"Indeed," Rivalen said again, the comment half question, half observation. "Families are sometimes a… distraction."
Tamlin returned to the chess table, chalice in hand. "You and your brother seem to complement one another well."
"We Tanthuls have had two thousand years to learn to work together," Rivalen said. He picked up the queen, studied it, a frown playing at the corners of his mouth. "But we, too, have had our… disagreements."
Tamlin smiled, thought of Talbot and the arguments they'd had over the years.
"Have you shared your secret with the Lady?" the prince asked as he replaced the black queen.
Tamlin nodded, running a fingertip over his holy symbol. "I have."
"That is well." Rivalen leaned back in his chair and his tone lightened. "I would like a coin from the treasury, minted this day. Is that possible? You've recently started minting your own coins, yes?"
A request so ordinary from the prince surprised Tamlin. "A coin? Of course. May I ask why?"
"I am a collector of coins, particularly those minted on or stamped with dates significant to me. They help me keep track of history." Rivalen eyed him across the chessboard, looking so unlike Tamlin's father. "And today is one such date."
Tamlin took the point, raised his glass in a salute. He wanted the night to last, wanted the pristine coldness of the moonless hours to continue forever, wanted the discussion with Rivalen to go on and on. He felt at home, comfortable in the study for the first time he could recall. He leaned forward. "Tell me more about the Shadowstorm. How should we deal with it?"
"Brennus is examining it, but we have determined that the Shadowstorm is the creation of an ancient being, a one-time servant of Shar who holds the same heretical notions as those held-once held-by Vees Talendar."
Tamlin felt a small pit open in his stomach at the mention of his one-time friend. Darkness filled it.
"As for how we deal with it," Rivalen continued. "We use it."
"Use it?"
"It began in Ordulin and is moving west toward Saerb and Archendale. It does not yet reach farther south than the midpoint of the Arkhen. It will, but we have some time. For now, Ordulin is gone and what remains of its army near Saerb will disband, surrender, or be consumed by the storm."
Tamlin was vaguely disturbed by the obliteration of Ordulin but found comfort in the cold, hard touch of his new goddess.
"The Saerbian forces, too, stand in its path."
Rivalen nodded. "True. But where was Saerb when Saerloon's elementals shattered Selgaunt's walls?"
"Defending its own holdings, I presume. Do you imply something else?"
"Hulorn, do you wish to rule all of Sembia?"
The question shocked Tamlin into silence.
"Do you?"
Tamlin re-gathered his nerve. "You know that I do, Prince Rivalen."
Rivalen nodded. "Endren Corrinthal is a respected leader. He commanded the loyalty of many on the High Council before the overmistress dissolved it. Perhaps he would not look kindly upon your ascension. Perhaps, for the moment at least, the Saerbians should be left to their own devices. They are, after all, of no military use to you. It will not be an army that halts the Shadowstorm."
Tamlin's hand went to his holy symbol and ambition annihilated conscience.
"I take your point and agree with your recommendation."
"Excellent," Rivalen said. "And that returns us to Saerloon. Lady Merelith rules a city without an army. She broke it on these walls. She knows she must negotiate a peace. She may suspect the Shadowstorm to be a weapon unleashed by us against Ordulin. Before she learns otherwise, we should make Saerloon bend its knee to Selgaunt. And after Saerloon has surrendered, after the Saerbian forces are addressed, who will stand against Selgaunt's consolidation of the realm?"
"Perhaps Daerlun," Tamlin said, and sipped his wine. "But no other."
"Not even Daerlun," Rivalen said. "The high bergun is strengthened by the wall of a friendly Cormyr at his back. That wall will soon show cracks."
"Prince?"
"Many matters are afoot, Tamlin. I ask you to trust me. Do you?"
Tamlin had come too far to hesitate. "I do."
"Then soon Sembia will name Selgaunt its capital and you its leader."
"But the Shadowstorm?"
"We will halt it ere it reaches Selgaunt."
"How?"
Rivalen looked across the table at Tamlin, irritation in his eyes. "Leave that to me, Hulorn."
Tamlin could not bear the weight of Rivalen's gaze. He felt, of a sudden, the way he had so many times when sitting across the table from his father. He looked into his wine chalice. The darkness turned the red wine black, made its depths limitless.
"I will obtain a Selgauntan fivestar for you, Prince," he said, and disliked the boyishness in his tone. "From the mint, and made this day."
"You are gracious, Hulorn," Rivalen said, and Tamlin ignored the hint of condescension he heard in the tone.
Rivalen soon returned to his quarters and Tamlin did not sleep, could not sleep. He continually found himself rubbing his right hand on his trousers, as if to remove something offensive.
The morning brought a griffon-mounted messenger from Saerloon. Rivalen had been a prophet. The messenger bore a missive from Lady Merelith, requesting terms for the peaceful turnover of her city. Tamlin's hands shook has he read it.
Let the hardships of the Sembian people end, she wrote. Let Saerloon and Selgaunt advance into the future in brotherhood.
Tamlin had heralds read the surrender on street corners and declared a holiday. The bells and gongs of Shar's new temple rang all morning.
Tamlin composed a response with the advice of Prince Rivalen. He agreed to an end to hostilities, required that Lady Merelith and her court publically abdicate, that Saerloon accept a regent appointed by Tamlin, and that the city allow a garrison of three hundred Selgauntan and Shadovar troops barracks within Saerloon's walls to ensure the peace.
"She will not accept these terms," Tamlin said to Rivalen.
"She will," Rivalen answered. "She has no choice. Choose as regent a trusted member of the Old Chauncel, perhaps one with mercantile ties to Saerloon. I will arrange the Shadovar contingent of the garrison."
Cale wandered the island as the setting sun ducked under the horizon and painted the shimmering surface of the Inner Sea in red and gold. The cries of gulls gave way to the steady heartbeat of the surf on the shore. Night crept out of its holes and hollows and slowly stretched its dark hand over the island, a sea-beset, solitary dot of rock.
He eventually found himself atop the low hill where they had buried Jak. A few of the stones marking the grave had fallen from the cairn. He replaced them, missing his friend, missing… many things. To one side of him the night-shrouded sea stretched out to the limits of his vision, black and impenetrable; the other side, the shadow-wrapped spire of Mask.
He crouched with his forearms on his knees and stared at Jak's grave. Patches of grass dotted the soil and poked up through the loose rock. Shadows curled around Cale, languid and dark. The wind blew and he fooled himself into thinking he smelled tobacco from Jak's pipe rather than sea salt. He felt eyes on him and looked to the temple. The Shadowwalkers congregated there on the drawbridge, in the shadow of the spire, watching him. He did not welcome their regard.
They thought he was one thing; he was striving to be something else. He feared their reverence would root him in place, make him what they wanted.
Desiring privacy, he enshrouded himself in shadows and sank into their dark coils. He thought of his friend and sought words, found them, and confessed.
"I am trying to keep my promise, little man, but it is hard."
The rush of breakers sounded in the distance. He had murdered the Sojourner to the same sound. Murder came easy to him, easier than it should for a hero. He felt saturated by darkness, permeated by it. There was no separation between him and it. He looked at his shadowhand, a tangible reminder that he would always exist fully only in shadow, complete only in the night. He reached into his pocket, felt there the small river stone the halfling boy had given him.