by Paul S. Kemp
“What could have been in the rainwater to cause this?” Elora asked, her voice faint as Noll groaned. “What?”
Vasen shook his head as he stripped off his cloak. “Who can say? The Shadovar poison land and sky with their magic.”
“It is cursed,” Elora said, tears leaking from her eyes. “Sembia is cursed.”
Vasen did not dispute it. He filled a tin cup from his pack with water from his waterskin and set it in the edge of the fire. Orsin nodded to him, backed away to stand among the flickering shadows on the wall.
While Vasen waited for the water to heat, he cleared his mind, stared into the fire, and began to pray softly. The pilgrims fell silent, watching. The sound of the rain outside fell away. Byrne, Eldris, and Nald soon joined him and formed a circle around the fire. Their voices fell in with his. Soon the pilgrims, too, joined. In a dark cave, in the midst of a black storm, the faithful of Amaunator raised collective voice in worship.
As the water warmed and then boiled, and without a break in his intonation, Vasen removed from his belt pouch a pebble taken from the river in the abbey’s valley. He dropped it into the warm water while he, his fellow Dawnswords, and the pilgrims all continued their imprecation. The stone began to glow, a pale rosy light that diffused through the water. Vasen lifted the lanyard with his holy symbol from around his neck and lowered the rose into the glowing water while his prayers finalized the ritual. The glow intensified, the water shining brighter than the fire. For a moment, the rose looked not tarnished silver but red with life.
“It’s ready,” he said, and all fell silent except the thrum of the rain and the roll of distant thunder. He replaced his holy symbol over his neck and picked up the cup. Despite sitting in the heat of the fire, it was cool to the touch. He carried the glowing liquid to Noll, lifted the boy into a sitting position, and held the cup to his lips.
“You must drink,” Vasen said.
Noll’s bleary eyes sought focus and his hands fumbled for the cup. Vasen held it, too, wincing at the heat of the boy’s flesh when their hands touched. Noll drank.
“All of it,” Vasen said.
“Do it, sweet boy,” said Elora.
Noll’s head moved in what might have been a nod. A prolonged coughing spell prevented him from drinking for a time, but when it ended, he gulped what remained in the cup. Vasen lowered him to the ground, covered him with his blankets. The boy shivered, coughed more, the black foam still flecking his lips.
Vasen looked at Elora, her eyes stricken. “Now we must wait,” he said.
She looked at her son, at Vasen. “I believe Amaunator will save him. I do.”
Vasen touched her shoulder. “Your faith will help. Rest now. There’s nothing more to be done.”
She reached for his hand, did not blanch when shadows snaked from his skin to caress her flesh. “Thank you, Dawnsword. I’m sorry for . . . before.”
Many pilgrims echoed her words or patted him on the back. Fatigue from carrying Noll, from carrying the pilgrims’ hopes, settled on him. His legs felt like foreign things, detached from his body. He staggered and Orsin and Byrne were both there to steady him.
“You should eat,” Orsin said.
“And rest,” added Byrne.
“Rest first,” Vasen said. “Watch the boy.”
“Aye,” said Byrne.
The rain had gotten through the flap of Vasen’s pack, making his bedroll damp. He did not care. He did not bother to unroll it, just tucked it under his head along the wall and lay flat on his back on the cave floor, staring up at the smoke and shadow-stained ceiling, listening to the rain, the soft murmur of conversation. The pilgrims were talking about him, he knew.
Exhaustion overtook him in moments. The last thing he heard before falling asleep was the sound of Noll’s coughing. For the first time in a long time, he did not dream of Erevis Cale.
Elden sat on his favorite chair in the sanctum of the abbey. He felt like a king on a throne, like the ones in stories. The others had made it his chair because he could see what they could not. He did not fully understand how he saw, but he did. And because he did, everyone treated him as if he were special. And maybe he was, although he didn’t feel special.
He reached down to the floor beside his chair and felt for Browny’s soft fur. The dog exhaled happily as Elden scratched his ears. The feel of fur under his fingers calmed Elden. He smiled when Browny licked his hand.
Pretty orange and pink and purple ribbons hung from the walls. Elden knew they were colors favored by Amaunator, the god of the abbey, but Elden liked them because they were pretty, because they reminded him of sunbeams.
He had not seen the sun in a long time. He missed it, but he’d long ago accepted that his life was a service to the light, even though he lived it in darkness. He did not understand exactly why, but he knew people came from all over to see him, because he could see. They looked so hopeful when they met him, lit with a light of their own. He liked that. He made them feel hope. And hope made them glow like the sun.
A tall bronze statue of Amaunator stood on the tiled floor in the center of the circular sanctum. The god had that same look of hope on his bearded face. He held a large, orange crystal globe in his open palm. It would have caught the light entering through the glass dome built into the ceiling, had there been any light to catch. But the sky remained as it ever was—dark, swirling with shadows. The dome in the ceiling, too, was a symbol of hope. Elden had hoped to see the unfiltered sun pour through it during his lifetime, but he doubted it now. Sometimes, if Elden asked, one of the priests would use magic to light the god’s globe. He loved the globe when it was lit, shimmering, shiny. So shiny. It called to mind the spheres that jugglers used when entertaining children. Elden loved jugglers. He still carried a set of spheres that he’d been given as a boy, although it had been so long ago he could not remember who’d given them to him. A dark man, he thought. With only one eye.
That had been a good day.
But it had also been about the time that Papa had died. He had not seen it. Uncle Regg had told him about it afterward.
He stared at the statue, floating through memories a hundred years old and wondering why Amaunator had chosen him to see things. He had never asked to be gifted, had not even known such gifts to be possible. Soon after Papa had died, Elden had dreamed of a blazing sun, a sun no longer visible in the Sembian sky. He’d heard his father’s voice in his head.
“Stare at the sun, Elden. And don’t look away.”
“It will blind me, Papa.
“I promise that it won’t. It’s all right.”
So Elden had stared and had not looked away.
His eyes stung, though he hadn’t been blinded. “It hurts, Papa.”
“I know. I’m sorry, son. That’s enough. Look away now. You were very brave.”
“Where are you, Papa? Unka Regg said you died.”
A long pause, then, “I did die, Elden. But it’s all right. I’m all right.”
Elden had not understood how Papa could be both dead and all right. Tears formed in his stinging eyes.
“Please come home, Papa. Me miss you.”
“I am home, son. And you will be, too, one day. Listen to me now. When you awaken you will see things. Don’t be afraid. Tell Regg and Jiriis and the others what you see. They’ll listen to you and they’ll know what to do. Be a light to them.”
Elden did not understand the words, not completely, but that sometimes happened when people spoke to him. “All right, Papa. Papa?”
“Yes, Elden?”
“Please don’t go.”
“I must, son. I’m sorry. I know it makes you sad. I’m sad, too. Be strong.”
“All right, Papa.” But it wasn’t all right.
“Elden, I love you very much. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Sobs finally broke through, shook Elden. “Me love you, too, Papa.”
He’d never heard his father’s voice again, and when he had awakened, his face tear-streaked, he
had been able to see things others could not. Strange things. Frightening things. At first, he remembered the things he’d seen. He did not like that. Over time, he no longer remembered but he still saw. Others told him that he did, that he spoke to them even although he didn’t remember. They said he was touched by the light, gifted with prophecy. Regg, Jiriis, and the others had listened to him, just as Papa had said. He had led them to the valley, where they had built the abbey and become a light in darkness.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the statue. The face of Amaunator looked serious under his beard, the deep-set eyes staring out at some distant point from under the domed helm. Elden wondered what the god was looking at. He wondered if Papa was with Amaunator.
Thinking of Papa made him happy and sad at the same time. He reached for Browny again, stroked the dog. Elden had lived more than one hundred years, but he felt that things were changing. Not so many people came to see him anymore. Maybe the darkness kept them away. Or maybe he’d cast what light he was to cast.
He replayed his father’s voice in his head.
I love you very much.
He smiled and tears filled his eyes.
Everyone in the abbey considered Papa a kind of saint. Elden did not know for sure what the word “saint” meant, but that was all right. He knew it meant they liked Papa. Everyone liked Papa. Their voice dropped when they spoke of him. But to Elden, Papa was just Papa—a tall man of kind smiles and soft words.
The pain of losing Papa still hurt, even after a hundred years. Elden missed him more than ever.
I’ll be waiting for you.
Sensing Elden’s sadness, Browny stood, whined, and nuzzled his hand. Elden rubbed the dog’s big head, his muzzle. The dog sighed contentedly.
Elden sensed changes but did not know what to do with the feeling.
“Me need to see Papa, Bownie,” he said.
The dog stood, stretched. Elden closed his eyes for a moment, willed his inner eyes to see, and entered a seeing trance.
Images swept through the Oracle’s head—the growing menace of the Shadovar, two shade brothers in the center of events, both pained with loss but each alone. A second pair of brothers appeared to him, not shades but Plaguechanged, and behind them lurked the shadow of an archdevil. He saw the hole in the center of Sembia where Ordulin once had stood. He saw Vasen, his image bisected down the middle, half of him in shadow, half of him in light, such bright light. He saw a tattooed deva surrounded by shadow, standing at Vasen’s side. And he saw the one-eyed man, now a god, who had given him the juggler’s toys so many years ago—Drasek Riven. All of the images he saw whirled past his inner eye, a swirl of shadows and light and violence. He did not try to interpret what he saw. He had not entered a trance to see. He had entered the trance to speak.
“The shrine, Browny,” he said, and put his hand on the back of the large blink dog. The dog triggered its power, and in an instant the Oracle and Browny stood in the Saint’s Shrine. Two elaborately carved, magically preserved wooden biers sat in the center of the large, round room, ringed by a candelabra-lined processional the pilgrims used to view the shrine. Dried roses and other small offerings covered the biers, the floor around them. A soft glow from a ceiling-mounted glowglobe suffused the chamber. The light was never allowed to die in the shrine.
The lids of the biers featured carved images of the Oracle’s father, Abelar Corrinthal, and Jiriis Naeve, sculpted in lifelike relief. After Abelar’s death, Jiriis had sworn to serve and protect the Oracle for as long as she lived, just as Vasen did now. She’d loved Abelar and had insisted that she be laid to rest beside him. Jiriis had been the first to hold the title of First Blade. Vasen Cale, the Oracle knew, would be the last.
With Browny at his hip, he walked to his father’s resting place. Spells and subtle use of wood chisels had carved a perfect image of his father from the wood. His shield, inscribed with a rose, rested on his feet. He held his blade at his waist. The image showed not armor but burial robes, and his father’s strong-jawed, bearded face looked at peace.
Inscribed under his father’s feet, the words:
ABELAR CORRINTHAL, SERVANT OF THE LIGHT, WHO RODE A DRAGON OF
SHADOW INTO BATTLE AGAINST THE DARKNESS AND FELL IN GLORY.
Beside him lay Jiriis, her fine features and high cheekbones as delicate as the Oracle remembered them in life. The sculpted image, however, did not capture the loveliness of her red hair.
Browny curled up on the floor near Abelar’s bier.
“I did what you asked, Papa. We were a light for a long time. But now darkness encroaches. Erevis Cale’s son stands in the center of it, and I cannot foresee the direction of his life. I gave him your holy symbol, the rose you loved. I think you would have wanted that. I will give him something more when the time comes.”
He ran his fingertips over his father’s face, over Jiriis’s. Tears pooled in his eyes, ran down his cheeks.
“I miss you both. I wish we could have spoken this way when you were still alive.” He thought about his words for a moment, then chuckled. “Then again, maybe we spoke to one another in the ways that matter. Love doesn’t require perfect words, does it?”
He took a look around the chamber, at the ribbons of warm color that decorated the walls, at the high windows in the round, a symbol of hope that light would one day return. Perhaps it would.
Browny stood, sensing that it was time to depart.
“I love you, Papa, and I will be home soon.”
He placed his hand on Browny’s back. The dog had been his companion, guide, and bodyguard for more than a decade, and there had been another before him, and another before that.
“The pass, Browny,” the Oracle said, and the dog looked up, a question in his dark eyes. “The debt is nearly paid. I must release them.”
The Oracle pulled his cloak tight about him as the dog again activated his power and in an instant moved the two of them from the abbey to the spirit-guarded mountain pass that shielded the vale from unwanted incursion.
The wind pawed at the Oracle’s robe but he did not feel the chill. Browny stood close, hackles raised, sniffing the air. The fog swirled, thick and gray. The Oracle felt the spirits’ awareness focus on him. Their sentience coalesced the fog into forms discernibly human. The outlines of men, women, and children stood all around him, dozens, their eyes like empty wells, their outlines shifting in the wind. He saw the anticipation in their expressions, the hope. He would leave neither unanswered.
With the aid of Abelar, Regg, and the servants of Lathander, the spirits had helped slay Kesson Rel the Godthief during the Battle of Sakkors. The Oracle spoke above the whisper of the wind, above the whisper of the spirits.
“Kesson Rel cursed Elgrin Fau, the City of Silver, your city, to perpetual darkness in the Shadowfell. But shadow and light came together on the field of battle, in the shadow of Sakkors, and there combined to kill the Godthief.”
One of the spirits glided forward, a thin, aged man in robes.
“Avnon Des,” the Oracle said.
The spirit inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You come to free us, Oracle, yet we don’t wish release. We vowed to serve the Order in gratitude for the Order’s role in destroying Kesson Rel. We will hold true to that vow until the darkness is lifted.”
The other spirits nodded agreement, even the children.
The Oracle held up a hand. “Your oath is fulfilled and your service to me has ended. The world is changing, Avnon Des. The Spellplague was but a symptom of it. The war of light and shadow against the darkness of this world is no longer mine or yours to fight. It falls to others now. Shar’s cycle will run its course, or it will not. I cannot foresee its end.”
The spirits rustled in agitation.
“You’ve kept the vale and abbey safe for a century,” the Oracle continued. “But the time is past. I have only one more favor to ask. Return to the Shadowfell, but not Elgrin Fau. Go to the master of the Citadel of Shadows. You serve him now. Tell hi
m I still enjoy juggling. Tell him I said . . . I know the burden he carries.”
They looked at one another, back at the Oracle, and nodded.
“The light is in you, Avnon Des,” the Oracle said.
Avnon Des, the First Demarch of the Conclave of Shadows, smiled in return. “And there is shadow in you, Oracle. Farewell.”
Avnon turned to face the others, and their collective whispering sounded like wind through leaves. As one, they faded from view, returning to the Shadowfell. The Oracle stood his ground until they were gone. With them went the mist. The pass was exposed, unguarded for the first time in more than a century. The Oracle put his hand on Browny.
“Light and shadow, Browny, will combine to fight the darkness. And I don’t know if they will prevail. Return me to the abbey.”
A lurching sense of abrupt motion and he once more stood in the abbey’s sanctum. He enjoyed the quiet for a moment, the solidity of the walls. He could scarcely conceive of no longer calling it his home. But so it would be.
“I need you to get Abbot Eeth,” he said to Browny.
He would order everyone away. He would concoct some excuse, tell them that his vision demanded they go on a pilgrimage to Arabel while he resanctify the abbey alone. They would worry for him but they would obey. And after they were gone, he would remove all of the scrying wards that shielded the abbey from divination spells. Anyone would be able to find it, were they looking. And there were those who were looking.
He kneeled, faced Browny, and rubbed the dog’s face and muzzle. The dog must have sensed something amiss. His stubby tail did its best to wag.
“I’m going to send them all away, Browny. And after they’ve gone, you must go, too.”
The tail wag stopped entirely. The dog sat on his haunches and a question formed in his eyes.