by Paul S. Kemp
Magadon, his pale face flushed, stared fury at the assassin. The orange glow faded.
“You’re an addict, Mags,” Riven said. He lowered but did not sheathe his blade. “And I know a lot about addicts. And you’re. damaged. You’re no use to us until you’re well.”
Magadon coughed, started to stand. Cale tried to help him but Magadon shook him off irritably.
“I’m worse than that,” the mind mage said, standing. He burst into a giggle and the sound made Cale uneasy. “Much worse. And I’m never going to be well.”
He wobbled on his feet and Cale put an arm around him, held him upright. His shadows coiled around the mind mage, supporting him.
“We will kill Kesson Rel,” Cale said, trying to ignore how light Magadon felt in his arms. “Take what he took, give it to your father, make you whole. We’ll do it, Mags.”
Magadon grabbed a fistful of Cale’s cloak, the gesture one of desperation. When he spoke his voice cracked but he sounded more like himself. “I need myself back, Cale. I’m falling so fast. You cannot understand …”
Riven started to speak but Cale silenced him with a glare. To Magadon, Cale said, “We will see it through, Mags. But Riven is right. This is not your fight, not like this. You’ll be a problem for us, not a help. You know that. If we need you, we’ll come for you.”
Magadon pulled away and looked Cale in the face. “And if I need you?”
Cale shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean if you can’t do it, if you can’t take back what Kesson Rel stole, then I want you to kill me. I need you to. I can’t do it myself but I can’t go on this way. Either of you. Hells, get Nayan to do it. He’s been watching me and thinking the same thing.” Magadon ran a hand through his hair, over his horns. “My thoughts, Cale. I don’t know what I might do. I can’t continue this way.”
It took Cale a few moments to produce a reply. “Mags, it won’t come to that.”
“If it does.”
“Mags—”
“If it does!” the mind mage said, and tears glistened in his eyes. He looked at Riven, at his blade. “You’re both killers. I know it. You know it. Tell me you’ll do what needs done.”
Cale just stared, his throat tight, his mouth unable to work.
Riven sheathed his saber and looked Magadon in the face. “I always do what needs done, Mags.”
Magadon stared at Riven, his breath coming fast. He nodded once, turned, and walked back into the temple.
“Come, Nayan,” he said to the shadows as he passed under the archway.
When he was gone, Riven said, “What’s next?”
Cale stared after Magadon, his thoughts racing. “What?”
“What’s next, Cale?”
“With Mags?”
“No. With Kesson Rel. The Shadowstorm. Hells, Mags too. It’s all the same.”
Cale shook his head, still unnerved. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Cale turned to face the assassin. “That’s right. I don’t know. I need some time.”
“I doubt we have much,” Riven said, eyeing the archway into which Magadon had disappeared.
Cale nodded, stuck his arm outside of the shadow of the spire and into the sun, melting away his hand. He stared at the stump.
“No. Not much.”
Tamlin sat in his father’s walnut rocker, in his father’s study, among his father’s books, books Tamlin had never read. He’d spent his life in the shadow of his father, in the shadow of his father’s things.
That was over now.
Selûne had set and no lamps illuminated the darkness. Cool night air and dim starlight bled in through the open windows. He sat alone, thinking, the creak of the rocker on the wood floor eerily similar to Vees’s screams. Tamlin smiled.
Vees had been false to Tamlin, false to Shar. He had deserved death on her altar. Tamlin recalled with perfect clarity the cold hard feel of the dagger’s hilt in his palm, the warm, sticky feel of Vees’s blood on his hands. He recalled, too, the golden eyes of Prince Rivalen, aglow with the approval Tamlin had never received from his father or Mister Cale, approval that he no longer craved.
He was his own man, and all he’d had to do to become so was give himself to Shar.
Holding in his hand the small, black disc that Prince Rivalen had given him as a meditative aid, he confessed to Shar in a whisper what would become his Own Secret, a truth known only to himself and Shar.
“I have never felt so afraid, or so powerful, as I did when sacrificing Vees.”
Clouds blotted out even the minimal starlight, and darkness as black as ink shrouded the room, closed in on him, pressed against his skin. A chill set the hair on his arms and the back of his neck on end, raised gooseflesh. His breath came fast. He felt the caress of his new mistress, as cold and hard as the dagger with which he had killed Vees.
“Thank you, Lady,” he said, as the pitch lifted and starlight again poked tentatively through the study’s windows.
Tamlin’s conversion to Shar had birthed not only a new faith but ambition. He wanted to be more than a servant to Shar, more than his own man. He wanted also to equal then surpass Mister Cale, to transform his body into that of a shade. And he wanted to surpass his father by ruling not merely a wealthy House, not even merely a city, but an entire realm.
He nodded to himself in the darkness, still rocking. He was not his father’s son. If he was born of anyone, it was Prince Rivalen and the Lady of Loss.
“‘Love is a lie,’” he said, reciting one of the Thirteen Truths that Prince Rivalen had taught him. “‘Only hate endures.’”
Footsteps carried from the hall outside the parlor. A form stepped into the doorway. Even in the darkness Tamlin recognized the upright posture and stiff movements of Irwyl, the Uskevren majordomo.
“My lord?” Irwyl called. “Are you within the parlor?”
Tamlin stopped rocking. “Yes. What is it, Irwyl?”
“Were you speaking just now, my lord?”
“To myself. What is it, Irwyl?”
Irwyl peered into the darkness, unable to pinpoint Tamlin’s location. “There is news from Daerlun, my lord. A missive from High Bergun Tymmyr about your mother.”
Tamlin felt little at the mention of his mother. She would not understand what he had done, or why. Perhaps she would even condemn him for it. No matter. He served another mistress, now.
“What are its contents?” Tamlin asked. Irwyl had permission to open and read all documents sent to Tamlin in his official capacity.
Irwyl cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. “High Bergun Tymmyr has made your mother, sister, and brother his personal guests. He asks that you allow him to offer them sanctuary in Daerlun until events in the rest of Sembia resolve themselves. He promises to show them the utmost hospitality.”
Tamlin understood the message behind the message. Daerlun had declared its neutrality in the Sembian Civil War. No doubt it had promises from Cormyrean forces to aid it should battle be brought to its walls. Cormyr had long coveted Daerlun and Daerlun, on the border between Cormyr and Sembia, was in many ways more Cormyrean than Sembian. So the high bergun, having heard of Selgaunt’s victory over Saerloon’s forces, wanted to inform Tamlin that his family would be held hostage to ensure that Daerlun be left out of the conflict to pursue its alliance with Cormyr. For the time being, that suited Tamlin. He had other concerns. Daerlun could wait.
“Acknowledge receipt and understanding, Irwyl. Thank the high bergun for his kindness and let him know that I will repay it in kind. Use both my official and my personal seal.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Irwyl lingered.
“What is it, Irwyl?”
“Will my lord be retiring soon? The hour grows late.”
Tamlin leaned back in the rocker. “I think not. I am enjoying the darkness.”
Irwyl cleared his throat. “As you wish my lord. May I retire, then?”
“Yes, but before
you do, please send for Lord Rivalen and inform the gatemen that he is to be given entry. I need his counsel. He will be awake.”
Tamlin knew that the shadowstuff in Rivalen’s body obviated his need for sleep.
“Yes, Lord. Anything else?”
Tamlin glanced around the parlor, at his father’s detritus. It was time to make Stormweather his, then Selgaunt, then Sembia.
“Tomorrow I want the parlor emptied of my father’s things. New furnishings, Irwyl, for a new beginning.”
Irwyl said nothing for a time and the darkness masked his face. Tamlin wished that he were a shade, that his eyes could see in darkness as well as daylight. He felt betrayed by his mere humanity.
“Very well, Lord,” Irwyl said, his tone stiff. “A good eve to you.”
“And to you,” Tamlin said.
Irwyl left him alone with the night, with his goddess. He found the solitude and the darkness comforting but could not shake the chill.
Rivalen sat alone in the darkness of his quarters, his mood as black as the moonless sky. The broken pieces of his holy symbol lay on the table before him.
The requirements of his faith had declared war on the needs of his people. The priest was at war with the prince. He needed to resolve the situation, satisfy both.
Shadows boiled from his flesh.
For millennia Rivalen had kept his faith and civic duty in an uneasy truce, the needs of the one separated from the demands of the other by the gulf of time. Rivalen knew the world eventually would bend to Shar and return to darkness and cold, but he had believed he had many more millennia still, that he could accomplish his goals, and those of his people, before Shar reclaimed the multiverse. Oblivion seemed always in the future.
But synchronicity had disabused him of his delusion. The Shadowstorm was happening now, devouring the realm needed by Shade Enclave to secure its future and resurrect the glory of Netheril.
He must choose his faith or his people.
“Mustn’t I?” he said. He held a Sembian raven in his hand. Tarnish blackened the silver.
“Obverse or reverse,” he said, turning it in his fingers, seeing the late overmaster’s profile on one side, the Sembian arms on the other.
Hope had been his transgression, he realized. He had hoped to resurrect the Empire of Netheril and return his people, and Faerûn, to glory. He had hoped—later, much later—to summon the Shadowstorm that would herald the beginning of the world’s end. Events had proven him a fool. The Lady of Loss spurned hope and expected her Nightseer to do the same. Rivalen had learned the lesson but wisdom had come too late, and its tardy arrival did nothing to assuage his bitterness, his rage.
Shar had chosen others for her instruments. A priestess he had thought to use and discard had betrayed him, stolen The Leaves of One Night. And a mad heretic, once a priest of Mask but now a servant of Shar, had brought forth the Shadowstorm and lurked in its dark center as it devoured the realm Rivalen had thought to annex for his people.
Rivalen had murdered his own mother for his goddess, but his goddess had kept from him a profound secret—he was not to be the cause of the Shadowstorm; he, and his hopes, were to be its victims.
And he sensed deeper secrets still, corpses buried in the fetid earth of Shar’s darkness. They would rise when she saw fit, but not before.
He tried to accept matters, but failed. The shadows around him whirled, filled the room, poured forth through the shutter slats and into the night.
“I will not have it,” he said, turning the coin more rapidly.
A soft buzzing sounded in his ears, grew in volume, clarified. A sending. He almost countered it but decided against it.
In his mind he heard the voice of his father, the Most High.
Faerûn’s powerful will not stand idle for long while this Shadowstorm darkens Sembia. End it, Rivalen.
The Most High’s imperious tone pulled at the scab of Rivalen’s already wounded pride but he kept his irritation from his tone.
I will do what I can, Father.
Hadrhune’s divinations have revealed the possibility of a Sharran at the root of the storm. Perhaps you are not equipped for this task?
The mention of the Most High’s chief counselor, a rival to Rivalen, rankled.
Hadrhune’s understanding, as always, is limited. The Sharran behind the storm is a heretic. I will see to him and it. Meanwhile, please remind Hadrhune, and yourself, that I have raised Sakkors, shattered Saerloon’s forces, and given you Selgaunt. Soon I will add to it all of Sembia.
There will be nothing to give if the Shadowstorm is not stopped. End it, Rivalen. Soon. Other matters in the heartland proceed apace. This is a distraction.
Other matters?
The connection ceased. Apparently his father, too, had secrets.
Rivalen swallowed his irritation and decided to interpret his father’s sending as a sign. Kesson Rel was a heretic. And Rivalen would not allow centuries of planning to unravel so that a heretic could serve the Mistress and destroy the realm Rivalen had thought to make. The Lady wanted the Shadowstorm. She had it. But Rivalen wanted more time, and Sembia. He would find a way to have both.
He put the silver raven on the table and set it to spinning on its edge. A word of minor magic kept it upright and whirling. He watched it, obverse to reverse to obverse to reverse.
“I choose both,” he said. “Faith and city.”
He would contain the Shadowstorm and claim what was left of Sembia. And if that made him a heretic, then so be it. The Lady knew his nature when she had chosen him as her Nightseer.
He held his palm over the pieces of his holy symbol and spoke the words to a mending charm. Tendrils of shadow spiraled around the disc, pulled them together, made them whole.
“If Kesson Rel is your true servant, then let him be the victor. If not, then let it be me.”
Outside, darkness obscured the stars. Rivalen nodded.
“Thank you, Lady.”
The enspelled raven continued to spin, obverse, reverse.
Abelar and Jiiris stood in the rain and watched the ink of the distant storm digest stars, its lightning casting the world in ghastly viridian. Abelar surmised Elyril’s involvement, Shar’s involvement, and felt the Calling in his soul, the same Calling that had pulled him in his youth from a life of privilege to one of service to others. He thought of his son and denied it.
“There are dark forces there,” Jiiris said and put her hand to the rose of Lathander she wore at her throat.
“Yes,” Abelar said. He had no holy symbol to hold so he put his hand in hers and found it offered equal comfort.
She smiled at him but the expression faded when her eyes fell on the empty chain around his throat, where his own holy symbol had once hung. She looked away as if to spare him the embarrassment of staring at a scar.
“There is always atonement,” she said softly, not looking him in the face.
“There is nothing for which I must atone,” he said, surprised at the sharpness of his tone.
She looked at him, saw him. He saw the concern in her expression.
“You worry for me,” he said. “You should not.”
“No?” Her eyes showed disbelief.
“No. I am free now, Jiiris.”
“I did not realize you had been bound.”
“Nor had I.”
Seeing her confusion, he smiled softly and led her back into the tent. “Come. You will be soaked.”
After they entered, He glanced at Elden to ensure he was still asleep—he was—then drew Jiiris to him. She did not resist and he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
“I have loved you a long time.”
She flushed but held his gaze. “And I you. But …”
“But?”
She looked away and he saw the jaw muscles working under her cheeks as she masticated whatever she intended to say. “But we cannot do this now. I cannot do this. You are … hurting. You almost lost your father, your son, and have turned from the f
aith that has sustained you for—”
His anger rose at the mention of his faith and his words came out in a rush, a flood through the ravine of his rage.
“Lathander’s church is presided over by heretics who stood idle while this, all this, happened. He still grants spells to them. Did you know that? Why would he do that?”
She shook her head, her eyes welling. “He has his purposes.”
Elden stirred, groaned in his sleep, and Abelar quieted his voice. He didn’t want to wake Elden, didn’t want to hurt Jiiris.
“His purposes? How often must we assume that events will work out to his purposes? Why should we be the playthings to him? How much am I to endure in service to the Morninglord? At what point does service become base servitude? At what point am I to say, ‘enough’?”
She winced at the words, placed a hand on his chest, as if to keep him from proceeding further.
“When it is my son, Jiiris. That is when it is enough. When my wife died in childbirth, I praised Lathander for the life he had brought forth even in death. When my father was imprisoned, I fought in Lathander’s name the forces of she who had imprisoned him. When darkness fell across Sembia and the priest who trained me in the faith did nothing to stem its tide, I thanked Lathander for the chance to be a light in the darkness. But when my son was taken and tortured …” He looked into her face, at the rose at her throat. “That is too much. If that is his purpose, then his purpose can burn.”
She blanched, but stood her ground and defended her faith, the faith that had once been his.
“You sound like the heretics you’ve often condemned. How often have I heard you admonish them for waiting for the Morninglord to do their work for them? He does not reveal himself to us that way, Abelar.”
Perhaps she had thought to strike him hard, but he did not perceive even a glancing blow. He took her by the arms.
“Have I been waiting, Jiiris? Have I been idle? I have taken the fight to evil my entire life and have been rewarded with one calamity after another. Through it all I have been steadfast, but …” he looked past her to Elden, sleeping in a bed of furs, “… he has gone too far. And I am tired of being tested.”
“Faith is not a test—”
