Midnight's Mask

  He spoke the words to the spell that would pull the tear to the place Vhostym needed it. There it would remain, awaiting dawn, when it would put a hole in the sun and cast its shadow on the Wayrock. The magic would continually adjust the position of the sphere against the sun, so its shadow would not race across the surface as Toril continued to spin. Instead, his magic would move the tear with the sun—the shadow would remain stationary on the Wayrock throughout the day.

  Speaking the final phrase of power, Vhostym channeled all his energy into the tower, sent it soaring in a beam from the top of the spire and into the Sea of Night. Vhostym felt the beam’s magic take hold of the tear and pull it toward Toril. He could not contain a shout of joy.

  It would be in position before dawn. Once he pulled it from its orbit, the spell would move the tear so that its surface would not reflect the light of the sun, as did Selüne. It would move through the night sky in darkness, but Faerûn would wake to the sight of a new satellite in its sky.

  When Vhostym released his hold on the spell, exhaustion settled in and he sagged. Fortunately, nothing more remained for him to do. The tower still vibrated, still glowed, and Vhostym knew that a beam of magical energy reached from its top and into the night sky, where it pulled a ball of rock the size of a city toward Toril. The spell would remain in effect until the mantles of Skullport and Sakkors were utterly drained—about a day, perhaps two, Vhostym had calculated.

  Despite his mental fatigue, despite the pain of the disease that wracked his bones, he smiled.

  He had now only to recover his strength and wait for the dawn. Then he would exit the tower and walk under the Crown of Flame in his own skin, as he had done in his youth.

  After that, he would die content.

  Magadon opened his eyes. His blurry vision cleared and he found himself staring up at the grinning face of Captain Evrel. A faint breeze stirred a sail. The sky behind the captain was brightening with the rising sun.

  Magadon was lying flat on his back on the deck of Demon Binder. His head felt as if it had been beaten by a war hammer. Each thump of his heart caused his temples to throb.

  The last thing he remembered was … moving the ship to Selgaunt. He recalled the power the Source had given him, its taste, its feel. He felt empty at its absence. He longed for another taste.

  “There you are,” the captain said. “Welcome back.”

  A relieved rustle arose from around the deck. The crew, Magadon presumed.

  A gray-haired man in nightclothes and an overcloak stood beside Evrel, looking down on Magadon with a soft expression. The man held in his hand a thin chain from which hung a bronze symbol—a shield-shaped pendant engraved with the image of a cloud and three lightning bolts. Magadon did not recognize the symbol but he assumed the man to be a priest.

  “He is fine now,” the gray-haired man said to Evrel. He smiled down at Magadon. “You will be well.”

  Magadon tried to thank him but his mouth was too dry to speak.

  The priest said, “No need to speak, goodsir. Rest, now. Evrel is a very old comrade of mine and it was my pleasure to do him this service.” He eyed the captain sidelong. “But he must think highly of you to have roused me from my sleep.”

  “He saved the ship,” Evrel said. “And all of us besides. I tend to think highly of such men.”

  Beyond Magadon’s sight, several members of the crew voiced agreement.

  The priest nodded, straightened his cloak, and said to Evrel, “Be well, my friend. It’s back to the sheets for me. Valkur keep you and your crew.”

  “My thanks, Rillon. A drink soon.”

  “Soon,” Rillon agreed.

  The two clasped arms and the priest walked away.

  Evrel extended a hand to Magadon and pulled him to a sitting position.

  “I was afraid to move you until I had a priest at my side,” the captain explained.

  Magadon nodded in understanding. Crusted blood caked his face, his neck, his ears. He rubbed it off as best he could.

  Several crewmen approached and offered Magadon thanks or a comradely thump on the shoulder. The guide nodded in response.

  “You’ve allies here, now,” Evrel said. “Me included. I’ve never seen anythin’ like that. Talos take me, but I hope never to see it again.”

  Magadon did not know if the captain meant the kraken or Magadon’s movement of the ship or both. He swallowed to moisten his throat and croaked, “My comrades? Erevis and Jak?”

  Evrel’s expression fell. “They never came up from the bottom.”

  “Yes, they did,” Magadon said, and allowed the captain to pull him to his feet. His consciousness, while expanded by the Source, had felt Jak and Cale reach the surface and escape the kraken into the shadows. Cale’s last words to him had been: Selgaunt, Mags.

  Magadon’s mental strength was limited. He still had a latent connection to Riven but otherwise had little left with which to work.

  “You look … different,” Evrel said, but Magadon ignored him. Still leaning on Evrel, he summoned a mental reserve and reached out for his friends: Erevis. Jak. Do you hear me?

  Cale thought he heard Magadon’s voice. He snapped awake and sat up. It did not repeat.

  Had he dreamed it?

  Mags?

  Yes, Magadon answered. Yes. Erevis, I’m glad to know you’re all right. Jak?

  Cale grinned and reached out to shake Jak.

  “Little man,” he said.

  Jak sat up, grinning. “I hear him.”

  We’re glad to know that you are all right too, my friend, Cale answered. Where are you now?

  Selgaunt’s docks, aboard Demon Binder.

  Cale and Jak shared a look of surprise.

  How in the Hells did that happen? Jak asked.

  Magadon hesitated, and when he replied, his mental voice sounded grim. That is a story for later. For now—

  Cale answered, We’re on our way.

  Cale and Jak rose and sprinted through the streets toward the dock district. They stopped only long enough to throw a few fivestars at a shopkeeper in exchange for new boots and new cloaks. The sky was lightening above them. Dawn began to swallow the stars. They had slept only a few hours. Behind them, the Tower of Song rang the hour and the Sanctum of the Scroll promised doom.

  Cale and Jak located Demon Binder at one of Selgaunt’s piers. Gouges from troll claws marred the hull and the sails were shredded. Magadon met them at the gangplank, leaning on Captain Evrel. The guide looked drawn, as haggard as Cale had ever seen him. He was not wearing his hat and Cale saw that the small stubs of his horns had grown half a finger’s length overnight.

  Magadon and the Captain hailed them, smiling, as did several members of the crew.

  Cale returned their greetings and he and Jak embraced Magadon, clasped Evrel’s forearm in turn.

  “We thought you two were dead,” Evrel said.

  “Damned close,” Jak said.

  Evrel nodded. “Damned close for all of us. The whole ship would have been lost if not for this one.” He indicated Magadon.

  Magadon smiled with embarrassment.

  “You look different,” Cale said to Magadon, as delicately as he could manage.

  “The horns,” Magadon said, nodding. “There have been … other changes too,” he added, but left it at that. “I don’t know what it means.”

  “I’m certain it’s fine,” Cale said, but was not sure it was.

  Magadon shook his head and waved dismissively. “Forget all that. Listen to me. When the Source awakened fully, it called out to someone or something, called out across Faerûn. I am concerned, Erevis. The Source is an item—a consciousness—of great power.”

  Cale and Jak shared a look. Evrel pretended not to hear.

  “To whom did it call?” Cale asked.

  Evrel cleared his throat. “I’ll be leaving you to your business, then.” He nodded to them and strolled up the gangplank.

  “I don’t know,” Magadon said. “It called out in … Nethe
rese.”

  “Netherese?” Not even Cale spoke that ancient tongue.

  Magadon nodded.

  Jak looked from Magadon to Cale and said, “Do you remember what Sephris said? That we would summon the storm?”

  Cale nodded. He remembered the loremaster’s parting words to him—Sakkors is only the beginning. His skin went gooseflesh. He tried to put it out of his mind.

  “I remember. And I hear your words,” he said to Magadon. “But first things first. We stop the slaadi, we stop the Sojourner, and we deal with what comes after when it comes. Agreed?”

  Magadon looked him in the eye, nodded. Jak too.

  Cale said, “Do you still have the link with Riven?”

  “I do,” Magadon answered. “A latent link. But no strength to activate it, and no strength to project the image into your mind. Took almost all I had to contact you two.”

  “How long before you are ready?” Cale asked.

  “An hour,” Magadon answered. “Maybe two. I can recover some strength by then.”

  Cale nodded. They would wait aboard Demon Binder. They had no choice.

  “Let’s go aboard,” he said. “Get you some food and rest.”

  Together, the three comrades climbed the gangplank and boarded Demon Binder.

  Jak said, “And someone on this tub damned well better have a tindertwig.”

  CHAPTER 15

  WAYROCK

  Riven, Azriim, and Dolgan aimlessly walked Selgaunt’s streets as the false dawn lightened the sky. By accident, they had ventured near Riven’s garret. He found himself scanning the streets and alleys for any sign of his girls, at the same time hoping and not hoping that he would catch a glimpse of them.

  “What are you looking for?” Dolgan asked.

  Riven chided himself for his carelessness. “Nothing. Mind your own affairs, slaad.”

  Dolgan grunted, Azriim grinned, and the three walked on. The street traffic was beginning to build as dawn approached. Shop doors and shutters opened. Farmers and their wagons entered the city and made their way to market. Sellers of sweetmeats and stale bread took their favored spots on the street. Riven gave a fat, already sweating sweetmeat seller his first sale of the day, purchasing two candied pears. He ate both without offering any to the slaadi.

  “Where are all the clothiers?” Azriim said. “I am dressed like a pauper.”

  Riven knew several booths that sold clothing but did not mention any to the slaad.

  Dawn broke and they walked on, awaiting word from the Sojourner.

  Within a quarter hour, Riven noticed concern among the pedestrians. Eyes were wide; brows furrowed; strides were a step too fast. The rustle turned to an alarmed murmur.

  “What is going on?” he said, more to himself than to the slaadi.

  “What?” Dolgan asked.

  A young laborer pelted down the street in their direction.

  “Did you see it?” he shouted. “Did you see it?”

  He looked like a madman.

  Riven stepped in front of him and grabbed him by his cloak.

  “Have you seen it?” the young man said, his breath coming in heaves. Riven saw real fear in his eyes.

  “Seen what?” Riven asked.

  “The sun,” the boy said.

  Riven gave him a shake. “What are you talking about?”

  The daylight noticeably dimmed, then grew darker.

  Riven released the boy and looked up to the east. The sun was too close to the horizon for him to see; buildings blocked his view. He jogged up the street until he reached an open square. The slaadi followed. So too did a gathering crowd of Selgauntans.

  A small crowd had already assembled there, strangely hushed. All of them gazed to the east. Riven followed their looks and could hardly believe what he saw.

  Overnight, another moon had appeared in the sky. A pitted sphere of dark rock hung in the sky just above the horizon line. It appeared as large as Selüne. Its edge blocked part of the rising sun. The sphere did not move as the sun rose; it just hung there, foreboding, waiting. As the sun continued its ascent, the sphere ate more and more of its face.

  Riven was too astonished to speak. Those in the crowd around him muttered in ominous tones. Others moved closer to each other, as though for comfort. Horses neighed.

  “Has Selüne abandoned us?” a woman cried.

  A man said, “What in the Seven Heavens is it?”

  “Where did it come from?” asked another.

  “The gods keep us,” said an old woman. “It is Alaundo’s prophecies!”

  Riven remembered the Sojourner’s words and knew that the orb had nothing to do with the gods or prophets: Remember that what you see this day is my doing.

  The Sojourner had summoned or created another moon. He was causing an eclipse. Riven marveled at the power represented in the sky.

  In a flash, Riven understood the meaning of the Crown of Flame. But he could not understand why the Sojourner wanted to create it.

  Beside him, Azriim chuckled, then laughed full out. Several people in the crowd looked at him as if he were mad.

  Dolgan smiled tentatively and looked from Riven to Azriim.

  “What is funny?” the big slaad asked.

  Azriim laughed the louder.

  A tingle in Riven’s head announced the presence of the Sojourner.

  It is finished, the creature said. This day is to be my last day, and I will spend it alone. Your service to me is over. Return to this place and claim what you’ve earned.

  An image of a tower fixed itself in Riven’s mind, a stone spire atop a mountain island in the Inner Sea. Riven recognized the island. Everyone who lived in a port on the Inner Sea had heard of the Wayrock. Sailors used it to aid navigation. But no mention of the Wayrock ever spoke of a tower on its top. The Sojourner must have raised it there, or moved it from elsewhere, just as he had done with the moon.

  Dolgan and Azriim shared a glance, and Riven saw the eagerness in their expressions.

  Playing to the end the part Mask had assigned him, Riven asked, And for me?

  Name it, said the Sojourner, and the offer nearly caused Riven to renege on his plans. But he thought of his god, his girls, his … friends, and held fast.

  Let me consider.

  There is only a short time, the Sojourner responded.

  “We will come now,” Azriim said, speaking aloud in his eagerness. “The human can choose his payment later.”

  The slaadi withdrew their teleportation rods and Riven did the same. Just before Riven made the final turn, he sent his thoughts to Magadon and spoke a single word: Wayrock.

  The rod transported him across Faerûn in a breath and he appeared with the slaadi in a door-lined chamber, presumably within the tower the Sojourner had showed them. The walls, ceiling, and floor glowed faintly silver, casting enough light for Riven to see by.

  “The air feels strange,” Dolgan said.

  Azriim nodded.

  Both transformed into their natural bodies—mottled gray skin, sinew, claws, fangs—and sniffed the air.

  Riven felt nothing peculiar. He looked around the large chamber. Several doors led out to adjacent rooms and halls. The stylized door handles caught his eye. He stared at them, trying to discern their shape. When he did, the realization made his heart race.

  All of the hardware featured a similar motif: a jawless skull in a sunburst.

  The hairs on the nape of his neck rose. He understood in that moment what the Shadowlord had intended all along, why he had required Riven to escape with the slaadi from Demon Binder, why he had wanted Riven to play his part through to the end.

  The tower was once a temple to Cyric, Mask’s enemy. The Sojourner had taken the entire structure, and presumably murdered its priests. The god of shadows and thieves had manipulated all of them—all of them—to orchestrate the grandest theft of all. He’d arranged to steal an entire temple of the mad god.

  Riven marveled at the scheme. It had been a bold play, as bold as he had ever
seen. And he had been the Shadowlord’s hand in the play. Or at least one of Mask’s hands.

  He could not help but smile, and the smile turned into a chuckle.

  “You are amused?” Azriim said. The slaad held out his hand and examined his fingers, and his brow furrowed.

  “What is happening?” Dolgan asked. He too stared at his body as if it were a foreign thing.

  “Not amused,” Riven answered, still chuckling. “Free.”

  “Free from the Sojourner,” Azriim said, and nodded. His voice had grown deeper. His claws were longer. “What is happening to me?”

  “No,” Riven said. “Not from the Sojourner. From you two. From this charade.”

  Riven knew that Mask wanted him for one more thing.

  “What do you mean?” Azriim asked. The slaad’s gray skin bubbled and stretched, as if something were moving just under it.

  “Allies and enemies, slaad,” Riven said, and sneered. Riven’s feigned allegiance to the slaadi was over. He was allies only with Cale, his brother in faith.

  Azriim caught his tone and backed up a step. Dolgan began to growl.

  “Enemies, I take it?” Azriim asked.

  “Enemies it is,” Riven answered. He drew his blades. He knew that the Sojourner was not in the tower. It was just him and the slaadi.

  “You’re standing in my temple,” he said.

  Azriim’s gaze narrowed. “Your temp—”

  The word turned into a bestial scream that Dolgan echoed. The slaadi raised their hands to the ceiling and roared. Veins, muscle, and sinew lined their flesh.

  Riven stepped backward, unsure of what was happening.

  The slaadi began to change. As before, when Riven had watched the Sojourner transform them from green slaadi to gray, now they were transforming before his eyes into something even greater. A chaotic flash of colors sheathed the slaadi. Both went rigid; both roared at the ceiling. Their claws extended; tufts of skin sprouted from under their chins; they grew slightly in stature; fangs darkened; green-gray skin lost its mottling, became like dark slate.