by Paul S. Kemp
To her credit, she did not ask any questions about his name. Instead, she leaned against him, slipped her hand into his, and said, “You are not alone.”
To that, Cale said nothing. There was nothing to say. He allowed himself to take pleasure in the smell of her hair and the feel of her skin.
After a time he said, “Don’t wait for me, Varra.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“There are things I have yet to do. Hard things. This may be the closest we ever get.”
She was quiet for a while then said, “It’s for me to decide if I wait.”
To that, Cale could say nothing.
Together, they sat atop the cliff, took comfort in the other’s company, and waited in satisfying silence as the stars vanished and the sky lightened. Within an hour, the sun broke the horizon.
When it did both of them gasped, but for different reasons.
“It’s so beautiful,” Varra whispered.
“It is,” Cale said, and his hand vanished in the sun. He watched the sun crest the horizon and thought of Jak, of their conversation as they walked along Selgaunt’s docks. Cale had promised the little man that he would be a hero, if he got the chance.
“Today is a new day,” he said, more to himself, more to Jak, than to Varra.
He decided that he would keep his promise to the little man.
Riven had paid a guild mage to identify the properties of the Sojourner’s stones, sold the four that did not interest him, and retained the three that did. Weighted down with several thousand platinum suns, he walked Selgaunt’s nighttime streets. It would be the last time he set foot in the city for some time.
The city still bustled with rumors of what had transpired in the sky and on Temple Avenue and what each portended. It was said that the Oghmanytes had begun to quietly desert the city. All wondered what they knew but would not share. Riven couldn’t have cared less. He cared only about what Mask wanted of him.
As always, the Shadowlord had spoken to him in his dreams. Riven was to use the wealth to fit out the tower of the Sojourner as a temple, taking what had been Cyric’s and turning it to the use of the Shadowlord. Riven would be its caretaker, along with his girls. Riven had found a chamber within the tower littered with magical gear—weapons, wands, staffs. He assumed it once belonged to the Cyricists. Now it belonged to him. He was not certain what he was to do with all of it. Others would come, he assumed. Cale, at least.
But first he had something else to do. An honor to make. Then he would leave the past behind.
He walked the streets, stopping at every tavern and eatery he could find, asking if they had what he sought. None did. Finally, he found himself at the corner where the Black Stag tavern had stood until a shadow adept had burned it to the ground in an effort to kill Cale and Riven. That was when everything had begun.
A new tavern had been built on the site—The Charred Ruin.
Riven would have grinned at the name had he been in the mood for grins. Instead, he donned his professional sneer and pushed open the door to the Ruin. The moment he did, the smell of the night’s soup hit his nostrils and he knew he had found what he wanted. Strange, that he would have found it there, of all places.
Scanning the dark-eyed patrons, none of whom held his gaze, he found a table along the wall and sat. The middle-aged bar wench plodded over to his table and took his order.
“Soup,” Riven said.
“That’s it?” she asked
“And a tankard of something decent,” Riven said. He flipped her a fivestar and she hurried away to fill his order.
Sitting in the Ruin, Riven waited and brooded. His life had changed and he wondered where it all would lead. Riven saw now that he and Cale were linked, Mask’s First and Mask’s Second, neither able to exist without the other, the right and left hands of their god.
After a short time, the bar wench returned with a tin tankard of ale and a steaming wooden bowl of soup—potato soup. She set it down and said, “There you are.”
Riven said nothing, did not even look up. She harrumphed and stalked off.
Riven stared at the thick soup, thought of the time he had shared with his comrades another bowl of potato soup on the Plane of Shadow. He was not entirely certain how he felt about Fleet. Had he been a friend? Riven did not know. He did know, however, that he would miss him.
He raised his tankard in a toast and turned his attention to the soup. He ate it all without a pause and set down the spoon. Overcome for a moment, he stared down at the empty bowl.
Finally he said softly, “No doubt it’s a poor imitation of your mother’s … little man.”
With that, he pushed his chair back, stood, and walked out of the tavern. He wanted to see his girls.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
While his mind is often in the FORGOTTEN REALMS® world, Paul Kemp’s body lives in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, with his wife Jennifer and their twin sons.
He is a graduate of the University of Michigan-Dearborn and the University of Michigan law school. When he’s not writing tales in Ed Greenwood’s magnificent brainchild, he practices corporate law in Detroit. Yes, that does make him a tool of “the Man.” Keeping a heel on the throat of common folk is what he does. Helps him write believable villains.
THE EREVIS CALE TRILOGY, BOOK III
MIDNIGHT’S MASK
©2005 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
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All Wizards of the Coast characters and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Map by Nick Bartoletti
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004116912
eISBN: 978-0-7869-5685-2
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