Shar had chosen others for her instruments. A priestess he had thought to use and discard had betrayed him, stolen The Leaves of One Night. And a mad heretic, once a priest of Mask but now a servant of Shar, had brought forth the Shadowstorm and lurked in its dark center as it devoured the realm Rivalen had thought to annex for his people.
Rivalen had murdered his own mother for his goddess, but his goddess had kept from him a profound secret-he was not to be the cause of the Shadowstorm; he, and his hopes, were to be its victims.
And he sensed deeper secrets still, corpses buried in the fetid earth of Shar's darkness. They would rise when she saw fit, but not before.
He tried to accept matters, but failed. The shadows around him whirled, filled the room, poured forth through the shutter slats and into the night.
"I will not have it," he said, turning the coin more rapidly.
A soft buzzing sounded in his ears, grew in volume, clarified. A sending. He almost countered it but decided against it.
In his mind he heard the voice of his father, the Most High.
Faerun's powerful will not stand idle for long while this Shadowstorm darkens Sembia. End it, Rivalen.
The Most High's imperious tone pulled at the scab of Rivalen's already wounded pride but he kept his irritation from his tone.
I will do what I can, Father.
Hadrhune's divinations have revealed the possibility of a Sharran at the root of the storm. Perhaps you are not equipped for this task?
The mention of the Most High's chief counselor, a rival to Rivalen, rankled.
Hadrhune's understanding, as always, is limited. The Sharran behind the storm is a heretic. I will see to him and it. Meanwhile, please remind Hadrhune, and yourself, that I have raised Sakkors, shattered Saerloon's forces, and given you Selgaunt. Soon I will add to it all of Sembia.
There will be nothing to give if the Shadowstorm is not stopped. End it, Rivalen. Soon. Other matters in the heartland proceed apace. This is a distraction.
Other matters?
The connection ceased. Apparently his father, too, had secrets.
Rivalen swallowed his irritation and decided to interpret his father's sending as a sign. Kesson Rel was a heretic. And Rivalen would not allow centuries of planning to unravel so that a heretic could serve the Mistress and destroy the realm Rivalen had thought to make. The Lady wanted the Shadowstorm. She had it. But Rivalen wanted more time, and Sembia. He would find a way to have both.
He put the silver raven on the table and set it to spinning on its edge. A word of minor magic kept it upright and whirling. He watched it, obverse to reverse to obverse to reverse.
"I choose both," he said. "Faith and city."
He would contain the Shadowstorm and claim what was left of Sembia. And if that made him a heretic, then so be it. The Lady knew his nature when she had chosen him as her Nightseer.
He held his palm over the pieces of his holy symbol and spoke the words to a mending charm. Tendrils of shadow spiraled around the disc, pulled them together, made them whole.
"If Kesson Rel is your true servant, then let him be the victor. If not, then let it be me."
Outside, darkness obscured the stars. Rivalen nodded.
"Thank you, Lady."
The enspelled raven continued to spin, obverse, reverse.
Abelar and Jiiris stood in the rain and watched the ink of the distant storm digest stars, its lightning casting the world in ghastly viridian. Abelar surmised Elyril's involvement, Shar's involvement, and felt the Calling in his soul, the same Calling that had pulled him in his youth from a life of privilege to one of service to others. He thought of his son and denied it.
"There are dark forces there," Jiiris said and put her hand to the rose of Lathander she wore at her throat.
"Yes," Abelar said. He had no holy symbol to hold so he put his hand in hers and found it offered equal comfort.
She smiled at him but the expression faded when her eyes fell on the empty chain around his throat, where his own holy symbol had once hung. She looked away as if to spare him the embarrassment of staring at a scar.
"There is always atonement," she said softly, not looking him in the face.
"There is nothing for which I must atone," he said, surprised at the sharpness of his tone.
She looked at him, saw him. He saw the concern in her expression.
"You worry for me," he said. "You should not."
"No?" Her eyes showed disbelief.
"No. I am free now, Jiiris."
"I did not realize you had been bound."
"Nor had I."
Seeing her confusion, he smiled softly and led her back into the tent. "Come. You will be soaked."
After they entered, He glanced at Elden to ensure he was still asleep-he was-then drew Jiiris to him. She did not resist and he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
"I have loved you a long time."
She flushed but held his gaze. "And I you. But…"
"But?"
She looked away and he saw the jaw muscles working under her cheeks as she masticated whatever she intended to say. "But we cannot do this now. I cannot do this. You are… hurting. You almost lost your father, your son, and have turned from the faith that has sustained you for-"
His anger rose at the mention of his faith and his words came out in a rush, a flood through the ravine of his rage.
"Lathander's church is presided over by heretics who stood idle while this, all this, happened. He still grants spells to them. Did you know that? Why would he do that?"
She shook her head, her eyes welling. "He has his purposes."
Elden stirred, groaned in his sleep, and Abelar quieted his voice. He didn't want to wake Elden, didn't want to hurt Jiiris.
"His purposes? How often must we assume that events will work out to his purposes? Why should we be the playthings to him? How much am I to endure in service to the Morninglord? At what point does service become base servitude? At what point am I to say, 'enough'?"
She winced at the words, placed a hand on his chest, as if to keep him from proceeding further.
"When it is my son, Jiiris. That is when it is enough. When my wife died in childbirth, I praised Lathander for the life he had brought forth even in death. When my father was imprisoned, I fought in Lathander's name the forces of she who had imprisoned him. When darkness fell across Sembia and the priest who trained me in the faith did nothing to stem its tide, I thanked Lathander for the chance to be a light in the darkness. But when my son was taken and tortured…" He looked into her face, at the rose at her throat. "That is too much. If that is his purpose, then his purpose can burn."
She blanched, but stood her ground and defended her faith, the faith that had once been his.
"You sound like the heretics you've often condemned. How often have I heard you admonish them for waiting for the Morninglord to do their work for them? He does not reveal himself to us that way, Abelar."
Perhaps she had thought to strike him hard, but he did not perceive even a glancing blow. He took her by the arms.
"Have I been waiting, Jiiris? Have I been idle? I have taken the fight to evil my entire life and have been rewarded with one calamity after another. Through it all I have been steadfast, but…" he looked past her to Elden, sleeping in a bed of furs, "… he has gone too far. And I am tired of being tested."
"Faith is not a test-"
"It can be nothing else!" He found himself shaking her gently, and released her with surprise. Elden stirred, rolled over onto his side, but did not awaken. Abelar spoke in an intense whisper. "What it cannot be is a hole into which I pour everything and from it receive nothing. That is not faith, Jiiris. I renounce it. I renounce him."