Shadowstorm

CHAPTER TWO

15 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

The slim stone towers and high walls of the Abbey of Dawn perched atop a rise in southeastern Sembia, not far from the coast of the Dragon Sea. The three tapered spires of the abbey's east-facing chapel gave the impression of reaching for the heavens, of something about to take flight. The polished limestone walls and accents of rose-colored stone glittered in dawn's light. A pear orchard and a patchwork of barley and vegetable fields stood within the shadow of the walls-the harvest had already been brought in-and beyond that lay only the whipgrass of the plains, clusters of yellow and purple wildflowers, and copses of larch and ash. The winding wagon path that meandered through the plains from Rauthauvyr's Road to the north was barely visible in the swaying grass. Few used the path. The abbey served as a cloister for servants of Lathander and was almost entirely self-sufficient. Most who came spent years there.

As an adolescent, Abelar had worked the barley and turnip fields, carted bushels of pears from the orchard to the abbey, drawn water from the wells. The work had taught him the value and nobility in a day's hard labor.

As a man, he had stood watch on the abbey's walls and rode forth with his fellows of the Order of the Aster to do battle against darkness. His time in the Order had taught him the value of strong steel and courageous men and women.

But those days seemed far in the past. He had been away from the abbey for months. Schism had rent Lathander's church, had taken root in the abbey, and Abelar had been declared unwelcome. It saddened him that the abbey at which he had sworn his life to Lathander had become a kiln where heresy was hardened and the Morninglord's faith weakened.

"Abelar?"

Abelar's mind returned to the present. He sat atop his mare, Swiftdawn, amid the whispering grass, perhaps half a league from the abbey. The wagon path stretched before him. The rising sun warmed his cheek.

"You spoke?" Abelar asked Regg, who sat beside him on his roan mare, Firstlight.

"I asked if you were certain of this course," Regg said.

Road dust covered Regg's cloak and plate armor, and several days' growth of beard covered his cheeks. Regg eyed the abbey the way he might a skittish colt. Like Abelar, Regg also served Lathander, but he had not taken rites at the Abbey of Dawn.

Abelar nodded. "I am certain."

Regg's mare, sweaty and road weary, turned a circle and snorted in the cool air. Abelar's mare, too, snorted. Perhaps they smelled a wolf in the wind. Abelar stroked Swiftdawn's neck and whickered. She tossed her head but calmed.

Abelar and Regg had left the rest of the men in a village to the northwest and journeyed to the abbey alone. Abelar had been concerned that his appearance at the head of an armed force would be misconstrued. He had come to mend the rift as best he could. He needed to persuade with words, not weapons.

"Swiftdawn and Firstlight do not share your resolve," Regg said, patting his nervous mare.

"Our brethren are within that abbey, Regg."

Regg stilled Firstlight and scoffed. "Brethren? They are Risen Sun heretics. They look for their so-called Deliverance while the world collapses around them. What have they done since Mirabeta took power? Even Morninglord Duskroon in Ordulin sits idle. His silence ratifies Mirabeta's claims to power. I hardly recognize our faith, Abelar. Those who lead it are fools."

Abelar shook his head. "Lathander leads it, Regg. But some who follow have lost their way. They are misguided, but not fools. They will heed us. They will see the light."

He hoped that saying the words would make them so. The Risen Sun heresy had originated months ago and spread like a wildfire among many of Lathander's clergy, including those at the abbey. The heretics asserted that the Deliverance, an event in which the Morninglord would remake himself as the ancient sun god Amaunator, was imminent. The heretics so focused on gaining new converts and preparing the way for the Deliverance, which they presumed would not only remake Lathander but also usher in a new era of worship and hope, that they lost sight of the church's duty to Faerun. They wanted Lathander to change the world for them, rather than changing it themselves in Lathander's name.

"They will not heed us," Regg said. "And they may arrest us. They banished you, Abelar. Abbot Denril sent you from them."

Abelar nodded. "That, he did."

The memory pained him. Abelar had learned how to wield a blade and shield from Denril, long before the priest had become Abbot and taken charge of the abbey. Denril had sponsored Abelar's entry into the Order of the Aster after Abelar, at eighteen winters, had saved a passing caravan by slaying a rampaging ogre single-handedly. Denril also had presided over Abelar's dismissal from the Order and the abbey after Abelar had refused to acknowledge the truth of the Risen Sun heresy. Their parting had been bitter.

"He is as much politician as priest," Regg said with contempt.

"You underestimate him," Abelar said.

Regg looked at him from under his bushy brows. "I pray you are correct, but fear you are not. He would gain much were he to turn you over to Mirabeta."

Sunlight caught the flecks of mica embedded in the abbey's smooth walls and they sparkled like a dragon's trove. The stained glass arches set into the upper windows of the chapel's towers flashed in the sun.

When he had first come to the abbey, Abelar had sometimes snuck out before dawn just to sit in the grass, commune with Lathander, and watch the light from the rising sun grace the abbey. He missed the feeling of those days. They had been… innocent. It had been easy then to know friend from foe, right from wrong.

Much had changed.

"They will be at Dawnmeet," Regg said.

"We will give them time to finish," Abelar said, and turned Swiftdawn so that she faced the rising sun.

Regg did the same and they held their own Dawnmeet service, reciting a brief prayer together.

"Dawn dispels the night and births the world anew," they said in unison. "May Lathander light our way, show us wisdom, and in so doing, allow us to be a light to others."

They dismounted and took a meal of hardtack in silence. Like everyone in Sembia, they rationed their food. The priests in Abelar's company used their spells to provide the men with enough food to stave off hunger, but Abelar hoarded it like it was gold.

After they had eaten, they remounted and rode toward the abbey.

"The guards in the gatehouse will soon see us coming," Regg said. "They will be prepared for our arrival."

"Aye," said Abelar. He held his shield forward, in plain view, so that the rose of Lathander emblazoned on it would be visible.

Elyril and Mirabeta sat at a small table on the open-air balcony of the three-story tallhouse that the overmistress occupied while in Ordulin. Elyril wore a simple, long-sleeved dress to shield her pale skin from the morning sun. Her dark-haired aunt wore a formal green day gown.

A banner flying Sembia's heraldry-the raven and silver-hung from the roof eaves above them. Smaller pennons flanked it to either side, both flying Ordulin's golden wagon wheel on a field of green. All three flapped softly in the gentle breeze. The hum of conversation and the rumble of wagons carried up from the cobblestone street below. Elyril heard the occasional order barked by the uniformed Helms who kept the pedestrian traffic at a discreet distance from the overmistress's tallhouse.

One of Mirabeta's mute serving girls, pole-thin and sunken-eyed, stood unobtrusively near the open double doorway that led into the tallhouse. Mirabeta had brought her own staff to Ordulin from Ravenholme.

"The sunlight is pleasant," Mirabeta said.

Elyril and her aunt breakfasted on dried currants, day old bread, and a light, fruity wine from Raven's Bluff.

"It is," Elyril lied.

Mirabeta glanced up at the pennons. "I think I will change Sembia's colors to something that includes the Selkirk falcon."

The overmistress smiled, obviously pleased at the thought. She still held the same satisfied air she had worn since a rump session of the High Council had elected her War Regent. Elyril did not share her aunt's sense of ease. Since setting the Sembian civil war into motion, she had received contact from neither Volumvax nor the Nightseer, and her communions with Shar had resulted only in frustration. She did not fully understand her role in events and her ignorance irritated her. She felt herself on the verge of a revelation, but always it remained just out of reach. Only increasingly frequent use of minddust allowed her to endure the uncertainty.

"Malkur Forrin is returned to Ordulin," Mirabeta said. "The Hulorn escaped him. I received the news yesterday."

"That is regrettable," Elyril said. "How did the Uskevren manage to escape? Perhaps word of events reached him on the road?"

"I have no details yet," Mirabeta said, and sipped her wine. "My envoys to Cormyr and Cormanthyr report a favorable response to our overtures. Both the Regent and the new Coronal appear to accept the premise that our… current troubles are and should remain an internal Sembian affair."

"That is welcome news, aunt."

In truth, neither Cormyr nor the elves of Cormanthyr were in positions to take sides in the Sembian conflict. Both had recently fought wars of their own. Sighs of relief in Arabel and the elven halls had probably greeted Mirabeta's gentle demand that they remain neutral in Sembia's conflict.

Footfalls approached from within the tallhouse. Mirabeta's chamberlain, Turest Gillan, appeared in the doorway. A defect of birth-common among the Selkirks' inbred servants-caused his heavy-lidded eyes to look in two different directions. Tufts of gray hair jutted this way and that from his overlarge skull.

He stood in silence, waiting to be recognized. Elyril watched his form blur and shimmer, moving rapidly through time. He changed from adolescent to elderly and back to his fifty or so winters in the span of a heartbeat. Only Elyril seemed to notice the changes.

"Turest?" Mirabeta said at last.

The chamberlain bowed, avoiding eye contact, not an easy matter for a man who looked in two directions at once. Mirabeta would flog even her chamberlain for presuming to look her in the face. Elyril had once heard the chamberlain scream while being punished. He had a pleasant, high-pitched screech that amused her.

"A credentialed messenger has arrived, Overmistress. He bears a missive under seal from Yhaunn."

Mirabeta swallowed a currant and dabbed her mouth with a hand cloth. "Verify that the message is genuine. If so, bring it to me and extend such courtesies to the messenger as are appropriate. If not, bring it to me and have the messenger fed to the dogs."

"Yes, Overmistress."

Elyril and Mirabeta shared a curious glance as Turest exited the balcony. The mute serving girl, as quiet as a ghost, moved to the table and refilled their wine goblets, then returned to her station.

Elyril said, "Perhaps Endren Corrinthal has died in the Hole."

"Tymora has never favored me with such good fortune," Mirabeta said, but smiled nevertheless.

Turest returned shortly thereafter, bearing an ivory scroll tube traced in gold, its cap sealed in wax. He presented it to Mirabeta.

"Rynon has examined it and assures me that it bears no baleful magic or poison, Overmistress. The seal appears genuine."

"Well done, Turest," said Mirabeta.

Turest bowed, nodded at Elyril, and withdrew from the balcony.

Mirabeta examined the seal for herself, hummed her satisfaction, and cut the wax with her thumbnail. She popped the lid and withdrew several sheets of rolled vellum, also officially sealed. She broke the seal, unrolled the vellum, and read. Her expression changed from curious, to alarmed, to angry.

Elyril set down her wine glass. "Aunt?"

Mirabeta stared past Elyril. "Yhaunn has been attacked. The Nessarch reports that much of the lower city is in ruins. A kraken of enormous size rose from the sea and destroyed the lower districts."

Elyril could not keep the shock from her voice. "A kraken? Such a creature has not been seen in decades!"

Mirabeta continued. "He estimates over a thousand are dead and several times that are displaced. The docks are destroyed. The city's forces beat the creature off but a simultaneous raid on the Hole freed Endren Corrinthal. The attack from the sea appears to have been timed with the attack on the Hole. Endren and his rescuers leaped down a mineshaft but no bodies were found. Divinations confirm he is alive, but cannot locate him."

Elyril stared at her aunt, absorbing the import of the words, before softly speaking a curse so vile the mute serving girl gasped. Elyril waved the little wretch from the balcony. "You are dismissed. Begone. We are discussing matters of state."

When they were alone, Elyril said, "It could not have been Abelar Corrinthal who freed Endren. We have reports of him to the southeast. Who, then?"

"We have no word," Mirabeta said, crumbling the missive in her hands. "Damn it all." She glared with heat across the table. "I should have executed Endren in the public square. It was you who advised placing him in the Hole, Elyril."

Elyril kept her false face in place and her anger in check. She adopted a look of contrition.

"True, aunt. It seemed well advised at the time. I apologize for failing you."

Abasement always sated Mirabeta's anger. Her gaze softened and she made a dismissive gesture. "It was well advised at the time. Had we executed Endren, the civil war would have been fought on Ordulin's streets rather than in the countryside." She rocked her wine glass on its stem. "In any event, the Nessarch asks for as much aid as we can spare. Yhaunn's docks need to be rebuilt."

Elyril nodded. Yhaunn was the primary port through which Ordulin received its stores of food and supplies. Rebuilding its docks as rapidly as possible would be a priority.

"Allow me to fly Ordulin's standard in Yhaunn, aunt. That will assure the Yhauntans that Ordulin supports them fully and will allow me to investigate the details of Endren's escape. Perhaps there is more to be learned."

Mirabeta nodded. "A sound idea. Travel to Yhaunn as my ambassador. I will order the appropriate credentials prepared. Inform the Nessarch that aid is on the way. Then find out what you can about the escape. If there are traitors among the Yhauntans, I want them found out and made into examples. This time, the examples are to be public, Elyril."

"Of course, aunt," Elyril answered.

"Use magical transport. I want you in Yhaunn quickly."

"I will arrange for Rynon to transport me there." Elyril leaned back in her chair and thought through what she had heard. She said, "The timing of the kraken's attack and the attack on the Hole were not coincidental. And neither Selgaunt nor Saerb has the service of mages capable of controlling a kraken."

"We are of like mind. The affair lends credibility to rumors of an alliance between Sembia and the Shadovar." Mirabeta put a finger to her lips in thought. "Perhaps it is time to seek an ally of our own?"

"Aunt?" Elyril asked.

"Later, Elyril. Let me think more about the costs."

Elyril could do nothing but accept the words. Despite her attempts to know all she could about her aunt's affairs, Mirabeta kept some secrets to herself.

Elyril tapped her fingers on the table, eyeing the magical ring with which she communicated with the Nightseer.

"The Shadovar are said to be formidable mages, but few in number."

Mirabeta nodded absently. "At the moment, the Shadovar are beside the point. The rebels in Selgaunt and Saerb must be made to pay for the destruction at Yhaunn."

Elyril smirked. Selgaunt and Saerb were no more rebels than the day was dark. The rebellion was based on a fiction. But that was the power of a lie. Told often enough, even the liar started to believe it.

"That is true, aunt. This attack, if unavenged, makes Ordulin look weak."

Mirabeta frowned.

Elyril hurriedly added, "My apologies for saying so, Aunt, but…"

Mirabeta shook her head. "No. You are correct. We must respond, and quickly."

Elyril leaned forward and her shadow whispered Shar's will in her ear.

"I see an opportunity here, War Regent. The wanton destruction in Yhaunn will further incite the populace against Selgaunt and Saerb. You should announce the attack to the people, embellishing as needed. Then any response you make, any response at all, will be seen as justified."

Mirabeta picked up a dried currant, eyed it, chewed it thoughtfully. "What do you make of the freeing of Endren Corrinthal? It troubles me. The nobility in and around Saerb will rally to him."

Elyril leaned back and made a dismissive gesture. "I make nothing of it. The nobility around Saerb are merely a collection of rich merchants who decided they'd rather run their holdings from the countryside than the cities. Saerb's army, such as it is, will be little more than a collection of house guards, hireswords, and a few adventuring companies."

"But a skilled leader, a man like Endren Corrinthal, could transform them into an effective fighting force."

Elyril said, "I think you overestimate him, but if you are correct, then that is all the more reason to act quickly. Selgaunt and Saerb expect you to wait until spring to begin a campaign, but you need not delay. Ordulin is secured and you can already field an army of several thousand. Saerloon's muster proceeds apace. You could strike the rebels unprepared, seize the initiative before Endren can rally anyone, separate their forces by putting your armies between them. You could raze Saerb to the ground. The people would thank you for it and name you the avenger of Yhaunn. After that, Selgaunt. Lady Merelith has informed us of her ability to deploy rapidly. She could be before Selgaunt's gates within days of your order."

"Merelith wishes to expand her reach to include Saerloon and a conquered Selgaunt."

Elyril nodded. "And so long as she answers to Ordulin, what care you?"

Mirabeta looked across the table, thoughtful. She drove her thumbnail into a currant and said, "I am intrigued."

Elyril licked her lips, imagining the deaths. She said, "An immediate attack on Saerb has the added virtue of drawing Abelar Corrinthal into the open, if he dares."

They knew Abelar Corrinthal was riding through Sembia, gathering forces as he went. By all accounts, he'd had little success.

"He will dare," Mirabeta said, and looked across the table at Elyril. "He has a young son, born dumb. He will not abandon the boy to our forces, not if half of what I've heard of him is true."

A thrill of delight ran through Elyril. She imagined murdering Abelar's idiot son herself and offering the Lathanderian's despair and grief to Shar and Volumvax as sacrifice. She could not keep excitement from her tone.

"An attack on Saerb can end the Corrinthals in one stroke, War Regent. If we make examples of a few members of the northern nobility, the rest will quail. Selgaunt can be taken at your leisure."

Mirabeta pushed away her plate and toasted Elyril with her wine goblet. "I like this course, Elyril. I like it very much."

Elyril sat back in her chair, satisfied, and looked out over the city. In the distance, the dome of the High Council glimmered in the sunlight.

"Let us set things in motion," Mirabeta said, and rang the magical bell on the table to summon the chamberlain. He arrived within a twenty count.

"Overmistress?"

"Malkur Forrin can be reached through Ostrim Heem at The Dented Kettle inn. Send word that he is to attend me immediately. Also, send Rynon to me. He is to prepare a sending for Lady Merelith. Saerloon needs to be warned of the kraken and given the order to speed its muster."

Turest's bug-eyes widened, but he said only, "Yes, Overmistress. And I shall have the table cleared apace."

After Turest left, Elyril said, "Malkur Forrin?"

"If Saerb is to be an example to Selgaunt and the rest of Sembia, Forrin is exactly the type of man we want heading the attack. I will have words with him over allowing the Hulorn to escape. But war, like politics, is uncertain. Occasional setbacks are inevitable and sometimes owed to circumstance." She looked meaningfully at Elyril. "Repeated setbacks, however, are more often owed to incompetence. Keep that in mind, niece, on your travels to Yhaunn."

Elyril took her meaning but said nothing. She imagined how her aunt would scream when the Shadowstorm came and she died in darkness.

"Something amuses you?" Mirabeta asked.

Elyril shook her head. "No, aunt. I am merely enjoying the sunshine."

Abelar and Regg reached the abbey as the Dawnmeet finished. One solemn ring of the chapel's ceremonial gong carried over the walls and denoted the end of the service. The faithful would be dispersing to their duties even as the guards alerted the Abbot to the presence of visitors.

The gatehouse guards, armed with broadswords, wore yellow tabards over their breastplates and mail. They exited the gatehouse to stand before the immense double doors set into the abbey's walls. They eyed Abelar and Regg coolly. Four crossbowmen atop the wall leveled their weapons at Abelar and Regg.

"What is this?" Regg asked, eyeing a crossbowman. "Do we look as if we intend to storm the walls? You see the rose on our shields."

"We see it," one of the crossbowmen said darkly.

Abelar recognized the two guards standing before the doors. "Beld, Dak, come now. None of this is necessary. I return as your brother in faith."

Beld's young face reddened behind his thin beard. "You were not to return at all, Abelar."

Abelar swung down from Swiftdawn and stepped before Beld. He stood half a head taller than the young warrior. "True, Beld. But unexpected events have transpired. I must have word with the Abbot."

"He is at service-"

"Dawnmeet is finished," Abelar said softly. "The Abbot will retire to the chapel for private contemplation. I have not been away so long as to have forgotten that. He will see me, Beld. Tell him that I am here."

Beld looked at Dak, at Abelar. He sighed, nodded, and said to Dak, "Inform the Abbot that Abelar Corrinthal has returned and wishes an audience."

Dak eyed Abelar, Regg, and Beld, and hurried off.

"That is more like it," Regg said, and swung off his horse. He called up to the crossbowmen on the walls. "And take care to point those tips at the stone, you bastards."

The crossbowmen grumbled but lowered their weapons.

"It is good to see you again," Beld said to Abelar. "The light is still in you."

Abelar smiled. "It is."

Beld said, "I wish you would simply agree with the Abbot."

Abelar put a hand on Beld's shoulder. "Faith does not work so, Beld. You know that. We each must follow our own conscience. I must do what I must do. So must the Abbott. So must you. Remember that. And remember, too, that we are not so far apart, the Abbot and I. We both worship the Morninglord."

Beld looked doubtful but nodded.

Presently the crank in the gatehouse started to clink and the double doors in the abbey's wall creaked open. A balding, overweight priest in red and yellow robes awaited them within.

"Dawnbringer Asran," Abelar said, and inclined his head. "Light shine on you."

"And on you, Abelar Corrinthal." Asran nodded past Abelar at the dawn. "The risen sun is beautiful, is it not?"

Abelar caught the double meaning. "Its light feeds the rose," he answered, and turned to Beld. "You will see to our horses?"

"Aye," said the young man. "That, I will."

"I suspect we will not be long," Regg said under his breath.

Abelar and Regg turned over their reins to Beld. Abelar took the opportunity to put his back to Asran and speak softly to Regg. Beld did them the courtesy of pretending not to hear the exchange.

"Keep your peace with Asran, and with the Abbot when we see him. No hot words."

Regg looked both aggrieved and amused. "Perhaps you would prefer that I await you in the courtyard?"

Abelar shook his head. "No. I fear my memory of him will distort how I perceive his words. I will want your opinion of his demeanor afterward."

"Well enough."

With that, they turned and walked into the abbey. Asran smiled insincerely and said, "Welcome back, Abelar. The timing of your return is auspicious. The Abbot teaches that the Deliverance is near. I am pleased that you learned wisdom in time."

Abelar kept his tone even. "Nothing has changed, Asran. I am not come to embrace the Risen Sun."

The heavyset priest faltered in his steps. He looked shocked. "Why have you returned, then?"

"That is a matter for me and the Abbot."

Asran's cheeks flushed but he nodded and led them toward the chapel.

The sounds and smells of the smithy, the weaving looms, the swine pens, the stables, all recalled to Abelar his youth. Chickens scratched in the dirt, fluttered out of their path.

Work stopped as they passed. Abelar felt eyes on them throughout, some hostile, some sympathetic. The short walk across the grounds to the temple seemed to take all morning. The finely hewn doors to the chapel stood open. Stained glass panels flanked the doors, depicting a youthful Lathander holding aloft a newborn babe.

As it always had, the image reminded Abelar of the Nameday of his son. Eltha had died while giving birth but Elden had been born alive. Grief-stricken for his wife, Abelar nevertheless had swaddled the boy and taken him outside to see the world into which his mother had brought him. The overcast sky had been as gray as iron. Abelar had cradled his son close, thought of Eltha, and prayed to Lathander to bless them both and light the paths of their lives. Father and son had both cried when the clouds parted and the sun shone through.

As Elden had grown, all who knew him could see that he had been born simple. Abelar loved him all the more for it. Elden laughed and cried with uncensored abandon.

"Abelar?" Asran called, his tone irritated. The priest was five steps ahead of Abelar, standing on the chapel's portico.

"Are you all right?" Regg asked.

Abelar nodded. "I was thinking of my son. I'm well. Come."

The Abbot gave them an audience in the circular private chapel off the main worship hall. Asran opened the wooden door, nodded for them to enter, and closed it behind them.

Two circular rows of birch pews surrounded a veined marble statue of Lathander in his guise as a hale young man, smiling, with both arms reaching upward in welcome. Above the sculpture, morning light poured in through the round stained glass window of a golden sunrise set into the arched ceiling. The light drenched the room in reds, yellows, and oranges.

Abelar frowned. The window had been changed since he had last been to the temple. Previously, the glass had shown a red rose radiating beams of yellow light. The new sunrise motif was an acknowledgment of the Risen Sun heresy.

The Abbot stood near the statue, bathed in the light of his new window, and watched them enter. He did not smile. He wore robes of yellow and red embroidered with a rising sun motif at the breast. Long gray hair hung loose against his careworn face. His voice was a commanding baritone, seemingly too large to be contained by his thin body. Abelar had heard the Abbot utter hundreds of heart-soaring sunrise sermons. He had also heard him utter heresies.

"You have returned though you were exiled from these walls."

Abelar bowed. "You know I would not have violated your edict if the matter were not urgent. It is gracious of you to see us. My thanks."

"And mine," Regg said, though his voice was tight.

The Abbot did not acknowledge Regg. His intelligent brown eyes searched Abelar's face as he asked, "Have you finally seen the light, Abelar?"

Abelar answered, "What wisdom I had then, I have now."

The Abbot frowned. "Quite so, then." He gestured at the ceiling. "Do you approve of the new window?"

Abelar heard the real question and answered accordingly. "It is well crafted but lacks substance. I prefer the rose to the Risen Sun."

The Abbot feigned a smile. "I see. Well, as you said, what wisdom you had is what wisdom you have."

Regg scoffed and started to speak but Abelar put up a hand to stop him. He asked, "May we approach and sit, Denril?"

The Abbot cocked his head. "No title, Lord Corrinthal? Have we fallen so far?"

Abelar let his words speak for themselves and the silence stretched. Finally Denril gestured at a pew and said, "Yes. Sit. Please. You must be road weary. Shall I have refreshment brought?"

He moved as if to summon Asran but Abelar stayed him with an upraised hand and a shake of his head. "Our thanks, but no. We cannot stay long. My men await our return."

Abelar and Regg walked down the aisle to the center of the circle. Both made obeisance before the statue of Lathander and sat. Denril remained standing and spoke. "You are a criminal, you know. As is your father. Or so says the overmistress."

"The overmistress is a liar. But you know that already," Abelar said evenly.

The Abbot made a dismissive gesture and circled the statue. "As are all politicians. What I know is that you remain outside the Light and spend your energies on political matters. You are stubborn, Abelar. Prideful. The Deliverance is at hand. I see the signs all around, as does anyone with clear eyes. Come back to us before it is too late."

Regg shifted uncomfortably in the pew. Abelar chose his words carefully.

"I see signs around us, Denril, but not signs of the Deliverance. I see signs of evil waxing. Meanwhile, good men sit idle. The church sits idle, content with its holdings. You sit idle."

The Abbot frowned and shook his head. "You are mistaken, but you have always seen things in such a way. This is no epic struggle, Abelar. It is base politics and it is beneath you. I blame your father for dragging you into this mud."

Abelar stiffened. "That is the second time you have mentioned my father with derision. Do not do so again."

"He is a murderer, not so?"

Abelar felt warm but controlled his building rage. Regg must have sensed it; he put a hand on Abelar.

"That is the last time I will tell you, Denril," Abelar said. "Do not mention my father so."

Regg stood. "Perhaps we should take our leave…"

The Abbot's gaze turned to a hard stare. "Why have you come, Abelar? Do you wish my aid and that of the Church? You will have neither. You see evil ascendant? You are a deluded heretic. This is a political dispute. Nothing more."

Abelar rose from his seat. He could hardly believe his ears. "Has your reason abandoned you? A political dispute, you say?"

The Abbot stepped forward to face him, anger in his eyes. Regg interposed himself between them.

"Yes. What care I for who rules Sembia? The faith will persevere whoever holds power. And the faith is more important than the realm or who rules it. Converts flock to the Morninglord's temple each day. That will increase as war brews."

"You are mad," Abelar said, before wisdom could stop the words.

"All right…" Regg said.

The Abbot shook his head. "You cannot see beyond your own worldly concerns. The Deliverance will soon be upon us. My duty to the Morninglord is to win converts to his cause, not to choose sides in a civil war."

The Abbot's words might as well have been coming from the mouth of a stranger. Abelar said, "You win converts because you offer them a faith of ease. They are taught to sit on their hands and wait for their god to deliver them. But he never will. That is not his way."

"I offer them a faith of hope. And what do you know of his way?"

"What do I know-"

"We are leaving," Regg said, and tried to push Abelar toward the door. Abelar would not have it.

"You offer a lie," Abelar spat, and found the volume of his voice increasing. "There will be no Deliverance. It is heresy."

Regg cursed softly.

The Abbot answered with a shout. "A heresy!? You dare say so in these halls?"

"Calmer words, men," Regg said, but the Abbot ignored him.

"You are blind, Abelar Corrinthal! And when the Deliverance comes, you will be left behind!"

Abelar scoffed and pointed an accusatory finger at his former mentor. "Darkness is coming, not Deliverance, and when it does, you will realize your folly."

The doors to the chapel flew open and a half-dozen priests and men-at-arms burst inside, maces bare.

Regg moved Abelar away from the Abbot.

"All's well here," Regg said to the men.

The Abbot snarled at Abelar. "I should arrest you and take you to Ordulin for trial."

"Shall I, Abbot?" asked one of the men-at-arms, a young, overeager convert who could barely grow a beard.

Regg let Abelar go, put a hand to his hilt, and stared at the young man. "Try it, boy, and you'll not have to wait for your deliverance."

Abelar heard the hardness of Regg's words and they brought him back to himself. He would not have bloodshed within the faith, not within the walls of one of its temples. With effort, he regained his composure, chided himself for losing his temper, and looked to his onetime friend and teacher.

"You will not arrest me, Abbot," he said gently. "We have not fallen so far as that."

The Abbot stared at him, his face still flush, his heavy breathing audible. Finally, he said, "Go, Abelar. Never return here. I will have you arrested if I see you again."

The words stung Abelar but he nodded. He turned, gathered Regg to his side, and walked through the crowd of Lathanderians, once his brethren. They glared at him and he did not have the strength to offer his own in return. His legs felt weak under him.

As he walked through the door of the chapel, the Abbot called after him, "I receive the power to cast spells in the Morninglord's name every morning, Abelar. Think on that. If what I believed was a lie, why would I still receive such a boon?"

Abelar did not turn or slow. He had no answer. He, too, could channel divine power in the Morninglord's name. As could Regg. He did not understand why his god would allow both sides of the schism to claim his blessing. Abelar presumed that Lathander had a purpose in prolonging the dispute, but he could not see it.

They exited the chapel and entered the courtyard. Regg shouted for their horses. The crowd of priests and warriors followed them out of the chapel. The eyes of those in the courtyard regarded them with hostility. Some fell in with the priests and warriors.

"He is lost in the depths of his doctrine," Abelar said to Regg, shaking his head.

"Aye," Regg said, and nodded. He turned a circle and shouted to all of those looking on them, "And so are you all lost! To the man!"

Some among the onlookers murmured angrily.

"Away from here," shouted one.

"Begone," yelled another.

"Gladly," Regg answered.

Beld brought forth their horses and Abelar and Regg swung into their saddles.

"I did not have time to even remove their saddles," Beld said, indicating the horses. "And they are temperamental beasts."

"It is the company here," Regg said, and patted Firstlight.

Abelar looked to Beld and smiled. "Thank you, Beld. You are a good man."

Beld looked stricken. "I am sorry it has come to this, Abelar."

Abelar nodded. "As am I. Be well."

With that, they rode out. Abelar knew it would be the last time. A black mood descended on him. Lathander would not be pleased that he allowed a darkness to root in him but he could not stop it. He had lost the father of his blood to the Hole of Yhaunn and now had lost the father of his soul to a heresy.

"The sun rises and sets," he murmured to himself.

As they rode outside of crossbow range, Regg clapped Abelar on the shoulder and chuckled. "And you told me not to speak with heat."

Abelar could not bring himself to smile. "I was in error."

"You were not."

Regg's words did nothing to comfort him. "I miss my son, Regg."

He had left Elden, only four winters old, with a nurse back in the family estate near Saerb. Abelar wanted nothing more in that moment than to frolic in the sun and play orcs and knights with his boy.

Regg nodded and gave Abelar a sympathetic pat. He looked away and said nothing.

A call from behind turned them around. Three horsemen tore down the wagon path from the abbey. Rucksacks of gear swung crazily from their saddles. The horsemen waved a hand and shouted for Regg and Abelar to wait.

"That is Beld," Regg said, shielding his eyes. "With two others."

"It is."

Regg smiled. "We lost an Abbot but gained three blades. I will take that trade."

Abelar waved a welcome at Beld and his comrades. "The sun rises and sets," he said, this time in a firm voice.

Elyril and Mirabeta awaited Malkur Forrin in the tapestry bedecked meeting rooms within the overmistress's tallhouse. Elyril had gone several hours without a snuff of minddust and the lack made her irritable.

Bookshelves packed with scrolls and tomes lined two of the room's walls. Elyril eyed them and imagined holding in her hands the book to be made whole. Its lack, too, made her irritable.

Late morning sunlight carried through the large, leaded glass windows. Elyril sat in a soft armchair in a shadowed corner, out of the direct light. She leered at the shadows the sunlight cast on the wall and they leered back. She idly twisted the magical amethyst ring on her finger. She tried to remove the band but it stuck on her knuckle. She pulled harder and still it would not come off. She cursed it softly and the shadows laughed.

The ceiling creaked as the servants went about their business on the second floor. The sound grated on Elyril, made her itch behind the eyes.

"Aunt, I am eager to begin my preparations for the trip to Yhaunn. Perhaps I should retire to my suite and see to matters?"

She started to stand, imagining the welcome sting of minddust in her nostrils, the mind-opening perspective, the calm…

Mirabeta, who sat in a high-backed chair in the center of the chamber, did not look at her. "No. I want you here when Forrin arrives."

Elyril grimaced and gestured obscenely at her aunt's back. She walked to Mirabeta's side and drove her heel into her aunt's shadow on the floor. The shadow's wails delighted her but she kept the satisfaction from her face. The twisted faces that lived in the chamber's table laughed for her.

"I am your servant, Overmistress."

For now, whispered the faces.

A rap on the chamber door announced Malkur Forrin's arrival.

"Enter," Mirabeta called.

Turest opened the door and Malkur Forrin strode past him. Forrin brought with him the smell of leather, oiled steel, and the road. A chain hauberk hung from his shoulders, a broadsword from his belt. An open-faced helm capped his head. He doffed the helm, showing his graying hair and scars, and bowed.

"Overmistress. Lady Elyril. It is a pleasure to once more be in your company."

"That is all, Turest," Mirabeta said, and the chamberlain closed the door behind Forrin.

Forrin said, "My ladies, the payment we received was less than that to which we agreed. I have sent messengers to you and-"

Mirabeta's voice froze the room. "That is because the performance we received was less than that to which we agreed."

The mercenary's eyes narrowed in a question. "In what regard, Overmistress?"

Mirabeta's voice remained calm. "The Hulorn lives, does he not?"

Irritation creased Forrin's tanned brow. "He does, but what of it?"

"He is a man I asked you to kill," Mirabeta said, her voice rising with each word. "He is a man who, having survived your attack, entered into an alliance with the Shadovar of Shade Enclave."

Malkur drew himself up, crossed his hands behind his back, and stuck out his whiskered chin. "That is unfortunate, but hardly my fault. And may I remind the Overmistress that Miklos and Kavin Selkirk lie in unmarked graves in the wilderness-as you wished-while Saerloon is allied to your cause, believing itself attacked by rebels-also as you wished. All of that is due to Malkur Forrin and his Blades. Surely you do not intend to focus on the escape of a single man to renege on your bargain?"

Mirabeta rapped her fist on the table and glared at Forrin. "No. I choose to focus on the Hulorn's escape because allowing it was a failure, and I do not tolerate failure, in matters large or small."

Malkur's lips curled in a snarl, revealing a couple of missing teeth, and he put a hand to his sword hilt, a gesture Elyril marked not as a threat, but as habit.

"Failure?" he said. "Overmistress, the Hulorn was aided in his escape by a shade-no doubt a Shadovar, which suggests that the alliance you mentioned was in place before he escaped me and would have continued whether he lived or died. But still we would have had him. Only the arrival of Abelar Corrinthal's forces saved him."

"An excuse," Elyril observed.

Malkur glared at Elyril, back at Mirabeta. "An excuse? Perhaps if the younger Corrinthal had not been allowed to escape Ordulin, matters would have turned out differently. What of that failure?"

"That was a political decision," Elyril said.

"An excuse," Forrin answered with a sneer.

Elyril affected a thoughtful expression and looked to her aunt. "Aunt, did I mishear or did this mercenary just imply that Abelar Corrinthal is a better field commander than he? Perhaps we should-"

Malkur stiffened at the slight. "Hardly, Milady. Corrinthal's forces outnumbered mine more than two to one. And as I have already explained to the overmistress-"

"Shut your mouth," Mirabeta said harshly, and Malkur, eyes wide with surprise, did exactly that. Mirabeta continued. "You come into my presence and speak with such insolence?"

Before Forrin could stutter a reply, Mirabeta said, "Do you think that your knowledge of recent events insulates you from my anger? That it frees your tongue to speak to me as if I am one of your sergeants? I assure you, it does not."

Malkur's eyes went from surprised to sly. "I know what has happened here, Overmistress. I am a soldier but no fool. You have lied your way into a war, probably murdered your own cousin. I am pleased with both matters, but let us at least be candid with one another. Your grip on power depends upon those lies remaining as buried as Kendrick's sons."

Mirabeta sat as still as the dead. "My hold on power depends on nothing of the sort. What you think to have occurred is utterly unimportant. Are you so stupid as to think that the truth matters? Are you?"

"We are past that," Elyril said, nodding.

Mirabeta said, "I speak and the nobility and the rest of the populace believe what I say. The words no longer matter. They wish to believe me. They need to believe me."

Elyril saw the opening offered by her aunt and took it.

"So you go tell your tale, mercenary. And the overmistress will respond by saying that Malkur Forrin is a treasonous liar who seeks to discredit her to avenge his removal from the Sembian military by the Selkirk family."

"That is not so," Malkur said dismissively.

Elyril said, "You will be imprisoned in the Hole and die there."

"Overmistress…"

Mirabeta followed Elyril's lead. "Malkur Forrin and his Blades are Zhentarim all, and were behind a plot to murder the overmistress and replace her with a shapeshifter in her guise."

"Another lie," Malkur said, but less dismissively. Elyril saw nervousness sneaking into his eyes.

"You will be hanged for treason," Mirabeta said.

"Overmistress, I…"

Elyril stared into his grizzled face and amused herself by interrupting him with a half-truth. "Malkur Forrin is an agent of Sharrans. And it was the Church of Shar that secretly backed the rebellion of Selgaunt and Saerb. He wishes the overmistress dead and Sembia covered in darkness."

"Outrageous!" Malkur said, and took a step backward.

Elyril did not let up. "You will be tortured and finally drawn for your crimes. Your life will end in screams."

Malkur stood mute, dumbfounded. At last he said, "There are many witnesses among my men."

"Their words are as nothing," Elyril said. "They are loyal to you, not the state. They will agree with our account or they will share your grave."

Mirabeta nodded and spoke in a soft tone. "Grounds for your torture and execution can be invented at any time, dear Malkur. None will question it, and what you think is the truth will die with you. My grip on power is firm. Quite firm. Do you understand?"

The mercenary's eyes darted from Elyril to Mirabeta to the wall to the floor. Elyril could fairly see his mind working. Soon she saw acceptance in his expression.

"I understand, Overmistress."

Mirabeta stared at him for a moment, then gestured at the chair across from her. "Excellent. Only now have we been truly candid with one another. You have no leverage with me. Not now, not ever. I am the overmistress and War Regent. Do not forget it. Now, sit."

Malkur slid into the proffered seat, contrite. The twisted faces in the table mocked him.

"I am your servant, Overmistress," he said. "Forgive my presumption."

Mirabeta said, "You are forgiven. And you are more than my servant. You are my Commander General. As of this moment. The proclamation will go out this day."

Malkur looked surprised that his fortunes could so rapidly turn.

Elyril smiled at him. "Welcome back to the Sembian military."

"Thank you, Overmistress. Milady. You are most generous."

"You will lead a force on Saerb," Mirabeta said.

"When, Overmistress?"

"Immediately."

He nodded. "As you wish." He licked his lips and looked meaningfully at Mirabeta. "I will see to these matters now… unless I might be of service to the overmistress in another way before I depart?"

Mirabeta kept her eyes on Malkur and dismissed Elyril with a wave of her hand. "Elyril, see to the drafting of your credentials and the proclamation appointing Malkur Commander General. Turest will assist you."

"Yes, aunt," Elyril said, relieved to be free of duties to her aunt.

She exited the chamber and hurried to her room, to Kefil, to her minddust, to her dreams of shadows.

Phraig dreamed of a wind of screams and a snowstorm that scalded his skin in fire.

He awoke, heart pounding, eyes on the cracked plaster of the ceiling. His wife lay asleep beside him, her breathing slow and steady.

He had heard something, hadn't he? Or perhaps he had only dreamed it? He swallowed to wet his throat, lay still, and listened.

He heard nothing.

He let out a slow breath and tried to calm himself. His dreams had been haunted since his ordeal in the Hole. He knew the servants of Mask had not died after leaping down the shaft. Everyone knew. The guards had sought bodies and found none.

Since the attack, his fellows had looked at him askance, had not invited him to dice and cards. Almost a score of guards had died in the attack and Phraig knew his fellow guards held him responsible.

But they had not seen the shadowmen. They had not stared into the one good eye of a killer and seen an emptiness there as black as the Hole itself. Looking back, Phraig did not believe the shadowmen had been men at all. They had been… something else, and every one of his fellows would have done just as he had. His choice had been to resist and die or comply and live. He had a wife. He had wanted to live.

Staring at the ceiling, he determined, suddenly and with perfect clarity, that he would quit the guard. He could find work helping rebuild the docks. Laborers would be needed for months and he had a strong back. He could wield a hammer as well as a sword.

The decision lightened his mood. He thought of a new beginning, placed a hand on Aria's hip, closed his eyes, and slept.

A sound from the other room awakened him-a soft rattle, as of metal on metal. The air felt chill. His heart jumped anew and he opened his eyes. Aria still slept soundly beside him.

Careful not to disturb her, he swung his legs off the bed and put his feet on the wooden floor. He licked his lips, closed a fist on the hilt of the dagger he kept on the side table near the bed.

Moving slowly and silently, he rose-careful to avoid stepping on the chamber pot-and padded across the small bedroom, trying to shake off the blurriness of sleep. His wife did not stir.

There. The rattle again. It came from the front door.

A burglar? Or perhaps a drunk at the wrong door?

The bedchamber door, ajar, separated their sleeping quarters from the rest of their two-room garret. He pulled open the door with his free hand and looked out.

Darkness, pierced only by the soft glow of embers in the small fireplace. He licked his lips, studied the room, and saw nothing but their meager furnishings. He moved silently across the room to the entryway and quickly checked the hook lock.

Still fastened.

Sweat slicked him. His breath came fast. He could not explain it but he felt dread in his bones. He stood in the dark, breathing heavily, listening, certain that someone lurked on the other side of the door, separated from him by nothing more than a thin slab of weathered wood. He clutched the dagger in a sweaty fist. He would not be taken unawares. Drunk or burglar, they would find him ready.

He put his ear to the wood and listened.

He heard breathing, the deep respiration of powerful lungs.

But not from the other side of the door.

From right behind him.

A presence filled the room and stole the air. The room grew so cold Phraig could see his breath. Fear seized him. He whirled, gasping.

What he saw paralyzed him with terror. The dagger fell from his hand. He felt his mouth hanging open but could not close it. He gaped at a giant figure with glowing red flesh, white eyes, black wings, and horns. The fiend held a black clawed finger to its lips for silence-and smiled.

Phraig could only stare. His vision went blurry. His heart sounded like a drum in his ears. The room spun. He felt ice gather on his beard and eyebrows. He saw only the fiend's white eyes.

"Phraig?" Aria called from their bedroom, her voice slurred from sleep. She might as well have been calling from another world.

The diabolical figure looked at the bedroom door, back at Phraig, and raised an eyebrow.

"I hope your mate is attractive," it said, and enveloped Phraig in darkness.