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  Riven looked skeptical.

  “Everything,” Cale emphasized.

  “Well enough, then,” Riven said.

  Magadon turned a circle, examined the lay of the land. Stinking water, tangles of trees, and patches of jagged reeds surrounded them. The fog-shrouded air muffled sound.

  “Place feels familiar,” Riven observed.

  Cale had been thinking the same thing. It hit him, then, but Magadon said it first. “It appears my father is not without a sense of humor. This is the same swamp where we first encountered Furlinastis.”

  Cale and Riven cursed. They had faced Furlinastis the shadow dragon once before. Cale had wounded him, but they had lived only because the dragon, citing a promise made long ago, had spared them. But he had promised, too, that he would kill them should they return to the swamp.

  Something thudded against Cale’s boot under the water, giving him a start. He stabbed down into the murk with Weaveshear but hit nothing. Tension gripped him.

  He started to speak, but an ominous hush fell. The swamp stilled. The chorus of insects ceased. The howling creatures retreated to their murky dens and fell silent. The air above them emptied of the flying creatures.

  “Dark,” Riven said. “Dark and empty.” The assassin held his blades and turned a circle.

  Cale did the same. Shadows leaked from Weaveshear.

  “He is coming,” Magadon said, his voice strangely flat. “Now.”

  Shadows poured from Cale’s flesh. He molded them with his mind into shadowy duplicates of himself that mirrored his movements. The illusions would distract the dragon and, with luck, draw some of its attacks. Riven prayed to Mask under his breath and shadows from the air coiled around his blades.

  “Where, Mags?” Riven asked. The assassin stood in a crouch, his breathing steady.

  Magadon shook his head and looked into the darkness. “Nowhere. Everywhere. We will never see him.”

  Cale knew Magadon was right. Even with his shadow sight, Cale saw nothing but dark water and coils of fog. The shadow dragon was as much one with the darkness as Cale.

  But they could hear him, and Cale’s darkness-sharpened hearing caught a sound: a rhythmic rush of air, the beat of huge wings from somewhere above them.

  “In the air,” he said.

  He scanned the sky but saw nothing. He felt the dragon’s approach the same way he felt an approaching storm. He felt exposed. They had no cover.

  “Link us, Mags,” Cale said.

  The mindmage could connect their minds so they could communicate silently at the speed of thought.

  Magadon shook his head. “No.”

  Cale looked at him sharply.

  Magadon said, in a softer tone, “I cannot, Cale. I am not … I cannot.”

  Cale stared at the mindmage, unarmored, damaged in his soul, worn as thin as old leather. He had not even drawn his dagger.

  “He’s got nothing but a dagger, Cale,” Riven said, his eyes on the sky, his thoughts apparently mirroring Cale’s.

  Cale made his decision. “We are leaving. This is not our fight.”

  A roar from above drenched them in sound. The dragon broke from the darkness of the sky, backlit by a vermillion flash, a mountainous form of black scales, muscle, and shadow. He dove directly at them. Another roar sent waves through the waters of the swamp.

  The creature bore down on the trio. His teeth were the length of daggers. His wings stretched two bowshots across from wingtip to wingtip. His massive form trailed a cloud of shadows the way a shooting star trails flames. Cale saw faces in the shadows, old faces, familiar faces. The dragon opened his mouth wide to breathe. The faces in the clouds opened their mouths, too, and Cale read their lips, or perhaps heard their whispers.

  Free us!

  “Cover!” Riven shouted, though there was nowhere to run.

  The moment before Furlinastis spat a cloud of viscous black vapor from his mouth, Cale caught a glimpse of Magadon, staring up at the dragon, arms limp at his sides, face impassive. Cale had no time to process the implications before the dragon’s life-draining breath saturated the area in ink. The swirling cloud of shadowstuff wormed into Cale’s body through his nose, ears, and eyes, pulled at his soul, drank his life force. He staggered in the muck, fell. He heard Riven groan and curse.

  Furlinastis hit the swamp with the force of a thunderbolt. His body displaced so much water that a waist-high wave of foul liquid washed over Cale. The dragon’s respiration sounded like a forge bellows.

  Despite the life-draining effect of the dragon’s breath, Cale recovered himself enough to draw the shadows to him. He reached out his consciousness for Magadon and Riven as the shadow magic took hold.

  “You were warned never to return,” the dragon’s sibilant voice said from out of the darkness. “For that—”

  Cale heard no more. He thought of one of the only places on the Plane of Shadow fixed firmly in his memory, a place from which they could begin their pursuit of Kesson Rel—the city of Elgrin Fau the lost, once the City of Silver, but now the City of Wraiths.

  The shadows engulfed them and swept them there.

  Furlinastis knew the First and Second of Mask were either dead or had escaped, for he could no longer hear their hearts. The cloud of darkness dissipated and he saw only the lifeless husks of dozens of frogs, fish, snakes, and other small creatures native to the swamp floating on the surface of the water, their lives extinguished by his breath. But there was no sign of the humans. They had escaped him.

  He roared in frustration, beat his wings, and took flight. Enraged, he turned a circle in the sky and swept low over the stagnant water of his domain. The force of his passage bent reeds and small trees, and sent up a spray of water in his wake. He blew out another cloud of his life-draining breath, another, and the vapor annihilated thousands of creatures. Their deaths did little to mitigate his anger.

  The shadows around him swirled as the souls of the priests trapped within his shadow shroud focused their wills. Faces formed in the shroud, all clamoring for freedom. The cacophony of voices subsided and one voice rose above the multitude. Furlinastis recognized it as that of Avnon Des the Seer.

  The Chosen of the Shadowlord have returned. The First has come to claim what is his, what we have held for him these unnumbered years. The end is upon us. You will die and we will be freed to go to our rest.

  “If they return again, they will die. You will never be freed, priest. You chose your prison.”

  And you yours, dragon. You chose Kesson Rel for your ally.

  Furlinastis again howled his rage into the dark sky. “I chose nothing! I was compelled by his magic, the same soul magic that binds you to me now, that binds him to you! If I die and you are freed, so, too, will he be freed.”

  Yes, Avnon Des said, his tone almost sympathetic. But that doom was charted long ago. They will return and you will die. The course is set.

  “I will fight them. They are only men.”

  No. They are more.

  The words sent a charge of emotion through Furlinastis, a feeling he had not experienced for centuries, not since his first encounter with Kesson Rel the Shadowtheurge. It took him a moment to recognize it as fear.

  I am sorry, Avnon Des said. He made you his vessel. We had to make you ours to trap what he expended to bind you. There was no other way.

  Furlinastis heard sincerity in the words, but they brought him no comfort. He told himself that Avnon Des was wrong.

  Within the shroud, Furlinastis felt the stirrings of power, felt the squirming, semi-sentient thing that was a portion of Kesson Rel contending with the priests. Avnon Des’s face grew pained, melded back into the shadows.

  Furlinastis murmured, “It is because of you, fool theurge, that I have been bound to this swamp for these thousands of years. It is because of you that I will die.”

  Kesson forced enough of his will through the wall of priests to answer.

  The end is near, wyrm. And I will again be whole.

  F
urlinastis roared into the sky and wheeled upward, toward the clouds, amongst the lightning.

  Tamlin sat atop his mare and rode slowly down the city’s cobblestone streets. Prince Rivalen rode beside him, man and horse wrapped in twilight. A dozen spear-armed Scepters in green weathercloaks and mail walked before and behind them and kept the streets clear. Groups of citizens clustered to watch them pass. Tamlin sat tall in his saddle, waved and nodded. He tried to look determined but could not maintain it for long. The huddled forms and fearful faces that stared at him out of the dark undermined his confidence.

  Tamlin spoke in low tones so that none but Rivalen would hear him. “My entreaties for a negotiated resolution have gone unanswered.”

  Rivalen nodded. “The overmistress does not wish peace.”

  A few men in the crowd—off duty militiamen, no doubt—raised a defiant cheer condemning Ordulin. “When will the Selkirk whore bring her army, Hulorn?”

  “We wish some sport,” shouted another.

  Tamlin raised his fist and forced a smile.

  “I cannot believe it has come to this,” he said to Rivalen. “How can the realm have been so close to war without anyone realizing it? We will kill each other over trifles, over a lie.”

  Prince Rivalen eyed him sidelong. His golden eyes shone like fivestars.

  “That is so and has ever been so. I have lived two thousand years and have seen in that time that men almost always die for trifles. Exceptions are rare.”

  “Your years have made you a cynic, Prince,” Tamlin said softly.

  Rivalen laughed, a hard, staccato sound. “A realist, Hulorn. In truth, everything is a trifle when viewed through the lens of history. Empires rise and fall, men live and die. The Jhaamdathan Empire ruled a great portion of the world at one time. Have you ever heard of it?”

  Tamlin felt ignorant but shook his head.

  “Of course not,” Rivalen said. “Only scholars have. Yet the Jhaamdathans thought their influence would extend forever. Men delude themselves into thinking that the events in which they participate are of particular significance to history, but they rarely are. One empire is the same as another.”

  “What of Netheril, Prince? Even I have heard of it. Its influence reaches through time, even unto now.”

  Rivalen waved a hand dismissively and it trailed shadows. “Netheril is an exception. A sole exception. But even it will fade from the memory of men someday. All is fleeting, Hulorn, and only one thing is certain—an end to all things.”

  Tamlin chuckled. “I mistook you, Prince. You are worse than a cynic. You are a nihilist.”

  Rivalen shrugged. “Things are what they are, whatever we may think. It is our task to wrestle meaning from meaninglessness while we still can. Does that make me a nihilist still?”

  Tamlin’s smile faded. He envied Rivalen the perspective of two thousand years.

  “Are you a man of faith, Prince?”

  Rivalen’s golden eyes flared and narrowed.

  “Is that a rude question?” Tamlin stuttered. “If so, I apologize. I thought—”

  Rivalen waved a ringed hand. The shadows about him swirled. “It is not rude, Hulorn. It is forthright. That is one of the things I admire about you.”

  Tamlin felt himself color at Rivalen’s praise. He valued it as much—perhaps more—than he had ever valued the praise of his father.

  “I ask only because I have been considering matters of faith recently. In my own life, I mean. Our conversation put me in mind of it.”

  Rivalen said, “Times of crisis breed introspection. And yes, I am considered pious among my people.”

  The admission mildly surprised Tamlin.

  “May I inquire, then, which gods you worship?”

  Rivalen looked above Tamlin and into the moonless sky. When he looked down again, he smiled kindly, the expression made oddly threatening by his ornamental fangs.

  “I worship but one. A goddess.”

  “Really? I’ve known none but priests to worship only one god or goddess.”

  “I am a priest, Hulorn.”

  Tamlin reined his horse and stared at Rivalen. Their bodyguards looked startled for a moment, but quickly formed a cordon around the two.

  “A priest? I thought you were … something else.”

  “A mage?”

  Tamlin nodded.

  “I am both, Hulorn. A theurge, my people call me.”

  Tamlin’s respect for Rivalen redoubled. “That is a rare combination, Prince.”

  “Perhaps not as rare as you think. I have never found my faith to be at odds with my magical studies.”

  “You worship Mystra, then?”

  Rivalen stared at him, his face impossible to read. “No.” He gestured at the road, and shadows leaked from his fingers. “Shall we continue?”

  “Uh, of course.” Tamlin turned his mare and they started moving again. The bodyguards fell in around them.

  Rivalen said, “Mystra is not the only goddess who welcomes practitioners of the Art into her ecumenical orders. Have you considered formalizing your own worship, Hulorn?”

  Tamlin smiled and shook his head. “No. Religion does not speak to me, Prince. My father was the same way. Coin is in the Uskevren blood, not faith.”

  “You are not your father, Hulorn.”

  To that, Tamlin said nothing, though the words pleased him somehow.

  “You need only a Calling,” Rivalen said.

  “No god or goddess will be calling me, Prince.” Tamlin tried to laugh at the notion but could manage only a forced smile.

  “A Calling does not always come from the divinity,” Rivalen said. “Sometimes it is communicated through an intermediary—another priest of the faith.”

  Tamlin felt Rivalen’s eyes on him but did not return the Prince’s gaze. He understood what Rivalen seemed to be offering and was tempted by it.

  “You have not even told me the name of the goddess you worship.”

  “True,” Rivalen said. He paused for a time, then said, “I have given you cause to trust me, have I not?”

  The question surprised Tamlin. “You have. Of course.”

  “I feel there is even a friendship between us. Or at least a burgeoning friendship. Am I mistaken?”

  Tamlin shook his head. “You are not, and your words please me. I feel the same.”

  The shadows around Rivalen swirled. “My Lord Hulorn, you know very little about me and I fear an ill-timed admission about my faith may put a wedge between us. My faith is … poorly understood.”

  Tamlin thought of Erevis Cale, of his surprising admission to Tamlin that he worshiped Mask, the god of thieves and shadows. Rivalen’s admission could be no worse. He said, “I bring few preconceptions in matters of faith.”

  Rivalen reined his horse and studied Tamlin’s face. Tamlin reined his mount and bore the Prince’s gaze.

  Finally, Rivalen said, “Then I shall share something with you that I share with only a few outside my people. A secret, if you will.”

  “I will keep it in confidence,” Tamlin said, pleased that Rivalen would trust him so.

  Rivalen nodded, sighed. “Over my two thousand years I have learned that pain and loss are common to all men in all times. Not all men experience love or know joy, but all men know pain and loss. All men know fear. And in the end, all men know the emptiness of the void.”

  “That is so,” acknowledged Tamlin slowly, though he was not sure he understood completely.

  Rivalen stared into his eyes. “That realization led me to Shar, Hulorn. I worship the Lady of Loss.”

  For a moment Tamlin thought Rivalen must have been making a jest, but he saw from the Prince’s solemn expression that the words were truth.

  “Shar?” he asked, startled. The single word was all he could manage.

  Rivalen nodded and said nothing. The shadows turned slow spirals around his flesh.

  “Shar. But I have heard …” Tamlin started to say, but stopped. “Shar is …”

  He shook h
is head and looked away. He could find no words that would not offend the Prince.

  Rivalen said, “As I said, my faith is poorly understood. Dark rumors abound but they are mostly born of ignorance. Shar does not cause pain and loss. She simply embraces their existence, and teaches her true faithful to do the same as part of the cycle of life and death. There is peace in that, Hulorn. And power.”

  Tamlin looked up at that. Rivalen stared back at him, unreadable.

  “You know me, Hulorn, know me well. I assure you that any distasteful deeds done in Shar’s name have been caused by those who call themselves her faithful but who little understand her teachings. I am doing what I can to put an end to their error.”

  Tamlin nodded, his mind still swimming.

  “Does this change anything between us?” Rivalen asked.

  Tamlin thought of his father, of Mister Cale. “I must ask you something, Prince.”

  Rivalen’s face was a mask. “Ask.”

  “Where is Mister Cale?”

  The shadows around Rivalen swirled, but his expression did not change.

  “Erevis Cale retrieved his comrade and left Sakkors. I do not know where he is now.”

  Tamlin studied Rivalen’s face, seeking a lie. He saw nothing and decided against asking more. Mister Cale had chosen his course, and one confession from Rivalen was enough for the evening.

  Tamlin said, “Nothing is changed between us. We remain … friends.”

  Rivalen studied his face, nodded. “I am pleased to hear those words.” He paused, said, “Hulorn, Erevis Cale was wrong about us. About me. You may trust me.”

  I must, Tamlin thought but did not say. Instead, he said, “Erevis Cale was wrong about many things. And I do trust you, Prince.”

  They started off again.

  A group of passersby—laborers, to judge from their coarse clothing—stopped and stared at Rivalen, pointed and whispered. A city linkboy nearby stood open-mouthed under a street torch and eyed the Shadovar ambassador. Rivalen smiled at the boy and the lad’s mouth gaped still wider. The flames in the street torch dimmed as Rivalen and Tamlin passed.