Rivalen eyed Cale, inclined his head.
The tension went out of Riven. Somewhat.
"You wonder why I am here," Rivalen said. He advanced a few steps and stopped, perhaps eight paces from Cale and Riven.
"You are a Sharran dog and Kesson has your leash," Riven said.
Genuine anger flashed in Rivalen's eyes before he hid it behind a mask of calm.
"Your words are those of a fool," the Shadovar said.
Cale held onto Riven as his mind hurried through possibilities. He did not think Rivalen was delaying them for his fellow Sharran. The Shadovar prince could have simply watched them from afar, and brought Kesson whenever he wished. They had not known Rivalen was near. And had the Shadovar wanted to attack, he could have. They would not have seen it coming.
"This makes no sense," Cale said. Shadows leaked from his body, from his blade.
"That is because you think Kesson Rel and I are allies because we both serve Shar. Not all who serve the same god are allies."
Cale understood that well. He and Riven had started in service to Mask as rivals.
"Kesson Rel is a heretic," Rivalen said. "I want him dead, the Shadowstorm stopped."
In answer to his words, the wind gusted and thunder rumbled.
Riven scoffed. "That's a dungpile."
Rivalen's eyes flared, and the shadows around him whirled.
"Why?" Cale asked.
Rivalen smiled. "He is destroying Sembia, and Sembia is an ally of the Shadovar."
"Another dungpile," Riven said, and Cale agreed. If Rivalen was offering even a little truth, there was much more to the matter than he was sharing.
"Stop him, then," Cale said. "You will find him in Ordulin."
"I know where he is but I have learned that I cannot stop him alone. It will take a Chosen of Mask."
The shadows around Cale spun. "Learned? How?"
"I am willing to lay our past differences aside…"
"I'm not," Riven said.
Rivalen continued, "… to rid Sembia of this threat. Our interests coincide. We both want the same man dead."
"He's not a man," Cale said.
The shadows around Rivalen churned. "No. He's not. But we can end this, and him, together."
Cale considered. He wondered if Rivalen, too, sought what Kesson had stolen from Mask. He reminded himself that Rivalen had kidnapped Magadon, bonded him to the Source. That had been the beginning of Magadon's descent. Rivalen Tanthul was a bastard, not to be trusted.
"To the Hells with him, Cale," Riven said. "We do it our way."
"Agreed," Cale said reluctantly. "No."
Riven sneered. "You fly away now, little shade. And the next time we see you, our discussion will be a little different."
Rivalen never lost his mask. He showed no anger, did not even raise his voice.
"I believe I can make you reconsider."
Drizzle sank through Abelar's armor and caused the leather and padding under the steel to chafe. After spending several hours riding with his father and son in the wagon, he rode on Swiftdawn at the head of the column of Saerbians. His father and Elden rode in the body of the caravan.
Behind them, the Shadowstorm expanded, devouring the sky and casting Sembia in darkness. The roiling black thunderhead, streaked through with flashes of lightning, was gaining on them.
"We need to move faster," he said to Regg. He kept his eyes from the rose enameled on Regg's breastplate.
His friend looked back at the storm and nodded. "We may have to abandon the wagons. There are not enough horses for all, but we would move faster afoot."
"Not with the children and elderly," Abelar said. "And they would all be exhausted in a few days."
Regg surrendered to Abelar's point and grunted agreement.
Abelar looked on the long column of men, women, children, and wagons that snaked out behind him. Oxen and horses, heads lowered against the rain, stubbornly pulled their burdens through the muck. Mothers cradled children, and tried to shield themselves from the rain with blankets and cloaks. Men walked beside wagons and helped push when they bogged down in the soft earth. They were moving at a crawl. If the storm continued its present course and speed, they would be caught in mere days.
A sharp roll of thunder from behind elicited gasps and turned heads. Dozens of lightning bolts lit the ink of the Shadowstorm.
The Lathanderians of the company rode up and down the caravan, offering encouragement, spell-summoned food, or a prayer of blessing. Smiles and grateful nods greeted their passage and the Lathanderians kept flagging spirits from sinking into despair. But Abelar knew that blessings and food would mean little if they could not outrun the storm.
"We continue west to the Mudslide," he said. "Then south to the Stonebridge and on toward Daerlun."
"The race is on," Regg said softly, and patted Firstlight.
Hours later, the caravan reached the Mudslide, a murky flow that ran south out of the Thunderpeaks, then hooked east, back toward the River Arkhen and the Shadowstorm. It made a triangle out of Sembia's plains, with the river on two sides and the Shadowstorm on the other. Ordinarily not a very wide river, the recent rains had swollen its width.
The men, women, and children dismounted wagons and horses, plodded through the muddy shallows, and re-filled waterskins. The pack animals were unyoked and watered. Abelar released Swiftdawn to drink and forage.
To Regg, he said, "Roen and his fellow priests should summon as much food as they can. Let's put a hot meal in everyone's bellies. We eat quickly and press on."
"What are you going to do?"
"Check on my son."
Regg nodded and rode off, calling Roen to his side.
Abelar walked through the caravan on his way to the small, roofed wagon in which his father and son rode. He kept his eyes off the sky, off the storm. The refugees smiled at him, nodded, but he saw the questions in their eyes, the confusion. He did not bear his shield. He did not display a holy symbol. Returning greetings and smiles, he offered no explanation for their absence and went to his son.
He found Elden and Endren standing in the rain outside the wagon. Elden was smiling and petting the muscular side of the ox yoked to the wagon, perhaps in preparation for unyoking it. Endren stood with one hand on the boy's shoulder.
Elden saw Abelar approaching. Rain pressed his hair to his scalp. "Papa!"
His exclamation startled the big animal and it lurched. Abelar's heart jumped in his chest but Endren pulled Elden backward and the ox, too tired for much exertion, calmed immediately.
Abelar hurried forward and glared at his father. "Mind his safety."
Endren lost his smile, looked surprised, then hurt, then angry. "He was in no danger."
"My all wight," Elden said.
Abelar scooped him up, put his body between Elden and Endren. To his father, he said, "The caravan is taking a meal then continuing onward. Get some food in you."
Thunder rumbled.
"How do matters stand?" Endren asked.
"Morale is holding. We make for the Stonebridge. But the terrain and weather work against us. We are moving too slowly."
Endren nodded. He understood the implication, though he would not say it in Elden's presence.
"If the storm does not change course, I want you to take Elden on Swiftdawn and ride for Daerlun. We'll mount as many as we can. The others will… remain behind with me and some others to guard them."
Elden clapped at the prospect of a horseback ride. He loved riding Swiftdawn.
"You come, too, Papa?"
Endren and Abelar stared at one another.
"You should go, too," Endren said.
Abelar started to shake his head but stopped. Duty to the refugees did battle with his paternal instincts. He did not want to leave his son but was not sure he could abandon the refugees. He remembered the words Riven had said to him-You have to live with yourself first. He was not sure he would be able to live with himself whatever his choice.