Shadowrealm

  “It can be nothing else!” He found himself shaking her gently, and released her with surprise. Elden stirred, rolled over onto his side, but did not awaken. Abelar spoke in an intense whisper. “What it cannot be is a hole into which I pour everything and from it receive nothing. That is not faith, Jiiris. I renounce it. I renounce him.”

  She looked as if she had been struck hard. Saying the words aloud rather than merely thinking them crossed some indefinable barrier, put a chasm between his present and his past that he would never be able to cross. He hoped it had not put a chasm between he and Jiiris.

  “Listen to me,” he said gently. “I see clearly now for the first time in a long while. There is light even where Lathander is absent. Who saved both my father and son? Who, Jiiris?” She simply stared and he answered his own question. “Servants of Mask. There is light in them.”

  Jiiris shook her head. “No, Abelar. Saving Elden was a good thing, a wonderful thing. But I saw into those men when they stood in this tent. They are not good men. Not like you.”

  “You judge them harshly. We are what we do, Jiiris.”

  “No. We are what we are and sometimes that shows in what we do. But sometimes it does not. Hear this, Abelar. Before Elden fell asleep, he told me a bad man saved him from the other bad men. Do you hear? Children’s eyes see clearly.”

  Elden rolled over in his furs and opened his eyes. His bleary eyes focused on Abelar.

  “Papa?”

  To Jiiris, Abelar said, “We will talk more of this later. For now, assemble my father and the leaders of the company. We must see the refugees to safety. There are not enough men here to stand against Forrin’s army and whatever storm Shar has brought to Sembia. Tell them to begin preparations.”

  Jiiris’s eyes widened at his words. “But I thought …”

  He took her by the shoulders. “I have turned from Lathander but not from the people of Saerb, not from you. I am the same man I was two days ere.”

  She looked into his eyes and nodded.

  “Papa?”

  Abelar went to his son, sat beside him. Elden reached up a small hand. Abelar took it between his.

  “I am here,” he said. “And I am not leaving again.”

  Elden studied his face. “You diffent, Papa.”

  Abelar nodded, felt his throat tighten. The eyes of children saw clearly, indeed.

  Rivalen watched the coin spin, and pondered. He would have to kill Kesson Rel, but he did not know if he could do so.

  Rivalen knew some of Kesson’s history. He had been a servant of Mask who later converted to Shar. After becoming one of Shar’s most powerful servants, being invested with a shard of divine power, he had succumbed to insanity and embraced heresy. Eventually the Lady of Loss had banished him to an isolated pocket of the Plane of Shadow, the Adumbral Calyx. There, he’d been left, forgotten.

  Until now. Now he had emerged from his exile and brought the Calyx with him, threatening the delicate plans Rivalen had spent decades cultivating.

  “Why now, Lady?” Rivalen asked the darkness. “Why here?”

  Rivalen studied his remade holy symbol, noted the ghost of the fracture still visible on its surface. The line dividing his symbol reminded him of the divisions in his faith. Shar tolerated heresy, rewarded the heretic. Why? The answer was hidden in the dark folds of the Lady’s secrets.

  He placed the holy symbol in an inner pocket and decided that he did not need to know. But he did need information about Kesson Rel.

  He activated the magic of his amethyst ring and thought of his brother. He felt the connection open.

  Rivalen? Brennus asked.

  I need you to learn all you can of Kesson Rel. Everything there is to know. He must die, Brennus.

  A long pause, then, Very well. I have already learned that he is quasi-divine. Did you know that, Rivalen?

  Yes. Rivalen did not know how or why Shar had infused Kesson with divine power, but he knew it had been done. Continue your attempts to locate Erevis Cale. Kesson Rel served Mask before turning to Shar. I do not see coincidence. There’s a knot here. We must untie it.

  Agreed.

  What have you learned of Cale’s woman?

  Another long pause. Nothing of her. She is gone but not dead. I cannot make sense of it.

  Rivalen sensed reticence through the connection. Is there something else, Brennus?

  No.

  Rivalen knew Brennus was lying but did not press. Brennus, too, was entitled to some secrets.

  Inform me when you learn anything, Brennus. We will need to face Kesson Rel, and soon. Much turns on your success.

  I know.

  The connection closed and a knock on the door of the study brought Rivalen’s mind back to his surroundings.

  “Speak,” he called.

  “The Hulorn has requested your presence at his family’s estate, Prince.”

  Rivalen knew the time to be two hours or more past midnight. Apparently the Hulorn did not find sleep appealing. Rivalen understood why. After murdering his mother in Shar’s name, Rivalen had feared his dreams and slept fitfully for months. Tamlin had murdered a onetime friend. His sleep would be troubled for a time.

  “Inform the Hulorn that I will attend him directly.”

  The doorman announced the arrival of Prince Rivalen and Tamlin stood as the prince’s dark form filled the parlor’s doorway. Rivalen’s body merged with the darkness, the boundaries of his form indeterminate from the night. Glowing golden eyes hovered in the ink of his face, the two guiding stars of Tamlin’s new life.

  “Prince, thank you for coming.”

  “Of course, Hulorn. Sleep eludes you?”

  Tamlin shook his head. He knew Rivalen could see the gesture clearly. “Not at all. I am … energized. And I am enjoying the darkness.”

  The shadows around Rivalen swirled slowly. The darkness carried him into the room.

  “So you are.”

  The Shadovar prince glanced around the wood-paneled study, at the books and scrolls that filled the shelves. Tamlin would have offered him a chalice of wine, but he knew Rivalen did not partake.

  “An impressive collection,” said the prince.

  “My father’s. Sit, please.”

  Rivalen sat at the small table with the chessboard atop it, before black. Tamlin took the seat opposite. He had sat across the same table from his father many times, usually to receive this or that admonishment for one failure or another. He felt more comfortable with Rivalen than he ever had with his father.

  “Do you play, Prince?” Tamlin asked.

  “I did. Long ago. I gave it up after my mother died.”

  He picked up the black king and the shadows shrouding him enveloped it.

  “I am sorry,” said Tamlin.

  “Thank you. My interest in chess waned when I realized that it is a transparent contest where one can see an opponent’s forces and their movement. Life is rarely so clear.”

  “Truth,” Tamlin said, nodding. “Myself, I was never a skillful player. My father and Mister Cale played often.”

  “Mister Cale,” Rivalen said softly, and the shadows around him churned.

  “I am going to be rid of it tomorrow,” Tamlin said. “All of it. The books, the furniture. All of it.”

  Rivalen’s eyes flared and he placed the king in the center of the board, exposed.

  “I understand completely.”

  Tamlin had no doubt the prince did. He rose to pour himself a drink, navigating the study in the darkness. When he reached the sideboard, he said, “The high bergun has taken my family into custody. He hopes thereby to ransom Daerlun’s safety.”

  Rivalen looked up from the board, his golden eyes veiled. “They could be retrieved, Hulorn. Shall I arrange it?”

  Tamlin realized that something of import turned on his answer. He found a glass, a bottle of wine, and poured. He tried to determine the vintage from taste—Thamalon’s Best Red, he thought. At least four years old.

  “I am grateful fo
r your offer, Prince. But the presence of my family would be a distraction to me just now.”

  “Indeed,” Rivalen said again, the comment half question, half observation. “Families are sometimes a … distraction.”

  Tamlin returned to the chess table, chalice in hand. “You and your brother seem to complement one another well.”

  “We Tanthuls have had two thousand years to learn to work together,” Rivalen said. He picked up the queen, studied it, a frown playing at the corners of his mouth. “But we, too, have had our … disagreements.”

  Tamlin smiled, thought of Talbot and the arguments they’d had over the years.

  “Have you shared your secret with the Lady?” the prince asked as he replaced the black queen.

  Tamlin nodded, running a fingertip over his holy symbol. “I have.”

  “That is well.” Rivalen leaned back in his chair and his tone lightened. “I would like a coin from the treasury, minted this day. Is that possible? You’ve recently started minting your own coins, yes?”

  A request so ordinary from the prince surprised Tamlin. “A coin? Of course. May I ask why?”

  “I am a collector of coins, particularly those minted on or stamped with dates significant to me. They help me keep track of history.” Rivalen eyed him across the chessboard, looking so unlike Tamlin’s father. “And today is one such date.”

  Tamlin took the point, raised his glass in a salute. He wanted the night to last, wanted the pristine coldness of the moonless hours to continue forever, wanted the discussion with Rivalen to go on and on. He felt at home, comfortable in the study for the first time he could recall. He leaned forward. “Tell me more about the Shadowstorm. How should we deal with it?”

  “Brennus is examining it, but we have determined that the Shadowstorm is the creation of an ancient being, a one-time servant of Shar who holds the same heretical notions as those held—once held—by Vees Talendar.”

  Tamlin felt a small pit open in his stomach at the mention of his one-time friend. Darkness filled it.

  “As for how we deal with it,” Rivalen continued. “We use it.”

  “Use it?”

  “It began in Ordulin and is moving west toward Saerb and Archendale. It does not yet reach farther south than the midpoint of the Arkhen. It will, but we have some time. For now, Ordulin is gone and what remains of its army near Saerb will disband, surrender, or be consumed by the storm.”

  Tamlin was vaguely disturbed by the obliteration of Ordulin but found comfort in the cold, hard touch of his new goddess.

  “The Saerbian forces, too, stand in its path.”

  Rivalen nodded. “True. But where was Saerb when Saerloon’s elementals shattered Selgaunt’s walls?”

  “Defending its own holdings, I presume. Do you imply something else?”

  “Hulorn, do you wish to rule all of Sembia?”

  The question shocked Tamlin into silence.

  “Do you?”

  Tamlin re-gathered his nerve. “You know that I do, Prince Rivalen.”

  Rivalen nodded. “Endren Corrinthal is a respected leader. He commanded the loyalty of many on the High Council before the overmistress dissolved it. Perhaps he would not look kindly upon your ascension. Perhaps, for the moment at least, the Saerbians should be left to their own devices. They are, after all, of no military use to you. It will not be an army that halts the Shadowstorm.”

  Tamlin’s hand went to his holy symbol and ambition annihilated conscience.

  “I take your point and agree with your recommendation.”

  “Excellent,” Rivalen said. “And that returns us to Saerloon. Lady Merelith rules a city without an army. She broke it on these walls. She knows she must negotiate a peace. She may suspect the Shadowstorm to be a weapon unleashed by us against Ordulin. Before she learns otherwise, we should make Saerloon bend its knee to Selgaunt. And after Saerloon has surrendered, after the Saerbian forces are addressed, who will stand against Selgaunt’s consolidation of the realm?”

  “Perhaps Daerlun,” Tamlin said, and sipped his wine. “But no other.”

  “Not even Daerlun,” Rivalen said. “The high bergun is strengthened by the wall of a friendly Cormyr at his back. That wall will soon show cracks.”

  “Prince?”

  “Many matters are afoot, Tamlin. I ask you to trust me. Do you?”

  Tamlin had come too far to hesitate. “I do.” “Then soon Sembia will name Selgaunt its capital and you its leader.”

  “But the Shadowstorm?”

  “We will halt it ere it reaches Selgaunt.”

  “How?”

  Rivalen looked across the table at Tamlin, irritation in his eyes. “Leave that to me, Hulorn.”

  Tamlin could not bear the weight of Rivalen’s gaze. He felt, of a sudden, the way he had so many times when sitting across the table from his father. He looked into his wine chalice. The darkness turned the red wine black, made its depths limitless.

  “I will obtain a Selgauntan fivestar for you, Prince,” he said, and disliked the boyishness in his tone. “From the mint, and made this day.”

  “You are gracious, Hulorn,” Rivalen said, and Tamlin ignored the hint of condescension he heard in the tone.

  Rivalen soon returned to his quarters and Tamlin did not sleep, could not sleep. He continually found himself rubbing his right hand on his trousers, as if to remove something offensive.

  The morning brought a griffon-mounted messenger from Saerloon. Rivalen had been a prophet. The messenger bore a missive from Lady Merelith, requesting terms for the peaceful turnover of her city. Tamlin’s hands shook has he read it.

  Let the hardships of the Sembian people end, she wrote. Let Saerloon and Selgaunt advance into the future in brotherhood.

  Tamlin had heralds read the surrender on street corners and declared a holiday. The bells and gongs of Shar’s new temple rang all morning.

  Tamlin composed a response with the advice of Prince Rivalen. He agreed to an end to hostilities, required that Lady Merelith and her court publically abdicate, that Saerloon accept a regent appointed by Tamlin, and that the city allow a garrison of three hundred Selgauntan and Shadovar troops barracks within Saerloon’s walls to ensure the peace.

  “She will not accept these terms,” Tamlin said to Rivalen.

  “She will,” Rivalen answered. “She has no choice. Choose as regent a trusted member of the Old Chauncel, perhaps one with mercantile ties to Saerloon. I will arrange the Shadovar contingent of the garrison.”

  Cale wandered the island as the setting sun ducked under the horizon and painted the shimmering surface of the Inner Sea in red and gold. The cries of gulls gave way to the steady heartbeat of the surf on the shore. Night crept out of its holes and hollows and slowly stretched its dark hand over the island, a sea-beset, solitary dot of rock.

  He eventually found himself atop the low hill where they had buried Jak. A few of the stones marking the grave had fallen from the cairn. He replaced them, missing his friend, missing … many things. To one side of him the night-shrouded sea stretched out to the limits of his vision, black and impenetrable; the other side, the shadow-wrapped spire of Mask.

  He crouched with his forearms on his knees and stared at Jak’s grave. Patches of grass dotted the soil and poked up through the loose rock. Shadows curled around Cale, languid and dark. The wind blew and he fooled himself into thinking he smelled tobacco from Jak’s pipe rather than sea salt. He felt eyes on him and looked to the temple. The Shadowwalkers congregated there on the drawbridge, in the shadow of the spire, watching him. He did not welcome their regard.

  They thought he was one thing; he was striving to be something else. He feared their reverence would root him in place, make him what they wanted.

  Desiring privacy, he enshrouded himself in shadows and sank into their dark coils. He thought of his friend and sought words, found them, and confessed.

  “I am trying to keep my promise, little man, but it is hard.”

  The rush of break
ers sounded in the distance. He had murdered the Sojourner to the same sound. Murder came easy to him, easier than it should for a hero. He felt saturated by darkness, permeated by it. There was no separation between him and it. He looked at his shadowhand, a tangible reminder that he would always exist fully only in shadow, complete only in the night. He reached into his pocket, felt there the small river stone the halfling boy had given him.

  “You told me once that what we do is only what we do, not what we are. I think you were right, little man, but I wish you had been wrong.”

  He shook his head, looked through the shadows with his shadesight, out across the dark, inscrutable sea.

  “You would smile at the things I’ve done, Jak. But I feel … nothing. Something in me has changed, is changing, and what I am would not make you smile.”

  Shadows boiled from his skin, swirled. He imagined it to be whatever was left of his soul, squirming from his flesh to flee the corrupted vessel in which it was forced to reside.

  Looking back over recent months, he saw that he felt only anger with any acuteness. Other feelings were faint, blunt, sensed as if through a haze. He had loved Varra, but only from afar—love without passion. He had saved the halfling boy from trolls, saved Abelar’s son, tried to save Varra, was still trying to save Magadon, but all of it felt false, deeds done more out of duty than a genuine sense of compassion or love.

  He was becoming more and more shadowstuff with each day, more inhuman. His promise to Jak was the only thing that tethered him to the humanity of his past.

  “I am not a hero. It’s not in me, Jak.”

  There were other things in him, darker things, things that good deeds could not efface, things that graveside confessions could not expiate. The shadowstuff was not merely part of him; it was consuming him. He saw in Rivalen Tanthul his own future—thousands of years lived in darkness.

  “I’m tired,” he said, and meant it.

  Around him the shadows took on weight, substance, presence. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he felt only mild surprise when the darkness whispered in his ear with the mocking voice of his god.

  “Tired? Already? But things have only just gotten started. Try running for thousands of years. Then speak to me of tired.”