Shadowstorm

CHAPTER FIVE

20 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

Elyril arrived in Yhaunn with Kefil and donned the appropriate false face. She made her required appearance before the Nessarch, the rotund and bearded Andilal Tharimpar. She endured Andilal's ham-handed flirtations as she stood at his side and looked out of a Roadkeep balcony and down on the descending terraces of the city. The thin spires of Glasscrafters' Hall, capped with orange domes that looked like flames, dominated the skyline of the city's center. Beyond and below it, in the lower terrace, the dock ward lay in ruins.

Elyril expressed concern and resolve on her aunt's behalf, and agreed to tour the destruction of the docks with the Nessarch's aide and son, Kalton Tharimpar, an entirely ordinary man of thirty or so winters with pale skin, a thin beard, and curly brown hair. When the time came, she inhaled minddust and brought Kefil along on a thick leather leash.

"That is the largest mastiff I have ever seen," Kalton said. He wore a fox-trimmed cape over his high-collared shirt and tailored breeches. A heavy blade hung at his side. He eyed Kefil warily.

"He has been my companion since childhood," Elyril said, and patted the dog's massive head. Drool dripped from his enormous jowls. He licked Elyril's hand and stared distaste at Kalton.

They took a carriage down the city, across the ramp bridges that connected the various terraces, until they reached the docks. There, they disembarked.

Elyril shook her head at the immensity of the destruction. Piles of shattered stone and splintered wood littered the dock ward. Most of the city near the shoreline lay in ruins. Dislodged piers jutted askew from the still muddy waters. All around her, the innards of crumbled buildings lay surrounded by the ruins of their skin. Kalton offered his hand and assisted Elyril through the destruction, smiling ingratiatingly but staying to one side of Kefil.

"Milady can see that progress has been rapid."

Elyril saw nothing of the kind but nodded anyway. Teams of laborers used carts and mules to clear the debris as best they could. Nods and curt bows acknowledged Elyril and Kalton, but nothing more. The workmen were too intent on their tasks. Kefil growled at shadows.

"He seems an aggressive animal," Kalton said.

"He is," Elyril agreed.

Flotsam from the destruction congealed like a scab along the shoreline. An enormous, concave depression in the mud and stone marred the shore where the kraken had beached for the attack. Countless gulls wheeled in the air, cawing. Others prowled the mud for morsels.

"The creature was enormous," Elyril said.

"Unlike anything I have ever seen," Kalton said, his voice somber. "I assisted a ballista crew. We hit it three times. I think it could have been a hundred. The creature felt nothing." He looked about. "But we will rebuild. Did Milady ever visit the stiltways before recent events?" He pointed to Elyril's right, at an entire block of collapsed wooden buildings. The remains of stilts stuck up out of the ruins like shards of bone. Elyril thought them comical.

"I did not," she said.

"That is regrettable," Kalton said. "They were the soul of the docks. Shop upon shop, all on stilts and interconnected with ladders, swings, and chutes. I loved it as a child. Crime there had become a problem in recent years, but still…"

"Drugs?" Elyril asked.

Kalton nodded. "Of all kinds."

Elyril wished she had seen it, indeed.

Kalton firmed up and said, "But that, too, we will rebuild, better than before." He pointed toward the northern end of the harbor. "The northern piers suffered damage only from the rush of water. Most are salvageable and, as you can see, several remain usable."

Split logs reinforced some of the northern piers. Four caravels flying the heraldry of Raven's Bluff sat at anchor near them. Dock workers swarmed over ships and docks, unloading crates and barrels. A half-dozen carracks floated nearby, awaiting their turn to unload.

"I am shocked at the destruction," Elyril said, though she was amused at the many ghosts of the dead that lingered around the wreckage, particularly around the stiltways. They floated here and there, grimacing. Kefil snapped at those within reach. Elyril continued. "The attack was outrageous, outside the bounds of decency."

Kalton licked his thin lips and looked about at the destruction. "On that we are agreed, Milady."

She put a hand on his forearm and saw the eager gleam it elicited in his eye. Kefil growled a warning.

"The rebels will be made to pay," she said. "I assure you of that. And my aunt soon will send additional aid to assist with the rebuilding here."

He placed his hand over hers and she held her smile despite his sweaty palm.

I wish to devour his balls, Kefil projected.

The thought pleased Elyril but she commanded the mastiff to heel.

Kalton caressed her hand. "I am pleased to hear that. Your aunt is an impressive woman. As are you."

She smiled and gently disengaged her hand from his. "Would it be possible to speak to the Watchblades who were guarding the Hole the night of the attack? My aunt is interested in determining the specific identity of the attackers who freed Endren Corrinthal."

He smiled and bowed, "We have already questioned them, as well as the corpse of the raider we felled, but you are welcome to speak to them again. The Watchblades I will put at your disposal. The corpse we preserved in anticipation of further investigation. I will arrange for all of that tonight, if it suits you.

"It does. Thank you, Kalton."

He smiled. "But before any of that, I insist you join me for a meal. It is already late afternoon and I am spoiled by your company."

Kefil circled around to Kalton's shadow and tore it to shreds. Kalton did not notice.

"You flatter me," Elyril said, and faked a smile. "Of course I will dine with you."

Later, prior to the meal, she stroked Kefil and inhaled an extra snuff of minddust, which helped her endure Kalton's babbling and his storm of boring stories. She laughed aloud when a swarm of flies burst from his mouth. He gagged and spat and she laughed all the harder. He seemed puzzled by her mirth and she did not bother to explain.

Afterward, she returned to her official residence-a well-appointed, two-story home and office near the Roadkeep that housed official guests of the Nessarch.

Did you murder him? Kefil asked. The mastiff lay stretched before the stone fireplace, faking sleep.

"Of course not," she said. "I am an ambassador. He is the Nessarch's son."

You are mad, Kefil said, and began to snore.

Elyril ignored the dog and prepared for her interrogations. She clothed herself in spells from Shar that allowed her to detect lies and that made her words supernaturally persuasive. She had the steward send for the guards from the Hole and interrogated them, one by one, in a small study.

Her spells made all of them deferential and cooperative but most had seen little. Moments after they had first heard the kraken attack, magical darkness had shrouded the interior guard post. They had never seen their attackers. The guards at the top of the lift had caught only a glimpse of the raiding party before they had been rendered unconscious by attackers who emerged from the shadows behind them.

Shadovar, Elyril assumed. She wondered how involved in events the Nightseer might have been. She pulled idly at the magical amethyst ring on her finger.

None of the guards had been complicit, Elyril determined, and none of them were lying. She had expected as much. The Nessarch's priests would have ferreted out any traitors.

The raiders numbered less than ten, by all accounts, but had moved so quickly and quietly that the guards had been unable to organize an effective response. By the time the guards had responded in number, Endren had already been freed. The guards had pursued, but one of the raiders sacrificed himself to give time for his fellows to escape; he killed seven guards with his hands before the other guards finally cut him down. His magically preserved body remained in the possession of the Nessarch's charnel keeper, in the bowels of the Roadkeep. Priests of Waukeen had questioned his corpse at the Nessarch's request, but learned nothing. They intended to try again, or so thought the guards.

The raiders never made it back to the lift. Instead, they fled down an old mineshaft. Stones and bolts had knocked them from the walls but no bodies had been found at the bottom. Importantly, Elyril learned that the Hole's zone of dead magic ended before the shaft hit bottom.

And that was how the raiders escaped, she assumed.

After hours of discussion with the guards, Elyril had learned little. Two tasks remained to her: an interview with a former guardsman named Phraig-the same Phraig who had been forced by the attackers to lead them to Endren-and an interview with the dead raider. Priests of Waukeen might not be able to compel the corpse to speak, but a priestess of Shar would.

While the steward sought Phraig-he had quit the guard recently-Elyril arranged for a carriage to transport her back to the Roadkeep.

When she arrived, she found that Kalton had instructed the staff to extend her every courtesy. A guard escorted her deep into the Roadkeep's lower levels. There, an elderly charnel worker in a stained leather apron met her.

"The corpse of the dead raider taken from the Hole," she said, and the small old man bobbed his head.

"Yes, Milady."

As they walked, the old man said, "The dead without a family or temple are brought here and interred in the old mines. We have converted them to catacombs."

Elyril nodded but paid little attention. The smell of death filled the air. She found it exciting.

Presently, they reached a small room. The elderly man fumbled with a key, turned the lock, and opened the door. Candlelight spilled out. The body of the raider, wrapped in grave cloth, lay atop a wooden table.

"Milady does not need to see the body underneath, I trust?" he asked.

"On the contrary," Elyril said. "I do."

The old man's face fell and he grumbled, "I will have to rewrap it, Milady. Has the Nessarch approved this?"

Elyril glared at him. "I serve the Overmistress of Sembia, granther. And the Nessarch answers to her. You are not too old to be flogged."

The old man paled and tottered to the table.

"No need to be hasty, Milady. No need for that, now."

He produced a small knife and slit the cloth that bound the body. Stink filled the room, despite the preservation spells. He cleared away the wrap to expose the body and stepped back.

"That will be all," Elyril said. "I need to examine his body for a certain mark. I will summon you when I have completed my investigation."

The thin, gray-haired man eyed her with suspicion but dared not gainsay her. He bobbed his head and withdrew. The closing door flickered the candle flames that lit the room.

Elyril ran her fingers over the dead man's purpling skin. An easterner, Elyril saw, from the eyelids and swarthy skin. But not a shade. Slashes from the guards' blades gaped in his flesh like open mouths. They whispered secrets to Elyril.

Make the book whole, they said. The storm will follow.

She touched her invisible holy symbol and quietly incanted the words to a spell that would pull a portion of the dead man's spirit back to his body. As she chanted, the room grew dark, the shadows long.

A soft purple glow emanated from the dead man's wounds. His eyes creaked open to reveal black orbs.

"Name yourself," Elyril commanded.

The stiff head turned awkwardly in her direction. The dead eyes fixed on her. "Return me to the night eternal, priestess."

"Name yourself," Elyril repeated.

The corpse's mouth hardened, but Elyril's spell pulled the words out. "I am Skelan."

Elyril leaned over his body, let her invisible holy symbol lay against the flesh of his chest. "Who were you?"

Creases lined Skelan's face as he tried to resist, but Elyril's magic compelled an answer. "In life, I was a follower of the Twilight Path and servant of the Shadowlord."

Elyril cocked her head. "Mask?"

The dead man nodded, once.

"What is Mask's interest in Endren Corrinthal?"

Skelan's jaw tightened. The tendons in his neck stood out as he tried to keep his mouth closed, but Elyril's magic was the stronger.

"The Shadowlord charted a path for us across Faerun to serve his Chosen, the Left and Right Hands of Shadow, the First and Second of Five. His purpose is their purpose. They wished Endren Corrinthal freed."

Elyril inhaled the stink of death, stared into Skelan's eyes, and said, "What are their names?"

Skelan hissed and shook his head.

"Their names, Skelan," Elyril purred.

"I will answer no more questions from you, Sharran. Release me."

Elyril snarled and pressed her invisible holy symbol into Skelan's forehead. He writhed. "Their names."

"No," he said through gritted teeth. "Nothing more."

"Speak," she said. "Speak!"

He said nothing. His body shuddered and his eyes closed, but she knew he was still there.

Angry, she put her mouth next to his ear and whispered, "Then sit in that rotting shell forever. The catacombs are cold."

She stood, spat on the corpse, and strode out of the room past the startled old man.

"Milady?" he called after her. "Milady?"

"Leave me!" Elyril said, and waved him away.

Irritated, she ignored the carriage and decided to walk the city by night. Her temporary residence was not far. Foul Selune had set and she paced under a blessedly moonless sky. As she walked, she pondered events.

What role had Mask to play in matters? And where was the ten-times damned book?

Lost in thought, she found herself on a dark side street. How had she ended up in an alley? The buildings, standing close together, blocked the sky from her view. She stumbled over a drunk and nearly lost her footing. He grunted with pain, slurred something incomprehensible. She cursed him and continued on. Ahead, she saw the glow of street lamps from a main thoroughfare.

"The Shadowstorm is not what you hope," the drunk murmured to her back.

The words froze her, sent a chill down her neck. She turned around and stalked back to the drunk, a hand on her invisible holy symbol.

He lay huddled against the wall, wrapped in rags and filth. His greasy dark hair was matted against his scalp. He squinted and held up a grubby hand for coin.

"Coin for a beggar, Milady?"

"What did you say to me?" she asked. "Just now. Speak it again. Are you a prophet?"

The man looked up at her and she saw cunning in his eyes. She liked it not at all.

"I am a prophet, of sorts. I said that a storm would bring hope. The city needs rain to wash it clean. Coin, Milady?"

Elyril stared into his eyes and saw no lie there. She smiled at her misperception. Lack of sleep was clouding her senses. She chuckled and kicked the drunk in the stomach. He groaned and curled up.

"Milady is a dark soul," he said between gasps.

"Never address your betters unless you are addressed first."

The man tried to unfold and crawl away. "Yes, priestess."

Satisfied, Elyril turned and walked away.

Only after she had taken ten steps did she realize that the man had called her a priestess. She whirled around but he was gone, swallowed by the shadows.

Had she misheard him again? She decided that she must have.

She returned to the residence provided by the Nessarch to find Kefil sleeping and her doughy steward awaiting her.

"I have located the former Watchblade," the steward said. He must have seen the lack of recognition in Elyril's eyes. "Phraig, Milady. You asked me to find him. He awaits your pleasure in the side room."

"Ah, yes. This late?"

"You asked, Milady. This watchman has… strange habits, it would seem."

"Have him wait a moment."

She retired to her room and snuffed a pinch of minddust before entering the study and ordering the steward to bring Phraig before her.

The young Watchblade entered the room and the lamplight dimmed for a moment. His movements appeared stilted, and Elyril wondered if he had been drinking. Or perhaps he was still recovering from wounds suffered during the raid. From his mussed hair and sunken eyes, Elyril deduced he had slept little. He wore no blade other than his eating knife, and he bore a large leather satchel over one shoulder.

"I am Phraig, Milady," said the former Watchblade with a bow. His deep voice, coming from so small a man, surprised Elyril. And the tone struck her as vaguely mocking. His eyes shone in their sockets-the white was entirely too pronounced- and the intensity of his gaze made Elyril uncomfortable.

"Sit. I have questions for you about the recent raid on the Hole."

Phraig sat.

Elyril felt warm, as if the boy radiated heat. She cleared her throat and said, "You were forced to lead the raiders into the Hole. Tell me everything. Omit not even the smallest detail."

Phraig did, staring at her throughout. Elyril learned that one of the leaders was missing an eye and another was bald and unusually tall. Both served Mask, which was consistent with what Elyril had learned from Skelan's corpse. She assumed them to be Mask's Chosen, his Left and Right Hands. Phraig named them: Erevis Cale and Drasek Riven.

"They spoke their names to you?"

Phraig looked sly. "I heard their names, Milady."

Elyril accepted that.

Despite the new information, Elyril still could not connect events. Was Mask's priesthood allied with the Selgauntans and Saerbians? Had Mask taken an active hand in attempting to thwart Shar's plans to cause the Shadowstorm?

Her frustration manifested in curt questioning of Phraig, who held an infuriatingly self-satisfied smile throughout the interview. After a time, Kefil padded into the study. He stopped just inside the doorway and sniffed the air suspiciously.

"My mastiff," Elyril said, expecting Phraig to show the same discomfort everyone did around Kefil.

Phraig turned in his chair, smiling. "What a fine animal." He held out a hand. Elyril saw that his fingernails were long and black-no doubt, he was afflicted with some illness.

Kefil's hackles rose. He bared his teeth and growled.

"Here, pup," said Phraig.

Kefil abruptly tucked his tail between his legs, whined, and fled the room. Phraig clucked his tongue and turned to regard Elyril with a smile. "Somewhat passive, isn't he?"

"That is all, boy," Elyril said, wishing for another snuff of dust before retiring. "You may go."

Phraig did not stand.

"Did you hear me? I said we are done."

"I did hear you, Milady. But…" He trailed off and looked away.

Elyril's irritation turned to curiosity. He was holding something back.

"Is there something more? If you hold back from me, I will see that you are punished. Make no mistake-"

He looked up at her from hooded eyes and whispered, "I have a secret."

The words elicited goose pimples on Elyril's skin. Her hand went to her invisible holy symbol. She felt on the verge of an epiphany. She leaned forward and said softly, "Speak it, Watchblade."

Phraig's eyes were sly. "I took something from the dead shadowman." He made a gesture that could have indicated anything. "She told me to."

Elyril's heart accelerated. Her body tingled. She licked her lips. "Whom do you mean by 'she'?"

Phraig looked away. "You know. You must. The night itself spoke to me with the voice of a woman. It told me to take it, told me to keep it for you."

Elyril was holding her breath. "Keep… what?"

"This." Phraig rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a large book. Black scaled leather covered gilded vellum pages. Elyril's breath caught when she saw it.

"The book," she breathed. She held out a hand as if to touch it, but stopped just short, struck with the unreality of events. "How can this be?" she asked.

"She said to give it to you. Take it." He offered it to her. "I have never opened it. Perhaps it can answer your questions."

Elyril stared at it for a moment, finally took it in trembling hands. It was uncomfortably warm where Phraig had held it, as if the man were on fire, but she did not care. She ran her fingertips over the rough cover, the way she might a lover.

"She told me it was unfinished," Phraig said. "The middle is gone, she said."

"The book to be made whole," Elyril said, hushed, awed.

"This is yours, then, Milady?"

Elyril nodded, rapt. She was reminded of the first time she had ever partaken of minddust, the feeling of well-being, of transcendence.

"Mine," she said. "Yes."

"Then I will take my leave," Phraig said. He stood, brushing her hand with fingers not hot, but cold as snow. "I feared I was going mad, hearing voices, seeing things. After all, if I were mad, how would I know?"

The words struck her and she looked up into his eyes. The light caught them strangely and she saw only whites.

"How would I know?" she echoed.

He smiled a mouthful of fangs, turned, and exited the room.

Elyril sank back into her chair, cradling the book against her breast as if it were a newborn babe. She bathed in its warmth, thanked Shar, opened it, and began to read from back to front.

It told of Shar's creation from darkness, of her battles with her sister, Selune, of her secret creation of the Shadow Weave in mockery of Mystra's Weave. It told of Shar's end, which was the end of all things. It hinted at more, at a moment of necessary weakness but ultimate triumph for the Lady of Loss, a time when she would devour the shadow.

Elyril pored over every word, every page, inhaling more and more minddust, and in so doing she learned the book's secret. It lay between the words, in the empty spaces on the page. She laughed aloud at its import.

The emptiness spoke in its silence of a ritual-the ritual that would free Volumvax and summon the Shadowstorm. Elyril felt flush at the prospect.

But she could not learn all she needed to know. Some details of the ritual were missing. The book had been divided and the middle pages were gone.

It wanted a mate. It wanted to be made whole.

Elyril had to find the rest.

The late afternoon sun shone down from a cloudless sky. Abelar and Regg, accompanied by Beld and his two companions, rode beside a drought-dried stream bed across the grassy plains, toward the small village Abelar had commandeered to quarter his forces for a few days while he traveled to the Abbey of Dawn.

They rode through high grass, past autumn-stripped stands of birch and maple. They fell silent when they passed the melted remains of a small village. The village's cottages had been reduced to shapeless, discolored lumps. The blackened skeletons of dead trees stood in fields of blasted grass and bore silent witness to the carnage wrought by an enraged dragon.

"The dragon rage," Regg said. "A black, probably."

Abelar nodded. He had seen a black up close, ten leagues west and south of Saerb. He thanked Lathander that the rage was over.

They left the destruction behind and traveled onward. Presently they reached the fallow fields around the village. The poor harvest had made food scarce. Winter would be unforgiving to the villagers.

At Abelar's orders, his company took only shelter from the villagers, never food, not even for the horses. The force counted six priests among their number. All were untested and inexperienced, but all were competent to perform the minor miracle of conjuring food and fresh water. They kept the men fed and distributed any excess to the hungry villagers, starting with the children. More often than not, Abelar's company left the villages better off than when they arrived. The overmistress's forces would be larger, and would not be as kind. Civil war would leave thousands of innocents dead.

"Sembia is not in a state to survive a war," Abelar said to Regg.

Regg nodded agreement. "What realm is? Cormyr is still reeling from hers. Here, the wounds of the rage are fresh and the drought lingers. War is always ugly, my friend. And the weak always suffer most."

"But not on our watch," Abelar said softly.

"Truth," Regg affirmed. "Not on our watch."

Ahead, the chimneys of the log cottages and farms of the village sent thin plumes of smoke into the clear sky. The rhythmic ring of a smith's hammer carried over the plains. The breeze carried the smell of a cooking fire.

The riders crested a brush-covered rise and saw the village below-a collection of simple homes and animal pens built around a large commons. A woman and her undernourished adolescent daughter drew water from the community well. A few scrawny dogs padded through the lanes.

The canvas tents of Abelar's company covered a tree-dotted field on the far edge of the village. A boar roasted on a spit over a fire; one of the men must have taken it on a hunt. Two men tended it while the rest went about their business-cleaning armor, training, eating, talking. The company's horses grazed in the dry grass away from the tents. All were saddled, as if the company were ready to ride.

"Where's the watch?" Regg asked.

"Watching," said a voice from their right.

Three men in leather jerkins rose from a crouch and stepped out of the undergrowth. All bore loaded crossbows in their hands and broadswords at their belts. Bone signal whistles dangled from leather thongs around their necks.

"We could have shot you all dead a stone's throw back," said Garold, a young freckled warrior with a head of hair so red the men called him Bloodmane. His two companions, Rynn and Enerd, grinned.

"If it had been otherwise I'd have had your balls," Regg said, half-seriously.

Abelar chuckled and gestured at Beld and his two companions. "Meet Beld, Aldas, and Dens. They will ride with us."

"Welcome," Garold said. He looked to Abelar. "There's ill news, commander."

Abelar frowned. "Speak it."

"The overmistress's army is marching. We have heard that Forrin heads it."

Regg cursed and spat with contempt.

"Malkur Forrin?" Abelar asked.

Garold nodded.

That explained why Roen had the horses ready to ride. Abelar still had a handful of allies among Lathander's church in Ordulin. They magically relayed information to Roen, the company's senior priest, as circumstance allowed.

"Forrin is a butcher," Regg said. "At the Battle of the Deurst Lowlands, he-"

Abelar cut Regg off.

"How many in his army? Composition of his forces? Is Saerloon marching as well?"

"Roen could tell you, my lord."

"To where are they headed?" Abelar asked. "Do you know that, at least? Selgaunt?"

Garold lowered his head, looked to the men flanking him, at his boots.

"Speak it, boy," Regg said, though Abelar's heart was already sinking.

"Saerb, sir. Or so I've heard."

Abelar's mind turned instantly to Elden, unprotected, standing in the path of an army. He cursed and heeled Swiftdawn toward the village. Regg, Beld, and the other riders fell in behind him. Regg shouted back to Garold and the perimeter guards.

"Gather your gear and recall the rest of the guards! Prepare to ride!"

They galloped through the village and into the camp. His men rose to meet him. All wore hard looks.

Regg indicated Beld and his comrades. "These men ride with us. Gear up. We ride apace. Leave the boar to the villagers."

The men scrambled to break camp.

Roen emerged from his tent, wrapped in his armor and with a heavy flanged mace at his belt. The pale, black-haired priest, as tall and slender as a sapling, nodded at them. Abelar and Regg swung out of their saddles and the men exchanged greetings.

"Welcome back, my lords. You've heard about Forrin already, I see."

"Tell us everything you know," Abelar said.

While the men broke camp around them, most taking a moment to welcome Regg and Abelar back, Roen said, "Forrin marched from Ordulin last night under cover of darkness. His force is more than one thousand cavalry. They are heading west toward Saerb. That is all we know."

"Four times our number," Regg said, and whistled. "The overmistress does nothing halfway. She wishes to draw us north."

Abelar nodded, considered. "There are men in and around Saerb who will fight if battle is brought to their doors."

"They are leaderless," Regg said. "Small groups of competent swordsmen, but not an army. If they fight, they'll die piecemeal."

"Aye, but if we can arrive before Forrin, we can consolidate them with our force. We-"

"There is more," Roen said.

Abelar and Regg looked at the priest.

"Yhaunn was attacked by a creature or creatures from the sea. Much of the city was ruined or flooded. Hundreds died. Perhaps thousands."

"Gods," Abelar said.

"Attacked by whom?" Regg asked.

"Our spies say that Selgaunt was behind it. Or so says the overmistress in her pronouncements."

"Selgaunt?" Abelar asked. "How?"

Roen said, "Our spies say the Selgauntans have made alliance with the Shadovar."

"The Shadovar?" Abelar could not believe it. Selgaunt's Hulorn had not impressed him overmuch, but he had not taken the Uskevren boy for a fool. The Shadovar could not be trusted.

Roen nodded. "It could be another lie of the overmistress."

Abelar put it from his mind. "It does not matter now. Saerb is our concern."

Regg said, "The overmistress will use Yhaunn to justify slaughter, Abelar. Forrin will raze Saerb to the ground. Those who do not flee will die."

Abelar stared him in the face, then Roen. "Not on our watch."

Regg nodded, and so did Roen.

"My lord, there is yet more," said Roen. "During the attack from the sea, a small force attacked the Hole-"

"Attacked the Hole?!" Regg exclaimed.

Roen nodded and continued. "Your father disappeared in the attack."

Hope rose in Abelar. "Disappeared? Escaped, you mean?"

Roen shrugged. "This was days ago, my lord. There is no word of him since."

"But he escaped?" Regg prompted.

Abelar understood Roen's point. "Or he was taken."

"Taken?" Regg asked. "By whom? The Shadovar?"

Abelar shrugged. There was no way to know. If his father were alive and freed, he would have contacted Abelar if he were able. Perhaps he was wounded. Or perhaps he was held against his will by those who had taken him. He shook his head.

"My father is beyond my aid for now. Saerb needs us. As soon as the men are ready, we ride."

Roen swallowed. "My lord, I hesitate to bring this to your attention, but…"

Abelar waved him on impatiently.

"There is disease in the village."

"What kind of disease?"

Roen blanched. "It is terrible, my lord. The sufferers cough blood until they can expel it no more and drown in their own fluids. The village elder believes a group of refugees who passed through the village a tenday ago may have carried the disease. A family is afflicted. The husband already has succumbed and the wife and their children are bedridden. The crone who tended them has died herself and no one else in the village will look after them. Jiiris has looked to them but…" Roen looked down at his feet. "The meager gifts granted me by the Morninglord are insufficient to the task. I cannot cleanse them."

"Children?" Regg asked.

Roen nodded.

Abelar thought of Elden and did not hesitate. "Take us to them."

Roen led them into the village of cottages. Children, men, and women greeted them and smiled. Hacking coughs racked several of the villagers. Abelar and Regg shared a look.

Two young boys, perhaps five or six winters old, marveled at Abelar's shield and the rose enameled on it. Abelar unslung it and let them play with it.

"No dragon slaying without me," he said to them. "And I'll need it again soon. Yes?"

"Yes, goodsir," they said.

He tousled their hair and they scurried off, arguing over who would play with it first.

"There is fear in the eyes of everyone here," Abelar said softly to Regg.

"Aye," answered Regg. "It is not just disease."

"No," Abelar agreed. "It is not just disease."

Roen took them to a mud-packed log house on the western edge of the village. The shutters and doors were closed, but the sickly sweet stink of contagion sneaked through the cracks. Roen knocked once and entered.

A miasma filled the home and the smell of sweat, filth, and old blood hit Abelar like a mace. The two-room cottage had little in the way of furnishings. A few chairs, a table, a sideboard. A low fire burned in the small hearth. A pot of what Abelar assumed to be broth hung over it. Jiiris's two slim swords and gloves lay propped against the wall near the fire. An open doorway led to another room.

Coughing, deep and wet, sounded from within. A child's cough joined in, then another. A soothing voice sounded-Jiiris's-and the coughing subsided.

Jiiris stepped out of the room. The young priestess had her light hair pulled back in a horse's tail. Blood specks stained her sleeves. She wore a strip of cloth over her mouth and nose to ward off disease.

Abelar and Regg had nothing to fear from contagion. When they had sworn their souls to the Morninglord, he had blessed them with resistance to certain weaknesses of the flesh, including disease. He had also gifted them with the ability to heal disease by touch. They could not do it often, but they could do it.

"My lords," Jiiris said. She removed the strip of cloth from her mouth and smiled. "Welcome back. How did you fare at the Abbey?"

"Not well," Abelar said, and left it at that. "Gear up. We ride soon." He nodded at the room she had just exited. "I will see to them."

Jiiris nodded. "The light is in you both. I am glad of it." She thumped Regg on the shoulder, smiled at Roen, and passed close to Abelar, though she did not touch him.

Abelar caught her gently by the arm. "You have performed a good service here."

She colored, nodded, smiled gently, and exited the cottage.

"Await us here," Abelar said to Roen. He and Regg entered the sickroom.

Five hay-stuffed mattresses lay in the room, along with chamber pots and blankets. The smell made Abelar's eyes water. A scarecrow-thin woman lay on one of the beds, her mouth flecked with blood, her face drawn and sweaty. Four children-all girls-lay on the other beds, all wrapped in blankets, all pale. The collective respiration in the room sounded like a rasp over wood.

"Five," Abelar said softly.

"And it has already spread," Regg said.

Abelar and Regg could channel Lathander's grace only in small portions, and they needed time afterward for their own souls to heal. They could not heal everyone before leaving.

They walked to the bedside of the mother. Their boots clunked loudly on the floorboards. Abelar knelt and put his calloused hand on her brow. Her green eyes opened. She opened her mouth to speak but it turned to a coughing fit that wracked her entire body.

Abelar spoke softly. "We are healers, goodmadam. Servants of Lathander. We are here to help."

Her eyes softened and she smiled. She raised a hand, weakly, to gesture at her children. Abelar understood. She wanted them to help her children first. He nodded at Regg, who moved from child to child, comforting them, humming a song the while.

Abelar stroked the mother's dark hair, slick with sweat. "Hear me, now. We can cleanse this disease but not for all of you. Only for four. That is as far as our gifts go for a time, and we must leave tonight. If we are tardy in our task, many others will die."

She stared at him, unmoving, and he did not know if she understood. One of the daughters broke into a wet coughing fit that left her struggling for breath.

"What do you want us to do?" Abelar asked her.

Her eyes closed, opened, and she parted her bloody lips to speak. Abelar knelt in close and she said in a broken whisper, "My daughters."

Abelar leaned back and looked into her eyes. His eyes, and hers, welled with tears.

"Who will care for them if you are gone?"

The tears spilled down her temples and she looked away. She closed her eyes, bit her upper lip, and shook her head. Abelar understood. There was no one. But she would not choose one of her daughters to die. A coughing fit shook her.

Abelar looked at his hands, cursing the weakness of his own flesh.

He would not choose one of them to die, either. He stood and looked at Regg, who was holding the tiny hand of one of the little girls. He nodded at the doorway and they exited the room and gathered with Roen.

Outside, Abelar said, "I will stay. Take the men-"

"Stay?" Roen exclaimed.

Regg shook his head and chuckled. "I knew that you would say those words. No. I will stay and manage the plague here. When the village is cleansed, I will ride after you."

"We need you both," Roen said.

Abelar ignored the priest and studied his friend's craggy face, saw the sincerity of the offer. "No, Regg. This is my duty to perform. Besides, your father is in Forrin's path."

"As is your son," Regg answered.

Abelar felt a flash of doubt but pushed it down. He could not abandon the village.

"Go get them both," he said to Regg. He looked to Roen. "Go get them both."

Regg and Roen stared at him for many heartbeats, and both finally nodded. Regg took Abelar by the arm. "The Light is in you, my friend. It shines brightly."

"And you," Abelar answered. He indicated the sick room. "Let us do what we can for them now."

Abelar and Regg entered the room and placed their hands on the daughters in turn. They prayed aloud and pulled the divine energy of the Morninglord from their own purified flesh and channeled it into the young girls. Immediately, the girls' breathing eased and they fell into slumber.

Unable to do more, Abelar went to the mother's bedside. "Your daughters are well."

The woman smiled, said in a whisper, "I want to see them."

"You will," Abelar said. "They are sleeping now. Listen to me. I will not leave you. But you must fight for a few days more, then I will be able to heal you as I did your daughters. Do you understand? You must fight until then."

She nodded. Tears flowed anew, but not tears of sadness. She touched Abelar's hand and Abelar squeezed her fingers. He had taken lives in Lathander's name, many lives, but he never felt more about his god's work than when he used his hands to heal.

"I am… sorry that I put you to that choice," he said. "It was inexcusable. My own son is in danger and it clouded my judgment."

She shook her head and smiled, coughed.

"I understand," she said hoarsely. "And you should go to your son."

"I will," Abelar said. "But not until you are well."

She stared into his face, nodded gratefully. Regg knelt beside them, put his hand on her brow.

"Be well, goodmadam. May Lathander watch over you and the dawn bring you hope."

Abelar and Regg stood, regarding each other.

Regg said, "Stay in the light, Abelar Corrinthal."

"And you. I will follow after as soon as I can. You and Roen have the company."

Regg nodded and they parted.

Abelar watched through the cottage's open shutters as Regg and Roen led the company off. He imagined Elden at the end of Forrin's blade and the mental image almost caused him to mount his horse. A coughing fit from the sickroom pulled him back to his duty. He laid down his sword beside the hearth and went to his chosen task.

For hours he drew water, cooked broth, and spoon-fed it to mother and daughters. The daughters mostly slept, while the mother mostly coughed. Still, the smiles and clear eyes of the daughters in their waking hours reminded Abelar of why he had taken Lathander's rites.

Abelar learned the girls' names: Lis, Nissa, Sill, and Dera, the eldest. He obtained new bedding for them, and sang to them, as he often did to Elden. He smiled when they smiled, learned their laughs. They hovered around their mother and their love for her touched Abelar.

Throughout the day and early evening, their mother deteriorated. Abelar did not know if she would survive until he could heal her. He tried to think how best to prepare the girls for such a loss, but he could think of little. He saw the fear in their eyes.

When the girls slept, he spent the hours in meditation and prayer at the mothers bedside, holding her hand, asking Lathander to heal her, and to help Regg reach Elden in time. He kept vigil at the mothers bed throughout the night and slept little. He sensed the approaching dawn.

The creak of floorboards in the adjacent room drew his attention. He rose in silence, so as not to disturb his patients, took up a small clay lamp, and crept into the room.

He saw no one.

He started to return to the sickroom when a small flash of red on the floor caught his eye. He stared at it for a long while, to ensure he was not imagining it. He was not.

A single rose petal lay on the floor in the center of the room.

He walked to it, kneeled, gently held it between two fingers. It was fresh, as smooth as velvet. It could not have been tracked in. He had seen no roses in the village.

It was a sign. Warmth suffused his body.

"Thank you, Morninglord," he murmured.

Dawn's light, as pink as a rose, radiated through the slats of the closed shutters. Abelar rushed to them and threw them open. Rose-colored light bathed the room. Its touch warmed Abelar, calmed him. The light washed over the entire village, casting it all in a pastel glow.

Outside, brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows painted the eastern horizon. Abelar knew its meaning.

"Thank you, Morninglord," he said excitedly, and hurried to the sickroom. "Up, girls! Dera, get them up! Now, girl! Open every window in the house! Get your mother into the light."

The girls rose groggily from their beds and did as Abelar bade them. Meanwhile, Abelar ran outside and through the village, shouting. "Up and outside! Everyone, now! Stand in dawn's light! Do it now!"

Faces appeared in windows, bodies in doorways. Abelar pulled out anyone he could reach and ordered everyone else outside. In short order, the entire village stood outside, marveling at dawn's light, at the eastern sky.

Abelar hurried back to the cottage to find the girls crying and embracing their mother, who stood on shaky legs in the rosy light filtering in through an open window. She met Abelar's eyes and sobbed.

"You are healed," Abelar said, and his words were not a question.

She nodded through her tears. "Thanks to you, goodsir."

Abelar shook his head and smiled softly. "No. Thanks to Lathander." He hurried across the room, embraced her, kneeled and embraced the girls. "Tell everyone what has happened here. I must go. Be well."

"What has happened here?" asked Dera.

Abelar stood. "The Morninglord has blessed us all. Farewell."

They called their thanks after him as he hurried from the room, collected his weapon, and rushed outside. He whistled for Swiftdawn and she galloped to his side. He swung into the saddle and the boys who had taken his shield the day before ran over to him, carrying it between them. He took it up, smiled at the boys.

"Are you going to slay a dragon?" the taller of the boys asked.

"Yes," Abelar said. He put his heels into Swiftdawn. "Ride!"

Malkur sat upon his leather-barded warhorse at the side of the hard-packed road, flanked by three of his commanders, Lorgan, Reht, and Enken. With them were Vors, the war priest of Talos, and one of the company's battle mages, Mennick. All had shed the markings of their mercenary company and instead wore the gold-wheel-on-green of Ordulin.

Malkur took care to position himself in the sunlight. Since the attack on his men by the shade in service to the Hulorn, Malkur kept light about him as often as possible.

The column of his cavalry stretched along the road, a ribbon of steel and flesh. A rolling cloud of dust, creaking leather, and the chink of armor accompanied their travel. The men saluted him as they rode past, but held only rough formation. Teams of outriders rode a quarter league to fore, behind, and on the flanks, reporting back on the half-bell. The supply train, escorted by four-score riders under Gavin's command, brought up the rear of the column. The supply train slowed them, but that could not be avoided.

"The men are eager for a fight," Reht said.

"They will have one soon enough," Lorgan answered.

Enken fiddled with one of his many knives and said, "Perhaps. Or perhaps we'll find naught but an empty city and nobles cowering in their manses. They will evacuate when they learn we are coming."

All but Vors chuckled. He said, "If a ride halfway across Sembia does not have a battle at its end, I am killing one of you in Talos's name."

The men laughed still harder. Vors did not even smile.

"See to your units," Malkur said to his commanders. "We ride past dusk and into the night. We reach Saerb within five days, or you answer to me. Reht, Lorgan, and Vors, you three remain."

Enken and Mennick saluted and galloped off to rejoin their units. They shouted orders as they moved up and down the line.

"Commander?" Lorgan asked.

"Take a force and angle south of Saerb. Take three hundred fifty men. Ride hard and sweep wide. We will attack Saerb in five days. Be in position by then, but stay low before that."

Malkur wanted Lorgan to cut off any residents of Saerb or its environs who might try to flee before his army toward Selgaunt. Lorgan understood the purpose of the order.

"Those will be ripe pickings," Lorgan said.

Malkur looked to Reht. "Take seventy men, plus Vors and Mennick. Leave tonight and ride hard ahead of Lorgan's force. The Corrinthal estate is half a league east of Saerb proper. Everyone there is to die except Abelar Corrinthal's young son. His name is Elden. He was born dumb and looks it, by all accounts. Bring him back to me alive."

Vors smiled and his crazed eyes lit up at the thought of slaughter.

Reht only nodded. Killing was his work. He did not revel in it, Malkur knew, but he did not shirk it.

"I will want a force of all former Blades," Reht said. "Night fighters. We may need to dodge an army, should Saerb field one.

"Agreed," Forrin said. "Go."

Lorgan said, "I will need at least one more priest, as well."

"Take Avrek," Forrin said, naming another Talassan war priest in their company. That would leave Forrin with a handful of priests to service the main body of troops.

"Thank you, Commander," Lorgan said.

Reht, Lorgan, and Vors saluted and rode off. Vors howled with delight at the passing troops and shook his axe in the air.

Forrin watched the rest of his force ride by, satisfied. He had good fighters and strong leaders. He had arranged commissions for all of his junior commanders from the Blades, and had filled the remaining command positions in the unit with men he knew to be loyal to him from his previous days in the Sembian military. Twelve hundred medium horse were riding on Saerb, and Malkur had, directly or indirectly, handpicked all of them. They would do exactly as he wished.

And what he wished was to burn first the Corrinthal estate, then Saerb itself to the ground. The overmistress had instructed him to make Saerb an example. Malkur intended to do exactly that.