Shadowbred (5 page)

But a new Netheril could rise. The raising of Sakkors would be its harbinger.

Rivalen decided that he had seen enough. He took the thurhn from his pocket and dropped it into the depths. It reflected the red light of the mythallar as it sank, tumbling, to the ruins. He would

recover his coin when he recovered the city.

He took one last look behind him, committed the ruins to memory, and commanded the kraken to surface.

He found Brennus waiting for him, still hovering over the sea. Rivalen was still able to use his spell to fly, so he leaped off the kraken’s back and recited a minor magic that dried his clothing and gear.

“What did you see?” Brennus asked.

“The destruction of the city is complete,” Rivalen answered. “But the mountaintop is intact. You should see it, Brennus. The spire of Xolund’s tower is discernible, as is the temple of Kozah.”

“Kozah. That is a name I have not heard in a long time.” Brennus smiled slightly. “But, no. I do not want to see it until it joins Shade Enclave in Faerun’s sky.”

Rivalen nodded and smiled, feeling satisfied. The first task set to him by Shar and his father was almost complete.

“We should inform the most high that we have been successful,” Brennus said.

“Agreed.”

Brennus put a hand on Rivalen’s shoulder. “And I have some thoughts about how to awaken the mythallar’s sentience.”

ŚŠŚŚŠŚŚŠ•ŚŠŚŚŠŚ

Days later, far removed from Sakkors and the Inner Sea, Rivalen sought his father, the Most High Telamont Tanthul. Striding into his father’s parlor, pennons of shadow formed spontaneously in the caliginous air and clung to his high collared silk shirt and linen breeches. Rivalen had become so accustomed to the touch of the shadows over the centuries that he scarcely noticed them anymore. Shadows saturated Shade Enclave just as the Inner Sea saturated Sakkors.

Dim lights provided the only illumination in the rich, duskwood-paneled chamber. A thick gray rug decorated with an azure spiral motif covered the floor. Plush chairs and two claw-foot divans provided seating. Books and scrolls covered most of the walls in the circular chamber. The Most High’s mammoth darkwood desk sat

centermost, itself covered in scrolls and tomes. Rivalen’s father read voraciously everything he could find. Rivalen knew that the Most High had made a secret arrangement with the keeper of tomes, the master of Faerun’s greatest library, Candlekeep. The most high had provided the keeper with some rare tomes from ancient Netheril, written in the original Loross. In return, the keeper allowed the most high—through his agents, of course, or in disguise—full access to Candlekeep’s collection.

Rivalen spotted his father on the far side of the parlor, standing before a magical wall map of Faerun. Rivalen saw no sign of Hadrhune, his father’s counselor and Rivalen’s chief rival for his father’s ear.

“Central Faerun,” said the most high, and the magical map changed perspective, expanding to show the details of the heartlands of Faerun—Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dalelands.

Rivalen prepared to announce himself but the most high said, “You and Brennus have found Sakkors. Its mythallar is ours.”

Rivalen no longer bothered to ask how his father knew what he knew.

“Yes, Most High.”

The most high turned to face him. His knowing, platinum-colored eyes stared out of a narrow, expressionless face. Rivalen had inherited his father’s sharp nose and imperial bearing. His father’s royal cloak, originally violet, was so dark as to be almost black. As much shadowstuff as flesh, Telamont seemed to float rather than stand. The outline of his body blurred with the darkness in the room. Shadows swirled constantly around him, longer and thicker than those that circled Rivalen. The shadowstuff had not yet so consumed Rivalen. But it would.

“Well done, Rivalen.”

The most high’s praise was hard won. Rivalen enjoyed the moment.

Telamont moved past Rivalen to the darkwood desk and removed the crystal stopper from a bottle of nightwine. He poured two glasses and gave one to Rivalen. Rivalen held it but did not drink; he never did.

“The mythallar is undamaged?” his father asked.

Rivalen swirled the nightwine, inhaled its piquant aroma. “Structurally it is undamaged. And its magic appears intact, if somewhat weakened. But the sentience within is… unconscious. At this point, it is nothing more than a slightly weakened, ordinary mythallar.”

The most high sipped his drink and frowned. “The sentience in the mythallar would be a formidable weapon to add to our arsenal. Awaken it, Rivalen.”

“Easier spoken than accomplished, Father. Brennus has learned the name of someone we believe may be able to awaken it. I wanted only your permission to proceed.”

“Who is this person you seek?”

“A mind mage who travels the Dragon Coast. He is of no political consequence and will be missed by no one.”

“A mind mage? Unusual in this age. This will not distract you from other matters?”

“What other matters?” Rivalen asked.

Telamont smiled enigmatically. “You have my permission, Rivalen.” He clasped his hands behind his back and floated back to the wall map.

Rivalen followed, thoughtful.

“We should proceed with the raising and reconstruction of Sakkors,” the most high said. “Your brothers Yder and Clariburnus should lead the effort while you and Brennus pursue this mind mage.”

“As you wish, Most High.”

“Yder and Clariburnus are to use all resources at our disposal. I want the city rebuilt within the month.” “Yes, Most High.”

A month would be an ambitious timeline, but with magic and slave labor—especially that of the krinth, a strong but dull race born of slaves and shadow demons—-it could be done.

Rivalen stood at his father’s shoulder and studied the map. It showed Sembia centermost: roads, cities, towns, temples, all clearly marked. Rivalen had long advocated moving against Sembia, a rich realm with fertile upcountry farmland and several southern ports.

Rivalen had discussed the plan with his father at length, had planted the roots of Sembia’s overthrow long ago, even before Shade Enclave had returned from the Plane of Shadow. Rivalen controlled cells of Sharrans in almost all of Sembia’s major cities.

The most high said, “The Heartlands are ripe, Rivalen. The Rage of Dragons has weakened them. Drought has weakened them. The Rain of Fire has weakened them. Their internal political squabbles and this elven Return have weakened them. We must not let them rot on the vine.”

“Most High?” Rivalen asked, not daring to hope.

Telamont continued, “We have spent over a year scrabbling in the dirt, looking for trinkets from the empire while we sought alliances with the child kings who now rule Faerun. Wasted efforts, I think. Do you agree?”

Rivalen licked his lips and carefully worded his reply. “We have recovered what magic there is to recover from the ruins of the empire, Father. That time is past. And our attempts at diplomacy have been met with scorn and mistrust. Cormyr and Evereska still blame us for the depredations of the phaerimm. The elves that have Returned to Cormanthor gather strength while we speak. The time for diplomacy, too, seems past.”

The most high gestured at the map, indicating all of Faerun with a wave of his arm. “Faerun is covered by petty realms ruled by petty kings, little better than the Rengarth tribesmen who once peopled the lands under the flying cities of the empire. Even the elves have degenerated into barbarism. What have any of them accomplished since the Fall? The Empire of Netheril gave them the pinnacle of rnagic, arts, and science, and they preserved none of it.” His father faced him, his platinum eyes aglow. His voice softened. “What is now Sembia once was called Arnothoi by the elves. Did you know that, Rivalen? It was all rolling forest and grassy meadows.”

“I did, Most High.” Rivalen’s collection included a coin of magically preserved, polished wood from Arnothoi. He knew the elven realm’s history.

The most high pointed to upcountry Sembia, not far from Daerlun. A wisp of shadow spiraled from his fingertip and kissed

the map. “I walked a meadow there with Alashar, long ago. A stream divided it in two. Goldslips covered the banks. Your mother loved how the flowers looked in the sun.”

Uncomfortable, Rivalen said nothing. His father seldom waxed sentimental, and the subject of Rivalen’s mother, Alashar, always made him squirm. Rivalen had murdered her, after all.

Telamont exhaled a cloud of darkness. “Let the Sakkoran mythallar be the last artifact of old Netheril that we seek. Trying to resurrect the old empire is a fool’s task. Instead, we will build a new one. Do you agree?”

“You know my thoughts on this, Most High.”

“You have prepared the way in Sembia, yes?”

“All is ready, Most High. “

“Proceed, then.”

A thrill went through Rivalen and he saw Shar’s will made manifest in the news. “Shar favors your course, Father.”

The most high’s eyes narrowed. “She has given you signs?”

Rivalen’s hand went to the holy symbol around his neck. “Yes. Ever since Variance recovered The Leaves of One Night, the Lady has been generous with her favor.”

Variance Amatick was Rivalen’s underpriestess and archivist, second only to Rivalen in Shar’s hierarchy in Shade Enclave. Over a year and a half earlier, she had recovered a lost book long sought by Shar’s faithful—The Leaves of One Night. Rivalen purported to have locked it away in the temple’s vault. In truth, he bore it with him always. The book revealed Shar’s one moment of weakness. Most of the faithful believed that the moment had passed long ago; Rivalen knew that it had not yet occurred. But that was a secret he kept to himself.

Telamont said, “If Shar has spoken to you clearly, Rivalen, inform me of her words.”

“You know I should not,” Rivalen answered. “The Lady’s secrets are for the ears of her high priest. Forgive me, but that is the way of her faith, Father. Of your faith.”

The most high’s eyes flared.

“I am the Most High, Rivalen. And your father.”

Rivalen did not quail. “I am her high priest and servant.”

“You are also a servant of the most high,” said a voice from behind them—Hadrhune’s sibilant, reptilian voice. Rivalen turned to see Telamont’s chief counselor rise from one of the parlor’s chairs, dripping shadows. He clutched his ever-present darkstaff in his hand.

Rivalen had not noticed him upon entering. He wondered if Hadrhune had been in the room the entire time.

Hadrhune continued. “Your loyalty is to the most high first, Rivalen Tanthul. To Shade Enclave second, and to your goddess only third. Or so it should be.”

Rivalen glared. “A false choice, Hadrhune. The interests of all three are aligned.”

Hadrhune smiled. “I wonder what would happen should they become misaligned? What would you do, Prince?”

Rivalen held Hadrhune’s gaze. “I would never allow them to become misaligned.”

“So you say,” Hadrhune said, and waved a hand dismissively.

“Enough, Hadrhune,” Telamont commanded. “Rivalen, enough.”

Both men stared at one another but bowed before the most high’s anger. Rivalen’s father went on. “We must respect my son’s religious zeal. He answers to what he believes to be a higher calling. Isn’t that so, Rivalen? Shar has called you to a greater purpose, has she not?”

Rivalen stared at Hadrhune and nodded.

“And Hadrhune seeks only to serve me and this city.”

“As do I,” Rivalen said tightly.

Telamont nodded and shadows flowed from him. “The time has come to build a new Empire of Netheril. See it done, Rivalen. Find this mind mage first, if you must. But see it done.”

“As you wish, Most High.”

Rivalen gave Hadrhune a final look and turned to leave. As he walked from the parlor, he realized that he had been standing in the room at the very moment when a new Netherese Empire had been conceived. He gave Shar praise and thanks.

Now he had one man to kill and another to capture.

29 Eleint, the Year of Lightning Storms

Rivalen and Brennus stood in the doorway of a scrying chamber in Brennus’s mansion. Shadows cloaked the room, cloaked the brothers. Rivalen had decided to do the killing before the capturing.

A domed ceiling of dusky quartz capped the scrying chamber, and the starlight that crept timidly through did little to dispel the murk. No moonlight marred the darkness. Selune was new, in hiding, as if she knew what was to come.

Rivalen brushed his fingers over the enameled black disc that served as his holy symbol. He wished the Lady’s eyes to be upon him, so he pronounced a bit of her liturgy into the room.

“In the darkness of night, we hear the whisper of the void.”

“Heed its words,” answered Brennus.

Rivalen heard only partial sincerity in his brother’s rote response but did not let it bother him. While the most high and all of the princes of Shade worshiped Shar, only Rivalen served the Lady of Loss. His father and his brothers craved worldly gain, for themselves and for their city. For them, Shar’s worship was a means to that end. Rivalen, on the other hand, craved gain for the world—by returning it to the peace of Shar’s nothingness. For him, Shar’s worship was the end.

None of them fully understood that. But none of them needed to.

Few men were called to true faith. Rivalen’s father and most of his brothers were powerful wizards—several were even more powerful than Rivalen, but they were only wizards. Their understanding was therefore limited. Rivalen was more—he was both archwizard and priest, a theurge. Among the Twelve Princes of Shade Enclave, he was unique. Among all men, he was unique.

Rivalen had received Shar’s calling as a young man, when Netheril still had ruled much of Faerun. To prove his faith, Shar had required him to arrange the murder of his own mother, Alashar, and Rivalen had done it. The death of Alashar had sunk the most high into despair and that, in turn, had led him to Shar, the Lady of Loss.

Through the ensuing years, Telamont had turned all of Shade Enclave to the worship of Shar. Rivalen had taken the dark rites and become first her priest, then her high priest. As a reward for their service, Shar had gifted the Tanthuls with special knowledge—how to bind their essence with shadowstuff. She had taught them of the secret weft of magic, the Shadow Weave, and had helped Shade Enclave avoid the otherwise complete destruction wrought on Netheril by Karsus’s Folly.