Shadowstorm

CHAPTER THREE

18 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

The setting sun clipped partially below the horizon, setting the roof of the world aflame and casting Selgaunt into shadow. Clouds as thin and dry as old bone lined the sky. Tamlin knew they would offer no respite from the drought in the north.

He stared out a window of the western tower in the Hulorn's palace and looked out on his city, a city swollen with refugees who would feed on anything, and fear that would feed on itself. He could not shed the impression that Selgaunt was barely holding its ground, that the continuing press of stinking, sweating humanity that flooded into it by the day must soon push it by sheer weight of numbers into the dark waters of the Inner Sea.

Apprehension hung as thick as fog in the air. War was coming.

He watched as the sun fell below the horizon and Selgaunt went dark. Night summoned the linkboys. Street lanterns flared to life, chasing the darkness and turning Selgaunt's streets into radiant serpents that slithered between rows of packed shops, inns, and residences. Only the northwest corner of the city, not far from Temple Avenue, remained unlit. The Shadovar, housed in a makeshift embassy there, preferred the darkness.

To the east Tamlin could see the Khyber Gate. Though he could not see them, he knew a crowd had gathered there, a throng of rickety people with their rickety wagons. No matter how many refugees entered the city each day, the next day brought still more, sometimes by the handfuls, sometimes by the score. There was little to keep them on their farms, and all feared being caught outside of the city's walls when Ordulin's forces arrived.

Tamlin allowed all of them entry, despite the food shortage. He had ordered every priest in the city capable of doing so to use their god-given magic to create food and clean water. The priesthoods had resisted his overt encroachment on their self-perceived prerogative, but he had forced them. The soldiers and militiamen, hungry from training and most in need of their strength, ate first, then the rest of the populace. Stomachs still grumbled, but no one was starving. His actions had won him the affection of the people and the anger of the priesthoods.

In the immediate aftermath of Ordulin's declaration of war on Selgaunt and Saerb, many citizens had fled the city. The raft folk had been the first to flee, in an immense flotilla of barges festooned with colorful cloth and pennons. Some among the wealthy had found sudden "business" to occupy them abroad. Even Tamlin had quietly sent his mother, sister, and brother-over their objections-to Daerlun, ostensibly to court a pledge of neutrality from Daerlun's High Bergun, but really to remove them from harm. Most of the priests and priestesses had even abandoned the city, possibly in spiteful response to Tamlin's edicts. Only two or three clerics remained in each temple, and even those would have fled had Tamlin not forbade them from abandoning the city.

The flight was over now. Those still within Selgaunt's walls were those who would make a stand there. The city was transforming before his eyes from a rich mercantile capital into a hungry military encampment.

Squads of armed men in green tabards and weathercloaks moved in formation down the wide streets by night, and militia drilled in the commons and outside the walls by day. Scouts prowled the roads leading into the city. Workmen thronged the gates and walls. The clang of hammers, the cut of saws, and the sound of chisels striking stone carried through the air day and night.

Engineers supervised the reinforcement of the walls and gates, secured grates in the sewers, constructed an apparatus to drop part of the High Bridge into the Elzimmer River, built a battery of trebuchets, and oversaw the digging of cisterns to provide water during the inevitable siege. Tamlin had drained half of Selgaunt's treasury financing the work. If necessary, he would requisition the wealth of the Old Chauncel and the temples for additional monies. When Mirabeta's army came, it would find Selgaunt prepared. Or so he told himself.

When word of war had first circulated, Tamlin had worried about insurrection. He had feared the people would rise up, overthrow him and the Old Chauncel, and turn all of them over to Mirabeta in order to avert a war. But insurrection had never happened. He was not sure how, when, or why it had occurred, but citizens of the city had resigned themselves to war under his command. They would defend their city and their holdings.

The responsibility sat on him like a lead hundredweight.

The bells of the Temple of Song sounded the seventh hour. Tamlin saw the pennons atop the bell tower fluttering in the breeze. He knew Temple Avenue would be crowded for evening services. Desperation and fear filled temples better than any sermon. Even itinerant street preachers of obscure gods found a ready congregation for their words.

Tamlin found no succor in faith. He had learned from his father to make all the expected offerings to Tymora, to Waukeen, and lately, to Tempus, God of Battle, but they were only gestures, empty of meaning. He found himself mildly envious of people of faith: Vees Talendar, even Mister Cale. The faithful had a religion with which to anchor their lives. Tamlin's sorcery offered nothing of the kind. He had no anchor, and the waters were growing rougher each day.

A breeze off the bay carried the tang of salt and fish. Ships filled the harbor, some laden with timber and quarried stone for building, others with much needed food purchased by Selgauntan agents in the markets of Westgate, Teziir, and Starmantle. Countless torches, lanterns, and glowballs made the docks the brightest lit area of the city. An army of dock workers and sailors unloaded crates, sacks, barrels, and weapons. Far out into the bay, bobbing pinpoints of light marked the locations of the handful of under-equipped caravels that constituted Selgaunt's navy. It would not be long before Saerloon's warships would try to close the sea lanes.

Tamlin looked north, out over the river, past the High Bridge. He could see little. Darkness swallowed the plains. He imagined enemies out in the black. Each morning he awakened with the fear that he would see Ordulin's banners flying on the horizon at the head of an advancing army. Or perhaps Saerloonian pennons from the east would presage the beginning of the siege.

He could not remember how he had ended up standing where he stood. Events had moved so fast he scarcely had time to comprehend them, much less react to them. Dread ate at him. He knew it, but could do nothing to help himself. He slept little.

His hopes, such as they were, lay with the Shadovar. He had nothing else. The Shadovar alliance would save the city, or Selgaunt would fall and Tamlin would die.

He took a deep breath, smelled a distant fire on the air. He turned and called back into his chambers, where Thriistin, his chamberlain, awaited his command.

"Send for Lord Rivalen. I think the populace should see us together."

He did not say that he, too, found reassurance in the Shadovar ambassador's presence.

Cloaked in more than a dozen protective wards, Mirabeta sat alone at a small table in The Rouged Cheek, an expensive festhall in the Trade District of Ordulin. A magical hat of disguise masked her identity, giving her the appearance of Rynon, her house mage. As such, she tried to look interested in the surroundings. Her contact had requested that she meet him here. She had been instructed to pick any table, have a goblet of wine, and wait. She had done just that.

Paintings of men and women engaged in sex play-sometimes in pairs, sometimes in groups-covered the walls. Provocative, well-proportioned statuary stood on pedestals and in wall niches. A bearded minstrel sat on a stool on a corner stage, strumming a mandolin. Shirtless young men and scantily-clad young women lounged languidly on overstuffed divans, couches, and benches. The sweet smell of perfume and the pungent aroma of incense and sex filled the air. Laughter tinkled. Conversation hummed.

Men and women of wealth, most of them holding masks before their features, moved through the courtesans, evaluating, flirting, partaking of narcotics and spiced wine. From time to time, a pair or group would retire upstairs for a private encounter. The looming civil war and the food shortage had done nothing to curb the appetites of Ordulin's wealthy. Perhaps it had even increased their desires, as they sought escape in purchased pleasures.

A slim, dark-haired woman in a form-fitting gown of violet silk approached Mirabeta's table. She held before her face a pale, ceramic mask of a nymph with laughing eyes and a bright smile. Mirabeta could see only her strikingly green eyes.

"You have not touched your wine," the woman said.

"I am waiting for someone."

"Indeed."

The woman pulled back a chair with her foot and sat down.

Mirabeta looked at the slight woman, puzzled. She looked as fragile as glass, hardly what Mirabeta anticipated in a follower of The Scaly Way.

"Morthan?" Mirabeta asked, mentioning the name-or at least the alias-of the merchant who served as her sometime contact with the Cult of the Dragon.

"Morthan is otherwise occupied. You have me instead."

Mirabeta absorbed that. She disliked surprises. "You are authorized to speak for the Cult?"

The woman nodded. "I am. And here is what I say: My mistress, Aurgloroasa, is mildly intrigued by the overmistress's offer."

The minstrel's playing ceased, so Mirabeta lowered her voice so that she would not be overheard.

"The offer will expire soon. 'Mildly intrigued' is not a commitment. My mistress, the Overmistress of Sembia, requires a firm promise of assistance with the problem of Selgaunt."

An adolescent serving boy approached the table with a tray of crystal goblets and a decanter of wine.

"Wine, milady? Goodsir?" he asked.

Mirabeta declined but the young woman said, "Please."

The boy poured a glass, bowed, and stepped away. The young woman did not drink, but moved the glass before the empty chair to Mirabeta's left.

The minstrel appeared, abruptly pulled back the chair, and sat.

"What is this?" Mirabeta said, pushing her chair back and beginning to stand.

"Please stay seated," the young woman said softly. "Please."

Mirabeta lowered herself back into her chair, eyeing the minstrel. None of the Cheek's patrons seemed to have noticed, or they did not care.

The young woman said, "Vendem is my associate."

Vendem drank the goblet of wine in a single gulp and smiled a mouthful of overlarge teeth. As Mirabeta watched, his brown eyes turned green, with vertical reptilian slits, then back again.

"Well met," he said, in a baritone as rough as gravel.

Mirabeta knew instantly what he was. She steadied her breath and controlled her heartbeat. She was not fearful for her safety. Rynon maintained a contingency spell on her person that would whisk her instantly to the chambers in her tallhouse if she were attacked. No, it was not fear she felt, but awe. She was sitting in a festhall beside a force of nature. She had seen the destruction a dragon could wreak during the Dracorage.

"I hear your heart… milady," the dragon said.

Mirabeta started to protest but the dragon held up a calloused hand with fingernails like claws. He leaned in her direction, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

"Your appearance is a fraud. You are female, over forty winters in age, and last bathed two, perhaps three days ago. The smell of sex is still on you from about as many-"

"Enough," Mirabeta snapped.

The dragon chuckled.

"More wine," he called loudly, and the pretty boy scrambled over to refill his cup. "Leave the decanter," the dragon said, and the boy did.

After the boy had departed, the masked woman said, "Intriguing. You are actually a woman. You show little fear at the presence of a dragon and give orders as one accustomed to obedience." She looked across the table at the dragon and cocked her head. Mirabeta could imagine her smiling behind the mask. "Vendem, I warrant we are in the presence of the overmistress herself."

Mirabeta saw no point in denying the claim. She said, "We were discussing the offer. My offer."

The dragon chuckled and a thin stream of acrid green smoke floated from his nostrils. The smell burned Mirabeta's nose and made her eyes water. She waved her hand in the air to disperse it.

The dragon was a green, his breath a burning, deadly gas.

The woman, seemingly unbothered by the gas, said, "Respectfully, Overmistress, you have made only a request, not an offer."

Mirabeta understood the point. She said, "The Shadovar are allied with Selgaunt. Should my armies lose this war, the Shadovar will have established themselves in Sembia. Not far from Daerlun."

The dragon growled.

Mirabeta had learned that the Cult of the Dragon regarded the Shadovar with hostility. She did not know why and did not need to know. She also knew that the Cult had a strong presence in Daerlun. A Shadovar presence in Selgaunt would pose a threat to their continued operations.

"As I said," the young woman continued, trying to appear casual, "Aurgloroasa is intrigued."

Mirabeta eyed the woman. "My time is limited. Make your demands known."

"Very well. Free rein entirely in Daerlun and Urlamspyr."

Mirabeta scoffed and countered. "Daerlun only. It is as much Cormyrean as Sembian. And the Cult is to be entirely out of Ordulin."

The young woman leaned back in her chair and regarded Mirabeta through the eyeholes of her mask. "Saerloon, Urlamspyr, and Selgaunt remain as ever they were?"

Mirabeta nodded. "If your agents are caught there, they will be punished."

The young woman considered, and said, "Done, Overmistress. Be assured that Aurgloroasa will hold you to your bargain."

"And I to hers," Mirabeta answered. "Now, where is my assistance?"

The current state of affairs flashed through the overmistress's mind. Forrin and his forces were already marching on Saerb. She had received word from Lady Merelith that the muster in Saerloon was almost complete. Merelith's mages had perfected a stratagem to bring the battle to Selgaunt quickly, and Mirabeta wanted to capitalize on it. But the Selgauntan alliance with the Shadovar concerned her. She could not afford a prolonged siege. If she could put a dragon at Saerloon's disposal, the siege of Selgaunt would be short indeed.

The young woman gestured at Vendem. "You have met your assistance. Overmistress Mirabeta Selkirk, meet Vendemniharan, birthed of Venomindhar and sired by Venominhandar. He will remain in service to you for one month."

Mirabeta stifled a gasp at the mention of Venomindhar and Venominhandar. The destruction the two greens had wreaked in Sembia generations earlier was legend. She controlled her shock and reminded herself that she wielded power in Sembia. She spoke to the dragon as she would any underling.

"You will journey to Saerloon. There, you will answer to Lady Merelith and her commanders as they lay siege to Selgaunt. She will report back to me."

The dragon hefted the decanter of wine and drained it all in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth and said, "Saerloon is a long journey from here even in my natural form, woman."

"Overmistress," Mirabeta corrected him. "And I will arrange for your transport."

The howl of the wind and the screams of the damned fell away. Long moments passed in darkness. Cale felt a sensation of rapid motion, then a sudden stop. The biting cold vanished, replaced by fetid warmth. The darkness of the archfiend's breath dispersed and Cale, Magadon, and Riven materialized in shadow, standing in stagnant, knee-deep water and stinking mud.

Broad-leafed trees and twisted shrubs poked out of the mire to claw their way into a shadowy sky. Malformed creatures, startled at the trio's sudden appearance, shrieked and hissed at them from the dimness of their dens. High above, ungraceful forms wheeled about on awkward wings in the black, starless sky. Periodic flashes of dim, vermillion light backlit the clouds and cast the sky in leering contrast. A thin brownish fog floated around them, ghostly and full of secrets. The moist air, rife with the stink of decay, sank into their clothes. So, too, did the shadows.

Cale recognized the location-his adopted home, the Plane of Shadow. The familiar darkness, unique to the Plane, strengthened him, and he tried to pass that strength through his arms to Magadon.

"Mags?"

"I am all right," Magadon said, and disentangled himself from Cale. The mindmage looked haggard and his clothes hung from him in tatters. Blood, his own, slicked him. The memory of horror haunted his colorless eyes. Cale remembered how the mindmage had looked moments earlier-a pile of gore steaming on Cania's ice.

"You look at me like a broken thing," Magadon said, and his voice cracked.

Cale shook his head, the movement too fast for the denial to be true. "No. I am just… pleased to see you whole."

"I am far from that, Cale."

Magadon's words took Cale aback. "You have never called me 'Cale.' "

Magadon shrugged and looked away. "No? It seems right."

Cale and Riven shared a look and Cale noticed Riven's beard-it had grown substantially since they had left Cania.

"Your beard," Cale said.

"And yours," Riven said.

Cale ran his hand over his face and felt several days' growth on his cheeks.

"What happened?"

"Time distortion as we moved through planes," Magadon said.

"So what happened to the time?" Riven asked.

"Lost to us," Magadon said. "The same as… other things." He kneeled into the fog and used the black water of the swamp to wash the filth and blood from his flesh. Demon scales, as red as pox, showed in irregular patches on his exposed skin. The tattoo on his biceps, the mark of his father, was stark on his otherwise pale skin. The scars that once had marred it were gone. Magadon touched his horns thoughtfully, frowning.

Riven looked across the fog at Cale. "Why here?"

Cale heard an accusation behind the question. "Because what I promised him is here. Or at least the trail is. It must be."

Riven touched the holy symbol at his throat and walked to Cale's side.

"He said you had promised it to another, that Mask would be displeased. What have you done, Cale?"

Cale looked past Riven to Magadon. "What I had to. You'd have done the same."

Riven studied his face and his gaze flitted for a moment to Magadon. "Maybe."

Magadon stood. "I am here. Do not speak of me as if I am not." The mindmage, clean of blood, approached them and offered Riven the dagger the assassin had given him on Cania.

"Keep it," Riven said.

"I have a weapon," Magadon said.

"So you said," answered Riven. "Keep it anyway."

Magadon shrugged, tucked the blade into his belt. He looked up into Cale's face. "What did my father mean when he said you had promised it to another? To whom? I, at least, should know."

Cale stared into his friend's pain-haunted white eyes, more certain than ever that he had done the right thing. "You both should know. And you will. But it is a long tale and this hardly seems the place for telling it. Let's put some solid ground under our feet and get our bearings. Then I'll tell you both everything. Well enough?"

Riven looked skeptical.

"Everything," Cale emphasized.

"Well enough, then," Riven said.

Magadon turned a circle, examined the lay of the land. Stinking water, tangles of trees, and patches of jagged reeds surrounded them. The fog-shrouded air muffled sound.

"Place feels familiar," Riven observed.

Cale had been thinking the same thing. It hit him, then, but Magadon said it first. "It appears my father is not without a sense of humor. This is the same swamp where we first encountered Furlinastis."

Cale and Riven cursed. They had faced Furlinastis the shadow dragon once before. Cale had wounded him, but they had lived only because the dragon, citing a promise made long ago, had spared them. But he had promised, too, that he would kill them should they return to the swamp.

Something thudded against Cale's boot under the water, giving him a start. He stabbed down into the murk with Weaveshear but hit nothing. Tension gripped him.

He started to speak, but an ominous hush fell. The swamp stilled. The chorus of insects ceased. The howling creatures retreated to their murky dens and fell silent. The air above them emptied of the flying creatures.

"Dark," Riven said. "Dark and empty." The assassin held his blades and turned a circle.

Cale did the same. Shadows leaked from Weaveshear.

"He is coming," Magadon said, his voice strangely flat. "Now."

Shadows poured from Cale's flesh. He molded them with his mind into shadowy duplicates of himself that mirrored his movements. The illusions would distract the dragon and, with luck, draw some of its attacks. Riven prayed to Mask under his breath and shadows from the air coiled around his blades.

"Where, Mags?" Riven asked. The assassin stood in a crouch, his breathing steady.

Magadon shook his head and looked into the darkness. "Nowhere. Everywhere. We will never see him."

Cale knew Magadon was right. Even with his shadow sight, Cale saw nothing but dark water and coils of fog. The shadow dragon was as much one with the darkness as Cale.

But they could hear him, and Cale's darkness-sharpened hearing caught a sound: a rhythmic rush of air, the beat of huge wings from somewhere above them.

"In the air," he said.

He scanned the sky but saw nothing. He felt the dragon's approach the same way he felt an approaching storm. He felt exposed. They had no cover.

"Link us, Mags," Cale said.

The mindmage could connect their minds so they could communicate silently at the speed of thought.

Magadon shook his head. "No."

Cale looked at him sharply.

Magadon said, in a softer tone, "I cannot, Cale. I am not… I cannot."

Cale stared at the mindmage, unarmored, damaged in his soul, worn as thin as old leather. He had not even drawn his dagger.

"He's got nothing but a dagger, Cale," Riven said, his eyes on the sky, his thoughts apparently mirroring Cale's.

Cale made his decision. "We are leaving. This is not our fight."

A roar from above drenched them in sound. The dragon broke from the darkness of the sky, backlit by a vermilion flash, a mountainous form of black scales, muscle, and shadow. He dove directly at them. Another roar sent waves through the waters of the swamp.

The creature bore down on the trio. His teeth were the length of daggers. His wings stretched two bowshots across from wing-tip to wingtip. His massive form trailed a cloud of shadows the way a shooting star trails flames. Cale saw faces in the shadows, old faces, familiar faces. The dragon opened his mouth wide to breathe. The faces in the clouds opened their mouths, too, and Cale read their lips, or perhaps heard their whispers.

Free us!

"Cover!" Riven shouted, though there was nowhere to run.

The moment before Furlinastis spat a cloud of viscous black vapor from his mouth, Cale caught a glimpse of Magadon, staring up at the dragon, arms limp at his sides, face impassive. Cale had no time to process the implications before the dragon's life-draining breath saturated the area in ink. The swirling cloud of shadowstuff wormed into Cale's body through his nose, ears, and eyes, pulled at his soul, drank his life force. He staggered in the muck, fell. He heard Riven groan and curse.

Furlinastis hit the swamp with the force of a thunderbolt. His body displaced so much water that a waist-high wave of foul liquid washed over Cale. The dragon's respiration sounded like a forge bellows.

Despite the life-draining effect of the dragon's breath, Cale recovered himself enough to draw the shadows to him. He reached out his consciousness for Magadon and Riven as the shadow magic took hold.

"You were warned never to return," the dragon's sibilant voice said from out of the darkness. "For that-"

Cale heard no more. He thought of one of the only places on the Plane of Shadow fixed firmly in his memory, a place from which they could begin their pursuit of Kesson Rel-the city of Elgrin Fau the lost, once the City of Silver, but now the City of Wraiths.

The shadows engulfed them and swept them there.

Furlinastis knew the First and Second of Mask were either dead or had escaped, for he could no longer hear their hearts. The cloud of darkness dissipated and he saw only the lifeless husks of dozens of frogs, fish, snakes, and other small creatures native to the swamp floating on the surface of the water, their lives extinguished by his breath. But there was no sign of the humans. They had escaped him.

He roared in frustration, beat his wings, and took flight. Enraged, he turned a circle in the sky and swept low over the stagnant water of his domain. The force of his passage bent reeds and small trees, and sent up a spray of water in his wake. He blew out another cloud of his life-draining breath, another, and the vapor annihilated thousands of creatures. Their deaths did little to mitigate his anger.

The shadows around him swirled as the souls of the priests trapped within his shadow shroud focused their wills. Faces formed in the shroud, all clamoring for freedom. The cacophony of voices subsided and one voice rose above the multitude. Furlinastis recognized it as that of Avnon Des the Seer.

The Chosen of the Shadowlord have returned. The First has come to claim what is his, what we have held for him these unnumbered years. The end is upon us. You will die and we will be freed to go to our rest.

"If they return again, they will die. You will never be freed, priest. You chose your prison."

And you yours, dragon. You chose Kesson Rel for your ally.

Furlinastis again howled his rage into the dark sky. "I chose nothing! I was compelled by his magic, the same soul magic that binds you to me now, that binds him to you! If I die and you are freed, so, too, will he be freed."

Yes, Avnon Des said, his tone almost sympathetic. But that doom was charted long ago. They will return and you will die. The course is set.

"I will fight them. They are only men."

No. They are more.

The words sent a charge of emotion through Furlinastis, a feeling he had not experienced for centuries, not since his first encounter with Kesson Rel the Shadowtheurge. It took him a moment to recognize it as fear.

I am sorry, Avnon Des said. He made you his vessel. We had to make you ours to trap what he expended to bind you. There was no other way.

Furlinastis heard sincerity in the words, but they brought him no comfort. He told himself that Avnon Des was wrong.

Within the shroud, Furlinastis felt the stirrings of power, felt the squirming, semi-sentient thing that was a portion of Kesson Rel contending with the priests. Avnon Des's face grew pained, melded back into the shadows.

Furlinastis murmured, "It is because of you, fool theurge, that I have been bound to this swamp for these thousands of years. It is because of you that I will die."

Kesson forced enough of his will through the wall of priests to answer.

The end is near, wyrm. And I will again be whole.

Furlinastis roared into the sky and wheeled upward, toward the clouds, amongst the lightning.

Tamlin sat atop his mare and rode slowly down the city's cobblestone streets. Prince Rivalen rode beside him, man and horse wrapped in twilight. A dozen spear-armed Scepters in green weathercloaks and mail walked before and behind them and kept the streets clear. Groups of citizens clustered to watch them pass. Tamlin sat tall in his saddle, waved and nodded. He tried to look determined but could not maintain it for long. The huddled forms and fearful faces that stared at him out of the dark undermined his confidence.

Tamlin spoke in low tones so that none but Rivalen would hear him. "My entreaties for a negotiated resolution have gone unanswered."

Rivalen nodded. "The overmistress does not wish peace."

A few men in the crowd-off duty militiamen, no doubt- raised a defiant cheer condemning Ordulin. "When will the Selkirk whore bring her army, Hulorn?"

"We wish some sport," shouted another.

Tamlin raised his fist and forced a smile.

"I cannot believe it has come to this," he said to Rivalen. "How can the realm have been so close to war without anyone realizing it? We will kill each other over trifles, over a lie."

Prince Rivalen eyed him sidelong. His golden eyes shone like fivestars.

"That is so and has ever been so. I have lived two thousand years and have seen in that time that men almost always die for trifles. Exceptions are rare."

"Your years have made you a cynic, Prince," Tamlin said softly.

Rivalen laughed, a hard, staccato sound. "A realist, Hulorn. In truth, everything is a trifle when viewed through the lens of history. Empires rise and fall, men live and die. The Jhaamdathan Empire ruled a great portion of the world at one time. Have you ever heard of it?"

Tamlin felt ignorant but shook his head.

"Of course not," Rivalen said. "Only scholars have. Yet the Jhaamdathans thought their influence would extend forever. Men delude themselves into thinking that the events in which they participate are of particular significance to history, but they rarely are. One empire is the same as another."

"What of Netheril, Prince? Even I have heard of it. Its influence reaches through time, even unto now."

Rivalen waved a hand dismissively and it trailed shadows. "Netheril is an exception. A sole exception. But even it will fade from the memory of men someday. All is fleeting, Hulorn, and only one thing is certain-an end to all things."

Tamlin chuckled. "I mistook you, Prince. You are worse than a cynic. You are a nihilist."

Rivalen shrugged. "Things are what they are, whatever we may think. It is our task to wrestle meaning from meaninglessness while we still can. Does that make me a nihilist still?"

Tamlin's smile faded. He envied Rivalen the perspective of two thousand years.

"Are you a man of faith, Prince?"

Rivalen's golden eyes flared and narrowed.

"Is that a rude question?" Tamlin stuttered. "If so, I apologize. I thought-"

Rivalen waved a ringed hand. The shadows about him swirled. "It is not rude, Hulorn. It is forthright. That is one of the things I admire about you."

Tamlin felt himself color at Rivalen's praise. He valued it as much-perhaps more-than he had ever valued the praise of his father.

"I ask only because I have been considering matters of faith recently. In my own life, I mean. Our conversation put me in mind of it."

Rivalen said, "Times of crisis breed introspection. And yes, I am considered pious among my people."

The admission mildly surprised Tamlin.

"May I inquire, then, which gods you worship?"

Rivalen looked above Tamlin and into the moonless sky. When he looked down again, he smiled kindly, the expression made oddly threatening by his ornamental fangs.

"I worship but one. A goddess."

"Really? I've known none but priests to worship only one god or goddess."

"I am a priest, Hulorn."

Tamlin reined his horse and stared at Rivalen. Their bodyguards looked startled for a moment, but quickly formed a cordon around the two.

"A priest? I thought you were… something else."

"A mage?"

Tamlin nodded.

"I am both, Hulorn. A theurge, my people call me."

Tamlin's respect for Rivalen redoubled. "That is a rare combination, Prince."

"Perhaps not as rare as you think. I have never found my faith to be at odds with my magical studies."

"You worship Mystra, then?"

Rivalen stared at him, his face impossible to read. "No." He gestured at the road, and shadows leaked from his fingers. "Shall we continue?"

"Uh, of course." Tamlin turned his mare and they started moving again. The bodyguards fell in around them.

Rivalen said, "Mystra is not the only goddess who welcomes practitioners of the Art into her ecumenical orders. Have you considered formalizing your own worship, Hulorn?"

Tamlin smiled and shook his head. "No. Religion does not speak to me, Prince. My father was the same way. Coin is in the Uskevren blood, not faith."

"You are not your father, Hulorn."

To that, Tamlin said nothing, though the words pleased him somehow.

"You need only a Calling," Rivalen said.

"No god or goddess will be calling me, Prince." Tamlin tried to laugh at the notion but could manage only a forced smile.

"A Calling does not always come from the divinity," Rivalen said. "Sometimes it is communicated through an intermediary-another priest of the faith."

Tamlin felt Rivalen's eyes on him but did not return the Prince's gaze. He understood what Rivalen seemed to be offering and was tempted by it.

"You have not even told me the name of the goddess you worship."

"True," Rivalen said. He paused for a time, then said, "I have given you cause to trust me, have I not?"

The question surprised Tamlin. "You have. Of course."

"I feel there is even a friendship between us. Or at least a burgeoning friendship. Am I mistaken?"

Tamlin shook his head. "You are not, and your words please me. I feel the same."

The shadows around Rivalen swirled. "My Lord Hulorn, you know very little about me and I fear an ill-timed admission about my faith may put a wedge between us. My faith is… poorly understood."

Tamlin thought of Erevis Cale, of his surprising admission to Tamlin that he worshiped Mask, the god of thieves and shadows. Rivalen's admission could be no worse. He said, "I bring few preconceptions in matters of faith."

Rivalen reined his horse and studied Tamlin's face. Tamlin reined his mount and bore the Princes gaze.

Finally, Rivalen said, "Then I shall share something with you that I share with only a few outside my people. A secret, if you will."

"I will keep it in confidence," Tamlin said, pleased that Rivalen would trust him so.

Rivalen nodded, sighed. "Over my two thousand years I have learned that pain and loss are common to all men in all times. Not all men experience love or know joy, but all men know pain and loss. All men know fear. And in the end, all men know the emptiness of the void."

"That is so," acknowledged Tamlin slowly, though he was not sure he understood completely.

Rivalen stared into his eyes. "That realization led me to Shar, Hulorn. I worship the Lady of Loss."

For a moment Tamlin thought Rivalen must have been making a jest, but he saw from the Prince's solemn expression that the words were truth.

"Shar?" he asked, startled. The single word was all he could manage.

Rivalen nodded and said nothing. The shadows turned slow spirals around his flesh.

"Shar. But I have heard…" Tamlin started to say, but stopped. "Shar is…"

He shook his head and looked away. He could find no words that would not offend the Prince.

Rivalen said, "As I said, my faith is poorly understood. Dark rumors abound but they are mostly born of ignorance. Shar does not cause pain and loss. She simply embraces their existence, and teaches her true faithful to do the same as part of the cycle of life and death. There is peace in that, Hulorn. And power."

Tamlin looked up at that. Rivalen stared back at him, unreadable.

"You know me, Hulorn, know me well. I assure you that any distasteful deeds done in Shar's name have been caused by those who call themselves her faithful but who little understand her teachings. I am doing what I can to put an end to their error."

Tamlin nodded, his mind still swimming.

"Does this change anything between us?" Rivalen asked.

Tamlin thought of his father, of Mister Cale. "I must ask you something, Prince."

Rivalen's face was a mask. "Ask."

"Where is Mister Cale?"

The shadows around Rivalen swirled, but his expression did not change.

"Erevis Cale retrieved his comrade and left Sakkors. I do not know where he is now."

Tamlin studied Rivalen's face, seeking a lie. He saw nothing and decided against asking more. Mister Cale had chosen his course, and one confession from Rivalen was enough for the evening.

Tamlin said, "Nothing is changed between us. We remain… friends."

Rivalen studied his face, nodded. "I am pleased to hear those words." He paused, said, "Hulorn, Erevis Cale was wrong about us. About me. You may trust me."

I must, Tamlin thought but did not say. Instead, he said, "Erevis Cale was wrong about many things. And I do trust you, Prince."

They started off again.

A group of passersby-laborers, to judge from their coarse clothing-stopped and stared at Rivalen, pointed and whispered. A city linkboy nearby stood open-mouthed under a street torch and eyed the Shadovar ambassador. Rivalen smiled at the boy and the lad's mouth gaped still wider. The flames in the street torch dimmed as Rivalen and Tamlin passed.

"Your citizens are not yet accustomed to our presence," Rivalen said.

"They will become so, in time," Tamlin said.

Rivalen smiled and said, "I think you are right."

They rode in silence for a time before Tamlin turned the discussion to a matter that had troubled him since learning of it. He said, "Mister Cale succeeded in freeing Endren Corrinthal. Our spies confirm it. Yet I have heard nothing from Endren or Abelar."

Rivalen eyed Tamlin sidelong. "Perhaps, having gotten what he wishes, Abelar Corrinthal no longer considers an alliance with Selgaunt necessary. Perhaps he hopes that the overmistress's army will break itself on Selgaunt such that he never need put himself or his holdings at risk. Perhaps Erevis Cale spoke ill of you and your alliance with us."

Tamlin frowned, uncomfortable with how closely Rivalen's words mirrored his private thoughts. "I think not," he said slowly. "Abelar seemed an honorable man to me."

"You thought the same of Erevis Cale, I suspect. Pain and loss, my Lord Hulorn. I have seen it countless times. Men remain men. But whatever the Corrinthals intend, know that you may rely upon me and my people. And I feel that I may rely upon you and yours. That will be enough. We will prevail against whatever comes."

To that, Tamlin made no reply. He wished, all of a sudden, he had not sent his family away. For the first time in a long while, he wished his father was alive. He felt isolated entirely. He had only Rivalen and Vees.

"Yhaunn is in ruins, Prince," he said. "I have scried it myself. Our spies speak of a monster from the sea."

Shadows snaked around Rivalen's head and hands. "Your spies are well informed. We control a kraken, Hulorn, and it attacked Yhaunn at my command. I thought the scale of the attack appropriate, given our need for a large distraction."

Tamlin had suspected something large, but not a kraken. "A kraken!? You used a bound kraken to attack a Sembian city? Hundreds of civilians are dead. You should have told me your intent. I would have forbade it."

Rivalen turned on him, his eyes hard. The shadows around him churned, as if in agitation, but when he spoke his tone was mild.

"Squeamishness is seldom rewarded in war, Hulorn. Do you think Mirabeta's army will hesitate to raze Selgaunt if it serves her purpose?"

Tamlin took the Prince's point. "Of course not, but…"

Rivalen continued. "Still, I should have informed you of the details." He half-bowed in his saddle. "My apologies."

Tamlin suddenly felt embarrassed for raising the matter. He did not enjoy the thought of women and children dying in the kraken attack, but the Prince's point was correct. War was war. He made a dismissive gesture. "I should not have mentioned it. You are correct, of course. Mirabeta has forced us to fight a war, so fight a war we must. I suspect matters will get worse before they improve."

"You can be certain of that," Rivalen said.

"Can the kraken be used to secure the seaways? At the least, it can prevent a naval assault on the harbor?"

Rivalen nodded. "It was wounded in the attack and is difficult to control. But I will see to it, Hulorn."

Tamlin considered, said, "Could it attack Saerloon if we had need? Only if matters become extreme, of course."

"It could," Rivalen said with a knowing smile and a nod. "Though I suspect Lady Merelith has or soon will take precautions against such a move."

"No doubt," Tamlin agreed.

They moved north toward the Khyber Gate. The huge wood and iron slabs had been closed for the night, but the work of reinforcing them continued. The workmen, laboring by torch and glowball, halted in their labors to look upon the Hulorn and the Shadovar. Tamlin and Rivalen dismounted and received a briefing from Mernan, the stooped, elderly engineer supervising the work. Tamlin had less than a score of quality engineers in his service. He valued them as highly as platinum.

"New crossbeams reinforce the gates, my lord," Mernan said, gesturing at the oiled iron beams that reinforced the gates at the top and bottom. "A second bolt will soon be forged. The hinges are strong and well set into the stone. They are unassailable from the outside."

Tamlin nodded, pleased at the rapid progress.

Rivalen strode over to the gate and the workmen parted before him, eyes wide. He placed a hand on the wood and shadows flickered from his fingertips. The workmen murmured and whispered, their tone distrustful.

To Tamlin, Rivalen called, "I can provide spellcasters who can further bolster the strength of the gates."

"The wood is enspelled," Mernan answered irritably. "Bolt and hinges, too. Our mages saw to that."

"Not well enough," Rivalen said. He placed both hands on the huge gate and recited a series of arcane words. Despite his understanding of magic, Tamlin did not recognize the spell. The workmen backed off, fearful.

Mernan protested loudly. "My lord," he said to Tamlin.

Rivalen completed his spell and parted his hands. In response to his gesture, an arch-shaped opening formed at the base of the gate, large enough to give passage to three horsemen abreast. The workmen gasped. Mernan's protest stuttered into silence. A group of a half-dozen refugees on the other side of the gate rose from their bedrolls and wagons to stare wide-eyed at the magical aperture.

Rivalen held his palms outward, uttered a single magical word, and the aperture disappeared as if it had never been. Mernan rushed forward to touch the wall where the hole had been.

"It is solid," he said.

Rivalen nodded at the engineer and turned to Tamlin, though he spoke loud enough for all to hear. "The overmistress's forces will not have a mage among them who is my match in the Art, but the spell I just used requires not mastery, but mere competence."

Tamlin took Rivalen's point, took it gratefully. He said, "We welcome any additional magical aid you can offer."

"Indeed," said Mernan, with grudging respect. Even many among the workmen nodded.

"I will see to it," Rivalen said.

The two remounted and continued along Selgaunt's walls to its other gates. Everywhere it was the same-teams of workmen labored into the night to improve the city's defenses. Tamlin took heart from their diligence. They passed several squads of armed men. The Helms and Scepters had been collapsed into one force. Rorsin and Onthul were doing good work in training them to act cohesively, and using them to drill the militiamen.

"The city is nearly ready," Rivalen observed. "You have capable men and women here."

Tamlin nodded, though he did not feel ready. "When will your additional forces arrive?"

"Five hundred of our elite fighters will arrive as soon as they can be spared. Construction of their barracks is nearly complete, and the conversion of the tavern to our embassy continues apace. The Most High has our forces engaged in other matters, but those will wind down soon enough."

"We will have time," Tamlin said, feeling the chill in the air. "Mirabeta will wait until the spring to attack."

"Perhaps," Rivalen answered, and Tamlin heard doubt in his tone.

"You think she will move sooner? This year?"

"I do not know, Hulorn. The overmistress is unpredictable."

Tamlin shook his head. "I dislike this. Settling in for a siege."

"It is the only course, at the moment," Rivalen answered. "Mirabeta's forces outnumber yours substantially. If the overmistress attacks, Selgaunt must hold for a time. That is all. Aid will come. My people stand with yours, and I with you."

The words brought Tamlin great comfort. He looked around at the towering walls and the strong men and women who worked them. "If we must hold, we will hold," he said, and tried to believe it.

Later, as they prepared to part, Tamlin said to Rivalen, "I would like to discuss your faith with you again. Sometime soon. I would know more of Shar than the tavern tales I've heard in the past. She, at least, has sent you to us while the priests of other gods abandon the city."

"She has, indeed," Rivalen said.

Tamlin nodded, said, "For now I would ask that you keep the nature of your faith quiet. As you said, it could be misunderstood."

Rivalen reached out and put a hand on Tamlin's shoulder. The Prince's shadows curled around Tamlin's arm. "Of course, my Lord Hulorn. And I look forward to further conversations. I am always eager to teach new students about my faith."

Tamlin chuckled.

"You are amused?" Rivalen asked.

"Yes," Tamlin said, still smiling. "But not with you. I was just imagining Vees's reaction if he were to learn the nature of your faith."

Rivalen joined him in laughter.

After bidding farewell to the Hulorn and stabling his mount, Rivalen discarded his false face-that of mentor and father figure to the malleable Uskevren boy-and activated his sending ring. He reached out for Vees Talendar.

Nightseer? Vees asked.

Where are you, Dark Brother?

Vees delayed a moment before answering, In the Lady's sanctuary, praying. Shall I-

Rivalen ended the magical connection, pulled the night about him, and whispered, "The secret sanctuary of the Lady on Temple Avenue."

The shadows answered him and swept him in a breath from the street in the Noble District to the secret fane of Shar on Temple Avenue. He appeared in the main worship hall, amongst the benches. At the front of the hall, a single candle burned on the dark altar, the stone surface draped in a cloth depicting a black disc ringed in purple.

A cloaked form knelt before the altar-Vees Talendar. He held his hand before his face, eyeing the amethyst ring on his finger, no doubt awaiting a response from Rivalen. When he did not receive it, he shook his head, turned back to the altar, and whispered the Thirteen Truths, beginning with the first.

"Love is a lie. Only hate endures. Light is blinding. Only in darkness do we see clearly. Forgiveness is false…"

Rivalen stepped into the shadow space and materialized behind Talendar. He took the nobleman by his shoulders and jerked him to his feet. Talendar exclaimed in surprise.

Rivalen hissed into the nobleman's ear, "In the darkness of the void, we hear the whisper of the night."

"Nightseer! It is you. I am-"

Rivalen, much taller than Talendar and as strong as an ogre in darkness, took Talendar's hair in one fist and lifted him off the ground. The nobleman squealed in pain and hung in his grasp like a marionette, kicking.

Rivalen began again. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word. "In the darkness of the void-"

"Heed its voice," Talendar said through gritted teeth, swatting at Rivalen's hand. "Heed its voice, Nightseer."

Rivalen dropped him to the floor in a heap. Talendar scrambled to his feet, rubbing his scalp, breathing heavily. He turned to face Rivalen. "If I have given you offense-"

The shadows around Rivalen churned, reflecting his anger. "If you lie to me before this altar, Dark Brother, I will kill you where you stand."

Talendar's face fell. "I would not lie to you, Nightseer."

"Erevis Cale is a shade," Rivalen said. "This you knew. Yet you did not see fit to tell me. Why?"

Talendar's eyes widened with surprise and fear, then moved to the floor, the wall, anywhere but Rivalen. He started to speak, stopped, started again, stopped. Rivalen knew that Talendar must have rehearsed an answer to the question a hundred times, but the rehearsed answer was a lie, and Talendar dared not speak it.

"Speak now or you will die for holding your silence," Rivalen commanded.

Talendar bowed his head. He closed his eyes and winced as he spoke. "I wished to keep a secret from you, Nightseer. That is the reason. It was petty. I see that now. I-"

"Turn around," Rivalen ordered him.

Talendar looked up sharply, his face pale. He licked his lips. "Nightseer, I apologize if-"

"Turn around."

Talendar stared into Rivalen's face, blinked, nodded, and slowly turned around. His body was as tense as a bowstring. The sound of his rapid breathing echoed off the stone walls of the hall. He stood hunched, awaiting his fate.

For a moment Rivalen let him wonder what doom awaited him. He put a shadow-shrouded hand on the back of Talendar's neck. The nobleman gave a start at the touch. Darkness streamed from Rivalen's hand, wrapped around Talendar's throat.

"Nightseer, please," Talendar said, his voice quaking.

Rivalen caused the tendrils to tighten around Talendar's throat. The nobleman gagged, grasped at them, but could not loosen their grip. Rivalen tightened them further and said, "The Lady smiles on secrets well kept, Dark Brother. But this was not such. Next time, consider well what you tell and what you do not… and why."

Rivalen would not kill Talendar-yet. He dispelled the shadowy tendrils and Talendar fell to the floor, coughing and gasping for air.

"Forgive me, Nightseer," he croaked.

"Look upon that altar, Dark Brother. If you are guilty of another such lapse, I will see you laid across it and opened. You will enter Shar's realm not as her servant, but as her sacrifice."

Talendar, on all fours, stared at the altar and began to shake. In a quavering voice, he said, "Love is a lie. Only hate endures. Light is blinding…"

Rivalen turned himself invisible and rode the shadows out of the temple to an alley on Temple Avenue. He appeared near a crowd of refugees-two couples with their children-huddled for warmth around a burning brazier.

He moved past them and onto the avenue. Glowballs and burning braziers lit the street. The stars glowed between the notches of the towers, spires, chapels, and shrines of Selgaunt's many gods. He noted each of them in turn-Leira, Milil, Sune, Oghma, Tymora, a handful of others.

"All is fleeting," he said to them.