Shadowstorm (38 page)

He took a moment to compose himself, then activated the magical ring on his finger and reached out for Vees Talendar.

Nightseer? Wees asked.

Summon the members of your congregation and meet me in the temple, Dark Brother. I have news from the Lady of Loss. Yes, Nightseer.

Rivalen cut off the connection, returned the book to its chest, and reset his wards. A shadow stretched across the chest. Rivalen turned, expecting to see someone, but there was nothing. He attributed the sensation to an aftereffect of his communion.

He stood, drew the shadows about him, and transported himself to the secret temple of Shar. He had to prepare matters for Talendar and Tamlin.

•ŠŚ ŚŠŚ ŚŠŚ ŚŠŚ

Elyril watched Rivalen draw the darkness about him and disappear. Excitement made her giddy. She had seen The Leaves of One Night, the rest of the book to be made whole, had heard its whispers in her mind. She had seen the Nightseer commune with Shar and had felt the Lady’s presence in the room.

Elyril willed her body corporeal and moved across the chamber to the invisible chest. Her burned and withered flesh

felt constraining. She felt heavy in her skin, uncomfortable, but she endured it for a time. Her incorporeal form was her true form. The flesh she had worn for decades—the flesh that had been withered by the Nightseer’s spell and transformed in fire—had been only the mask she wore until Shar had revealed to her the truth of the Shadowstorm.

She knelt before the invisible chest, holding her holy symbol between the unfeeling stubs of her fingers. Her shriveled lips pronounced the supplication without grace. “In the darkness of the night, we hear the whisper of the void.”

The shadows in the room shrouded her like a lover. She took it as a sign. She imagined Volumvax’s touch would feel much the same.

She pronounced the words that allowed her to see invisible items and the chest appeared to her. With careful precision she repeated the words she’d heard the Nightseer use to dispel the protective wards on the chest. She held her breath, unlatched it, and threw it open.

Whispers filled the air, indecipherable utterances that hinted at madness, despair, and darkness. Elyril looked into the chest and there saw the book. The otherwise ever-changing silver characters on the book’s black cover stilled. She read aloud the words written there, words written centuries before for her, and only her, to see. “Night comes. A storm of shadows is its herald.”

The cover dissolved into a stinking black mist and dissipated into the air. The pages of The Leaves of One Night lay exposed, naked.

She took out the rest of the book to be made whole, the book gifted her by Shar herself in the guise of the guardsman, Phraig, the book she had pulled from the fire of her own transformation. It trembled in her grasp like a living thing. Its cover flew open and the pages flipped until they reached the gap in the text, the void that wanted filling.

She echoed the words of the Nightseer and discharged the wards cast on The Leaves of One Night. She lifted it gently from

the chest—whispers sounded in her mind—and placed it atop the other book.

The darkness in the room deepened. The books bound themselves one to the other.

The whispers in her mind intensified, rose in triumph. She clutched her head and gritted her teeth. The voices, thousands of them, spoke at once in a babble of tongues, tones, dialects. She could not bear it for long. She wanted to scream for silence, to demand that they speak so she could understand—

The voices fell silent.

Elyril, sweating, gasping, stared at the book. A single voice sounded in her head, a woman’s voice so heavy with power that it stole Elyril’s breath. Summon the Shadowstorm, Dark Sister. The book slammed shut.

Elyril stared at it, awed. Its words were an elaborate lie. But in the spaces between its words lay the truth of the ritual.

She picked up the book and dropped her ring, the ring the Nightseer had given her, the ring that had triggered her transformation, into the Nightseer’s chest.

“Know my secret now, Nightseer.”

She turned herself and the book incorporeal. She rose through the ceiling of the Nightseer’s quarters and up into the moonless sky, where she shouted her joy into the darkness.

She would do her goddess’s bidding and complete the ritual. She would sit at the side of the Lord Sciagraph as he ruled a world covered in darkness.

She laughed when she realized that the Nightseer would soon know that the Lady of Loss kept secrets even from him.

Ś&Ś ŚŠŚ

Cale materialized in darkness on the lowered drawbridge that led into the temple of Mask on the Wayrock. Faerun’s stars shone in the sky above him. The night clung to him. The smell of clean

sea air filled his nostrils and he inhaled deeply. The soft rush of the distant surf sounded in his ears.

Riven’s two small dogs tore out of the archway and charged Cale, tails wagging. Cale kneeled and patted their flanks, pleased to see them. They licked his hands, put their forepaws on his arm and tried to lick his face. The shadows that coiled about him seemed not to trouble them.

He stood and looked to his right, to the hill where he and Riven had buried Jak. He nodded at the little man’s grave. He thought Jak would have been pleased with Cale’s resurrection of the dragon.

“Come on, girls,” he said to the dogs. “Inside.”

The dogs sped ahead of him and he followed them into the temple of his god. He smiled when he thought that Mask had been able to fill his temple with only two men and two dogs.

He found Riven, Nayan, and Magadon awaiting him in the foyer. Riven’s dogs circled their master. Riven patted them absently.

“What is it?” Cale asked.

“All went well with the dragon?” Riven asked.

“As well as it could,” Cale said.

“You should have left him dead,” Magadon said.

“You don’t mean that, Mags. The dragon was not a willing vessel.”

Magadon stared at him. “I mean it. You just don’t like that I mean it.”

Cale felt a flash of anger but stifled it. He remembered Magadon’s mindblade, its yellow light polluted by black streaks. Magadon, too, was not a willing vessel.

Nayan disrupted the awkwardness. He said, “A priest in service to Abelar Corrinthal has been seeking you. He contacted me through a sending. I have ignored it until now.”

“Abelar Corrinthal?” Cale asked, surprised.

Nayan nodded. “We returned Endren to him. He knew of me in that way. He purported to be your ally.”

Cale Would not have called Abelar an ally, though he had reached an understanding with the man.

“Who is Endren?” Magadon asked. “What does he have to do with matters?”

“Endren is a Sembian nobleman,” Cale said. “Abelar is his son and a servant of Lathander. They’re enemies of the overmistress.”

Magadon’s face showed no recognition, or perhaps it was apathy.

“Sembia is at war, Mags,” Cale explained. “Or at least it was. I met Abelar on the road out of Selgaunt. He and his men stopped an attack on the Hulorn. They probably saved my life, too. I owe him.”

“You owe me,” Magadon said.

Cale held his calm with difficulty. “I know.”

“What does Abelar want with you?” Riven asked.

Cale looked to Nayan and the shadowwalker shook his head. “The sending asked only for you to attend him,” Nayan said.

“Perhaps he needs assistance with the war?” Cale said.

“That is not our fight,” Magadon said.

“Maybe the Uskevren boy is in trouble,” Riven said. “Rivalen Tanthul had him under his sway.”

Magadon looked to Riven. “Rivalen Tanthul?”

Riven’s eye narrowed. “Your fight now, eh?”

“I asked you a question,” Magadon said, and advanced on Riven.

Riven’s mouth hardened. “Take a step back, Mags. Do it now, and get your mouth under control.”

“I want Rivalen Tanthul dead for what he did to me.”

“That’s both of us, then,” Riven answered. “Step back.”

Magadon did and turned to Cale. “Take me to Rivalen, Cale.”

“No.”

Cale’s word brought Magadon up short. “No? I owe him.” Cale nodded. “As do I. As does Riven. But Rivalen Tanthul is

no more our fight than is Sembia’s civil war. Not now, at least.”

Magadon’s brow furrowed, his colorless eyes narrowed.

“We have other concerns,” Cale said soothingly. “You need some time, Mags. You’ve been through a lot. We all have.”

“Time is the last thing I need,” Magadon said softly, and looked away. “Or have.”

“Nayan, get him some food and a place to rest,” Cale said. “He’s had it harder than Riven and I.”

The easterner nodded and beckoned Magadon into the temple. Magadon sighed, nodded, and followed Nayan.

“Mags,” Cale called after.

The mindmage turned. He looked ten years older than he had when Cale had first met him. “Kesson Rel is the priority, Mags. Trust me.”

Magadon nodded. “I do. I am sorry about my … tone.”

“You’re not yourself.”

“No,” Magadon said. “I am not.”

He turned and Nayan led him off. Cale and Riven shared a look. “He’s fading,” Riven said. Cale nodded.

“But you are going to answer this Abelar Corrinthal’s call anyway.”

Cale nodded again. “I’m indebted to him. And I’ve got enough debts outstanding. Time to start closing them out.” “I will come with you.”

Cale shook his head. “This is my problem. You stay with Mags. I’ll return quickly and we’ll hunt Kesson Rel.”

“He may be hunting us, Cale. You think of that? You think that duplicate was there by chance? He arranged it all.”

Cale nodded. Riven was right.

“If he comes for us, he needs to find you and me together. Mags is safe in the temple. Not even Kesson Rel can scry here. No one can. Nayan can watch over him. I am with you,” Riven said.

“Riven …”

The assassin cut him off. “I’ve got debts to pay, too, Cale. I am with you.”

Cale stared into Riven’s one good eye. “Well enough. I will find Abelar with a divination and we go.” “Now?” “Now.”

ŚŠŚ ŚŠŚ ŚŠŚ

Cale’s spell located Abelar quickly. The servant of Lathander had taken no steps to ward himself. He resided in an encampment along the shore of a small lake. Fires burned here and there in the camp. Hollow-eyed men, women, and children gathered around the fires, hovered near the tents.

Refugees, Cale figured, as he drew the shadows to himself and transported there with Riven.

They materialized before a group of seven armed men seated near a fire. The men leaped to their feet and exclaimed in surprise, but none drew blades.

Cale held up his hands, still leaking shadows. “We are friends and are here to see Abelar Corrinthal.”

“He has answered,” one of the men said.

A man as tall as Cale stepped forward. He wore a holy symbol on a chain around his throat—Lathander’s sun. His long brown hair hung loose to his shoulders.

“I am Roen. You can only be Erevis Cale. Well met. My sending found you. Thank you for coming.”

Old men, women, and children, perhaps attracted by the commotion of Cale’s sudden appearance, hovered at the edge of the firelight. They eyed Cale and Riven warily. They looked dirty, underfed, fearful.

“All is well here,” Roen called to them, “These men are allies.”

The refugees nodded, some of the children even smiled.

“I will take you to Abelar,” Roen said, and led them to a

nearby canvas tent. “Abelar, the sending is answered.”

Cale heard motion within and the tent flap flew open. Abelar Corrinthal stepped out and Cale scarcely recognized him. Dark circles stained the skin under his eyes. Lines of worry creased his brow. His red-rimmed eyes pronounced how little he had slept.

“Thank you for coming, Erevis,” Abelar said. He eyed Riven appraisingly and without judgment.

“Why did you send for me?” Cale asked.

Despite his forlorn appearance, Abelar held Cale’s eyes with the same calm intensity he had when first they’d met. “My father told me that you got him out of the Hole, that you can walk the shadows like roads. Is that so?”

Cale nodded and the shadows around him swirled. “Yes. That is so.”

Voices behind Cale and Riven murmured. Abelar’s men had followed them to the tent. Abelar nodded and took a deep breath, like he was leaping into deep water. “I thank you for that. But now … I need to ask your assistance again.”

“Abelar, Sembia’s civil war is not—”

Abelar’s face twisted in grief. “To the Hells with Sembia. They took my son, Erevis. My four-year-old son.” “What? Who?”

“Malkur Forrin. His soldiers. They burned my estate and took my son to get at me. We pursued but… could not save him. I failed. Lathander failed. I need your help.”

Before Cale could answer, Riven said, “They took a boy to get at you?”

Cale heard brewing anger in the assassin’s tone.

Abelar nodded, his eyes filled with tears. “My son was born without his full wits. He will not understand what is happening to him. He has never been away from our estate. I cannot bear the thought of…”

He bowed his head and tried to compose himself. Roen stepped forward and put a hand on Abelar’s shoulder.

“Forrin’s army numbers over a thousand,” Roen said. “We saw it for ourselves.”

“Where did they take the boy?” Riven asked.

Abelar looked up, first to Riven, then to Cale, his eyes hopeful. “Their camp. He is in the midst of their army still, I presume. It is much to ask, I know, but I thought if you could pull my father from the Hole, you could …”

He trailed off, staring at Cale, at Riven.

Cale’s thoughts turned to Jak, to Aril, and he did not hesitate. “We will help you get him back.”

“Tonight,” Riven said with a nod. “Steps over a line, taking a boy. Someone pays for that. In blood.”

The men around them murmured approvingly.

Abelar stared at them with gratitude, nodded. “You are what I’d hoped. But not what I’d expected.”

“Nor I,” added Roen.

Riven chuckled.

“We bring him back here?” Cale said. “To you?”

Abelar looked surprised by the question, as if he had not considered it. His expression went from hopeful to troubled to pained. He shook his head. “No … no. Bring my son back here to my father. I… do not want him to see me this way.”