The Godborn

Chapter Nine

They dragged Elle’s litter behind them, moving as fast as they could. Byrne saw them coming and raised his arm in a halting hail. Vasen waved in return and Byrne hurried out to meet them. His eyes went to Gerak, the sick woman, Elle, and questions raised his eyebrows.

Vasen did not waste words. “Everyone in the village is dead save these two.”

Byrne’s expression fell, although he did not look surprised. “Darkness falls. I am sorry,” he said to Gerak. “The woman?”

“My wife,” Gerak said. “She’s. . ill.”

Vasen said, “The attackers are headed to the abbey.”

That brought Byrne up short. “The abbey? Why?”

“They seek the Oracle. I don’t know why.”

“If they get to the pass, the spirits will stop them.”

“Maybe,” Vasen said, “But I’m taking no chances. You didn’t see the village, Byrne. These are not ordinary men.”

Byrne looked Vasen in the eye. “Well enough. Then we’ll stop them together. Come on.”

Byrne turned to go, but Vasen grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him around.

“We’ll stop them,” Vasen said, nodding at Orsin. “You have to stay with the pilgrims, Byrne.”

Byrne’s eyes narrowed. He chewed his moustache, spit it out, and said, “I swore to protect the Oracle, the same as you, First Blade.”

“And we also took a charge from the Oracle to protect Amaunator’s pilgrims. Would you abandon them to Sembia’s plains? Let them try to find their own way through the battle lines drawn across the Dales?”

Byrne colored, masticated his moustache anew, shifted on his feet.

“Say it,” Vasen said, and Byrne did.

“You stay with the pilgrims, then,” Byrne said. “You’re a creature of darkness, First Blade. You can lead them better through this. Even now you sweat shadows. Even now you-”

Too late Byrne realized what he had said. His eyes widened.

Shadows coiled around Vasen but he kept his face expressionless. He’d heard the words, or read them on the faces of his fellow Dawnswords, many times. He was the first blade, but he was apart from his fellows and always would be. Like Orsin, he was a congregation of one.

“I stand in the light, Byrne Neev. The same as you.”

“I’m sorry,” Byrne said, flushing, but Vasen ignored him and continued:

“Faith defines me, not blood.”

“I know, First-”

“And I’ve been in service to the abbey, and the Oracle, for much longer than you.”

“Yes-”

Vasen’s voice was rising as he spoke. “This decision is mine and you will abide by it.”

“Of course.”

“You will remain with the pilgrims.”

“Yes, First Blade,” said Byrne, chastened.

Vasen’s breath came hard. The shadows around him swirled, nearly touching Byrne. He closed his eyes, inhaled, and calmed himself.

“I’m sorry,” Byrne said, looking off to the side of Vasen’s face. “I spoke inartfully, with heat, and I regret it.”

“Words are not swords, Byrne,” Vasen said. “I’m uncut, and it’s forgotten.”

Byrne sagged with relief.

“Keep moving, as fast as they can bear. By now, the Shadovar know we’re out here. Watch for them. Watch for soldiers as you near the Dales.”

Byrne nodded.

“After you’ve gotten the pilgrims to safety, return to Fairelm and see to the bodies as best you can. They deserve what rest we can give them.”

“Well enough, First Blade.”

“The light keep you,” Vasen said to him.

“And you,” Byrne said, coloring as he spoke the words.

Despite the harsh words, they embraced. Vasen started to walk toward the pilgrims, but Byrne put a hand on his breastplate to stop him.

“Has the Oracle ever seen for you, First Blade?”

“Of course.”

“What did he say?”

The question took Vasen aback. “Each man’s reading is his own, Byrne.” “He told me I would not die while the abbey stood. Those were his words.” Vasen swallowed, nodded.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” Byrne said.

“Nor I,” Vasen said. “Let me tell the pilgrims I’m leaving.” “Of course.”

After he’d explained things to the pilgrims, Vasen said to them, “Byrne and Eldris and Nald will see you safely north. There’s nothing to fear. The light keep and warm you all.”

They returned his greeting haltingly, and he turned to go before they began to ask questions. A soft touch on his forearm brought him around. Elora stood there, concern written on her features. Her hand slid down to take Vasen’s.

“You shine, Dawnsword. Despite your shadows. Remember that. I wish you could have known my husband. He was a good man. Like you.”

Her words touched him. He bent, took her face in his hands, and kissed her brow. “Thank you, Elora.”

“I’m glad that we met,” she said.

“As am I.”

“I won’t forget you,” she said.

“Nor I, you,” he said, then mussed Noll’s hair. “Nor you. Take care of your mother.”

“I will, goodsir.”

With that, he walked back to Orsin and Gerak. “Let’s go.”

Before they started off, Orsin used his staff to draw an arcing line in the dirt before their feet.

“What’s that?” Gerak said. “A horizon?”

“Of sorts,” Orsin said, and they stepped over the line.

“Dawn or dusk?” Gerak asked.

“We’ll soon see,” Orsin answered, and they set off.

When they had gone about a spear’s cast, Vasen turned to look back at the pilgrims. They were gearing up to go, but Byrne stood apart from them. He raised his hand in a farewell. Vasen answered in kind and turned away.

They moved as rapidly as they could, but Elle’s litter necessarily slowed them.

“We’re not moving fast enough,” Gerak said, wiping sweat from his brow. “But we’re not leaving her, Vasen.”

Vasen said, “Of course we’re not.”

“How far is the abbey?” Gerak asked.

“Two days’ hard walk,” Vasen said. “Three at this pace.”

Gerak looked down at his wife, pale on the litter. “She’s with child. Did I already tell you that? We’d had trouble conceiving. She was so happy when she learned. . ”

“I’ll take the litter for a while,” Orsin said.

“By yourself?” Vasen asked.

“Aye,” Orsin said. Gerak walked beside the litter, his fingertips brushing Elle’s arm.

Vasen understood what had happened and knew that Orsin did, too.

Gerak was taking the first steps in saying goodbye to his wife and their child.

The Sembian plains looked the same in all directions-whipgrass with the occasional woods or forest-so Vasen dared not deviate from the course he knew. Using the landmarks he’d been following for years, he retraced the route he’d used to bring the pilgrims to Fairelm. The three men alternated carrying Elle hourly, although Orsin took extra shifts. The deva’s endurance was otherworldly. Gerak and Vasen ended their turns sweating and gasping. Orsin ended his with a shrug and a smile.

While pulling Elle late in the day, Vasen noticed movement under the blanket that covered her.

“Watch out!” he said, and set her down, drew his blade, and threw back the blanket.

“Oh, gods,” Gerak said.

Her legs had swollen to twice their normal size. A mesh of pulsing black veins lined them. Her abdomen swelled and roiled, as if something were moving within her. Gerak fell to his knees beside her and took her hand in his, held it to his brow. He did not sob and Vasen found this quite ominous.

“Is there anything you can do for her?” Gerak asked over his shoulder. There was no hope in his tone.

“I don’t think so.” Vasen kneeled beside Gerak and spoke in a low tone. “I’m sorry.”

Sobs finally overcame Gerak’s resistance. “Is she in pain, do you think?”

“I think not, no.”

Gerak nodded, re-covered her with the blanket, and stood. “We keep going.”

“Yes,” Vasen said, his own eyes welling. “We keep going. We don’t quit.”

Over the next several hours, Elle’s body continued to change. Her skin darkened, then coarsened. Scales and spines formed here and there on her flesh. Her body stretched, thickened. Her hair fell out in clumps. Vasen did not care to contemplate what might have been happening with the child she carried. He prayed it had died.

Throughout, the three men walked along in silence, none of them daring to say what needed said.

Night fell and the plains turned to pitch, but the three kept moving. The clouds masked the stars, and Vasen could determine the rough location of Selune only because her light put a yellow smear in the sky. Gerak stumbled often in the dark, cursing, his breath a rasp.

After a time, fatigue made Vasen’s mind fuzzy and he could barely stand. Gerak’s breathing came in heaves. Even Orsin leaned on his staff, and his cheer was forced.

“We have to rest,” Vasen said, and no one argued.

Orsin lowered Elle’s litter to the ground and dragged his staff in a circle around the campsite. Gerak gathered kindling, dug a fire pit to hide the flames, struck flint to steel, and soon had a small blaze. It would not be visible in the gloom beyond a dagger toss. He pulled Elle’s litter near to it. She looked monstrous in the firelight, the shadows playing over her deformities, her bloated body.

They ate the dried meat and bread from Vasen’s pack. Gerak tried to feed Elle but she would eat nothing. He dribbled water into her deformed mouth, laid his bedroll on the ground beside her, and tried to sleep. His expression throughout seemed empty.

Vasen sat before the fire and stared across the flames at Gerak and Elle for a long while. Orsin sat across from him, so still Vasen thought he might have been asleep. But he was not, and after a while he removed a small flute from the satchel he carried and began to play, a quiet, uncomplicated melody that reminded Vasen of clouds.

“I didn’t know you played music,” Vasen said.

“I don’t do it often,” Orsin said. “Only when I’m sad.”

Vasen’s eyes grew heavy. He leaned back and floated on the notes of Orsin’s tune.

“I’m glad you accompanied me back,” he said to the deva.

“We’ve journeyed together often, Vasen Cale. In another age, we walked side by side into the volcanic den of Herastaphan the Dragon Sage, although we bore other names, then.”

Vasen did not know if he believed Orsin, but he found the thought comforting.

“Spirits are not reborn, Orsin,” Vasen said. “Spirits pass on to the immortal realms.”

“What do you know of reincarnation, Vasen Cale?”

“Reincarnation?” Vasen chuckled. “I’ll say I have little familiarity with it.”

“Maybe not so little as you think. We have battled together before, you and I. Often.”

Vasen slurred his words as sleep came. “I think we will again. Soon.”

Screams jerked Vasen from sleep. He lurched to his feet, heart racing, blade in hand. Adrenaline cleared his mind. Orsin was already on his feet, staff in hand. Gerak, too, was standing, staring down at Elle, his face stricken.

She was screaming.

The sound reminded Vasen of a trapped animal, equal parts terror and pain. Strangely, her body did not move at all. She simply opened her mouth and wailed, the rest of her as still as stone. Her eyes were open, but vacant and bloodshot.

Gerak did not so much as glance at Orsin and Vasen. He kneeled beside his wife and placed two fingers over her lips.

“Hush, Sweets. Everything is fine. Hush, now. Hush.”

Vasen did not know if Elle was responding to Gerak, but her screams lost volume, turned to a pathetic, hoarse wail, then stopped altogether. Her mouth and eyes remained open.

“Shh,” Gerak said. “Shh.”

During the night, Elle’s teeth had lengthened and turned black. A dark ichor crusted at the corner of her eyes. Her chest rose and fell with the rapidity of a rabid animal.

Gerak put his head on Elle’s breast and sobbed like a child. Vasen clenched his fists with frustration, helpless to do anything. Orsin looked on, his hands wrapped not on his staff but his flute.

The fire had burned down to embers. Vasen figured they had been asleep a few hours. He hoped Elle’s screams did not attract any predators.

After a time, Gerak recovered himself enough to lean in close and whisper into Elle’s ear. She gave no sign she had heard. Gerak stood, wiped the tears and snot from his face, and looked at Vasen.

“We’re a day from the Oracle? Gerak asked.

Vasen nodded.

Gerak sagged for a moment, but picked himself up straight. “I need to cut my hair.”

Vasen did not understand. His expression must have shown as much.

“It’s too long,” Gerak said.

Vasen still did not understand. “Gerak. . ”

Gerak withdrew a small skinning knife from a pouch at his belt and stood over his wife. He stared down at her, his eyes vacant. The knife hung loose in his hand.

“I’ll cut it the way you like it, Sweets. Just the way you like it.”

With that, he took his dark hair in his hand and began to slice it off in uneven clumps. His face was blotchy, his eyes wet, but he tried to smile for Elle as he worked.

Vasen watched the hair fall to earth and felt as if he were watching a murder. He glanced at Orsin, who looked as confused as Vasen.

By the time Gerak finished, his hands were shaking. He stood before his wife and posed as he might for a portrait.

“See, Sweets? Just as you like it.”

Still shaking, his breath coming hard and fast, he kneeled beside her. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Then he whispered in her ear while he placed the blade of the knife against her throat.

Realization dawned. Shadows swirled around Vasen. He started forward, stopped, dared not speak.

Tears finally broke through Gerak’s resolve and began to fall.

“I love you, Elle,” he said, and slit her throat.

The blood poured out of her throat, not red, but black and stinking of decay. Elle did not move.

“I love you,” Gerak said, as the blood flowed. “I love you.”

In the last moments, fading pulses of blood oozed from the gash in her throat. Gerak stood and closed her eyes with his hand. His eyes were open but Vasen could see that he saw nothing. The light had gone out of him. He turned, dropped the knife, and walked away from the campsite.

“Gerak,” Vasen called.

Gerak slowed but did not turn.

“Can you. . see to her?” Gerak called back. “I can’t. I can’t, Vasen.”

“I. . of course,” Vasen said.

Gerak nodded and walked off. Sembia’s darkness swallowed him. “He should not be out there alone,” Orsin said to Vasen.

“He’s alone wherever he is,” Vasen said.

“He is now,” Orsin said. He scribed a line in the ground, circling Elle’s body. “An end,” Vasen asked.

“A sad one,” Orsin acknowledged.

“Will you help me with her?”

“Of course.”

Out in the darkness, they heard Gerak begin to wail, prolonged gasps of hopelessness and despair and anger that haunted Vasen while he and Orsin gathered wood for Elle’s pyre. They stacked it away from the campsite, and when they had enough, they lifted Elle’s body atop it and used embers from the fire to ignite it. The wood caught quickly. Thick black smoke curled into the sky and was lost among Sembia’s dark shroud.

The two men stood in the light of the fire paying their respect to a woman they’d never known, to a child who would never be born. Vasen offered a prayer, although the words seemed too small for the occasion. Orsin played his flute.

In time Gerak emerged from the plains. He stood beside them in the fire’s light. They all three watched Elle’s body burn.

“Dawn and light follow the darkest night,” Vasen said to Gerak.

“I’m not one of your faithful,” Gerak said. “Spare me platitudes. Light and darkness have been gone from this realm for a long time, and now both are gone from my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Vasen said.

“I know,” Gerak said, more softly, his head hanging. “You have my gratitude for trying to save her.”

Vasen said nothing, simply stood beside Gerak.

“I brought food,” Gerak said. He held up two coneys he must have taken while out on the plains.

“First we have to move,” Vasen said. “The pyre may attract attention.”

They broke camp and moved off into the night. After about two hours, Vasen called a halt. In silence, Gerak made another small fire in a pit, expertly gutted the coneys, stuck them with makeshift spits, and soon had them roasting. While they ate, Orsin spoke of his belief in past lives, that people close to one another meet again and again through time.

“Then. . I could see Elle again?” Gerak asked. “In another life?”

“Yes,” Orsin said. “Strong bonds stretch across many lives.” His eyes went to Vasen.

“Would I know her?” Gerak asked. “Would she know me?”

Orsin smiled, walked around the fire, pulled Gerak close and kissed the top of his head. “I think you would, Gerak of Fairelm. Hold to that hope. But for now we walk this world, we three. Together. Yes?”

Gerak stared into the fire. “Yes.”

After Orsin retook his seat, Gerak said, “I need to kill the men who did this.”

“Yes,” Vasen answered. “Yes, you do.”

Riven sat cross-legged on the floor, his sabers unsheathed and resting across his legs. His girls sat beside him, the warmth of their bodies a comfort. Again and again he replayed in his mind all that he knew, all that he thought he knew, and still he felt as if he’d didn’t know enough, that he was missing something.

But it was too late for second-guessing. Everything was in motion. Either he’d played matters correctly or he’d doomed them all.

He felt the shadows around him, the shadows in the plains outside that extended for miles. He felt the undead native to the Shadowfell, shadows and wraiths and specters and ghosts in the thousands, lurking in the darkness around the citadel. They, too, knew what was coming.

His girls sensed it at the same time he did. He felt the portals come into existence on the plains below the citadel, scores of them, each a flash of pressure in his mind. He felt his enemies step through and assemble in the plains in their multitudes.

Mephistopheles had finally lost the battle with his impatience. Or maybe Asmodeus had finally grown impatient with Mephistopheles, forcing the Lord of the Eighth’s hand.

His girls stood up, hackles raised, and offered growls from deep in their chests. He patted them both as he stood.

“It’ll be fine, girls,” he said, and hoped he was right. “You’re both staying inside, though.”

They licked his hands, whined with concern.

“Get a move on, Vasen Cale,” he muttered.

Outside, the blare of horns rang out over the plains, hundreds of them, followed by the combined shout of thousands of devils, the collective roar like a roll of thunder. His dogs howled in answer, crowded close to him. The horns blew a second blast, a third, as the armies of Mephistopheles arranged themselves to face him and his forces.

“Damn you and your horns,” he said and walked to the nearest window to look out on what had come.

Telemont leaned on his magical staff and looked out the glassteel window of his tower library. The shadow-fogged air allowed only filtered starlight through its canopy, but Telemont could see well enough. The city of Shade extended before him, the dense jumble of its towers and domes and tiled roofs blanketed in night. It was his city, and he’d fought and schemed for centuries to preserve it and its people, along the way compromising. . many things.

“Something’s changed, Hadrhune,” he said. “The world shifts under my feet.”

Behind him, his most trusted counselor cleared his throat. “Most High?”

Telemont gestured with one hand, the shadows from his skin forming a wake behind the movement. “There’s power in the air, odd stirrings in the currents of the world. It’s troubled me for months. The gods are maneuvering, to what end I don’t know.”

“Most High, that’s why-”

Telemont nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, that’s why I collect the Chosen. I search for them and when I find them I put them in cages, question them while I try to read the story of the changing world. And yet the question remains, and I still have no answers.”

“Most High, Prince Brennus, with his unmatched skill in divination, could-”

Telemont’s irritated gesture put a knife through the rest of Hadrhune’s sentence, and it died in silence.

“Prince Brennus,” Telemont said. “Is. . unfocused of late.”

He watched a patrol of veserab-mounted Shadovar knights cut through the shrouded air above the city, the undulating flight of the serpentine veserabs swirling the shadowed air with each beat of their membranous wings.

“Perhaps you should put this mystery from your mind, Most High? All of the Chosen we’ve captured can be killed within an hour. You need only give the word and I can inform the camp commanders-”

“To kill them now would be premature. Many of them don’t even know what they are. Those who do don’t understand what role they’re to play. No, we keep them alive for the moment and learn what we can. Matters must clarify eventually.”

“Most High, if I may be forward. . ”

Hadrhune paused, awaiting Telemont’s permission for candor.

“Continue,” Telemont said.

“Is it possible that the focus on the Chosen distracts from more worldly matters? The battle for the Dales goes well, but Cormyr and Myth Drannor must still be dealt with.”

“Oh, war with Cormyr and the elves is coming,” Telemont said. “Yder clamors for it. Our forces are prepared for them, but the Dales need to be pacified completely first. But this matter of the gods and the Chosen, this is something else, something. . bigger. I need to understand it before events outrun me.”

“Shall I state the obvious, Most High?”

Telemont said nothing, but he knew what was coming.

“There is one Chosen you have not imprisoned or questioned.”

“Rivalen,” Telemont said, and a cloud of shadows swirled around him.

“Yes,” Hadrhune said, his velvety voice treading carefully. “You sent for him, but he did not respond. Yet.”

“He will come,” Telemont said, thinking of his son, the son he no longer trusted, the son he no longer understood.

“As you say, Most High. When he comes, perhaps with his newfound power. . ”

“His stolen divinity, you mean,” Telemont interrupted.

Again, shadows churned.

“As you say, Most High,” Hadrhune repeated, the doubt palpable in his voice. “In any event, if the prince is a godling, perhaps he has insight into what’s happening.”

“I think not, Hadrhune. The prince no longer thinks like a man.”

Nor did he think like a Lord of Shade. He was lost in the nihilism of his faith. Telemont had scried him many times. Rivalen would stare into Shar’s eye, unmoving for days at a time.

“Most High,” Hadrhune said, “I concede that Prince Rivalen is unstable but. . ”

Telemont felt Rivalen’s presence manifest in the room as a sudden weight on his consciousness, a density in the air, as if the room’s dimensions changed shape to accommodate him. Hadrhune must have sensed it, too, for he gasped.

Rivalen said, “You speak of me as if I cannot hear every word you say, child.” “Child!” Hadrhune said, and sputtered in rage.

“You requested my presence,” Rivalen said, ignoring Hadrhune, his statement directed at Telemont.

“No,” Telemont said, still not turning, still staring out over Thultanthar. “I sent for you.”

Rivalen became still more present in the room, weightier. The darkness deepened, thickened somehow. Telemont resisted the impulse to mentally run through the wards and spells that guarded his person.

“You don’t send for me anymore, father,” Rivalen said. “You request my presence. And I come if I will it.”

Hadrhune recovered himself enough to say, “You will refer to him as the Most High, Prince Rivalen.”

“And you will say nothing more or I will kill you where you stand.”

Hadrhune gasped again to be so addressed, but he heeded Rivalen’s admonition and said nothing more.

Telemont made his face a mask and turned to face his son.

By now, Rivalen loomed large in the room. Hadrhune, standing near him, indeed looked like a child. Rivalen’s golden eyes glowed out of his sharpfeatured face. He’d inherited the features from Telemont, but father and son shared very little else anymore.

“Divinity has made you ill-mannered,” Telemont said.

“Prince Rivalen was never known for his grace,” Hadrhune said.

Rivalen turned on Hadrhune, arm upraised as if to smack him. A sizzling mass of black energy gathered on his palm.

Hadrhune’s eyes flared. He blanched, retreated a step, and held his staff defensively before him. Veins of blue light lit the crystal atop the staff.

“Rivalen!” Telemont shouted, and slammed the butt of his own staff on the tiled floor, causing a roll of thunder. “Violence is prohibited in these chambers!”

Rivalen froze, his narrow eyes fixed on Hadrhune, the annihilating ball of power crackling in his palm. “Your prohibitions no longer concern me, father. You couldn’t stop me. Not anymore.”

Telemont let his own power gather. Tendrils of shadows formed in the air, snaked around his hands, his staff.

“You’re mistaken, child,” he said, but wondered if Rivalen spoke the truth. He sensed the power in his son. Telemont had no doubt that he could hurt Rivalen, but he doubted he could kill him.

“He goes too far, Most High,” Hadrhune said, his voice high-pitched, his breathing heavy and fast. He did not lower his staff, did not release the defensive spell burgeoning in its crystal cap.

“Run along, lapdog,” Rivalen said. The ball of energy in his palm dissipated into nothingness.

“Most High-” Hadrhune began.

Rivalen clenched his fist and the crystal atop Hadrhune’s staff shattered with a pop, raining pieces onto the floor. Shadows bled from the tip of the wounded staff. Hadrhune cursed, wide-eyed.

“I said leave,” Rivalen said to him. “You aren’t needed here.”

Hadrhune’s eyes burned, but he ignored Rivalen. “Most High?”

“You may go, Hadrhune,” Telemont said, his eyes on his son.

The counselor bowed to Telemont, pointedly ignored Rivalen, and exited the chamber. Telemont knew Hadrhune would remain just outside the room with a group of elite Shadovar warriors, ready should they be needed.

“You were unnecessarily harsh with him,” Telemont said.

“He is a fool.” Rivalen walked past Telemont to the glassteel window that looked out on Thultanthar. “We fought so hard to preserve this after we fled Netheril’s fall into the Shadowfell.”

“We did,” Telemont agreed. “And we fought hard to expand our reach when we returned to Faerun. You were instrumental throughout.”

Rivalen chuckled. “Flattery, father?”

“Truth, rather,” Telemont said. “And now I could use your help once more.”

Rivalen turned to face him. Shadows curled around him, as languid as a lover’s caress. “With the Chosen and the gods and their plots?”

“You sense it, too?” Telemont said, momentarily surprised. “But of course you do.”

“It’s trivial,” Rivalen said, and gestured contemptuously.

“Explain,” Telemont said, irritated that anyone would call anything he mentioned “trivial.”

“It’s pointless. All of it. Everything.” Rivalen gestured while he spoke, anger gathering in his voice, power gathering on his hands. “This game you play with gods and Chosen and empire. It’s trivial. Do you not see that? We’ve wasted centuries on it, and to what purpose?”

“To what purpose?” Telemont said, taking a step toward Rivalen, his own anger rising. “For survival. And then for empire.”

Rivalen’s fists and jaw clenched. Shadows swirled around him. “Both are nothing. Both have always been nothing.” He chuckled and there was a wildness in it. “It’s all ending. This world. The gods. Their Chosen. They scramble to grab at phantasms. The Cycle of Night is already begun and it can only end one way. There’s nothing left to do now but play our parts.”

Puzzlement pushed aside Telemont’s anger. “You think the world is going to end?”

“No,” Rivalen said. He put his hands in his cloak pockets and his eyes flashed with the eagerness of a madman. “I know it’s going to end. And I know how. So go on with your schemes and plots, your obsession with gods and their Chosen. Before the end, you’ll see things as I do. This world is already a corpse. It needs only to rot away.”

Telemont stared at his son a long moment. He realized he’d get nothing from Rivalen. His son was lost entirely to Shar, to nihilism, to nothingness.

“I think it’s time for you to go, Rivalen.”

Rivalen’s lips curled in a sardonic smile. “You’re right, father. And I don’t think we’ll meet again.”

“You don’t collect coins anymore, do you, Rivalen?”

Rivalen took his hands from his cloak and showed his father empty palms. “Why would I? What are coins to me? What is anything to me?”

“Indeed,” Telemont said, and felt a deep sadness. He’d lost his son. His son had lost himself.

Rivalen bowed, the gesture half-hearted, almost mocking. “Goodbye, Most High.”

The darkness shrouded Rivalen, and then he was gone, returned to Ordulin, to the thoughts and plans that plagued him, to the ideas that had, it seemed, driven him mad.

Telemont stood alone in the center of the room, his thoughts on the past, his wife, his sons as they’d been thousands of years before. He remembered his sons as children: Brennus’s laugh, Rivalen’s contagious chuckle. He remembered his wife’s smile, what it felt like to hold her in his arms every night.

“My lord?” Hadrhune said.

Lost in his thoughts, Telemont had not heard Hadrhune re-enter the room.

“You never met Alashar, Hadrhune.”

“Most High?”

“Never mind,” Telemont said, and smiled softly.

“Most High, what of Prince Rivalen? Will he aid us in capturing the Chosen?”

“No,” Telemont said, his thoughts hardening. “Rivalen is lost to us.”

“I. . don’t understand. What will he do, then?”

Telemont faced his most trusted counselor. “What won’t he do is the appropriate question.”

Hadrhune licked his lips, dug his thumbnail into the damaged darkstaff he still held. “I’m not following, Most High.”

Telemont walked to the glassteel window and stared out at Thultanthar.

“Rivalen wants to die, Hadrhune, but he wants to kill the world first.”

Brennus stood at his ebonwood lectern in the three-story library of his manse in Sakkors. In the past he’d spent most of his time in Shade Enclave, but the capital city of New Netheril held small appeal for him anymore.

Books and scrolls from the various ages of Faerunian history lined shelves that extended floor to ceiling on three of the library’s walls-spellbooks, treatises on magical theory, histories from all over the continent, catalogs of arcane devices, lexicons of demonic and diabolical entities. The knowledge contained in the materials he’d gathered over the centuries could keep a sage occupied for a lifetime.

A highly detailed globe of Toril hung in the air in the center of the room, suspended only by magic. Its slow rotation mirrored that of Toril’s. At Brennus’s command, the globe could show Toril’s terrain, its political borders and cities, or the lay of magic across the planet-where it was concentrated, where it was dead, the locations of various places of power.

Spicy, pungent smoke spiraled from a block of incense burning in a platinum censer atop a table near the globe. His homunculi perched on the table to either side of the censer like tiny gargoyles, clawing at the smoke and giggling as their hands split the streams of black smoke into finer ribbons. One jumped at the smoke as it rose, lost his footing, and tumbled off the table and onto the floor. The other laughed hysterically at his sibling’s misfortune. Brennus watched them with a half-smile, wondering how constructs crafted of his own blood and essence could be so filled with humor and simple joy. Would he have been more prone to such things had his life taken a different turn? He remembered laughing often with his mother before she died.

Before she was murdered.

He’d changed after that. He’d obeyed the Most High’s wishes and turned to divination rather than shaping. He would have been an entirely different man, with an entirely different life, had his mother lived. Strange how one vacancy could so change a life. Rivalen had not just murdered their mother. He’d murdered what Brennus could have been.

He eyed the books and scrolls piled high on the lectern before him, all of them connected in some way to the dead god Mask, his worshipers, Erevis Cale, the faith of Amaunator, Kesson Rel, and the Cycle of Night. He felt that he had all the pieces of the puzzle before him, but he could not quite form them into a coherent image.

He was missing something.

He was missing the son, Erevis Cale’s son. The son had to be the key.

“Subject: Mephistopheles,” he said, and charged the words with magic.

The shadows coalesced in several dozen places around the room and took the form of tenebrous hands. The homunculi looked up at the hands, eyes wide at the simple spell. Each of the magical hands lifted a book or scroll from a shelf and whisked it to Brennus’s lectern. After setting down its burden, a hand would dissipate back into the air.

The homunculi watched the books float through the air and clapped with delight.

Brennus spent the next several hours learning all he could. He supplemented his mundane study with magical queries directed at entities in the Outer Planes. He used spells to pull knowledge from the informational currents that floated in the ether, learning what he could. More and more pieces formed.

Mask had been Shar’s herald on Toril, and possibly her son. Shar existed on many worlds, in many planes, and always her goal was the same-the annihilation of worlds. The process, The Cycle of Night, had run its course on many worlds, leaving voids in its wake, and had begun on Toril. The hole in the center of Ordulin, the hole that Rivalen spent long hours pondering, was the cycle’s seed.

But its growth appeared to have been slowed, or stopped.

In all his inquiries, Brennus could find not a single instance of the cycle ending on a world without that world’s annihilation. Not one. The Lady of Loss had murdered billions with her nihilism. And his brother embraced it now.

We’re all already dead, Rivalen had said.

His brother was murdering the world.

Brennus wanted Rivalen dead more than ever.

The guardian constructs flanking the door to the library-suits of archaic plate armor animated and given a rudimentary sentience by Brennus’s spellcasting-lurched into motion and took offensive stances, halberds held before them.

At first Brennus thought his brother might have returned, but the alarm spell that pinged in his mind told him otherwise. In a few moments the library’s door opened to reveal the thin, shadow-shrouded form of his longtime majordomo, Lhaaril.

The shield guardians moved before him, threatening him with their polearms.

Lhaaril’s eyes flashed with surprise. The shadows drew closely about his finely tailored, elaborately embroidered robe.

“An experiment,” Brennus explained. “I linked the shield guardians’ perception to various alarm spells within the manse,” Brennus explained. “They sensed you coming when your passage took you through the foyer. What is it, Lhaaril? I’m in the middle of things.”

Brennus uttered a command word that returned the shield guardians to their neutral stance flanking the door.

“I have news, my lord,” Lhaaril said. “One of the scouts has returned.

Brennus did not miss Lhaaril’s emphasis on one. “One? Something happened to the other?”

Lhaaril shifted on his feet. The shadows around him swirled, betraying his discomfort. “It appears so. I think it best that the story come from the remaining scout.”

The homunculi, no doubt sensing Brennus’s piqued interest, sprinted across the library, clambered up his cloak, and took station on his shoulders.

Lhaaril dutifully ignored them, even when they stuck their tongues out at him.

“Shall I have him brought to you, Prince?”

“Yes, and right away.”

Brennus deactivated the shield guardians before Lhaaril returned with the scout. Brennus searched his memory for the scout’s name, found it-Ovith. The scout stood a head taller than Lhaaril, perhaps a hand shorter than Brennus. Plated armor, dented from many battles, encased his broad frame. His scabbard, however, hung empty from his belt. He put his arm across his chest and lowered himself to one knee.

“Prince Brennus.”

On Brennus’s shoulders, his homunculi mirrored Ovith’s gesture.

“You may go, Lhaaril,” Brennus said.

“My Lord,” Lhaaril acknowledged, and exited the library, closing the door after him.

“Stand, Ovith,” Brennus said to the scout, and he did. “Lhaaril says you have a tale to tell.”

Ovith did not look Brennus in the eye when he spoke. “My Prince, Cronil and I patrolled the Sembian plains as you instructed, searching for any sign of the Abbey of the Rose.”

Brennus had numerous pairs of Shadovar scouts scouring the Sembian countryside in search of the Abbey of the Rose and its Oracle. He suspected the life of Erevis Cale’s son was tied up with the sun-worshipers, but he’d mostly given up hope. His men had found nothing but rumors for decades.

“We stopped to water our veserabs on the way back to Sakkors.”

“Where? And be exact.”

“At the River Draal, before it joins the River Arkhen, perhaps five leagues east of the Thunder Peaks.”

Brennus held a hand up at his globe and put power in his words. “The River Draal, five leagues east of the Thunder Peaks.”

Responding to Brennus’s command, the globe in the center of the library turned to show the location he’d named. Brennus walked toward the globe, Ovith behind him.

“Twenty leagues in all directions from that point,” Brennus said. “Expand.”

The globe unwrapped itself from a sphere into a large, flat rectangle that showed the area Brennus had named. He noted the rivers, the mountains, his mind turning.

“Continue, Ovith.”

“As we watered the mounts, Cronil heard something that alarmed him. He spotted a cave on the opposite riverbank and flew over to investigate. That’s when we were attacked.”

“The attackers emerged from the cave?”

Ovith nodded.

“Creatures or men?”

“Men, my Lord.”

“Describe them, their clothing, their weapons, their tactics. Omit nothing.”

Prompted by pointed questions from Brennus, Ovith explained how he and Cronil had been surprised, attacked by four men, all of them experienced combatants. Ovith could not be certain, but he thought two of them human, one a deva, and another. .

“A shade?” Brennus asked, his mind and heart racing.

“Yes, Prince Brennus. I know how that sounds, but I saw him up close. He was a shade. And yet. . ”

“And yet?”

“And yet light was in his weapon. A rose and sun featured on his shield. And he wore this.”

The homunculi leaned forward expectantly as Ovith removed something from his belt pouch and held it forth.

An exquisitely crafted rose cast in silver and attached to a few links of a necklace sat in Ovith’s open palm.

“His holy symbol,” Ovith said. “I snatched it from him during the combat. An accident, but I hope a fortuitous one.”

“You’ve no idea.” The shadows around Brennus stilled as he took the rose in his hand, felt its weight, the cool touch of its metal. The rose had a scratch on it, revealing shining silver under the dark tarnish.

Pieces started to fall into place, an image began to form. “A shade who is a worshiper of Amaunator.”

“So it seems, my Prince. The abbey is real and we must have been near it. Why else would servants of Amaunator be at that place.”

“Did they have mounts?”

“Not that I saw, Prince.”

Brennus studied the map. His attention came back again and again to the Thunder Peaks.

“And this shade, he stepped through the shadows?” Brennus asked.

Ovith shook his head. “Not that I saw. No. He waded the river to reach me rather than stepping from one shadow to another.”

“Did darkness regenerate his wounds?”

Again, Ovith shook his head, uncertainty clouding his expression. “Not that I saw, but he was a shade, Lord Brennus. I’d swear it. Perhaps not exactly like us, but a shade. I saw the way the darkness clung to him, his skin, his eyes.”

“A half-shade, perhaps,” Brennus said, closing his hand on the rose in his palm. A half — shade who was Erevis Cale’s son. Brennus still could not see the whole picture, but he’d just found another piece.

“My Lord?”

“Nothing. How old did he appear to you, this shade?”

Ovith shrugged. “I can’t say with any certainty. He looked like a human of thirty winters.”

Too young, but he could have aged very slowly. Or he could be the grandson or great grandson of Cale, rather than the son.

“Did anyone say his name?”

“Not that I heard.”

Brennus nodded, his mind racing, connections forming. “You’ve done well, Ovith. Return to the barracks and stay there. I may have more questions for you later.”

Again Ovith put an arm on his chest and took a knee. “My Prince.”

As Ovith walked out of the library, Brennus called to him, “Speak of this to no one. If you disobey me in this, I’ll know.”

“Of course, Prince Brennus.”

After Ovith had gone, Brennus looked down at the rose. “I have you.”

The Oracle, his perception focused by Amaunator’s prophetic gift, walked the halls of the abbey, Browny padding along at his side. The Oracle’s slippers whispered on the polished stone floors. Everywhere he saw the iconography of his patron-the blazing sun in murals, sunbeam images inset into the floor, blown glass globes lit with magical light. And here and there he saw the rose, the symbol of Lathander, the dawn guise of Amaunator. The Oracle’s father had worshiped Lathander. They’d done the same work, father and son. Each had played his part. Perhaps they’d end the Cycle of Night, for Toril, at least.

After walking the halls, he returned to his sparsely furnished chambers on the abbey’s second floor. The small room held his wardrobe, his bed, a pile of old wool blankets for Browny, and a prayer mat on the floor before the east-facing window. He kneeled on the mat and looked out the window. Browny sat on the floor beside him, chin on his paws.

The Oracle let his imagination pierce the shrouded sky, imagined golden sunlight, a blue sky.

“Night gives way to dawn, and dawn to noon. Residing in the light, I fear no darkness.”

He took his holy symbol, a blazing sun cast in silver, and held it in his hand. “Thank you for letting me serve, Dawnfather.”

He stood and went to his wardrobe. Within, buried under his winter bedding and the traveling cloak he never worn, lay a large, steel shield. The slab of enchanted metal and wood showed scars from many battles, but the rose enameled on its face looked freshly painted. The shield had been Saint Abelar’s. His father had cast it into a lake when his faith had temporarily failed him because the Oracle, then a boy, had been made to suffer. Years later, a vision had led the Oracle to the lake and he’d recovered the shield, knowing that he was to hold it in trust for another, to help during a dark time that would one day come.

A day that had arrived at last.

He could not see how it would end. The timeline of gods stretched too far into the past and future. He only saw how it would begin. He suspected the day’s events would conclude in shadow, not light. His vision saw poorly into dark places.

He lifted the shield and tested it on his arm. It felt strong, sturdy, impassable, like the father who’d borne it. The shield’s enchantment had kept the leather straps supple, even after one hundred years. He slipped it on, but the weight was far too much for him to bear with only one arm. Smiling softly, he slipped his arm free of the straps. He had not been born to be a warrior. He had been born to be a guide.

“Come, Browny.”

Carrying the shield, he walked through the abbey, past the central worship hall, and into the attached living quarters. He went to Vasen’s chambers, as sparsely furnished as the Oracle’s own.

He saw much of himself in Vasen. Both of them had the need to serve others. Both of them had a father whose deeds had written many of the pages in the book of the son’s life. Both of them were like two minds in one body. But they differed in at least one important way.

“You are a warrior,” the Oracle said, and stood his father’s shield against the chest at the foot of Vasen’s bed. “Fight well.”

Thinking of his father, he walked to the Saint’s Shrine in the eastern tower. He would await the servants of Mephistopheles there.