by Paul S. Kemp
Thoughtful, he smoked two bowls of pipeweed before a knock on his door disturbed his reverie. He laid the pipe on the side table and opened the door. Shamur stood in the doorway, still dressed in her green daygown. Jeweled pins held up her auburn hair. Cale thought the lines in her face, around her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth only made her more attractive.
She did not look surprised at his appearance. Perhaps she had been forewarned. “You look well, Erevis.”
Cale bowed, embarrassed by the cloud of smoke that billowed out of his room. “And you, Lady, look as young and beautiful as ever.”
She smiled, stepped forward, and embraced him warmly. “Mister Cale, you still lie as well as ever.”
They separated and he gestured her in.
“Smoking, Erevis? That is new.”
“A long tale, Milady,” he explained. “A friend got me started. I will put it out.”
He moved to the table to snuff the pipe.
“No need,” she said. “The smell is not unpleasant. Thamalon enjoyed a pipe, you will recall.”
Cale did recall. The Old Owl had not smoked often, but when he had, the entire east wing of the manse would smell of pipeweed for days. In the spring, Cale had the staff open the windows to air out the house. In the winter, nothing could be done but to wait for the stink to pass.
Shamur looked around the room, then turned to face him. “Your quarters look much as you left them, but you have changed a great deal. And not merely your appearance. What has happened to you?”
Cale smiled gently. “Nothing that can be undone or made easier to bear by sharing, Milady. Suffice to say that I have changed, but serve your family still.”
She smiled. “Of that I had no doubt. It is good to have you back under our roof, Erevis.”
“It is good to be back,” Cale said, and meant it. “Please, sit.”
Shamur sat in his reading chair. Her hair glittered in the fading sunlight.
Cale did not have another chair in the room so he sat on the bed nearby. Before he could speak, she said, “This house has been dying for a year. It started with Thamalon’s passing. Then you left. And Talbot is gone almost always. Tamlin spends most of his day and much of his nights away at the palace. I hate it here.”
Cale looked away. He did not know what to say so he broke with decorum and reached out to take her hand in his. Her skin felt warm. Shadows sneaked from his skin and danced over hers. She gasped but did not withdraw her hand.
“What happened to you, Erevis? Tell me.”
Cale did not look her in the face. “Milady, I … must carry this alone.”
She caressed his hand and he felt such a sudden, powerful attraction for her that he pulled away and stood up before it caused him to do something he should not.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He moved the conversation to the purpose for which he had wanted to see her, or at least the purpose for which he thought he had wanted to see her.
“Lady Uskevren, I have reason to believe that things are … unsafe in the city.”
She leaned forward in her chair. “What do you mean? Have you informed Tamlin?”
Cale shook his head. “No, Milady. It is nothing that we can act on, nothing that I can easily articulate. But I would advise you and Tazi to leave the city for a time.” He struggled to find a better explanation, failed.
“You want me to abandon Stormweather? I have only just returned.”
“Not abandon, Lady. I am suggesting only that you retire to the upcountry estate until things settle down here.” He grasped for an excuse, found one. “Tamlin would be better served with fewer things to think about. I will watch over him and vouchsafe his person.”
“You two are traveling to Ordulin. You will not even be in the city.”
“When we return, I mean,” Cale said. “Please, Milady.”
“What is it that you are afraid of, Erevis?” she asked, leaning forward in the chair.
Cale looked away. Anything he said would sound absurd. He could not tell her that the mad Chosen of Oghma had prophesied a storm, that Mask had met him in an alley and told him something similar. Instead, he offered a half-truth. “Milady, the city is on a blade’s edge. The family of the Hulorn is a natural target for those unhappy with the state of affairs. I think you would be safest away from Selgaunt.”
She stared at him, considering. He held her gaze but only with difficulty. Finally, she said, “I am always willing to leave Stormweather for the upcountry. And Thazienne has found the city stifling of late. Perhaps a vacation is advisable. My carriage is not yet unpacked. It would be easy to return to Storl Oak.”
Cale exhaled with relief. “Just for a month or two, Milady. You should leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow. I will inform Irwyl to prepare Tazi’s things.”
Shamur stood. She studied his face.
“You are not always a good liar, Erevis. But I am thankful for your concern.” She touched his cheek and exited the room.
Cale remained in his room, thoughtful, until Irwyl came to retrieve him to dine with Tamlin. Irwyl bore a change of clothes in his arms.
“Will you be changing for dinner, Mister Cale?”
The question was clearly a recommendation.
Cale eyed the soft material, the embroidery, the buttons gilded with precious metal. He shook his head.
“No,” he answered.
He had worn a facade most of the years he had spent in Stormweather. Those days were behind him. He would wear his own clothing and his weapons. He was a man who wore leather and steel, not linen and gold.
Irwyl only raised his eyebrows and frowned slightly. “Very well.”
Cale informed Irwyl that Tazi and Shamur would be returning to Storl Oak on the morrow. Irwyl nodded and led him not to the dining hall but to a private meeting room. Tamlin sat alone at a small table set for two.
“That will be all, Irwyl,” said Tamlin. Irwyl bowed and exited.
“Join me, Erevis.”
Cale took a seat across from Tamlin. A bottle of Thamalon’s Best sat on the table, and a silver platter of roast beef and carrots.
“Help yourself,” Tamlin said, and stocked his own plate. “Brilla prepares excellent fare.”
Cale cut himself a modest slice of roast. “We are fortunate to eat so well in these lean times.”
Tamlin studied his face as if trying to determine if Cale’s words had been a veiled insult. Cale kept his face expressionless and let Tamlin conclude what he would.
“Indeed, we are fortunate,” Tamlin said. “But it is not all merely good fortune. Some are suited to rule and succeed. Others are not. When times are difficult, the latter often suffer. It is the way of things.”
Cale filled his mouth with beef to hold in the sharp retort that wanted to come forth. Tamlin had spent too much time around the likes of Vees Talendar.
Tamlin awaited a reply; Cale offered none. Finally, Tamlin said, “I asked Irwyl to provide you with suitable attire. He is often forgetful. I will—”
“He brought it, my lord,” Cale said, his tone overly sharp. “I declined. I deemed my current attire suitable to my situation.”
Tamlin’s brow furrowed at Cale’s tone. “You owe me an explanation, Mister Cale.”
Cale did not miss Tamlin’s own cool tone.
“About what, my lord?”
Tamlin gestured at Cale’s flesh. “About your appearance. About the shadows that flow from your skin. About the hand that appears and disappears from your wrist, about how the light in a room dims when you grow angry. Explain.”
Cale set down his fork. Tamlin’s tone irked him, so Cale did not mince words. “I am a shade.”
Tamlin stared, his fork frozen over his plate. The silence stretched. “A shade?” Tamlin said at last. “Like the Shadovar?”
Cale shrugged. He knew little of the Shadovar. “I cannot say. I am stronger in the darkness.” He held up his hand. “My hand regenerates en
tirely at night or in darkness. I can travel from one shadow to another in an eyeblink, covering a bowshot or thirty leagues. My flesh resists magic. As far as I can determine, I no longer age.”
Tamlin gawked. “I do not know what to say. That is … wonderful, Mister Cale.”
“No, it is not.”
Cale’s tone tempered Tamlin’s exuberance. “How did it happen? Tell me everything.”
Cale shook his head. “I am not inclined to share that, my lord. The how and the why do not matter.”
“Do not matter?”
“Correct, my lord. And I would be appreciative if you would keep this knowledge between us. I wanted to be candid with you at the outset but I see no reason for others to know.”
Tamlin stared, finally managed to say, “As you wish, Mister Cale.”
They ate for a time in silence.
Tamlin set down his fork and looked across the table. “You do not like me very much, do you, Mister Cale? And you certainly do not respect me.”
Cale sipped from his goblet of wine while he considered his words. “You are the son of my former Lord. I will serve you loyally and to the best of my ability.”
Tamlin gestured dismissively with his hand. “I know that. But you do not respect me, do you?”
Cale sighed and looked across the table into Tamlin’s eyes. “My respect is hard-earned these days, my lord.”
Tamlin stared across the table, waiting.
“No, I do not,” Cale admitted, and once he opened the gate, the army poured forth. “I do not think you understand the scope of the problems before you, before the city. I could see that after walking the streets for only one day. You still think like a nobleman, not a statesman. And you take counsel from fools like Vees Talendar. And still you—”
He cut himself off. He had said enough. He could see the hurt in Tamlin’s eyes, and below that, the angry defiance. Cale knew the expression well. Tamlin often had shown it when his father had demanded something of him. Tamlin had always disliked anyone demanding anything of him.
Tamlin took another bite of beef and said tightly, “You come back for a single day after being gone a year and think to take the measure of me, Vees, and the city all at a glance?”
“My absence did not render me blind,” Cale answered. “Or stupid.”
Tamlin stared at him across the table. “Thank you for your candor, Mister Cale.” He dropped his utensils. “You will excuse me. My appetite has passed.”
“My lord—”
“We leave for Ordulin as soon as I can get some final matters resolved,” Tamlin said as he rose. “The fool to whom I sometimes listen will not be accompanying us. He must attend ceremonies at the new temple.”
Cale nodded. He thought of apologizing but could not bring himself to do it.
“Good eve, my lord.”
“Good eve, Mister Cale.”
Cale finished the meal alone and in silence.
Afterward, he walked the halls until he reached the kitchen and was warmly welcomed by Brilla. She wiped down a butcher’s block, set him down on a stool, and smiled as she watched him eat her raisin and syrup torte.
Vees shed his false face—that of a spoiled dilettante nobleman—and entered the temple through the concealed doorway in the alley. He had murdered the four stonemasons who had knowledge of the secret entrance, using the curved sacrificial knife at his belt to cut their throats.
He closed the pivoting secret door behind him and walked down the steep stairs that led into the secret worship hall below the false temple to Siamorphe. When he reached the vestry off the hall, he donned a ceremonial robe that awaited him there—a voluminous black velvet affair with purple piping. Whispering a prayer to his goddess, he walked the corridor to the main worship hall.
His steps carried him through one of the magically created areas of silence that surrounded the hall. His footsteps on the stone went quiet. A ring of such areas surrounded the worship hall, as did a series of magical screens to prevent scryings. Anything that happened within the hall could be heard and seen only by those in attendance. The secrecy of the design pleased the Lady.
The worship hall of the Lady’s temple lay directly below the worship hall of Siamorphe. Like Vees, the temple had a false face. Like Vees, the temple purported to serve one purpose while serving another.
He reached the edge of the area of silence and immediately sensed the change—the whimpers of the sacrifice victim and the murmur of the worshipers suddenly sounded in his ears. He pulled up his hood—none of the worshipers knew his true identity—and pushed open the apse door. A rustle of movement greeted him as the worshipers turned to watch him enter. Even the sacrifice went silent. The large, semicircular worship hall smelled of tallow candles and fear-tinged sweat.
Vees held up his arms and spoke aloud the supplication.
“In the darkness of night we hear the whisper of the void.”
“Heed its words,” responded the eight worshipers of Shar. “Welcome, Dark Watcher.”
“Welcome, dark sisters and brothers,” Vees answered, and moved to the altar.
The worshipers lowered themselves onto kneelers, heads down as he passed. No accoutrements of the faith adorned the altar or the worship hall. No windows allowed outside light. The Lady and the Nightseer wished it so.
The room was dark but for the candles that burned in candelabra at the head and feet of the bound and naked sacrifice. Shadows played over the bare walls, the arched ceiling.
Vees assumed the sacrifice—a thin, malnourished man—to be one of the refugees from upcountry. He stepped behind the altar and smiled within his hood. The difficult times in Selgaunt had made sacrifices so easy to obtain.
Sweat glistened on the man’s body; he stank of fear. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He stared up at Vees with wide, terrified eyes.
“Do not,” he said, his voice a croak. He must have been crying, or screaming, before Vees arrived. “Please.”
Vees ignored him and looked out on the worshipers. He moved to one candelabrum and blew out all but one of the candles, then did the same with the other. A deeper darkness settled on the chamber.
“Darkness has fallen and the Lady of Loss is with us,” Vees said. “Give her now your bitterness. Lay your losses before her.”
He waited while the worshipers confessed aloud the matters that had made them bitter, the things they had lost, the grudges they had developed since the last time the group had met the month before. The hubbub of voices made it impossible for Vees to distinguish sentences or speakers, but Vees knew the Lady heard them all and rejoiced.
When the worshipers completed the ritual and fell silent, Vees said, “The Lady is pleased by your offerings made in this, her new temple. The construction is nearly complete. We turn now to the sanctification of her altar, which requires blood.”
The sacrifice writhed, pleaded. “No! No!”
Vees reached under his robes and withdrew the sacrificial dagger. He held it above the man.
The sacrifice fought against his bonds. His breath came so quickly he would soon lose consciousness. Vees could see every tendon in his body, every muscle.
“Your despair is sweet to the Lady,” Vees said, and raised the blade for a killing strike.
The sacrifice stared wide-eyed at the blade’s point and screamed.
CHAPTER TEN
1 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cale awoke in his chamber before dawn. He had not dreamed of Magadon since arriving in Selgaunt and did not know what to make of it. Mask’s words haunted him: Magadon will suffer in the meanwhile.
Cale dressed and met Tamlin a bit after dawn in the main hall. They exchanged pleasantries and walked side by side across the grounds to the stables. Tamlin wore his father’s ermine-trimmed traveling cloak with a rapier, but no armor or shield. Cale recalled that armor interfered with Tamlin’s ability to cast spells. A satchel with two thick, leather-bound tomes hung over his shoulder.
Books on spellcraft,
Cale assumed with some surprise, since he had never known Tamlin to favor reading. Tamlin had become a moderately accomplished sorcerer over the years. If only his leadership and talent for statesmanship had matured as much as his magical ability.
“Your mount will regret your choice of reading material, my lord,” said Cale.
Tamlin smiled tightly. “Just something of interest to me.”
For his part, Cale wore his enchanted leather armor, his daggers, and Weaveshear. Pouches at his belt held his lockpicking kit and his coin purse. His pack held his bedroll, rope, and the magical tome he had taken from the Fane of Shadows. He carried the Shadowlord’s mask in his pocket.
“I received word late last night that Mother and Tazi arrived safely at Storl Oak,” Tamlin said. “I understand that was your suggestion?”
Cale nodded. “Were they escorted, my lord?”
“Of course,” Tamlin snapped, an edge in his voice. “I am not a fool, Mister Cale, despite your suggestion to the contrary. Eight members of the house guard rode with them, including Captain Orrin. Five more men plus Talbot await them at Storl Oak.”
Cale nodded and said nothing more. They walked the rest of the way to the stables in silence.
The grooms had saddled twelve geldings, all of them stout steeds thirteen hands or more in height. Three pack horses loaded with gear stood with their heads lowered. Ren and nine other members of the Uskevren house guard were loading equipment onto their geldings. All wore chain shirts, helmets, and serious looks. Each bore a blade, a crossbow, and a shield enameled with the Uskevren crest. Their livery, too, featured the Uskevren horse at anchor. They spoke congenially to their mounts as they checked tack, harness, stirrup, and saddle.
“My lord,” all of them nodded to Tamlin in greeting. “Mister Cale.”
“Men,” Tamlin answered.
Ren nodded a greeting at Cale as he stuffed a bedroll into his saddlebag.
The head groom, a tall, thin man with tanned arms and dark hair, moved from man to man, fretting. “I assure you that all is in order with the tack.” His annoyed tone made clear that he took extreme pride in his meticulous work, and that the house guards’ efforts came as a personal affront.
