“Prince Brennus.”
On Brennus’s shoulders, his homunculi mirrored Ovith’s gesture.
“You may go, Lhaaril,” Brennus said.
“My Lord,” Lhaaril acknowledged, and exited the library, closing the door after him.
“Stand, Ovith,” Brennus said to the scout, and he did. “Lhaaril says you have a tale to tell.”
Ovith did not look Brennus in the eye when he spoke. “My Prince, Cronil and I patrolled the Sembian plains as you instructed, searching for any sign of the Abbey of the Rose.”
Brennus had numerous pairs of Shadovar scouts scouring the Sembian countryside in search of the Abbey of the Rose and its Oracle. He suspected the life of Erevis Cale’s son was tied up with the sun-worshipers, but he’d mostly given up hope. His men had found nothing but rumors for decades.
“We stopped to water our veserabs on the way back to Sakkors.”
“Where? And be exact.”
“At the River Draal, before it joins the River Arkhen, perhaps five leagues east of the Thunder Peaks.”
Brennus held a hand up at his globe and put power in his words. “The River Draal, five leagues east of the Thunder Peaks.”
Responding to Brennus’s command, the globe in the center of the library turned to show the location he’d named. Brennus walked toward the globe, Ovith behind him.
“Twenty leagues in all directions from that point,” Brennus said. “Expand.”
The globe unwrapped itself from a sphere into a large, flat rectangle that showed the area Brennus had named. He noted the rivers, the mountains, his mind turning.
“Continue, Ovith.”
“As we watered the mounts, Cronil heard something that alarmed him. He spotted a cave on the opposite riverbank and flew over to investigate. That’s when we were attacked.”
“The attackers emerged from the cave?”
Ovith nodded.
“Creatures or men?”
“Men, my Lord.”
“Describe them, their clothing, their weapons, their tactics. Omit nothing.”
Prompted by pointed questions from Brennus, Ovith explained how he and Cronil had been surprised, attacked by four men, all of them experienced combatants. Ovith could not be certain, but he thought two of them human, one a deva, and another. .
“A shade?” Brennus asked, his mind and heart racing.
“Yes, Prince Brennus. I know how that sounds, but I saw him up close. He was a shade. And yet. . ”
“And yet?”
“And yet light was in his weapon. A rose and sun featured on his shield. And he wore this.”
The homunculi leaned forward expectantly as Ovith removed something from his belt pouch and held it forth.
An exquisitely crafted rose cast in silver and attached to a few links of a necklace sat in Ovith’s open palm.
“His holy symbol,” Ovith said. “I snatched it from him during the combat. An accident, but I hope a fortuitous one.”
“You’ve no idea.” The shadows around Brennus stilled as he took the rose in his hand, felt its weight, the cool touch of its metal. The rose had a scratch on it, revealing shining silver under the dark tarnish.
Pieces started to fall into place, an image began to form. “A shade who is a worshiper of Amaunator.”
“So it seems, my Prince. The abbey is real and we must have been near it. Why else would servants of Amaunator be at that place.”
“Did they have mounts?”
“Not that I saw, Prince.”
Brennus studied the map. His attention came back again and again to the Thunder Peaks.
“And this shade, he stepped through the shadows?” Brennus asked.
Ovith shook his head. “Not that I saw. No. He waded the river to reach me rather than stepping from one shadow to another.”
“Did darkness regenerate his wounds?”
Again, Ovith shook his head, uncertainty clouding his expression. “Not that I saw, but he was a shade, Lord Brennus. I’d swear it. Perhaps not exactly like us, but a shade. I saw the way the darkness clung to him, his skin, his eyes.”
“A half-shade, perhaps,” Brennus said, closing his hand on the rose in his palm. A half — shade who was Erevis Cale’s son. Brennus still could not see the whole picture, but he’d just found another piece.
“My Lord?”
“Nothing. How old did he appear to you, this shade?”
Ovith shrugged. “I can’t say with any certainty. He looked like a human of thirty winters.”
Too young, but he could have aged very slowly. Or he could be the grandson or great grandson of Cale, rather than the son.
“Did anyone say his name?”
“Not that I heard.”
Brennus nodded, his mind racing, connections forming. “You’ve done well, Ovith. Return to the barracks and stay there. I may have more questions for you later.”
Again Ovith put an arm on his chest and took a knee. “My Prince.”
As Ovith walked out of the library, Brennus called to him, “Speak of this to no one. If you disobey me in this, I’ll know.”
“Of course, Prince Brennus.”
After Ovith had gone, Brennus looked down at the rose. “I have you.”
The Oracle, his perception focused by Amaunator’s prophetic gift, walked the halls of the abbey, Browny padding along at his side. The Oracle’s slippers whispered on the polished stone floors. Everywhere he saw the iconography of his patron-the blazing sun in murals, sunbeam images inset into the floor, blown glass globes lit with magical light. And here and there he saw the rose, the symbol of Lathander, the dawn guise of Amaunator. The Oracle’s father had worshiped Lathander. They’d done the same work, father and son. Each had played his part. Perhaps they’d end the Cycle of Night, for Toril, at least.
After walking the halls, he returned to his sparsely furnished chambers on the abbey’s second floor. The small room held his wardrobe, his bed, a pile of old wool blankets for Browny, and a prayer mat on the floor before the east-facing window. He kneeled on the mat and looked out the window. Browny sat on the floor beside him, chin on his paws.
The Oracle let his imagination pierce the shrouded sky, imagined golden sunlight, a blue sky.
“Night gives way to dawn, and dawn to noon. Residing in the light, I fear no darkness.”
He took his holy symbol, a blazing sun cast in silver, and held it in his hand. “Thank you for letting me serve, Dawnfather.”
He stood and went to his wardrobe. Within, buried under his winter bedding and the traveling cloak he never worn, lay a large, steel shield. The slab of enchanted metal and wood showed scars from many battles, but the rose enameled on its face looked freshly painted. The shield had been Saint Abelar’s. His father had cast it into a lake when his faith had temporarily failed him because the Oracle, then a boy, had been made to suffer. Years later, a vision had led the Oracle to the lake and he’d recovered the shield, knowing that he was to hold it in trust for another, to help during a dark time that would one day come.
A day that had arrived at last.
He could not see how it would end. The timeline of gods stretched too far into the past and future. He only saw how it would begin. He suspected the day’s events would conclude in shadow, not light. His vision saw poorly into dark places.
He lifted the shield and tested it on his arm. It felt strong, sturdy, impassable, like the father who’d borne it. The shield’s enchantment had kept the leather straps supple, even after one hundred years. He slipped it on, but the weight was far too much for him to bear with only one arm. Smiling softly, he slipped his arm free of the straps. He had not been born to be a warrior. He had been born to be a guide.
“Come, Browny.”
Carrying the shield, he walked through the abbey, past the central worship hall, and into the attached living quarters. He went to Vasen’s chambers, as sparsely furnished as the Oracle’s own.