Shadowstorm

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

1 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms

Tamlin paced the study in Stormweather Tower. He ran his fingertips over the spines of his father's books. He had read almost none of them.

"Vees Talendar a traitor?" he said to Rivalen. "That cannot be, Prince. I've known him for years. He has been indispensable to me."

Rivalen stood in the center of the study, near the chessboard, arms crossed. He advanced a black pawn. "You wished to know all, Hulorn. This is all. Will you hear the rest?"

Tamlin's stomach fluttered but he nodded.

"Recall my mention of renegade, heretical elements within the Sharran church. Vees Talendar is not a priest of Siamorphe, as he purports, but a priest of Shar."

Tamlin gave a start. "Shar? Like you?"

"Shar," Rivalen nodded. "But not like me. I learned of this months ago but kept it from you to earn Talendar's confidence and learn more of his plans. Talendar leads a group of like-minded worshipers. All of them are heretics, Hulorn. All of them are guilty of dark deeds in which innocents suffered."

Tamlin swallowed, looked out of the window onto Stormweather's night-shrouded grounds. He could not believe what he was hearing.

Rivalen continued. "The temple of Siamorphe is a carefully constructed disguise, long in planning. The true temple is below it. It is a temple to Shar, dedicated by heretics. I have seen it."

Tamlin could think of no words. He merely shook his head.

"There is more still," Rivalen said.

"Isn't that enough?" Tamlin said bitterly.

Shadows swirled about the Prince and his eyes glowed in the darkness. His expression showed sympathy. "I know this must be hard to hear. I regret having to tell you these things. But we are at war and cannot have a traitor in our midst."

Tamlin held his goblet in the air between his lips and the tabletop. "Traitor. The word does not fit. Traitor?"

Rivalen nodded.

Tamlin set the goblet down untouched.

"And now I enter into the realm of speculation," Rivalen said. "But here are my thoughts. I believe Vees Talendar told the overmistress and Lady Merelith of the alliance between Shade Enclave and Selgaunt. I believe Vees Talendar then encouraged the other priesthoods in the city to take a neutral stance in the conflict. Some of them may be in league with him."

"If he is a Sharran, as you say…" Tamlin said.

"They would not know that. They believe him a worshiper of Siamorphe."

Tamlin's head swam. He tried to make sense of Vees's treachery, replayed in his mind their many meetings and discussions over the past year. Vees had been secretive, prohibiting anyone from entering the temple of Siamorphe, disappearing for days at a time.

"Why would he do this?" Tamlin asked.

"We discussed the nature of men once before, Tamlin. Is that not reason enough? Perhaps he still harbors ill will due to the conflict between his family and yours. In the end, I believe he wished to see Selgaunt fall and for you and me to die. I suspect he had arranged with Merelith and the overmistress to become the new Hulorn. At the same time, by eliminating me, he would kill Shar's high priest and move a step closer to his heresy becoming accepted in the church. Perhaps he thought to become a high priest himself. Why else would he not have fought beside us at the walls?"

Tamlin picked up the wine goblet and drank it empty in a single gulp. He refilled it, his mind racing. Everything Rivalen said made sense. Anger and shame warmed Tamlin's cheeks. He had been played for a fool. He thought of how disappointed his father would have been with him, how smug Erevis Cale would have been, and his anger grew. He looked to Rivalen.

"These are accusations. I need proof before I authorize steps."

Rivalen crossed the room and stared down at Tamlin. "I will give you proof. This moment. Stay near me and remain silent."

The darkness deepened around them until Tamlin could not see. His stomach fluttered as the shadows moved them elsewhere. He heard a voice, Vees's voice, chanting as the darkness parted.

"Love is a lie," Vees said. "Only hate endures. Light is blinding. Only in darkness do we see clearly."

Rivalen and Tamlin stood in the back of a vaulted, windowless chamber. Wooden pews arranged before them faced a black altar draped with a purple and black altar cloth. Vees Talendar, dressed in black robes, knelt before the altar, chanting. He held in his hands a black disc ringed in purple-Shar's symbol.

Coming face to face with Vees's treachery lit Tamlin's anger. He exhaled in a hiss.

Vees stopped chanting of a sudden and started to rise and turn.

Rivalen surrounded them in darkness and whisked them back to the study in Stormweathet Tower. When the shadows parted, Tamlin slammed a fist on the side table. The impact tipped his wine goblet and the red fluid pooled on the table and dripped to the floor.

Vees had lied to him, betrayed him, betrayed the city.

"He must be held to account," Tamlin said.

"He must be punished," Rivalen said, and the shadows about him swirled.

"I will have him arrested."

Rivalen put a hand on his shoulder. The strength in the Prince's hand surprised Tamlin. The shadows around Rivalen churned, touched Tamlin.

"He is a heretic. I would ask that you allow me to see him punished in accordance with church doctrine."

"What does doctrine demand?" Tamlin asked, though he knew the answer.

Rivalen did not blanch. "Death."

Tamlin stared into Rivalen's golden eyes. His breath came short and shallow. He hesitated, then remembered Rivalen's words-Squeamishness is seldom rewarded in war. His heart raced but his anger burned.

"His family will not stand for it."

The shadows around Rivalen roiled and he took on a sly look. "Vees Talendar died in combat with the Saerloonian army. I saw it. His body was crushed nearly beyond recognition in the rubble of the wall. He will be buried in a mass grave with the others who fell, assuming his body can be recovered at all."

Tamlin looked into Rivalen's eyes and considered. If Vees had been in seclusion since the battle began, as it appeared he had, the claim could hold up. And if it did not, the threat of revealing a Talendar son as a heretical Sharran would keep a scandal from erupting. He took a deep breath, nodded. "I saw the same thing."

Rivalen did not smile, but his eyes showed approval. "You have grown in our time together."

Tamlin nodded, pleased with Rivalen's praise. He had grown.

"I wonder," Rivalen said softly, "whether you are willing to take the final steps?"

Tamlin looked up, a question in his eyes.

"You have seen what Shar offers and have expressed a desire to know more. I have seen in your face that you wish, even, to become one of us?" Rivalen held up his hands and the shadows swirled around his flesh.

Tamlin did not bother to deny it. He had seen shades do what ordinary men could never hope to do.

"All of that is possible," Rivalen said. "But you must demonstrate your commitment to Shar, to me, to yourself. May I be candid?"

Tamlin tried to speak but his mouth was dry. He nodded.

"Too long you have tried to do things halfway, to compromise, to equivocate, to hedge. This, perhaps, is a lesson you learned from your father. I understand well a father's effect on his son."

Tamlin did not respond, but knew that Rivalen was correct. Thamalon had always been a negotiator, a conciliator. Tamlin, too, had always sought a middle path. It had been easiest.

Rivalen continued. "Shar will not stand for such and neither will I. A new world was born today, Tamlin. Your decision here, now, will determine what role you have in it."

Tamlin thought of his mother, his sister, his father, brother, Cale. They would never understand what he had seen, faced, been through. But he decided that he did not need them to. And that decision freed him, for the first time in his life.

"You know my mind, Prince. You know what I want."

Rivalen smiled, showing his fangs. "Then it falls to you to administer punishment to Vees Talendar. In so doing, you will help me reclaim the temple he has desecrated with his heresy. In so doing, you will earn the favor of the Lady of Loss. Are you prepared to do this?"

Tamlin felt mildly lightheaded. He tried to swallow but could not. He was sweating. He felt as if he were standing at the edge of a cliff. Rivalen's eyes burned into him. He thought of all the times he had stood in the study, facing not a Prince of Shade but the disapproving eyes of his father. He thought of the times he had overheard his father confiding to Erevis Cale his disappointment with Tamlin.

He was done trying to satisfy others. He would satisfy himself. He looked from the top of the cliff, eyes open, and stepped off.

"No more compromises, Prince," he said.

Rivalen nodded. "Have you ever taken a man's life before?"

Tamlin cleared his throat. "Yes. But not like this."

Rivalen nodded. "There is no shame in that. Ready yourself. I will prepare matters."

Rivalen returned to his quarters, pleased. He saw potential in Tamlin and hoped the boy would not fail him. He would regard it as unfortunate if he needed to kill him.

He sat on the lush divan before the fireplace. The ambient light of the city's streets filtered in through the windows. Long shadows stretched across the chamber. The darkness embraced him.

On the floor near the divan sat the warded chest that held The Leaves of One Night. Rivalen had turned the chest invisible, but his magically enhanced vision saw invisible objects as clearly as visible ones. He pulled the chest before him, spoke the series of passwords that allowed him to bypass the wards, and opened the lid.

Tendrils of shadows snaked into the air. Sussurant, indecipherable whispers filled the chamber for a moment.

Within the chest lay the holy book. Rivalen intoned another series of passwords, reached within, and withdrew it. The moment he touched it, a cacophony of voices sounded in his mind, whispers, shouts, screams, mutterings. He knew they pronounced secrets from ages past, present, and future, but he could not make sense of the words.

The silver characters on the book's frigid cover shifted under his touch, squirmed like worms beneath his fingertips. He held the book on his lap for a time, running his fingers over the pages and losing himself in its utterings. Variance had once told him that listening to the voices too long made the listener mad. Rivalen knew better. Listening to the voices made the hearer wise.

His mind drifted, floated. He thought of the mother he had murdered, his coin collection, his father, his brothers, he thought of the centuries he had spent in darkness. He considered the role of the goddess in his life and saw that the thread of her plots sewed together every moment of his existence from birth to present. It was her voice that spoke to him through the book. He could not understand the divine tongue in which she spoke, but he knew it spoke of a plan to return existence to the perfect, unmarred nothingness of pre-creation.

He focused on the present, on the role he had played and would play in effecting his goddess's will. Events had transpired much as he had hoped. He had only a single frayed end to burn off.

He took his hand from the book-instantly missing the voices-and touched the holy symbol he wore around his neck. He should not take the next step without an augury.

Softly intoning the words to a spell that allowed him communion with Shar, he expanded his consciousness. He found himself floating in emptiness. Insignificant. Alone.

A presence manifested and the emptiness had purpose, consciousness.

The power of Shar's mind, the frigid cold of the void tugged at him. He slipped toward it. Oblivion beckoned. He resisted its call and sent Shar his question.

Vees Talendar, Lady?

The void spoke with a woman's voice and its power stripped him bare.

The Dark Brother has served his purpose, as all do. Even you.

The words made Rivalen uneasy. I would know more, Lady. Knowledge would allow me to serve you better.

You know what you need to know, and are ignorant of those things of which you should be ignorant. Proceed as you have planned, content in your knowledge and in your ignorance.

Rivalen dared not dispute the matter.

Thank you, Lady, he said, and cut off the spell. He returned to his body, shaking, gasping, cold. He swallowed and grounded himself back in the world by clutching the divan, feeling the floor under his feet. His flesh bled shadows, and they swirled around him torpidly. He felt at sea. He knew much, but not all. Whatever Shar had planned, Rivalen was but a part of it.

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

Nightseer? Vees 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.

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.

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."

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."

"What way is that?" Riven asked.

Abelar looked down at his palms as if they were covered in stains. He looked at Riven and Cale. "I have to get something out of me before I see him. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"It doesn't come out," Riven said softly, and Abelar blanched.

"Abelar," Roen said, "The Morninglord is…"

"You want Forrin to pay," Cale said. "Where do you want him?"

Abelar's eyes focused, burned. "The ruins of Fairhaven, my estate. Can you take me there, or should I ride?"

"I can take you there. At dawn?"

"No," Abelar said, and a cloud passed over his face. "Before dawn. This is nothing to be done under the light of the sun. Well enough?"

"Well enough. Gather your gear. We go now."

They waited while Abelar donned his armor, belted on his blade, and explained matters to his men.

"Your shield?" Cale asked.

Abelar glanced at the still lake, its surface reflecting the stars and Selune's light, and shook his head. "I do not use it anymore."

Cale decided to ask nothing more. "Fairhaven, you said?"

"Aye."

"I will return shortly," Cale said to Riven. He focused his mind on the name and opened his consciousness. The name alone was enough to provide a beacon for his power. He shrouded himself and Abelar in darkness, felt the corresponding darkness in Fairhaven, and took them there.

The smell of smoke still hung in the air. The shadows parted to reveal the charred skeleton of a once grand estate, burned nearly to the ground. Outbuildings, too, had been set aflame and reduced to heaps of blackened wood. Only the stables and a small village had been spared the flames. A breeze whistled the ruins.

They stood in the midst of dozens of graves marked with river stones. The turned earth showed them to be freshly dug.

"Dark," Cale oathed, and shadows swirled around him.

"They murdered everyone," Abelar said, and the coldness in his tone reminded Cale of Riven. Small wonder he had not wanted to see his boy before doing what needed to be done. "Children. Women. The old. Forrin ordered it, the same way he ordered the burning of Saerb."

Cale stood in respectful silence for a moment. "I should begin the process of finding your son. I need his name."

Abelar's expression softened. "His name is Elden. He is a good son."

Cale and Abelar clasped hands. "You can tell him so yourself. Elden comes home tonight. Then I'll bring you Forrin."

Abelar's expression hardened. "I will be waiting."

Cale stared into his face. "What Riven said… he's right, Abelar. There's no stepping back from some things once you've started down the path."

"I know."

Cale was not sure Abelar did know, but did not feel it his place to lecture the man further. He gathered the shadows to him, knowing there would be another murder in Fairhaven before the sun again showed its face.

Cale materialized in the camp beside Riven and wasted no time. "The boy first," he said, and started for Abelar's tent.

"The boy first," Riven agreed, falling into step beside him.

A bearded man in plate armor stood outside Abelar's tent. He bore a shield enameled with the rose of Lathander. Cale recognized him as Regg, Abelar's lieutenant. They stopped before him.

"He's gone?" Regg asked.

"He'll be back. He needs to do something first."

Regg nodded, his expression troubled. "I know what he needs to do. It's deserved, but…" He looked up at Cale. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Cale shook his head.

"Thank you for your aid," Regg said, and stepped aside.

Cale and Riven ducked into the tent and found it furnished with only a few blankets, a bucket, and a tree stump for a table. Cale pulled shadows into the air before his face and thickened them into a circular clot that looked like a hole in the world. He focused his mind and cast his scrying spell. "Elden Corrinthal," he said.

The circle of shadows spun lazily, took on a reflective gloss. Dim flickers of light flashed deep within it. Cale felt the magic of his spell reach through the shadow lens and across Faerun. He pushed through any resistance he encountered, using his will as a weapon.

An image formed in the lens.

A small form lay trussed on the ground within what looked like a field tent. Ropes bound the boy at wrist and ankles. Dirt and blood stained his shirt. Bruises discolored his small face. His eyes were closed, nearly swollen shut. Cale feared him dead until he noticed the slight rise and fall of his chest. He was sleeping, or unconscious.

"He's been beaten," Cale said. "Badly."

A low hiss slipped Riven's lips.

Cale forced the magic of his spell to change perspective, to show Elden from another angle and give them a glimpse of the interior of the tent.

A hulking figure with long black hair sat with his back to a large wooden travel chest. His shield and a double-headed battle-axe lay on the ground beside him. He slept in his breastplate, with one hand on the axe's haft. Furs and wool blankets lay piled elsewhere on the floor. A short spear and a second battle-axe lay propped near the tent flap.

"You get the boy," Riven said. "Then silence the tent with a spell and leave me."

Cale studied Riven's face, his ruined eye. There was no mercy in that eye.

"Well enough," he said. "Ready?"

Riven sheathed his sabers. "Ready."

Cale pulled the shadows about them, felt the corresponding darkness in the distant tent, and took them there.

They stepped from the shadows to the sounds of snores from the long-haired axeman and whimpers from the sleeping boy.

Riven knelt and put his left hand on the boy's head. Shadows leaked from Riven's hand, coalesced around the boy's bruises. Most of them faded and the swelling around his eyes lessened.

Elden winced, cried out in his sleep, curled up into himself. Cale whispered a healing spell of his own and gently placed his right hand on Elden's shoulder. The bruises on his face faded entirely and the boy murmured, muttered something inaudible, and inhaled a deep breath.

Riven and Cale shared a hard look. Riven used handcant to communicate to Cale. I'll wake him, he said, nodding at the sleeping man. He gets to see what's coming.

Cale nodded, leaned in close to Elden, and whispered in his ear, "You are safe. I will take you to your grandfather."

Elden said nothing, but his small body started to shake. Cale and Riven might have healed the physical wounds, but the boy's scars ran deeper than the flesh.

Cale's anger burned. Any man who beat a boy deserved what he got. He signaled Riven in handcant, the gestures curt and cutting. Make it hurt.

Riven nodded, his gaze as hard as adamantine. The assassin prowled across the tent, his hands empty of weapons.

Cale readied his spell of silence.

Riven kicked the axeman's foot and said, "On your feet. Time to die."

Cale cast his spell as the axeman's eyes snapped open and his hand tightened around his weapon.

Sound died, but Cale had already heard the emotionless tone of Riven's voice and it told Cale all he needed to know. The assassin was working. And the tent was no place for a boy. He pulled the shadows about himself and Elden and rode them back to the camp at Lake Veladon.

Years of training and hundreds of combats had sharpened Riven's skills to a sharp edge. Controlled rage honed them to a razor. He stepped backward and drew a throwing knife as the lumbering man jumped to his feet, axe in hand.

Riven hurled the small blade at the man and it tore a gash in his forearm. He screamed in silence and dropped the axe. Blood streamed down his wrist and hand and onto the tent floor.

Riven showed the man his empty hands and beckoned him forward.

The big man understood his meaning. His mouth twisted in a silent roar and he charged Riven, head down and arms out. He outweighed Riven by twenty stones, maybe thirty, but Riven did not back off. Instead, he stepped forward into the man's charge and combined a jump with a sharp right knee.

The man's jaw broke from the impact and his charge ended on the spot. He fell to all fours, wobbling, senseless, bleeding from arm and mouth and spitting teeth.

Riven kicked him in the side of the head and he fell flat to the ground. Straddling him, Riven turned him over roughly. The man's eyes tried to focus. Riven punched him in the face, shattering his nose in a spray of blood and snot. The man screamed silently, tried to roll away, but Riven held him fast. He punched him again, again, again, and again. Soon the man's face was a shattered mess of blood and bruises, and Riven's knuckles were sore and nicked.

Riven knelt over him and stared into his eyes, one of which was clouded with blood from broken vessels. He shook the big man's head by the hair until the eyes focused.

"This is what it feels like to be beaten," he said with a snarl, though Cale's spell swallowed the sound.

The man's mouth moved but Riven could not read his bloody, broken lips. He did not care. The man had nothing to say that Riven cared to hear.

Riven normally killed with efficiency, but he had occasionally provided services for a patron who wanted a target to suffer. Riven had never enjoyed it, but he'd done it.

He would enjoy it now.

He stepped away from the stunned man and walked across the tent. He retrieved the metal-tipped spear and returned.

Drooling blood, the man stared up at him and moved his head slowly from side to side.

Riven cuffed him about the face, used another of his knives to cut the straps of the man's breastplate. He tore it off and threw it to the side. He searched the man to ensure he bore no healing potions. He didn't.

Riven stood and put the point of the spear on the man's gut.

The man was senseless. Riven would not have it.

With his free hand he pulled shadows from the dark air, twined them about his fingers, and put his darkness-adorned hand on the man's shoulder. He let healing magic flow through him. He did not need to speak to generate healing energy, so Cale's spell did not thwart him.

Some of the bruises and cuts on the man's face closed, as did the slash in his forearm. Riven waited for the man's eyes to clear. When they did, he stared into the man's face and drove the spear through his gut. The man's mouth opened in a silent scream of agony that continued as Riven leaned on the spear's haft and sank it half an arm's length into the dirt. Blood poured from the wound.

Wailing and squirming, the man pulled at the spear haft but his strength was already failing him. He pawed at the wooden shaft futilely. He glared at Riven through his pain, cursed him, spat at him.

Riven sneered.

Cale's spell would prevent anyone from hearing the man's screams. Riven had seen men die of gut wounds before. The man would be dead within a hundredcount but every moment would be agonizing. The man who beat a witless boy would die swimming in his own blood, in his own shit, in excruciating pain.

He deserved worse.

Staring without sympathy into the pain-wracked eyes of the dying man, Riven pictured the camp at Lake Veladon in his mind, triggered the magic of his ring, and transported himself there.