by Paul S. Kemp
As he walked through the door of the chapel, the Abbot called after him, “I receive the power to cast spells in the Morninglord’s name every morning, Abelar. Think on that. If what I believed was a lie, why would I still receive such a boon?”
Abelar did not turn or slow. He had no answer. He, too, could channel divine power in the Morninglord’s name. As could Regg. He did not understand why his god would allow both sides of the schism to claim his blessing. Abelar presumed that Lathander had a purpose in prolonging the dispute, but he could not see it.
They exited the chapel and entered the courtyard. Regg shouted for their horses. The crowd of priests and warriors followed them out of the chapel. The eyes of those in the courtyard regarded them with hostility. Some fell in with the priests and warriors.
“He is lost in the depths of his doctrine,” Abelar said to Regg, shaking his head.
“Aye,” Regg said, and nodded. He turned a circle and shouted to all of those looking on them, “And so are you all lost! To the man!”
Some among the onlookers murmured angrily.
“Away from here,” shouted one.
“Begone,” yelled another.
“Gladly,” Regg answered.
Beld brought forth their horses and Abelar and Regg swung into their saddles.
“I did not have time to even remove their saddles,” Beld said, indicating the horses. “And they are temperamental beasts.”
“It is the company here,” Regg said, and patted Firstlight.
Abelar looked to Beld and smiled. “Thank you, Beld. You are a good man.”
Beld looked stricken. “I am sorry it has come to this, Abelar.”
Abelar nodded. “As am I. Be well.”
With that, they rode out. Abelar knew it would be the last time. A black mood descended on him. Lathander would not be pleased that he allowed a darkness to root in him but he could not stop it. He had lost the father of his blood to the Hole of Yhaunn and now had lost the father of his soul to a heresy.
“The sun rises and sets,” he murmured to himself.
As they rode outside of crossbow range, Regg clapped Abelar on the shoulder and chuckled. “And you told me not to speak with heat.”
Abelar could not bring himself to smile. “I was in error.”
“You were not.”
Regg’s words did nothing to comfort him. “I miss my son, Regg.”
He had left Elden, only four winters old, with a nurse back in the family estate near Saerb. Abelar wanted nothing more in that moment than to frolic in the sun and play orcs and knights with his boy.
Regg nodded and gave Abelar a sympathetic pat. He looked away and said nothing.
A call from behind turned them around. Three horsemen tore down the wagon path from the abbey. Rucksacks of gear swung crazily from their saddles. The horsemen waved a hand and shouted for Regg and Abelar to wait.
“That is Beld,” Regg said, shielding his eyes. “With two others.”
“It is.”
Regg smiled. “We lost an Abbot but gained three blades. I will take that trade.”
Abelar waved a welcome at Beld and his comrades. “The sun rises and sets,” he said, this time in a firm voice.
Elyril and Mirabeta awaited Malkur Forrin in the tapestry bedecked meeting rooms within the overmistress’s tallhouse. Elyril had gone several hours without a snuff of minddust and the lack made her irritable.
Bookshelves packed with scrolls and tomes lined two of the room’s walls. Elyril eyed them and imagined holding in her hands the book to be made whole. Its lack, too, made her irritable.
Late morning sunlight carried through the large, leaded glass windows. Elyril sat in a soft armchair in a shadowed corner, out of the direct light. She leered at the shadows the sunlight cast on the wall and they leered back. She idly twisted the magical amethyst ring on her finger. She tried to remove the band but it stuck on her knuckle. She pulled harder and still it would not come off. She cursed it softly and the shadows laughed.
The ceiling creaked as the servants went about their business on the second floor. The sound grated on Elyril, made her itch behind the eyes.
“Aunt, I am eager to begin my preparations for the trip to Yhaunn. Perhaps I should retire to my suite and see to matters?”
She started to stand, imagining the welcome sting of minddust in her nostrils, the mind-opening perspective, the calm …
Mirabeta, who sat in a high-backed chair in the center of the chamber, did not look at her. “No. I want you here when Forrin arrives.”
Elyril grimaced and gestured obscenely at her aunt’s back. She walked to Mirabeta’s side and drove her heel into her aunt’s shadow on the floor. The shadow’s wails delighted her but she kept the satisfaction from her face. The twisted faces that lived in the chamber’s table laughed for her.
“I am your servant, Overmistress.”
For now, whispered the faces.
A rap on the chamber door announced Malkur Forrin’s arrival.
“Enter,” Mirabeta called.
Turest opened the door and Malkur Forrin strode past him. Forrin brought with him the smell of leather, oiled steel, and the road. A chain hauberk hung from his shoulders, a broadsword from his belt. An open-faced helm capped his head. He doffed the helm, showing his graying hair and scars, and bowed.
“Overmistress. Lady Elyril. It is a pleasure to once more be in your company.”
“That is all, Turest,” Mirabeta said, and the chamberlain closed the door behind Forrin.
Forrin said, “My ladies, the payment we received was less than that to which we agreed. I have sent messengers to you and—”
Mirabeta’s voice froze the room. “That is because the performance we received was less than that to which we agreed.”
The mercenary’s eyes narrowed in a question. “In what regard, Overmistress?”
Mirabeta’s voice remained calm. “The Hulorn lives, does he not?”
Irritation creased Forrin’s tanned brow. “He does, but what of it?”
“He is a man I asked you to kill,” Mirabeta said, her voice rising with each word. “He is a man who, having survived your attack, entered into an alliance with the Shadovar of Shade Enclave.”
Malkur drew himself up, crossed his hands behind his back, and stuck out his whiskered chin. “That is unfortunate, but hardly my fault. And may I remind the Overmistress that Miklos and Kavin Selkirk lie in unmarked graves in the wilderness—as you wished—while Saerloon is allied to your cause, believing itself attacked by rebels—also as you wished. All of that is due to Malkur Forrin and his Blades. Surely you do not intend to focus on the escape of a single man to renege on your bargain?”
Mirabeta rapped her fist on the table and glared at Forrin. “No. I choose to focus on the Hulorn’s escape because allowing it was a failure, and I do not tolerate failure, in matters large or small.”
Malkur’s lips curled in a snarl, revealing a couple of missing teeth, and he put a hand to his sword hilt, a gesture Elyril marked not as a threat, but as habit.
“Failure?” he said. “Overmistress, the Hulorn was aided in his escape by a shade—no doubt a Shadovar, which suggests that the alliance you mentioned was in place before he escaped me and would have continued whether he lived or died. But still we would have had him. Only the arrival of Abelar Corrinthal’s forces saved him.”
“An excuse,” Elyril observed.
Malkur glared at Elyril, back at Mirabeta. “An excuse? Perhaps if the younger Corrinthal had not been allowed to escape Ordulin, matters would have turned out differently. What of that failure?”
“That was a political decision,” Elyril said.
“An excuse,” Forrin answered with a sneer.
Elyril affected a thoughtful expression and looked to her aunt. “Aunt, did I mishear or did this mercenary just imply that Abelar Corrinthal is a better field commander than he? Perhaps we should—”
Malkur stiffened at the slight. “Hardly, Milady. Corrintha
l’s forces outnumbered mine more than two to one. And as I have already explained to the overmistress—”
“Shut your mouth,” Mirabeta said harshly, and Malkur, eyes wide with surprise, did exactly that. Mirabeta continued. “You come into my presence and speak with such insolence?”
Before Forrin could stutter a reply, Mirabeta said, “Do you think that your knowledge of recent events insulates you from my anger? That it frees your tongue to speak to me as if I am one of your sergeants? I assure you, it does not.”
Malkur’s eyes went from surprised to sly. “I know what has happened here, Overmistress. I am a soldier but no fool. You have lied your way into a war, probably murdered your own cousin. I am pleased with both matters, but let us at least be candid with one another. Your grip on power depends upon those lies remaining as buried as Kendrick’s sons.”
Mirabeta sat as still as the dead. “My hold on power depends on nothing of the sort. What you think to have occurred is utterly unimportant. Are you so stupid as to think that the truth matters? Are you?”
“We are past that,” Elyril said, nodding.
Mirabeta said, “I speak and the nobility and the rest of the populace believe what I say. The words no longer matter. They wish to believe me. They need to believe me.”
Elyril saw the opening offered by her aunt and took it.
“So you go tell your tale, mercenary. And the overmistress will respond by saying that Malkur Forrin is a treasonous liar who seeks to discredit her to avenge his removal from the Sembian military by the Selkirk family.”
“That is not so,” Malkur said dismissively.
Elyril said, “You will be imprisoned in the Hole and die there.”
“Overmistress …”
Mirabeta followed Elyril’s lead. “Malkur Forrin and his Blades are Zhentarim all, and were behind a plot to murder the overmistress and replace her with a shapeshifter in her guise.”
“Another lie,” Malkur said, but less dismissively. Elyril saw nervousness sneaking into his eyes.
“You will be hanged for treason,” Mirabeta said.
“Overmistress, I …”
Elyril stared into his grizzled face and amused herself by interrupting him with a half-truth. “Malkur Forrin is an agent of Sharrans. And it was the Church of Shar that secretly backed the rebellion of Selgaunt and Saerb. He wishes the overmistress dead and Sembia covered in darkness.”
“Outrageous!” Malkur said, and took a step backward.
Elyril did not let up. “You will be tortured and finally drawn for your crimes. Your life will end in screams.”
Malkur stood mute, dumbfounded. At last he said, “There are many witnesses among my men.”
“Their words are as nothing,” Elyril said. “They are loyal to you, not the state. They will agree with our account or they will share your grave.”
Mirabeta nodded and spoke in a soft tone. “Grounds for your torture and execution can be invented at any time, dear Malkur. None will question it, and what you think is the truth will die with you. My grip on power is firm. Quite firm. Do you understand?”
The mercenary’s eyes darted from Elyril to Mirabeta to the wall to the floor. Elyril could fairly see his mind working. Soon she saw acceptance in his expression.
“I understand, Overmistress.”
Mirabeta stared at him for a moment, then gestured at the chair across from her. “Excellent. Only now have we been truly candid with one another. You have no leverage with me. Not now, not ever. I am the overmistress and War Regent. Do not forget it. Now, sit.”
Malkur slid into the proffered seat, contrite. The twisted faces in the table mocked him.
“I am your servant, Overmistress,” he said. “Forgive my presumption.”
Mirabeta said, “You are forgiven. And you are more than my servant. You are my Commander General. As of this moment. The proclamation will go out this day.”
Malkur looked surprised that his fortunes could so rapidly turn.
Elyril smiled at him. “Welcome back to the Sembian military.”
“Thank you, Overmistress. Milady. You are most generous.”
“You will lead a force on Saerb,” Mirabeta said.
“When, Overmistress?”
“Immediately.”
He nodded. “As you wish.” He licked his lips and looked meaningfully at Mirabeta. “I will see to these matters now … unless I might be of service to the overmistress in another way before I depart?”
Mirabeta kept her eyes on Malkur and dismissed Elyril with a wave of her hand. “Elyril, see to the drafting of your credentials and the proclamation appointing Malkur Commander General. Turest will assist you.”
“Yes, aunt,” Elyril said, relieved to be free of duties to her aunt.
She exited the chamber and hurried to her room, to Kefil, to her minddust, to her dreams of shadows.
Phraig dreamed of a wind of screams and a snowstorm that scalded his skin in fire.
He awoke, heart pounding, eyes on the cracked plaster of the ceiling. His wife lay asleep beside him, her breathing slow and steady.
He had heard something, hadn’t he? Or perhaps he had only dreamed it? He swallowed to wet his throat, lay still, and listened.
He heard nothing.
He let out a slow breath and tried to calm himself. His dreams had been haunted since his ordeal in the Hole. He knew the servants of Mask had not died after leaping down the shaft. Everyone knew. The guards had sought bodies and found none.
Since the attack, his fellows had looked at him askance, had not invited him to dice and cards. Almost a score of guards had died in the attack and Phraig knew his fellow guards held him responsible.
But they had not seen the shadowmen. They had not stared into the one good eye of a killer and seen an emptiness there as black as the Hole itself. Looking back, Phraig did not believe the shadowmen had been men at all. They had been … something else, and every one of his fellows would have done just as he had. His choice had been to resist and die or comply and live. He had a wife. He had wanted to live.
Staring at the ceiling, he determined, suddenly and with perfect clarity, that he would quit the guard. He could find work helping rebuild the docks. Laborers would be needed for months and he had a strong back. He could wield a hammer as well as a sword.
The decision lightened his mood. He thought of a new beginning, placed a hand on Arla’s hip, closed his eyes, and slept.
A sound from the other room awakened him—a soft rattle, as of metal on metal. The air felt chill. His heart jumped anew and he opened his eyes. Arla still slept soundly beside him.
Careful not to disturb her, he swung his legs off the bed and put his feet on the wooden floor. He licked his lips, closed a fist on the hilt of the dagger he kept on the side table near the bed.
Moving slowly and silently, he rose—careful to avoid stepping on the chamber pot—and padded across the small bedroom, trying to shake off the blurriness of sleep. His wife did not stir.
There. The rattle again. It came from the front door.
A burglar? Or perhaps a drunk at the wrong door?
The bedchamber door, ajar, separated their sleeping quarters from the rest of their two-room garret. He pulled open the door with his free hand and looked out.
Darkness, pierced only by the soft glow of embers in the small fireplace. He licked his lips, studied the room, and saw nothing but their meager furnishings. He moved silently across the room to the entryway and quickly checked the hook lock.
Still fastened.
Sweat slicked him. His breath came fast. He could not explain it but he felt dread in his bones. He stood in the dark, breathing heavily, listening, certain that someone lurked on the other side of the door, separated from him by nothing more than a thin slab of weathered wood. He clutched the dagger in a sweaty fist. He would not be taken unawares. Drunk or burglar, they would find him ready.
He put his ear to the wood and listened.
He heard breathing, the de
ep respiration of powerful lungs.
But not from the other side of the door.
From right behind him.
A presence filled the room and stole the air. The room grew so cold Phraig could see his breath. Fear seized him. He whirled, gasping.
What he saw paralyzed him with terror. The dagger fell from his hand. He felt his mouth hanging open but could not close it. He gaped at a giant figure with glowing red flesh, white eyes, black wings, and horns. The fiend held a black clawed finger to its lips for silence—and smiled.
Phraig could only stare. His vision went blurry. His heart sounded like a drum in his ears. The room spun. He felt ice gather on his beard and eyebrows. He saw only the fiend’s white eyes.
“Phraig?” Arla called from their bedroom, her voice slurred from sleep. She might as well have been calling from another world.
The diabolical figure looked at the bedroom door, back at Phraig, and raised an eyebrow.
“I hope your mate is attractive,” it said, and enveloped Phraig in darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
18 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
The setting sun dipped partially below the horizon, setting the roof of the world aflame and casting Selgaunt into shadow. Clouds as thin and dry as old bone lined the sky. Tamlin knew they would offer no respite from the drought in the north.
He stared out a window of the western tower in the Hulorn’s palace and looked out on his city, a city swollen with refugees who would feed on anything, and fear that would feed on itself. He could not shed the impression that Selgaunt was barely holding its ground, that the continuing press of stinking, sweating humanity that flooded into it by the day must soon push it by sheer weight of numbers into the dark waters of the Inner Sea.
Apprehension hung as thick as fog in the air. War was coming.
He watched as the sun fell below the horizon and Selgaunt went dark. Night summoned the linkboys. Street lanterns flared to life, chasing the darkness and turning Selgaunt’s streets into radiant serpents that slithered between rows of packed shops, inns, and residences. Only the northwest corner of the city, not far from Temple Avenue, remained unlit. The Shadovar, housed in a makeshift embassy there, preferred the darkness.