“Maybe you should both stay,” the man said, and the lock bolt on the door slid into place.
Erdan looked at the door, at the man, back at the door, his rapid breathing audible.
“You won’t need your blade, knight of Lathander,” the man said to Derreg. “Or is it Amaunator these days? I haven’t kept up.”
Erdan intoned the words to a prayer and the pipe flared again, showing the man’s face twisted in a frown.
“Close your mouth,” the man said to Erdan, his voice as sharp-edged as a blade. “Your words are empty.”
Erdan’s mouth audibly shut. His eyes widened and he doubled over and pawed at his face, moaning behind his lips as if they were sealed shut.
“Priests,” the man said contemptuously, shaking his head as the light from the pipe died and the darkness engulfed him.
“Release him,” Derreg said, nodding at Erdan, and advancing a step toward the man. The baby went still in the cradle of Derreg’s arm.
The man took a long drag on his pipe, and the light showed him smiling. “Well enough. He’s released.”
Erdan opened his mouth, gasped. “By the light!”
“Hardly by the light,” the man said. “But you needn’t fear. I’m not here for either of you.” He nodded at Vasen. “I’m here for him.”
Derreg cradled Vasen more tightly to his chest. The boy remained eerily still, his yellow eyes like embers. Derreg recalled Varra’s words to him about a dark man who had changed the boy. He tightened his grip on his blade’s hilt.
“You’re the child’s father?”
The man exhaled smoke and stepped closer to them, shedding some of the darkness that clung to him. He moved with the precision of a skilled combatant. Twin sabers hung from his belt and the hilt of a larger sword-sheathed on his back-peeked over his shoulder. His one good eye fixed not on Derreg but on Vasen, then on Varra. Derreg could read nothing in his expression.
“Are you the father?” Derreg repeated. “The dark man?”
“Oh, I am a dark man,” the man said, smiling softly. “But I’m not the father. And I’m not the dark man you mean, at least not exactly.”
He was suddenly standing directly before Derreg. Had he crossed the room?
The man extended a finger toward Vasen-the baby still did not move-but stopped before touching him. A stream of shadow stretched from the man’s fingertip and touched Vasen, for a moment connecting man and child, an umbilical of another sort, perhaps.
“How peculiar,” the man said, and withdrew his finger.
“How so?” Derreg asked, and turned his body to shield the child from the man’s touch.
“His father was Erevis Cale,” the man said, still staring at the child. “And I’ve been searching for this child for some. . time.”
Derreg heard the echo of some distant pain in the man’s utterance of Cale’s name. He knew the name, of course. His father, Regg, had spoken of Cale often, had watched Cale destroy a godling at the battle of Sakkors.
“Erevis Cale? Abelar’s traveling companion?”
Shadows spun about the man. His lips curled with contempt.
“Traveling companion? Is that how he’s remembered?” He shook his head. “You’ve lost much more than half this world to the Spellplague. And you’ll lose more of it yet if the cycle runs it course.”
“The cycle?” Derreg asked.
“You’re Drasek Riven,” said Erdan, his voice rapid, excited. “By the light, you are!”
The man inclined his head. “Partly.”
Derreg did not understand the cryptic comment. He’d heard Riven’s name in tales, too. “You can’t take the child, Drasek Riven. I gave my word.”
“Do you think you could stop me?” Riven asked.
Derreg blinked and licked his lips, but held his ground. “No. But I’d try.”
Riven leaned in close, studied Derreg’s face. His breath smelled of smoke. “I believe you. That’s good.”
“You haven’t aged,” blurted Erdan, stepping closer to Riven, curiosity pinching his wrinkled face into a question. “You’re not Shadovar?”
Riven turned to face Erdan and the priest blanched, retreated. “My kinship with darkness runs deeper than that of the Shadovar, priest. And I won’t tell you again to keep your mouth closed. You’re a witness to this, nothing more.”
Erdan’s eyes widened even as his mouth closed.
“You knew my father,” Derreg said. “He spoke of you sometimes.”
“Just sometimes, eh?” Riven drew on his pipe, a faint smile on his face, a distant memory in his eye. “I confess I’m not surprised.”
“When he talked about those days he spoke mostly of Dawnlord Abelar.”
“Dawnlord?” Riven looked up and past Derreg. His brow furrowed as he wrestled down some memory. “What is that? Some kind of holy title?”
“Of course it’s holy,” said Erdan, his tone as defiant as he dared. “His tomb is in this abbey. Pilgrims come from across Faerun to lay eyes on it.”
“You. . question his holiness?” Derreg said.
Riven chuckled. “He was a man to me, and men are never holy.”
“You blaspheme!” Erdan said.
Riven sneered. “Priest, I saw Dawnlord Abelar run his blade through an unarmed man trying to surrender. How does that square with your understanding of the man?”
“You lie!” Erdan exclaimed, then, realizing what he had said, backed up a step.
“Often,” Riven acknowledged, “But not about that. Maybe you think killing Malkur Forrin made him less holy? You might be right. But it made him more of a man. And that murder is why you have an Oracle.”
Derreg shook his head. “I don’t understand. The Oracle is Abelar’s son.”
“You miss my meaning,” Riven said and shook his head. “No matter. Myths sometimes outrun the man.”
Riven took a draw on his pipe, blew out a cloud of fragrant smoke. He looked at Derreg, his eye focused on a memory. “I once promised your father that we would share a smoke but. . other things got in the way. How did Regg die? Well, I hope?”
A fist formed in Derreg’s throat, old grief blossoming into new pain. He pulled Vasen tighter against his chest. For a moment, he considered refusing to answer, but changed his mind. “He died an old man, in his sleep. The light was in him.”
Riven’s face did not change expression, although his eye seemed to see something Derreg could not. “It pleases me to hear it.”
Voices and shouts carried into the room from the hall outside. Riven drew on his pipe, unconcerned.
“What do you want?” Derreg asked. “Why are you here?”
Riven jerked the large blade from the sheath on his back. Derreg lurched backward, his own blade held before him. Vasen began to cry. Erdan froze, rooted to the spot.
“To see the boy. And to give him his father’s weapon.” Riven flipped the weapon, took it by the blade, and offered Derreg the hilt. “This is Weaveshear.”
The weapon was as black as a starless night. Shadows curled about its length, extended outward from the blade toward Vasen. The child extended a hand, cooed.
“That’s a weapon of darkness,” Erdan said, and made the sign of the rising sun, the three interior fingers raised like sunbeams.
“That it is,” answered Riven.
Derreg stared at the blade. “The boy won’t need it.”
“No?”
“No. He has me.”
Riven scowled, shadows swirling around him. He lowered the weapon and advanced. Although short of stature, Riven nevertheless seemed to reach to the ceiling.
Derreg knew he had overstepped and his mouth went dry, his heart pounded.
“You’ll take this blade and you’ll keep it safe and when that boy is of age, you’ll tell him who his father was and you’ll give him that weapon. I owe Cale that much. And so do you. All of you.”
“I-”
“Nod your godsdamned stubborn head, son of Regg, or I swear I’ll remove it from your neck.”
Derreg did not care to test whether the threat was earnest. He fought down a prideful impulse and nodded. Riven offered him the blade once more, and Derreg took it. Shadows curled around his wrist. He felt as if the weapon was coated in oil. It seemed to squirm in his grip.