Shadowrealm Page 9

  Endren put a hand on Elden and his stump on Abelar. After a time, Elden stopped crying. He looked up and Abelar wiped the tears and snot from his face with the sleeve of his cloak.

  “You good man, Papa?”

  The question took Abelar unawares, set his heart to running and stole his voice. He stared into his son’s brown eyes, unable to find words.

  “Papa? You good?”

  Endren rescued him. “He is a good man, Elden. He’s always been a good man.”

  Elden smiled at his grandfather and embraced his father again.

  Abelar nodded gratitude at Endren, held onto his son, and wondered.

  Brennus ate, rested for a time, then walked the shadow shrouded halls of his manse on Shade Enclave. He did not relish the coming conversation but nevertheless reached out to Rivalen through his ring.

  What have you learned? Rivalen asked.

  Brennus recounted what Mephistopheles had told him. There is a world called Ephyras, a dead world, on which stands a temple at the edge of nothing, a temple that will soon be destroyed itself. Within is the Black Chalice, a holy artifact from which Kesson Rel drank to obtain his divinity.

  Brennus paused, hesitant to continue. He felt Rivalen’s impatience through the connection.

  And?

  And a drink from the Black Chalice will transform the imbiber into a weapon who can take back what Kesson Rel stole, which appears to be a portion of Mask’s divine power.

  Satisfaction, not surprise, poured through the magical conduit. Well done, Brother.

  You already knew that Kesson Rel’s divinity has its origin in Mask and not Shar?

  I did.

  Brennus was not surprised. Rivalen was as secretive as his goddess.

  Is there more? Rivalen asked.

  Brennus hesitated, steeled himself, and dived ahead. Only a Chosen of Mask may imbibe from the Black Chalice. Any other will die. The artifact is holy to the Shadowlord.

  Silence. So Rivalen had not known that.

  Brennus felt Rivalen’s anger and understood it. A heretic of Shar threatened their plans for Sembia. To thwart him, it appeared they needed to beg the assistance of an enemy, an enemy who would profit in the bargain.

  Erevis Cale, Rivalen said, the words hot with anger.

  So it seems. Since Kesson Rel stole a portion of Mask’s divinity, it is not of him. Upon his death, presumably, it will revert to the Chosen of Mask who drank from the chalice.

  We cannot allow that, Rivalen said.

  Agreed, Brennus said.

  After a time, Rivalen said, I will arrange for the assistance of Erevis Cale. Meanwhile, I have another task for you, Brennus.

  Brennus waited.

  When the power is freed upon Kesson Rel’s death, I want it.

  The homunculi on Brennus’s shoulders gave a start, leaned forward, and stared at one another across the intervening landscape of Brennus’s face.

  Shadows swirled around Brennus. You want it?

  Yes. Or I want it obliterated, though I think that likely impossible.

  Does the Most High know of this?

  Rivalen’s silence provided answer enough.

  Brennus made the connections between what he had learned from Mephistopheles and what Rivalen had told him of Kesson Rel.

  Rivalen, the divinations suggest that the divinity can be recovered only by Mask’s Chosen. If you—

  I need you to find another way, Brennus.

  Rivalen …

  We must kill Kesson Rel to stop the Shadowstorm, but we cannot afford to elevate Erevis Cale in his place.

  True.

  There is a way. There must be. Find it. Whatever methods you used before, use them again.

  The homunculi squealed and darted into his cloak. Brennus shook his head, recalling the power and majesty of the archfiend. He did not relish another encounter.

  You do not know what you are asking, Brennus sent.

  Do you see another option?

  Brennus shook his head. No.

  You divined that the temple at the edge of nothing would soon be destroyed. We have little time.

  Yes.

  Then I will expect prompt word of your success. I will not forget your assistance in this, Brennus.

  The connection went silent, leaving Brennus alone with his homunculi and his thoughts. Exhausted, he decided to take a meal. He strode the shadows to the dining hall and there found a platter of steamed mushrooms and braised beef awaiting him. A minor magic had kept it hot. His homunculi bounded from their perches and lingered over the mushrooms, inhaling the aroma. They did not need to eat, but enjoyed indulging their senses.

  Dim glowballs cast the table in faint green. Thick shadows spun lazily in the air. A dying fire spat its last, defiant crackles from the large, central hearth. A framed portrait of his mother, formally posed, hung over the hearth. He loved the portrait; its laughing eyes and soft smile captured her perfectly.

  She stood in a long, yellow gown, one hand on a side chair. Her dark hair, pulled up and tied with diamond studded silver wire, contrasted markedly with her pale skin. A diamond necklace hung from her neck, not the jacinth chain weighing down Brennus’s pocket, weighing down his soul. The portrait had been made before Shade Enclave had fled Karsus’s folly to the Plane of Shadow, before Brennus had abandoned shaping for divination. His life would have been different had his mother lived.

  He owed it to her to discover the identity of her murderer. If he could learn how to kill a god, surely he could learn that. He would learn that. Mephistopheles knew the name of the murderer. Or purported to know.

  He lifted a goblet of nightwine, drank, but barely tasted it. He held it before his face, shadows coiling around it, and studied it while he thought. His mind turned to the Black Chalice, and he tried to understand events and their implications. But matters were complicated, dark. He could not see through them to the endgame.

  “Brennus.”

  The voice startled Brennus. His homunculi gasped, and looked up with mushrooms held limply in their hands. Shadows poured from Brennus.

  His father, Telemont Tanthul, the Most High, emerged from the darkness at the far end of the table. His platinum eyes glowed in the dark hole of his face. The darkness in the room coalesced around him like iron shavings to a lodestone. He glided forward, his legs indistinguishable from the cloud of shadows that moved with him.

  Brennus sprung from his seat, bumping the table, spilling the wine, and startling his homunculi.

  “Most High. This is a rare pleasure.”

  His father seldom left the palace. Plots and counterplots, and a quiet, ongoing spell war with Mystra’s Chosen kept him occupied and in seclusion.

  “It has been long since we have shared a meal, Brennus,” the Most High said. His deep voice sounded most like Rivalen’s among all the Princes of Shade. The two shared many traits.

  “Please sit,” Brennus said, and gestured at a chair opposite his.

  Instead, the Most High stopped before the hearth and stared up at the portrait of his wife. The shadows around him churned, reached out to caress the portrait. The glowballs dimmed still further.

  A voice to Brennus’s right said, “The Lady Alashar was a rare woman.”

  Hadrhune, the Most High’s chief counselor, stepped from the darkness. He bore his darkstaff in both hands and shadows played along the runes embroidered on his robes.

  “Hadrhune,” Brennus said, unable to keep the distaste from his voice. His homunculi made an obscene gesture at the counselor. Hadrhune pretended not to notice.

  “Prince Brennus,” the chief counselor said, inclining his head.

  Brennus pointedly did not invite Hadrhune to sit.

  The Most High turned from the portrait. His narrow face carried sadness in the eyes. Brennus had seen it only rarely.

  “She was more than rare, Hadrhune. She was my life.”

  “Of course, Most High,” said Hadrhune, and inclined his head.

  “I think of Mother often,”
Brennus said.

  The Most High and Hadrhune shared a look at his words. Both approached him and Brennus could not rid himself of the feeling of walls closing in.

  “You are wondering why we have come,” the Most High said, as if reading his mind.

  The homunculi nodded in unison.

  “Yes,” Brennus said. “It appears more than a social visit.”

  The Most High took station across the table from Brennus, the portrait of his wife visible over his shoulder. Hadrhune stopped at the head of the table, his gaze alternating between Brennus and the Most High.

  “You have been discussing with Prince Rivalen the manner in which Kesson Rel can be killed and the divine power within him taken,” the Most High said.

  Brennus felt only fleeting surprise that his father knew of his discussions with Rivalen. The Most High was, after all, the Most High. Still, shadows and sweat leaked from Brennus in abundance. His homunculi stood still as statues on the table, mushrooms held aloft.

  “Yes,” Brennus acknowledged and offered all he knew. “It appears that the power, once freed, can be taken only by a Chosen of Mask, but Rivalen wishes to take the power for himself. I am to find a way to make that possible.”

  Brennus expected the Most High to show anger, or at least concern, that Rivalen thought to arrogate divinity to himself. But the Most High seemed untroubled.

  “Is it possible, Most High?” he asked.

  “I believe it must be, but we will soon know for certain. You are to return to your summoning chamber and again call forth Mephistopheles.”

  Once more, Brennus found himself unsurprised by the depths of his father’s knowledge. He started to ask why the Most High would not summon the archfiend himself but realized the answer before he uttered the words—Mephistopheles would answer Brennus, but he might hesitate to answer the call of the Most High.

  “Come,” the Most High said. “Let us make a second query of the Lord of Cania.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  4 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms

  Rivalen considered Brennus’s information from all angles and no matter how the light struck it, he saw it the same way. He did not have much time. The Shadowstorm was spreading. He had to stop it or there would be no Sembia to annex. And he had to stop it soon, or Mystra’s Chosen would take a hand.

  He made up his mind, stepped through the shadows in the corner of his great room, and completed the stride by emerging in the foyer of Stormweather Towers, the Hulorn’s family estate. Afternoon light filtered in through high windows, cross-hatching the carpeted floor with alternating lines of light and shadow.

  A gasp greeted Rivalen’s arrival. The major domo, Irwyl, stood two paces from Rivalen, his dull eyes wide, his hands on a medium sized wooden chest he bore.

  “I have need to see the Hulorn,” Rivalen said.

  The gangly, graying Irwyl stood frozen, rooted to the floor, a creaky oak in a well-tailored shirt rolled up to his elbows.

  Rivalen strode toward him and Irwyl looked as if he might bolt. The contents in the chest, whatever they were, audibly shook.

  Irwyl stared at a point somewhere around Rivalen’s chin. “I was clearing the study.” He held up the chest as evidence, or to interpose a barrier between himself and Rivalen. “The laborers have not yet arrived, but I thought I should remove the small valuables before they did.”

  Irritation caused the shadows around Rivalen to swirl.

  “Where is the Hulorn?”

  Irwyl shook his head. “I believe he returned in the carriage to the Palace. He seemed not himself. He seemed …”

  Rivalen rode the shadows in the hall across the city, to the foyer entry of the Hulorn’s Palace. The helmed, spear-wielding guards looked startled at his sudden appearance, but only for a moment. They had gotten used to his comings and goings and the Hulorn had authorized his free movement throughout any part of the city.

  “Prince Rivalen,” the bearded sergeant said, and inclined his head.

  Both the sergeant and the guards eyed with ill-concealed wonder the shadows that shrouded him. “Where is the Hulorn?” Rivalen said.

  “Is the Hulorn expecting you?” said a voice from the far side of the foyer.

  Thristiin emerged from wherever it was that he laired and smiled his tight smile at Rivalen. His thin gray hair was neatly parted on his age-spotted pate and his clothing, down to the tufted shirt cuffs, looked freshly cleaned and donned.

  “He is not,” Rivalen answered, and walked across the tiled floor to stand before Thristiin. “Do you suppose that means he will not see me?”

  Thristiin sought a refuge for his gaze that did not include Rivalen’s face.

  “Of course not, Prince. He is in the map room. May I escort you so that I may announce your arrival?”

  Thristiin led Rivalen through the wide, comfortably dark corridors of the palace. Thayan and Chessentan rugs dotted the floors. Tapestries bedecked the walls.

  “Prince Rivalen of Shade Enclave,” Thristiin announced, as he opened the door to the map room.

  Tamlin stood with arms crossed over a large, rectangular oak table on which lay an unrolled map of Sembia, the Dale-lands, and Cormyr. Chess pieces from the set that had been in the study in Stormweather Towers stood here and there on the parchment, denoting various locations. Rivalen smiled to see the white king positioned near Selgaunt. Tamlin still needed to think of himself as pure.

  “Prince,” Tamlin said. “I did not expect to see you until our customary repast after sunset.”

  “Forgive me, Hulorn, but I must speak with you on a matter of some import.”

  Thristiin took Rivalen’s point. “If there is nothing else, Hulorn?”

  “You may go,” Tamlin instructed the chamberlain.

  Thristiin bowed to each of Tamlin and Rivalen then exited the room, closing the door behind him.

  Tamlin wore a thin blade at his belt. His holy symbol of Shar hung from a silver chain around his neck, open for all to see.

  Rivalen stepped to the table, eyed the map. A black bishop was toppled on Saerloon, while the other stood on Urmlaspyr. A toppled white knight lay on Saerb. Black rooks stood on Daerlun and Yhaunn. Black pawns were arranged in an arc across northeastern Sembia. Rivalen assumed they denoted the leading edge of the Shadowstorm. The remaining pieces from the set sat in a velvet-lined coffer to one side of the map.

  Tamlin took position beside Rivalen, close enough that the shadows around Rivalen brushed him.

  “I brought my father’s chess set from Stormweather Towers and you see my poor attempt to represent matters as they stand. This is all based on the most recent reports of our scouts as well as what divinations have shown. The Shadowstorm appears to be accelerating as it moves west.”

  “It grows in power as it consumes more life,” Rivalen said.

  Tamlin stared at him for a long moment. “Yes—” he cleared his throat—“well, it seems it is not yet spreading east. Yhaunn, so far as we know, remains untouched. But we must wonder for how long? I think we must stop it soon, Prince.”

  “You are correct,” Rivalen said. He withdrew the black king from the coffer, placed it over Ordulin on the map. “Kesson Rel is the cause of the Shadowstorm. To stop it, we must kill him.”

  He toppled the king, though he knew perfectly well he could not stop the Shadowstorm. He would not even try. The Shadowstorm was Shar’s will. He could only contain it. Perhaps.

  “Sensible,” Tamlin said and rubbed his hands together.

  Rivalen picked up a black pawn, eyed it, and showed it to Tamlin.

  “But to kill him, I require the assistance of Erevis Cale.”

  The words stopped Tamlin in mid-nod, froze his hands, flushed his skin. “Mister Cale? Why? Surely you and I can accomplish whatever needs accomplished.”

  Rivalen knew he had to trod with care. He played and would continue to play on Tamlin’s sense of inferiority relative to Mister Cale, but he knew not to play too hard lest the strings snap.

&nbs
p; “Ordinarily, I would agree. But this is a matter of a unique kind.”

  Tamlin shook his head, paced, then gestured at the map. “Look what we have done so far. How can Mister Cale be necessary?”

  Tamlin spun on his heel, paced some more, and nearly spat his next words. “Mister Cale. Erevis Cale. What can require Mister Cale that I cannot do?” He stopped, eyeing Rivalen. “Is it because he is a shade? Then make me one. You know I want it.”

  “It is not because he is a shade. It is because he is a Maskarran.”

  “I do not understand. How is that relevant?”

  The shadows around Rivalen churned with irritation, but he kept his voice patient. He did not wish to damage the relationship he had so painstakingly built.

  “Kesson Rel is a divine being. A god. Quite minor, it is true, but divine nevertheless.”

  Tamlin’s voice sounded small. “A god you say?”

  Rivalen nodded. “Yes, but the unique circumstances involved in Kesson’s ascension render him uniquely vulnerable. That vulnerability can be exploited only by a special servant of Mask.”

  “Mister Cale,” Tamlin said, with surrender in his tone. He took another black pawn from the coffer, closed his fist around it until the knuckles were white. “He will not help us.”

  “Not willingly.”

  Tamlin looked up, eyebrows arched in a question.

  “Brennus is unable to scry Cale directly, but he has learned that Cale has been of service to Abelar Corrinthal. Our spies among the Saerbian refugees—”

  “You have spies among the refugees?”

  “Do not interrupt me again or ever,” Rivalen said, his voice rising with his ire. “Do you understand?”

  Tamlin’s mouth hung slack under his wide eyes. He nodded slowly.

  “Yes,” Rivalen said, more calmly. “We have spies. Not in human form, of course. But a few.”

  Tamlin, his face still red from Rivalen’s rebuke, went for a wine chalice on a side table, and drank. Of late, Rivalen thought the Hulorn drank more than had been his custom.

  “You will use the refugees against Mister Cale?” Tamlin asked.

  “Mister Cale has an interest in their safety. We can use that to compel his cooperation.”