm. “Varra, I care for you. Very much. I feel something between us, something … wonderful. But there are things I must do, and those things stand between us like a wall. That’s why I do not share myself with you. I cannot keep my promise here. It’s not enough, what I’m doing. I need to do more.” He swallowed, then said, “I felt like myself when I was looking for my friend, Varra. I was talking with people and standing in places that belonged on a street in Skullport, and I felt like myself.”
He felt embarrassed saying it, but there it was.
She spoke in a small but resolute voice. “You cannot be yourself here? With me?”
Cale spoke quietly. “I am not a man made to be a husband, to live in a house, tend a garden. Varra, listen to me—I have fought demons, killed creatures from other planes with my hands, these hands.” He held up his shadow enshrouded hand, scarred and callused. “I watched a wizard dim the sun, then broke his body as mine broke. I am different from other men. More than in my skin. I’ve seen forty winters and I will see hundreds more, thousands maybe. But who I am, what I am, was determined in a few key hours scattered over the course of my life up to now. I cannot change that. I do not want to change it.”
Varra shook her head. “No, Erevis. Everything you do is who you are, not a few moments. You choose to focus on certain events and let those define you, but they needn’t. You are more than that.”
Cale looked away. He could not expect her to understand. She did not know what he had seen, what he had done.
She glanced up at the stars. “We are finally talking to one another, but only to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye” sounded hard to Cale, but he nodded and said nothing. He could think of nothing else to say.
She took a deep breath and laid her palm on his cheek. “Do you remember what I said to you, back in Skullport, when we first met?”
Cale spoke nine languages but Varra’s words then, still stuck in his brain, had confounded him. “Relain il nes baergis.”
“It means, ‘I know your soul.’ And I do, Erevis. I do not want you to leave. And I do not think you are as different from other men as you think. You would be a good husband, a good father. Your deeds are different, but not your heart.” She smiled and Cale thought her beautiful. “You would stay if I asked you. I know you would. But you would resent me for it. I cannot live with that.”
Cale started to protest but knew she spoke truth. They had never lied to each other. He would not start now.
“We are connected, Erevis. I don’t know how or why. I just know that we are. Do what you must. Go, help your friends. I’ll remain here.”
Cale looked into her eyes. “What will you do?”
She smiled and waved a hand at the cottage. “I will keep up the house and tend my garden. I will draw water from the well and put food on the table. This is home for me now. It will not be the same without you, but it will still be home.”
“I am sorry, Varra,” Cale said, and meant it.
She smiled. Her tears glistened in the starlight. “I know those are not idle words. That is why I love you.”
She touched his lips. He kissed her fingers. She closed her eyes and smiled. Without another word, she rose, pushed him back in the chair and climbed atop him.
“Varra …”
She hushed him with a finger on his lips. He looked into her eyes and understood—they both knew this was farewell. He surrendered to the moment, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her neck. Her body radiated warmth; his radiated shadows.
Her hands answered his, caressing his shoulders, his hair, the back of his neck. She kissed his ear, his lips. He slipped her nightdress over her head and ran his hands down the length of her nude body. She tugged at his nightshirt.
He put everything out of his mind except her—her smell, her touch, her taste. He wanted to remember them always. She responded with the same urgency. Soon they were lost in each other, and his hands, the blood-stained hands that had killed demons, slaads, and dozens of men, were gentle for a time.
Afterward, they walked naked to the cottage in silence, holding hands. When he entered, he took his gear from his old wooden chest and donned his enchanted leather armor, strapped on Weaveshear and his daggers, pulled on his boots. His gaze fell upon the book he had received from the guardian of the Fane of Shadows. He had not opened it in over a year. The last time he had opened it, he discovered that Mask had placed a black mask within it—a new holy symbol. He held the book in his hands, studying its face. He flipped open the cover.
No mask. He smiled with relief and put the book in his satchel.
Varra watched him throughout. “Must you leave tonight?”
“I think it is better this way, Varra.”
She nodded and said softly, “I have something for you.”
She went to her night table and took something from the drawer—a piece of cloth, a black piece of cloth. A mask. Cale’s holy symbol. Shadows swirled around him.
“I found it in the garden two days ago. The wind must have blown it there. I knew what it was but I said nothing. I’m … sorry. But
I kept it for you. I’ve known since then that you would leave.”
She held it out for Cale.
He hesitated, took it, and stuffed it in his pocket. It lay there like a lead weight.
She looked up into his face. “When I wake up, you will be gone?”
He nodded. “I will wait until you fall asleep before I leave.”
“I hope you will return.”
He said nothing, kissed her once more, embraced her one last time, and she climbed into bed, into their bed. He sat with his hand on her hip while sobs shook her. He could not stop his own tears. Exhaustion eventually overcame her and her breathing grew steady.
He stood and took a long look around the cottage. He had called it home for over a year. It had been a good year. He looked down on Varra, committed her sleeping face to memory, pulled the shadows about him, and transported himself to Selgaunt, back to the only family he’d ever had.
CHAPTER EIGHT
29 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cale appeared where he had intended, in a narrow alley off Rauncel’s Ride in Selgaunt’s Warehouse District. Crumbling mudbrick walls boxed him in. Barrels and crates lay haphazardly strewn through the alley. The smell of old vomit and stale piss hung in the air. Cale almost smiled at the familiarity of the odor. He glanced up and down the alley and saw no one.
“Ao, but you took time enough coming back,” said a voice.
Cale whirled around, jerking Weaveshear from its scabbard. Shadows swirled from steel and flesh. He spotted the speaker—a slim, dark-haired man with several days’ growth of beard on his face—huddled prone against the alley wall. How had Cale missed him the first time?
The man lifted himself on his elbow and peered up at Cale out of a mass of threadbare, filthy clothes and a misshapen, stained cap. Cale figured him a drunk. He saw no weapons.
Cale lowered Weaveshear, took a few fivestars from one of his belt pouches, and tossed them on the ground near the drunk.
“Mind your own affairs, friend.”
The drunk did not even glance at the coins. He had eyes only for Cale.
“Haven’t I been doing that all this time?” he asked.
The man’s knowing tone made Cale wary. Weaveshear still in hand, Cale approached until he stood two paces from the stranger. Shadows oozed lazily from Cale’s blade.
“How do you mean?” Cale asked.
The drunk chuckled and sat up with a grunt. Cale realized that the stench of vomit and piss came from the man’s clothing, not the alley. Close proximity made the smell worse. Cale wrinkled his nose.
“Foul, eh?” the man said and looked down at his clothing. “Keeps the stray dogs from bothering me.”
The man seemed to notice the coins for the first time.
“Ah,” he said, and all three vanished under a single deft pass of his hand.
Cale could tell the man was not what he appeared—he was too clear-eyed, to precise in his movements—though Cale did not yet know whether he was dangerous. He had encountered shapeshifters before and decided to take no chances. He pointed Weaveshear’s tip at the man’s face.
“Who are you?”
The man seemed unbothered by the shadow-bleeding blade pointed at his face. He reached up and put a fingertip on the edge. Shadows from the steel corkscrewed his finger.
“Nice weapon,” the man said. He took his finger from the blade, produced one of Cale’s fivestars, and tossed it into the air. He caught it on his fingertip, balanced upright on one of its five corners.
Cale kept the wonder from his face. He knocked the coin from its perch with Weaveshear and it chinked on the stones of the alley.
“I will ask you only once more. Who are you?”
The man frowned at the fallen coin. He looked up and asked, “Who do you think I am?”
Cale said nothing, though something about the man felt familiar.
The man leaned over, picked up the fivestar, pocketed it, and stood.
“Why are you backing away?” the man asked.
Cale had not realized he was.
The man smiled, nodded at the pocket in Cale’s vest.
“Is that where you keep it?”
Cale’s flesh goosepimpled. “Keep what?”
The man said, “The mask.”
Shadows swirled around Cale. How could the man have known of the mask?
“You have been scrying me,” Cale said, and tightened his grip on Weaveshear.
The man smiled and shook his head. “No. I left it for you in the meadow and you often keep it in that pocket. I do not need to scry you, Erevis. I know you better than anyone.”
An identity for the speaker registered and Cale’s heart thumped against his ribs. His breath came fast. Who could have known of the mask? Who could have left it for him in the meadow?
“You are backing away again,” the man observed.
Cale held his ground, his mind racing. The idea was absurd. He shook his head. He refused to believe it.
The man examined his fingernails and said casually, “We have not spoken much of late. Remind me again of the reason for that.”
Cale grasped at an explanation. “Tamlin sent you to meet me. And you were scrying me, despite your denial.”
The man smiled. “No. But you already know that.”
Cale was shaking his head. It was impossible. Impossible.
“Why do you not just ask me?” the man said.
Cale just stared, sweating. He dared not ask. He dared not.
“Go on,” pressed the man, and took a step toward him.
Cale stood his ground, but only with difficulty.
“Ask,” the man said. “I know how you like to ask questions to which you already know the answer. Ask.”
Cale licked his lips but his tongue was dry. His thoughts raced through his head so quickly they did not make sense. He felt dizzy.
“It cannot be,” he mumbled.
The man chuckled. “But it is. I am slumming,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Words crept up behind Cale’s teeth and he could not hold them in. He had to hear the man say it. The man smiled, waiting.
“Who are you?” Cale asked.
The man winked and shadows engulfed him. When they parted, the filthy rags had disappeared, replaced by oiled black leathers, high boots, a gray cloak, and several slim blades at his wide belt.
Cale took another step back, eyes wide. His legs gave way under him. He used Weaveshear to prop himself up.
The stink vanished with the old clothing. The man’s face went from plain and unshaven to sharp, clean, and handsome. He appeared years younger than Cale. Only his smile remained the same. Cale recognized the face. He had seen it before on a statue in the Fane of Shadows, on the statue of Mask the Shadowlord.
“It cannot be,” Cale said. The walls of the alley were falling in on him.
“I have already explained that it is possible,” said the man—the god—as he dusted off his breeches. “Filthy alley.” He looked up and stared an accusation at Cale. “I give you power to walk the shadows anywhere you like and always you appear in alleys. Why not a bathhouse? Or better still, a high-end brothel?”
Cale could only stare, his mind racing, his heart pounding. To his surprise, the awe subsided, replaced by the seed of something else. He was looking at the god who had caused him to sacrifice his humanity, whose schemes had led to Jak’s death.
Anger rooted in Cale’s soul, chased away the fear, killed the reverence.
“What is it?” the man asked him, a puzzled look in his eye.
“Speak your name,” Cale said, his tone hard. He wanted to hear the name aloud before he did what he had to do. Shadows haloed his body.
Mask looked across the alley at Cale with a frown. “You look upset. You are not still angry about Jak, are you? You know, you have never had a sense of humor. Even as a boy, you—”
Cale snapped like a bowstring, and once loose, his pent-up anger could not be reined. He roared, bo
unded forward with his shadow speed, and slashed with Weaveshear at Mask’s throat. Rage fueled his strength; the blow could have decapitated an ogre.
The god barely moved. He produced a slim black dagger from his belt and parried the larger blade with a casual air and an infuriating smirk.
“Now that is amusing. Trying to kill your own god.”
Cale gritted his teeth and used his greater size to push Mask against the alley wall.
“Really?” Mask asked. “We are going to go through all this? I wasn’t sure, but—”
Cale reached down to his belt, pulled a punch dagger, and drove it into the god’s abdomen. The blade sank to the hilt.
Cale stared Mask in the face. Rage made his voice a growl. “Never say his name! Never!”
Mask did not even wince. He glanced down with a surprised look at the dagger protruding from his gut.
Cale twisted it. He had never in his life felt such satisfaction.
Mask looked into Cale’s face and anger flashed in the god’s eyes.
“That is overdoing it a bit, don’t you think?”
The god covered Cale’s dagger hand with his own. Cale felt the strength in Mask’s grip. The god muscled the blade backward, out of his flesh, and twisted Cale’s hand with a jerk. Cale’s wrist audibly snapped.
Agony flared; Cale screamed. The dagger fell from his limp hand. His shadow-steeped flesh immediately set to repairing the break.
“Now …” Mask began.
Cale ate the pain, threw himself forward, and smashed his head into the bridge of the god’s nose. He heard a satisfying crunch.
“Damn it,” Mask snarled. He shoved Cale backward to arm’s length and kicked him across the alley. The blow hit Cale in the center of his chest and cracked his sternum. The impact with the opposite wall broke several ribs and drove the breath from his lungs.
Cale grimaced from the pain and slid to the ground among a pile of crates. Shadows roiled protectively around him. He breathed with difficulty through the shattered ribs.
Head cocked, Mask stared at him across the alley. Surprise had replaced anger in the god’s eyes. His nose was not bleeding and showed no sign that Cale’s blow had broken it.
