Once more, Brennus found himself unsurprised by the depths of his father's knowledge. He started to ask why the Most High would not summon the archfiend himself but realized the answer before he uttered the words-Mephistopheles would answer Brennus, but he might hesitate to answer the call of the Most High.
"Come," the Most High said. "Let us make a second query of the Lord of Cania."
CHAPTER FIVE
4 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms
Rivalen considered Brennus's information from all angles and no matter how the light struck it, he saw it the same way. He did not have much time. The Shadowstorm was spreading. He had to stop it or there would be no Sembia to annex. And he had to stop it soon, or Mystra's Chosen would take a hand.
He made up his mind, stepped through the shadows in the corner of his great room, and completed the stride by emerging in the foyer of Stormweather Towers, the Hulorn's family estate. Afternoon light filtered in through high windows, cross-hatching the carpeted floor with alternating lines of light and shadow.
A gasp greeted Rivalen's arrival. The majordomo, Irwyl, stood two paces from Rivalen, his dull eyes wide, his hands on a medium sized wooden chest he bore.
"I have need to see the Hulorn," Rivalen said.
The gangly, graying Irwyl stood frozen, rooted to the floor, a creaky oak in a well-tailored shirt rolled up to his elbows.
Rivalen strode toward him and Irwyl looked as if he might bolt. The contents in the chest, whatever they were, audibly shook.
Irwyl stared at a point somewhere around Rivalen's chin. "I was clearing the study." He held up the chest as evidence, or to interpose a barrier between himself and Rivalen. "The laborers have not yet arrived, but I thought I should remove the small valuables before they did."
Irritation caused the shadows around Rivalen to swirl.
"Where is the Hulorn?"
Irwyl shook his head. "I believe he returned in the carriage to the Palace. He seemed not himself. He seemed…"
Rivalen rode the shadows in the hall across the city, to the foyer entry of the Hulorn's Palace. The helmed, spear-wielding guards looked startled at his sudden appearance, but only for a moment. They had gotten used to his comings and goings and the Hulorn had authorized his free movement throughout any part of the city.
"Prince Rivalen," the bearded sergeant said, and inclined his head.
Both the sergeant and the guards eyed with ill-concealed wonder the shadows that shrouded him.
"Where is the Hulorn?" Rivalen said.
"Is the Hulorn expecting you?" said a voice from the far side of the foyer.
Thristiin emerged from wherever it was that he laired and smiled his tight smile at Rivalen. His thin gray hair was neatly parted on his age-spotted pate and his clothing, down to the tufted shirt cuffs, looked freshly cleaned and donned.
"He is not," Rivalen answered, and walked across the tiled floor to stand before Thristiin. "Do you suppose that means he will not see me?"
Thristiin sought a refuge for his gaze that did not include Rivalen's face.
"Of course not, Prince. He is in the map room. May I escort you so that I may announce your arrival?"
Thristiin led Rivalen through the wide, comfortably dark corridors of the palace. Thayan and Chessentan rugs dotted the floors. Tapestries bedecked the walls.
"Prince Rivalen of Shade Enclave," Thristiin announced, as he opened the door to the map room.
Tamlin stood with arms crossed over a large, rectangular oak table on which lay an unrolled map of Sembia, the Dalelands, and Cormyr. Chess pieces from the set that had been in the study in Stormweather Towers stood here and there on the parchment, denoting various locations. Rivalen smiled to see the white king positioned near Selgaunt. Tamlin still needed to think of himself as pure.
"Prince," Tamlin said. "I did not expect to see you until our customary repast after sunset."
"Forgive me, Hulorn, but I must speak with you on a matter of some import."
Thristiin took Rivalen's point. "If there is nothing else, Hulorn?"
"You may go," Tamlin instructed the chamberlain.
Thristiin bowed to each of Tamlin and Rivalen then exited the room, closing the door behind him.
Tamlin wore a thin blade at his belt. His holy symbol of Shar hung from a silver chain around his neck, open for all to see.
Rivalen stepped to the table, eyed the map. A black bishop was toppled on Saerloon, while the other stood on Urlamspyr. A toppled white knight lay on Saerb. Black rooks stood on Daerlun and Yhaunn. Black pawns were arranged in an arc across northeastern Sembia. Rivalen assumed they denoted the leading edge of the Shadowstorm. The remaining pieces from the set sat in a velvet-lined coffer to one side of the map.
Tamlin took position beside Rivalen, close enough that the shadows around Rivalen brushed him.
"I brought my father's chess set from Stormweather Towers and you see my poor attempt to represent matters as they stand. This is all based on the most recent reports of our scouts as well as what divinations have shown. The Shadowstorm appears to be accelerating as it moves west."
"It grows in power as it consumes more life," Rivalen said.
Tamlin stared at him for a long moment. "Yes-" he cleared his throat-"well, it seems it is not yet spreading east. Yhaunn, so far as we know, remains untouched. But we must wonder for how long? I think we must stop it soon, Prince."
"You are correct," Rivalen said. He withdrew the black king from the coffer, placed it over Ordulin on the map. "Kesson Rel is the cause of the Shadowstorm. To stop it, we must kill him."
He toppled the king, though he knew perfectly well he could not stop the Shadowstorm. He would not even try. The Shadowstorm was Shar's will. He could only contain it. Perhaps.
"Sensible," Tamlin said and rubbed his hands together.
Rivalen picked up a black pawn, eyed it, and showed it to Tamlin.
"But to kill him, I require the assistance of Erevis Cale."
The words stopped Tamlin in mid-nod, froze his hands, flushed his skin. "Mister Cale? Why? Surely you and I can accomplish whatever needs accomplished."
Rivalen knew he had to trod with care. He played and would continue to play on Tamlin's sense of inferiority relative to Mister Cale, but he knew not to play too hard lest the strings snap.
"Ordinarily, I would agree. But this is a matter of a unique kind."
Tamlin shook his head, paced, then gestured at the map. "Look what we have done so far. How can Mister Cale be necessary?"
Tamlin spun on his heel, paced some more, and nearly spat his next words. "Mister Cale. Erevis Cale. What can require Mister Cale that I cannot do?" He stopped, eyeing Rivalen. "Is it because he is a shade? Then make me one. You know I want it."
"It is not because he is a shade. It is because he is a Maskarran."
"I do not understand. How is that relevant?"
The shadows around Rivalen churned with irritation, but he kept his voice patient. He did not wish to damage the relationship he had so painstakingly built.
"Kesson Rel is a divine being. A god. Quite minor, it is true, but divine nevertheless."
Tamlin's voice sounded small. "A god you say?"
Rivalen nodded. "Yes, but the unique circumstances involved in Kesson's ascension render him uniquely vulnerable. That vulnerability can be exploited only by a special servant of Mask."
"Mister Cale," Tamlin said, with surrender in his tone. He took another black pawn from the coffer, closed his fist around it until the knuckles were white. "He will not help us."
"Not willingly."
Tamlin looked up, eyebrows arched in a question.
"Brennus is unable to scry Cale directly, but he has learned that Cale has been of service to Abelar Corrinthal. Our spies among the Saerbian refugees-"
"You have spies among the refugees?"