The Godborn

Chapter Six

Vasen led the pilgrims down toward the rocky foothills of the Thunder Peaks. He stopped them there. Beyond the hills stretched the Sembian plains, a vast expanse of whipgrass dotted with large and small stands of broadleaf trees and pines. Occasional elms and maples, the giants of the plains, loomed like protective parents over the smaller trees. The bleak Sembian sky merged into the dark of the plains at the horizon line, the one blurring into the other. All was darkness and rain.

Vasen scanned the sky for any sign of a Shadovar patrol. The floating city of Sakkors had not been seen so far north in a long while, but Vasen would take no chances with pilgrims in his charge. Now and again the Dawnswords had seen airborne Shadovar patrols, two or three soldiers mounted on the flying, scaled worms they called veserabs, but even those had grown uncommon. Vasen suspected the Shadovar had diverted the bulk of their forces toward Cormyr and the Dales. The Dawnswords scouted the area around the Thunder Peaks and knew a Sembian force was encamped on the plains south and west, blocking the passage between the southern Thunder Peaks and the sea. Probably to hold any forces from Cormyr that might otherwise try to aid the Dales, which had already endured months of attacks by Sembian forces.

“Hurry now,” he called to his men, the pilgrims. “We’re exposed in the foothills. We have to reach the plains as rapidly as possible.”

With the hale assisting the elderly or weak, the group moved quickly through the boulder-strewn hills. Vasen knew his mother had been found in the foothills, among a stand of pine, not far from the pass. Pines still dotted the hills, and each time he walked there, he felt connected to her. He wondered if the trees under which she’d been found still stood.

Soon the rocks and gravel surrendered to scrub and whipgrass. Vasen led the group to a stand of broadleaf trees he knew and they stood under it, fatigue in the eyes of the pilgrims.

“Rest a moment,” he said. “Eat. We move quickly from here. The less time we spend on the open plains, the less likely we are to be spotted. We’re three days from the Dales. Three days from the sun.” He forced a smile. “That’s not long, is it?”

“No,” some said.

“Not long,” said others.

The pilgrims pulled bread, cured mutton, and goat cheese from their packs. Orsin sat apart, cross-legged on his pack, eyes closed, hands on his knees. He seemed to be meditating or praying. Vasen, Nald, Eldris, and Byrne moved among the pilgrims as they ate, keeping spirits high.

“He’s a strange one, yes?” Byrne said softly to Vasen, nodding at Orsin.

“He is. Of course, many say that of me.”

To that, Byrne said nothing. Both of them knew it to be true.

“He’s an honorable man, I think,” Vasen said.

“He’s not of the faith, though,” Byrne said, and gave a harrumph.

“He’s of a faith,” Vasen said, and left Byrne to visit with the pilgrims, offering encouraging words and blessings to ease pain and warm spirits. Amaunator had gifted all of the Dawnswords with the ability to channel their faith into various miracles.

“How do you fare?” Vasen asked a heavyset woman of maybe forty winters. He thought her name was Elora. Her son sat beside her, a boy of perhaps ten. Vasen searched his memory for the boy’s name-Noll.

“As well as I might in this rain.”

“Do you need anything I can provide? You or Noll?”

“We’re fine.”

“Fine, goodsir,” said the boy, around a mouthful of cheese.

“You hale from the Dales?” Vasen asked, to make small talk.

A shadow passed over Elora’s face. “Archendale. Before the Sembian attack. Then Daggerdale.”

Vasen could see loss in her face. Judging from the fact that she and Noll traveled alone, he could guess what.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, sister,” Vasen said, and touched her lightly. “You need only ask.”

She recoiled slightly at his touch and he saw that his hand leaked shadows. He pretended not to notice her response, stood, and moved to walk away.

“Are you a. . Shadovar?” Noll blurted at his back.

The question silenced the other pilgrims.

Vasen felt their eyes on him. A child had asked the question, but they were all thinking it. He turned, shadows leaking from his flesh.

Elora colored. “Noll!”

Her son spoke around a mouthful of cheese. “I didn’t mean to be rude, momma.”

Vasen produced a smile to reassure Noll. He’d heard the query often enough, and not always from children. With his dusky skin, long dark hair, and shining yellow eyes, he looked not unlike a Shadovar.

“I’m not,” he said, and left it at that. “Be at ease.”

“Then what are you?” asked Noll.

“Boy!” said the middle-aged man. “You go too far.”

“Forgive the boy,” another man said. “His mouth outruns his sense.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Vasen said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’m a man, a servant of Amaunator and a follower of the light, the same as you.” He smiled at Noll and winked. “I’ve found that to be quite enough to keep me busy.”

Noll grinned in return, bits of food sticking to his teeth.

“Now gather your things, all of you,” Vasen said. “Time to move.”

Groans answered his proclamation, but the pilgrims did as he bade. As they gathered their things, Eldris walked to Vasen’s side and put a hand on his shoulder.

“They meant nothing by it, First Blade.”

“I know,” Vasen said.

Soon they set off. Sticking to the route he’d traveled many times in the past, they made rapid progress. Always Vasen kept his eyes to the sky, watching for any sign of the Shadovar. His lineage allowed him to see in the darkness as if it were noon, so everyone relied on him to spot danger before they could.

The rain picked up after a few hours, the water of the downpour as brown as a turd and carrying the faint whiff of decay. He considered calling a halt but the pilgrims seemed to be holding up, even the old. Vasen saw that Noll had his face to the sky, his mouth open to drink.

Before Vasen could speak, Orsin tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Don’t drink that or your pee will come out green.”

The boy grinned.

“He’s right,” Vasen said, seriousness in his tone. He admonished himself for not telling the pilgrims not to drink the rain.

The boy colored, lowered his head, and grinned sheepishly.

Orsin offered Noll his own waterskin and the boy drank deeply.

Vasen nodded gratitude at Orsin, and said to the pilgrims, “Drink only from your waterskins. Rain like this can make you sick.”

They murmured acquiescence. Elora cuffed Noll in the back of his head. Orsin fell in beside Vasen.

“I should’ve told them before,” Vasen said, shaking his head at his oversight. “Sometimes I assume they know what I know.”

“No way to anticipate the boy would drink rain that smells like death.”

“He must have drank all his water at the first break,” Vasen said.

“Maybe,” Orsin said. “Or he’s just a boy drinking the rain because he’s bored and that’s as boys do.”

“He didn’t drink much,” Vasen said, hoping Noll wouldn’t get ill.

“He didn’t,” Orsin agreed. “And he’s young.”

The wet pasted the pilgrims’ cloak hoods and hair to their scalps, their robes and cloaks to their bodies. They trudged through muck that pulled at their feet, stumbling often. But despite the rain and the bleak sky, they smiled often at each other. Each carried a symbol of their faith blessed by the Oracle-a wooden sunburst and rose-and most held it in hand as they trekked, heads down, prayers on their lips. Despite the rain and the black churn of the Sembian sky, the pilgrims held Amauntator’s brightness in their spirit. Vasen found joy in their happiness, although he kept an eye on Noll. The boy seemed fine, if a little pale.

Byrne sat beside Vasen under a broadleaf tree while the pilgrims took another rest. As usual, Orsin sat apart from the rest of the pilgrims, with them, but not of them. The deva stared off into the rain with his peculiar eyes, maybe seeing things Vasen did not. Old lives, maybe.

Byrne drank from his waterskin, offered it to Vasen.

“Word of the abbey and the Oracle is spreading,” Byrne said, as Vasen drank. “The pilgrims speak of loose tongues in the Dales and beyond.”

“That’s always been a risk,” Vasen said. “But no one knows even the general location of the abbey except those of the faith. And none of them could find their way back without us to guide them.”

Byrne shook his head. “Still, too many know of us. The Oracle’s on every tongue. He’s sought by many. The war in the Dales is only making it worse.”

Vasen pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “Aye. The times are dark, Byrne. People crave light.”

“Aye, that. But if loose tongues bring the Shadovar down on us while we have pilgrims,” Byrne said. “Then what light shall we cast?”

Vasen stood, offered Byrne a hand, and pulled him to his feet. “That’ll depend on how well we fight.”

“There are only four of us here, First Blade.”

“Five,” called Orsin.

Byrne raised his eyebrows in surprise. “The man’s ears are keen.” He raised the waterskin in a show of respect. “Five it is, then. I’m called Byrne.”

The deva stood, approached, and took Byrne’s hand. “Orsin. And even with five we will need to fight very well, indeed, should we encounter Shadovar.”

“Truth,” Byrne said.

Vasen shouldered on his pack. “Let’s hope we don’t have to fight at all. Time to-”

A deep growl from somewhere out in the darkness of the plain pulled their eyes around. Vasen drew his blade. The pilgrims stared at one another, wide-eyed. They huddled close. A few of them drew eating knives, little use in a combat. Eldris and Nald stationed themselves before the pilgrims. Vasen, Byrne, and Orsin drifted a few steps toward the sound, ears primed, weapons drawn, all of them knowing the horrors the plains of Sembia could vomit forth.

The sound did not recur. Vasen called his men to him.

“Appear calm and unafraid,” he said to them. “Eyes and ears sharp. And watch the boy, Noll. He drank more of the rain than I’d like. Let’s move.”

The group left the shelter of the pines and re-entered the stinking rain. All of the Dawnswords carried bared blades, and Vasen didn’t breathe easy until they had put a league under their feet.

During the trek, Noll began to cough. At first Vasen told himself it was merely the ague, but hope faded as the coughing grew worse. Soon the boy hacked like an old man with wetlung. Vasen had never seen disease root so fast.

Noll stumbled as he walked. His mother, Elora, tried to help him.

“Assist them,” Vasen ordered Eldris, and Eldris did, letting Noll lean on him as they walked.

“The rain has infected the boy,” Orsin said.

Vasen nodded. “I’m worried. Illness from the rain is usually days in the making.”

“Can he be helped?”

“Byrne,” Vasen called, and nodded at Noll.

Byrne hurried to the boy’s side and the group halted for a moment while the Dawnrider placed his holy symbol-a bronze sun-on Noll’s forehead and invoked the power of the Dawnfather. Byrne’s hands glowed with light, the holy symbol glowed, too, and Noll smiled and breathed easier. Byrne mussed his hair.

The reprieve lasted only a short while. Soon Noll was coughing again, worse than before.

“What’s wrong with him?” Elora called. While Eldris sought to calm her, Byrne came to Vasen’s side.

“The healing prayer did not rid him of the disease.”

“No,” Vasen said. Healing prayers could close wounds, even fix broken bones, but against disease they were useless. “If we can get out of this storm, I can see him healed.”

Thunder growled in answer, the spite of the Shadovar’s sky.

“I’ll find shelter, then,” Orsin said, and darted off into the darkness.

“Wait!” Vasen called, but the deva was already gone, one with the darkness and rain.

“What now?” Byrne asked.

Vasen eyed Noll. “We keep moving until we find shelter. Orsin will find us. He doesn’t seem to get lost.”

Another round of lightning veined the sky, celestial pyrotechnics that elicited a gasp from the pilgrims. A prolonged roll of thunder shook the earth. Soon the rain fell in blistering sheets, blocking even Vasen’s vision. Vasen could not believe that the Oracle had deemed their departure time an auspicious moment. They’d walked into the worst storm Vasen could remember.

They pressed on because they had no choice, the Dawnswords shouting encouragement, scanning the terrain for shelter but seeing none. Noll lagged, stumbled, his coughing loud between the intervals of thunder. The boy would fail if they did not do something soon, and they were moving too slowly.

Vasen strode to the back of the column, where Eldris tried to keep Noll upright. Elora, her dark, curly hair pressed by the rain to her pale face, fretted over the boy. The rain failed to hide her tearful eyes.

“Can you not help him?” she said to Vasen, and took him by the hands. “Please, Dawnsword.”

Vasen held her hands and spoke softly. “I hope so, but I need shelter to perform a more powerful ritual. I need a fire among other things, and no flame will hold in this downpour.” He kneeled and looked the boy in the face. The wind whipped both of their cloaks hither and yon. Noll’s eyes were bleary, his face wan.

“I’d like to carry you, Noll, but I can’t do it all alone. Can you hold onto me?”

The boy’s gaze focused on Vasen and he nodded.

Vasen shed his pack, shield, and sword as another round of lightning lit the plains.

“Come on!” shouted one of the pilgrims. “We’ll be struck by a bolt standing here.”

Eldris carried Vasen’s gear and Vasen lifted Noll onto his back. The boy wrapped his arms around Vasen’s neck, hooked his legs around Vasen’s waist. Even through his armor Vasen could feel the heat of the boy’s fever. He got a feel for the weight.

“Just hang on, Noll,” Vasen said.

“You won’t be able to carry him far,” said Eldris.

“Far enough,” said Vasen, and started off. To the pilgrims, he shouted, “Move! Faster now!”

The sky darkened further as night threatened and the storm strengthened, and still they’d found no suitable shelter and no Orsin. Lightning split the sky and bisected a twisted, long dead elm that stood a spear cast from the group. Wood splintered with a sharp crack and the two halves of the dead tree crashed to earth. The ruin spat flames for only a moment before the rain extinguished them.

“Where’s a damned stand of living trees?” Vasen shouted, as another coughing fit wracked Noll. The boy’s mother hovered near Vasen, fretting.

Vasen focused on putting one leg in front of the other. Shadows poured from his flesh. Noll was either past noticing them or didn’t care. So, too, his grief-stricken mother. Fatigue threatened to give way to exhaustion in Vasen and still the rain did not relent.

Byrne drifted back to the rear of the column. “How do you fare?”

“Well enough. How fares the boy?”

Byrne checked the boy, returned his gaze to Vasen. “Not well.”

Noll’s mother wailed. “Not my boy. Not my sweet boy. I’ve already lost his father to the Sembia army. I can’t lose him, too.”

“Find someplace,” Vasen said to Byrne. “Any place. We must try the ritual.”

“There is nowhere, First Blade,” Byrne answered.

A shout from the pilgrims drew their attention. Two of them were pointing off to the left, but the rain and darkness prevented Vasen from seeing anything. Lightning ripped the sky anew.

“There! There!”

Vasen saw. One hundred paces away, Orsin stood atop a rise, waving his staff over his head. Hope for Noll rose in Vasen.

“Light us up so he knows we saw him,” Vasen said to Byrne.

Byrne nodded and uttered a prayer lost to the howl of the wind. His shield began to glow, the warm, rosy glow of Amaunator’s blessing. So lit, Byrne headed toward where they’d last seen Orsin.

“Hurry now, everyone,” called Vasen. “Quickly. Quickly.”

Sloshing through the sopping plains, the group followed Byrne toward Orsin, who came down from the rise to meet them. Thunder rolled.

“I’ve found a cave. It’ll bear us all.”

Vasen grabbed him by the cloak, leaned on him for strength. “How far?”

Orsin’s eyes looked like moons in his face. “Less far the faster we move.”

Vasen let him go, and all of them staggered through the storm. Fatigue and the weather made Vasen’s vision blurry, but Orsin appeared to know exactly where he was going. They topped a rise, descended, found below a sizeable stream turned river by the storm, and followed it a ways. It cut a groove in the landscape, the banks falling steeply to its edge.

“Not far,” Orsin said.

“Almost there!” Vasen shouted to the pilgrims. None responded. They just kept plodding forward.

Orsin pointed and Vasen saw it-a cave mouth in the riverbank on the opposite side of the stream. Orsin pulled Vasen close so he could hear.

“There’s a ford ahead. Follow me.”

Orsin led them to a narrower stretch of the rapidly flowing stream. He did not hesitate, stepping directly into the water.

“Make sure none are swept away,” Vasen called to Byrne, Eldris, and Nald.

All nodded, and they, with Orsin, assisted the pilgrims across, carrying the frail and young on their backs. The water rose waist high at its deepest point. Flotsam spun past in little eddies, mostly fallen limbs and leaves. The current pulled at Vasen as he crossed. He moved slowly, methodically, taking care not to dislodge Noll. In time, all made it across, and they staggered into the cave. The relative quiet struck Vasen first. The rain had been a drumbeat on his hood.

Byrne placed his shield in the center of the cavern, prayed over it, and its rosy light painted their shadows on the walls-dark, distorted images of the real them.

The cave was ten paces wide and tunneled into the riverbank perhaps another twenty. Brown lichen clung to the cracked walls, oddly reminiscent of Orsin’s tattoos. Smoke from old fires had stained the ceiling dark. At first the cave smelled faintly of mildew and rot, but the smell of the exhausted, sodden humans and their gear soon replaced one stink with another. Most of the pilgrims sagged to the floor around Byrne’s shield, stripping off packs and wet clothes. Some wept. Others smiled and praised Amaunator for the shelter. Vasen had time for neither pity nor praises.

“I need wood for a fire,” he said as he laid Noll down on the cave floor. “And bring me anything dry to cover him with.”

The boy’s face was as pale as a full moon. His eyes rolled back in his head. Heat poured off of him. Elora sat beside Noll, cradled her son’s head in her lap, stroked his head. Coughs shook the boy’s small frame. Black foam flecked his lips.

Several of the pilgrims brought dry blankets from the packs, and Vasen covered the boy with them. Byrne soon returned with several small tree limbs. Using his dagger, he rapidly stripped the sodden exterior from the logs to reveal dry wood. Nald set his shield on the floor, concave side up, and Byrne stacked the wood in it. Orsin tore a section of his tunic, shielded from the rain by his cloak, and shredded it for tinder. Flint dragged over a dagger sparked the tinder, and soon a small blaze burned in the bowl of Eldris’s shield.

“What could have been in the rainwater to cause this?” Elora asked, her voice faint as Noll groaned. “What?”

Vasen shook his head as he stripped off his cloak. “Who can say? The Shadovar poison land and sky with their magic.”

“It is cursed,” Elora said, tears leaking from her eyes. “Sembia is cursed.”

Vasen did not dispute it. He filled a tin cup from his pack with water from his waterskin and set it in the edge of the fire. Orsin nodded to him, backed away to stand among the flickering shadows on the wall.

While Vasen waited for the water to heat, he cleared his mind, stared into the fire, and began to pray softly. The pilgrims fell silent, watching. The sound of the rain outside fell away. Byrne, Eldris, and Nald soon joined him and formed a circle around the fire. Their voices fell in with his. Soon the pilgrims, too, joined. In a dark cave, in the midst of a black storm, the faithful of Amaunator raised collective voice in worship.

As the water warmed and then boiled, and without a break in his intonation, Vasen removed from his belt pouch a pebble taken from the river in the abbey’s valley. He dropped it into the warm water while he, his fellow Dawnswords, and the pilgrims all continued their imprecation. The stone began to glow, a pale rosy light that diffused through the water. Vasen lifted the lanyard with his holy symbol from around his neck and lowered the rose into the glowing water while his prayers finalized the ritual. The glow intensified, the water shining brighter than the fire. For a moment, the rose looked not tarnished silver but red with life.

“It’s ready,” he said, and all fell silent except the thrum of the rain and the roll of distant thunder. He replaced his holy symbol over his neck and picked up the cup. Despite sitting in the heat of the fire, it was cool to the touch. He carried the glowing liquid to Noll, lifted the boy into a sitting position, and held the cup to his lips.

“You must drink,” Vasen said.

Noll’s bleary eyes sought focus and his hands fumbled for the cup. Vasen held it, too, wincing at the heat of the boy’s flesh when their hands touched. Noll drank.

“All of it,” Vasen said.

“Do it, sweet boy,” said Elora.

Noll’s head moved in what might have been a nod. A prolonged coughing spell prevented him from drinking for a time, but when it ended, he gulped what remained in the cup. Vasen lowered him to the ground, covered him with his blankets. The boy shivered, coughed more, the black foam still flecking his lips.

Vasen looked at Elora, her eyes stricken. “Now we must wait,” he said.

She looked at her son, at Vasen. “I believe Amaunator will save him. I do.”

Vasen touched her shoulder. “Your faith will help. Rest now. There’s nothing more to be done.”

She reached for his hand, did not blanch when shadows snaked from his skin to caress her flesh. “Thank you, Dawnsword. I’m sorry for. . before.”

Many pilgrims echoed her words or patted him on the back. Fatigue from carrying Noll, from carrying the pilgrims’ hopes, settled on him. His legs felt like foreign things, detached from his body. He staggered and Orsin and Byrne were both there to steady him.

“You should eat,” Orsin said.

“And rest,” added Byrne.

“Rest first,” Vasen said. “Watch the boy.”

“Aye,” said Byrne.

The rain had gotten through the flap of Vasen’s pack, making his bedroll damp. He did not care. He did not bother to unroll it, just tucked it under his head along the wall and lay flat on his back on the cave floor, staring up at the smoke and shadow-stained ceiling, listening to the rain, the soft murmur of conversation. The pilgrims were talking about him, he knew.

Exhaustion overtook him in moments. The last thing he heard before falling asleep was the sound of Noll’s coughing. For the first time in a long time, he did not dream of Erevis Cale.

Elden sat on his favorite chair in the sanctum of the abbey. He felt like a king on a throne, like the ones in stories. The others had made it his chair because he could see what they could not. He did not fully understand how he saw, but he did. And because he did, everyone treated him as if he were special. And maybe he was, although he didn’t feel special.

He reached down to the floor beside his chair and felt for Browny’s soft fur. The dog exhaled happily as Elden scratched his ears. The feel of fur under his fingers calmed Elden. He smiled when Browny licked his hand.

Pretty orange and pink and purple ribbons hung from the walls. Elden knew they were colors favored by Amaunator, the god of the abbey, but Elden liked them because they were pretty, because they reminded him of sunbeams.

He had not seen the sun in a long time. He missed it, but he’d long ago accepted that his life was a service to the light, even though he lived it in darkness. He did not understand exactly why, but he knew people came from all over to see him, because he could see. They looked so hopeful when they met him, lit with a light of their own. He liked that. He made them feel hope. And hope made them glow like the sun.

A tall bronze statue of Amaunator stood on the tiled floor in the center of the circular sanctum. The god had that same look of hope on his bearded face. He held a large, orange crystal globe in his open palm. It would have caught the light entering through the glass dome built into the ceiling, had there been any light to catch. But the sky remained as it ever was-dark, swirling with shadows. The dome in the ceiling, too, was a symbol of hope. Elden had hoped to see the unfiltered sun pour through it during his lifetime, but he doubted it now. Sometimes, if Elden asked, one of the priests would use magic to light the god’s globe. He loved the globe when it was lit, shimmering, shiny. So shiny. It called to mind the spheres that jugglers used when entertaining children. Elden loved jugglers. He still carried a set of spheres that he’d been given as a boy, although it had been so long ago he could not remember who’d given them to him. A dark man, he thought. With only one eye.

That had been a good day.

But it had also been about the time that Papa had died. He had not seen it. Uncle Regg had told him about it afterward.

He stared at the statue, floating through memories a hundred years old and wondering why Amaunator had chosen him to see things. He had never asked to be gifted, had not even known such gifts to be possible. Soon after Papa had died, Elden had dreamed of a blazing sun, a sun no longer visible in the Sembian sky. He’d heard his father’s voice in his head.

“Stare at the sun, Elden. And don’t look away.”

“It will blind me, Papa.

“I promise that it won’t. It’s all right.”

So Elden had stared and had not looked away.

His eyes stung, though he hadn’t been blinded. “It hurts, Papa.”

“I know. I’m sorry, son. That’s enough. Look away now. You were very brave.”

“Where are you, Papa? Unka Regg said you died.”

A long pause, then, “I did die, Elden. But it’s all right. I’m all right.”

Elden had not understood how Papa could be both dead and all right. Tears formed in his stinging eyes.

“Please come home, Papa. Me miss you.”

“I am home, son. And you will be, too, one day. Listen to me now. When you awaken you will see things. Don’t be afraid. Tell Regg and Jiriis and the others what you see. They’ll listen to you and they’ll know what to do. Be a light to them.”

Elden did not understand the words, not completely, but that sometimes happened when people spoke to him. “All right, Papa. Papa?”

“Yes, Elden?”

“Please don’t go.”

“I must, son. I’m sorry. I know it makes you sad. I’m sad, too. Be strong.”

“All right, Papa.” But it wasn’t all right.

“Elden, I love you very much. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Sobs finally broke through, shook Elden. “Me love you, too, Papa.”

He’d never heard his father’s voice again, and when he had awakened, his face tear-streaked, he had been able to see things others could not. Strange things. Frightening things. At first, he remembered the things he’d seen. He did not like that. Over time, he no longer remembered but he still saw. Others told him that he did, that he spoke to them even although he didn’t remember. They said he was touched by the light, gifted with prophecy. Regg, Jiriis, and the others had listened to him, just as Papa had said. He had led them to the valley, where they had built the abbey and become a light in darkness.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the statue. The face of Amaunator looked serious under his beard, the deep-set eyes staring out at some distant point from under the domed helm. Elden wondered what the god was looking at. He wondered if Papa was with Amaunator.

Thinking of Papa made him happy and sad at the same time. He reached for Browny again, stroked the dog. Elden had lived more than one hundred years, but he felt that things were changing. Not so many people came to see him anymore. Maybe the darkness kept them away. Or maybe he’d cast what light he was to cast.

He replayed his father’s voice in his head.

I love you very much.

He smiled and tears filled his eyes.

Everyone in the abbey considered Papa a kind of saint. Elden did not know for sure what the word “saint” meant, but that was all right. He knew it meant they liked Papa. Everyone liked Papa. Their voice dropped when they spoke of him. But to Elden, Papa was just Papa-a tall man of kind smiles and soft words.

The pain of losing Papa still hurt, even after a hundred years. Elden missed him more than ever.

I’ll be waiting for you.

Sensing Elden’s sadness, Browny stood, whined, and nuzzled his hand. Elden rubbed the dog’s big head, his muzzle. The dog sighed contentedly.

Elden sensed changes but did not know what to do with the feeling.

“Me need to see Papa, Bownie,” he said.

The dog stood, stretched. Elden closed his eyes for a moment, willed his inner eyes to see, and entered a seeing trance.

Images swept through the Oracle’s head-the growing menace of the Shadovar, two shade brothers in the center of events, both pained with loss but each alone. A second pair of brothers appeared to him, not shades but Plaguechanged, and behind them lurked the shadow of an archdevil. He saw the hole in the center of Sembia where Ordulin once had stood. He saw Vasen, his image bisected down the middle, half of him in shadow, half of him in light, such bright light. He saw a tattooed deva surrounded by shadow, standing at Vasen’s side. And he saw the one-eyed man, now a god, who had given him the juggler’s toys so many years ago-Drasek Riven. All of the images he saw whirled past his inner eye, a swirl of shadows and light and violence. He did not try to interpret what he saw. He had not entered a trance to see. He had entered the trance to speak.

“The shrine, Browny,” he said, and put his hand on the back of the large blink dog. The dog triggered its power, and in an instant the Oracle and Browny stood in the Saint’s Shrine. Two elaborately carved, magically preserved wooden biers sat in the center of the large, round room, ringed by a candelabra-lined processional the pilgrims used to view the shrine. Dried roses and other small offerings covered the biers, the floor around them. A soft glow from a ceiling-mounted glowglobe suffused the chamber. The light was never allowed to die in the shrine.

The lids of the biers featured carved images of the Oracle’s father, Abelar Corrinthal, and Jiriis Naeve, sculpted in lifelike relief. After Abelar’s death, Jiriis had sworn to serve and protect the Oracle for as long as she lived, just as Vasen did now. She’d loved Abelar and had insisted that she be laid to rest beside him. Jiriis had been the first to hold the title of First Blade. Vasen Cale, the Oracle knew, would be the last.

With Browny at his hip, he walked to his father’s resting place. Spells and subtle use of wood chisels had carved a perfect image of his father from the wood. His shield, inscribed with a rose, rested on his feet. He held his blade at his waist. The image showed not armor but burial robes, and his father’s strong-jawed, bearded face looked at peace.

Inscribed under his father’s feet, the words:

ABELAR CORRINTHAL, SERVANT OF THE LIGHT, WHO RODE A DRAGON OF SHADOW INTO BATTLE AGAINST THE DARKNESS AND FELL IN GLORY.

Beside him lay Jiriis, her fine features and high cheekbones as delicate as the Oracle remembered them in life. The sculpted image, however, did not capture the loveliness of her red hair.

Browny curled up on the floor near Abelar’s bier.

“I did what you asked, Papa. We were a light for a long time. But now darkness encroaches. Erevis Cale’s son stands in the center of it, and I cannot foresee the direction of his life. I gave him your holy symbol, the rose you loved. I think you would have wanted that. I will give him something more when the time comes.”

He ran his fingertips over his father’s face, over Jiriis’s. Tears pooled in his eyes, ran down his cheeks.

“I miss you both. I wish we could have spoken this way when you were still alive.” He thought about his words for a moment, then chuckled. “Then again, maybe we spoke to one another in the ways that matter. Love doesn’t require perfect words, does it?”

He took a look around the chamber, at the ribbons of warm color that decorated the walls, at the high windows in the round, a symbol of hope that light would one day return. Perhaps it would.

Browny stood, sensing that it was time to depart.

“I love you, Papa, and I will be home soon.”

He placed his hand on Browny’s back. The dog had been his companion, guide, and bodyguard for more than a decade, and there had been another before him, and another before that.

“The pass, Browny,” the Oracle said, and the dog looked up, a question in his dark eyes. “The debt is nearly paid. I must release them.”

The Oracle pulled his cloak tight about him as the dog again activated his power and in an instant moved the two of them from the abbey to the spirit-guarded mountain pass that shielded the vale from unwanted incursion.

The wind pawed at the Oracle’s robe but he did not feel the chill. Browny stood close, hackles raised, sniffing the air. The fog swirled, thick and gray. The Oracle felt the spirits’ awareness focus on him. Their sentience coalesced the fog into forms discernibly human. The outlines of men, women, and children stood all around him, dozens, their eyes like empty wells, their outlines shifting in the wind. He saw the anticipation in their expressions, the hope. He would leave neither unanswered.

With the aid of Abelar, Regg, and the servants of Lathander, the spirits had helped slay Kesson Rel the Godthief during the Battle of Sakkors. The Oracle spoke above the whisper of the wind, above the whisper of the spirits.

“Kesson Rel cursed Elgrin Fau, the City of Silver, your city, to perpetual darkness in the Shadowfell. But shadow and light came together on the field of battle, in the shadow of Sakkors, and there combined to kill the Godthief.”

One of the spirits glided forward, a thin, aged man in robes.

“Avnon Des,” the Oracle said.

The spirit inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You come to free us, Oracle, yet we don’t wish release. We vowed to serve the Order in gratitude for the Order’s role in destroying Kesson Rel. We will hold true to that vow until the darkness is lifted.”

The other spirits nodded agreement, even the children.

The Oracle held up a hand. “Your oath is fulfilled and your service to me has ended. The world is changing, Avnon Des. The Spellplague was but a symptom of it. The war of light and shadow against the darkness of this world is no longer mine or yours to fight. It falls to others now. Shar’s cycle will run its course, or it will not. I cannot foresee its end.”

The spirits rustled in agitation.

“You’ve kept the vale and abbey safe for a century,” the Oracle continued. “But the time is past. I have only one more favor to ask. Return to the Shadowfell, but not Elgrin Fau. Go to the master of the Citadel of Shadows. You serve him now. Tell him I still enjoy juggling. Tell him I said. . I know the burden he carries.”

They looked at one another, back at the Oracle, and nodded.

“The light is in you, Avnon Des,” the Oracle said.

Avnon Des, the First Demarch of the Conclave of Shadows, smiled in return. “And there is shadow in you, Oracle. Farewell.”

Avnon turned to face the others, and their collective whispering sounded like wind through leaves. As one, they faded from view, returning to the Shadowfell. The Oracle stood his ground until they were gone. With them went the mist. The pass was exposed, unguarded for the first time in more than a century. The Oracle put his hand on Browny.

“Light and shadow, Browny, will combine to fight the darkness. And I don’t know if they will prevail. Return me to the abbey.”

A lurching sense of abrupt motion and he once more stood in the abbey’s sanctum. He enjoyed the quiet for a moment, the solidity of the walls. He could scarcely conceive of no longer calling it his home. But so it would be.

“I need you to get Abbot Eeth,” he said to Browny.

He would order everyone away. He would concoct some excuse, tell them that his vision demanded they go on a pilgrimage to Arabel while he resanctify the abbey alone. They would worry for him but they would obey. And after they were gone, he would remove all of the scrying wards that shielded the abbey from divination spells. Anyone would be able to find it, were they looking. And there were those who were looking.

He kneeled, faced Browny, and rubbed the dog’s face and muzzle. The dog must have sensed something amiss. His stubby tail did its best to wag.

“I’m going to send them all away, Browny. And after they’ve gone, you must go, too.”

The tail wag stopped entirely. The dog sat on his haunches and a question formed in his eyes.

“I know. But you must go. I am to be here alone.”

Browny licked his hand, refused to move, started to whine.

“Why?” The Oracle put his forehead against the dog’s head, rubbed his sides, and stood. “Because the chick has turned into a bird. And now we must kick him from the nest. Go fetch the abbot.”

Yellow lines of power spiraled out from Brennus’s outstretched fingers, flowed around and into one face of his scrying cube. Shadows spun around his body; sweat slicked his brow.

He was hunting a ghost.

“Come back,” he murmured, and once again slightly tweaked the nature of his spell.

An echo of the images Rivalen had shown to him had to remain in the cube. They had to.

He pictured his mother’s face, pictured the flower-filled meadow, her outstretched hand as she died.

On his shoulders, his homunculi hunched and mirrored his expression of concentration.

A charge ran through the line of his spell and a flash of light appeared in the cube. An image flickered, just for a moment, his mother lying amid a field of purple flowers. The image was blurry, not as clear as when Rivalen had shown it to him, but it was there. It was there.

“What did you wish for, Mother?” Rivalen asked, the replay of the images slurring his voice.

His mother, poisoned by her own son, said, “To be the instrument of your downfall.”

The image fragmented on the face of the cube: eyes, nose, hands, all falling to pieces before fading altogether. Brennus cursed and his homunculi echoed him. He blinked, wiped the sweat from his face, adjusted his spell, and tried to pull the echo back, but the face of the cube remained black.

“Damn it,” he said.

A soft knock sounded on the scrying chamber door.

“Not now,” he snapped.

“Apologies, Prince Brennus,” said Lhaaril, his seneschal. “But-”

Brennus irritably waved a hand and the ward on the door dispelled with a soft pop. The wood and metal slab swung open on silent hinges to reveal Lhaaril, standing alone in the dark hallway.

“You know I’m not to be disturbed in this chamber,” Brennus said.

Lhaaril, his hands clasped across his stomach, bowed his balding head. Shadows poured from his flesh, a sign of his agitation. “Yes, Prince. Humblest apologies. But the Most High wishes to see you.”

The words brought Brennus up short. His homunculi squeaked with alarm. Shadows slipped from Brennus’s skin. “When? He sent a summons?”

“No,” Lhaaril said, looking up, his glowing green eyes narrowed with warning. “He’s here, Prince. Now.”

The words did not quite register. “Here? On Sakkors? Now?”

From the dark hallway behind Lhaaril, the voice of Most High said, “Yes, Brennus. Now.”

Lhaaril stiffened, glanced over his shoulder in irritation, back at Brennus, and spoke in a formal tone. “Prince Brennus, your father, Telemont Tanthul, the Most High.”

“I think he knows who I am, Lhaaril,” said the Most High, and glided around the steward.

The Most High towered over the seneschal, and his platinum eyes glowed feverishly out of the black hole of his sharply angled, clean-shaven face. An embroidered cloak hung from broad shoulders that age had not bowed. He held a polished wooden staff in one ring-bedecked hand. His body merged with the darkness, the outline of his form shifting, difficult to separate from the shadowed air of Sakkors.

“That will be all, Lhaaril,” said Telemont.

The steward held his station, jaw stiff, upper lip drawn tight, and looked at Brennus.

Brennus nodded at him while he tried to gather his thoughts. “That’s all, Lhaaril.”

Lhaaril’s exhalation was audible. “Yes, Prince Brennus. Shall I have a meal prepared for two?”

Brennus looked his father, asking a question wioth his eyes.

“I can’t stay long.”

“Very well,” Lhaaril said. He bowed first to the Most High, then to Brennus, and exited the scrying chamber.

“This is a surprise,” Brennus said.

His homunculi cowered, covered their faces with their hands.

“I imagine it is,” the Most High said. “So. . ”

Brennus cleared his throat. “So.”

Father and son regarded one another across the gulf of things unsaid. The silence grew awkward, but Brennus refused to break it. At last the Most High did.

“You and your constructs,” he said, smiling, and nodded at Brennus’s homunculi. “Like Rivalen with his coins.”

“I’m nothing like Rivalen,” Brennus answered, and could not keep a bitter edge from his voice. “And you’ve always hated my interest in shaping-magic, father. Mother encouraged it, but never you.”

“No,” the Most High said, irritation coloring his voice. “I didn’t. Because I wanted you to focus on your gift with divination magic and-”

Brennus had heard it all before. “What do you want, Father?”

The Most High looked everywhere but Brennus’s face. Brennus had never seen his father so discombobulated. “Did you know that Rivalen no longer collects coins?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Brennus said. “What use would a god have for such things?”

Shadows swirled around the Most High. “Godling,” he corrected. “Not a god.”

“Neither,” Brennus corrected in turn. “Murderer.”

Telemont sighed. “Still that?”

“That.”

Telemont glided toward Brennus’s scrying cube. “I explained this to you before, Brennus. We needed him.”

“You needed him. Do you still need him? He does nothing more than sit in his darkness and ponder his goddess. He can’t be of use to you, now.”

To that, the Most High said nothing.

“Or perhaps he’s just too powerful for even the Most High to challenge now? Is that it?”

The sudden tension in the air caused Brennus’s homunculi to squeal in alarm and secret themselves in the hood of his cloak.

The Most High turned to him, his platinum eyes mere glowing slits, the darkness about him deepening.

It took everything Brennus had not to back up a step or lower his gaze, but he thought of his mother and held his ground. Shadows swirled around him.

“You push and push, Brennus,” the Most High said softly. “And then push again. My patience is not limitless.”

Brennus’s homunculi trembled. Brennus bit his lip and held his tongue.

The fire in the Most High’s eyes diminished to coals. He cleared his throat.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you. And Alashar. . died long ago. I’ve come to terms with how it happened, with the. . compromises I’ve made.” He turned from Brennus and put his hand on the face of the scrying cube. “This was just used. What were you scrying?”

Brennus lied. “I was. . searching for the Chosen. As you asked me to do.”

The Most High turned once more to face him, and Brennus’s lie crumbled under the weight of his eyes.

“And I was also searching for. . something else. Something I hope to show you someday.”

The Most High seemed not to hear him. He spoke absently, almost to himself. “Matters are afoot in Faerun, in Toril. I don’t mean the wars. The Dalelands will soon fall to our forces, but I mean something more than squabbles over territory. Something is changing. There’s power in the air, stirrings.” He seemed to remember himself and looked over at Brennus. “Have you felt it?”

“I have sensed something,” Brennus said carefully, although he’d been so fixated on Rivalen and Mask and Erevis Cale’s child that he’d had time to notice little else.

The Most High nodded. “I need you to refocus on the work I’ve asked of you, Brennus. Find the Chosen for me, as many as you can, as fast as you can. I believe they’re important.”

“Important, how? This change you feel, it’s connected to the Chosen?”

Telemont nodded, turned, paced before the cube. “The Chosen and the Gods. Pieces are moving. I’ll admit that it’s still opaque to me. But yes, the Chosen are involved somehow. I need them found.”

“And then? You hold them? Kill them?”

Using his divinations, Brennus had already identified a score of Chosen for the Most High, but it was painstaking, time-consuming work. Surprising work, too. He had not expected there to be so many Chosen. It was as if the gods had birthed a brood of them in preparation for something neither he nor the Most High had yet been able to discern.

Brennus had provided names, descriptions, and locations of those he’d found, and after that, he had no idea what happened. In truth, the only Chosen he was interested in was already dead-Erevis Cale.

The Most High stared into Brennus’s face. “Just find them, Brennus.”

Brennus nodded. “I hear your words, Most High. Will that be all?”

The Most High approached him, and his expression softened. “Must it be like this forevermore, Brennus? I barely see you. We were never. . close like you were with your mother, but there wasn’t always this distance. You no longer attend the Conclaves. Your brothers ask after you. Yder is overseeing war with the Dales, yet I suspect you know nothing of it. Our Sembian forces recently took Archendale. Did you know that?”

Brennus knew nothing of any of it. His obsession with Rivalen had driven him into isolation. “I’ve no interest in the movement of our armies. That’s work for Yder. I have my own work.”

The Most High’s expression regained its imperious cast. “Your work is an obsession with your brother, with your mother, with revenge.”

It was too much, and the shouted answer slipped Brennus’s control before he could rein it in. “And it should be your obsession, too! He murdered your wife! You should want revenge! You! You fear him, though, don’t you?”

The Most High’s mouth formed a tight line. “You overestimate his power and underestimate mine. And now you’ve come dangerously close to overestimating my capacity for indulgence.”

Brennus swallowed and said nothing, knowing an apology would sound foolish. Inside his cloak, the homunculi trembled uncontrollably.

“You do as I’ve told you,” the Most High said. “Am I understood?”

Brennus stared into his father’s face, bowed his head, and said, “Most High.”

“Am I understood, Brennus?”

“Your words are clear.”

The Most High studied his face, seemingly satisfied. His expression softened once again. “If it helps, I believe Rivalen is being punished, Brennus. He’s gone mad. He thinks he’s going to end the world.”

Brennus blinked. “And you think he can’t?”

“Of course he can’t,” the Most High snapped, and shadows swirled around him. “He stares at a hole in reality for days on end. His thoughts bounce around in the cage prepared for him by his goddess. He dreams only of darkness and endings and suffers for it.”

“He should suffer.”

“My point isn’t so much about him as you. Live your life, Brennus. We have work to do in Faerun.”

“I will, Father.”

The Most High stared into Brennus’s face for a long moment before nodding. He pulled the shadows about him, was lost in them, and was gone.

Brennus swallowed down a dry throat, exhaled. The homunculi poked their gray heads out of his clothing, looked around, their pointed ears twitching.

“Father gone now?”

“Yes,” Brennus said.

“Do as he ask?” they inquired as one.

“Eventually,” Brennus said. He moved to his scrying cube and once more tried to resurrect the image of his mother’s murder.