He doubted his defenses would be enough to keep Rivalen out, should his brother choose to attack, but it would at least allow Brennus advance warning.
He collapsed into a chair, the shadows about him whirling madly. His homunculi emerged from his cloak and, instead of taking their usual perch on his shoulders, curled up in his lap, shivering. He rubbed their heads and in time their shivering stopped. Brennus’s rage, however, did not abate.
He reached into his cloak and removed his mother’s platinum necklace- the jacinths looked dull in the darkness, like extinguished stars-and the rose holy symbol once borne by Vasen Cale. He resolved to die before leaving his mother’s murder unavenged. He simply needed to find a weakness in Rivalen, a crack in his defenses.
Rivalen’s words haunted him.
Rivalen knew it all. Rivalen had foreseen it all. Brennus could not stop him, could not avenge his mother’s murder.
“Rivalen is going to destroy the world,” he said.
He would have done anything to stop Rivalen, to kill him, but Brennus could see no way to do so.
He had to try to get to Cale’s son. He was missing something. He had to be missing something.
Because if he wasn’t, Rivalen would soon kill everything.
Vasen seemed to fall forever. He had no idea which way was up. He was turned around, air-starved, dying. He prepared to inhale a lungful of water, to end it all, when strong hands grabbed him by the cloak, felt for his arms, and pulled him upward with a lurch.
He emerged into darkness, gasping, shadows churning around him. A drumming sounded in his ears, a rhythmic beat that seemed to shake his entire body. He heard a roar, like the cascades of the valley but more ominous. As his vision cleared and the shadows around him diminished, he expected to be staring into the golden eyes of Rivalen Tanthul. Instead, he found himself staring into the tattooed face of Orsin, the deva’s white eyes filled with concern.
“He lives,” Orsin said.
Vasen sat up with a lurch, coughing, spitting dark water. The drumming he’d heard was not coming from his ears, nor the rush from the cascades. He sat on a polished obsidian floor in a small, rectangular chamber. . somewhere.
The air, viscous with shadows, felt thick in his lungs. As he had back in the woods of the valley, he felt the shadows all around him, felt them everywhere, to the limit of his perception. And he was connected to them, tethered. A swirling mass of darkness obscured the floor in one side of the room.
“That’s where we came out,” Orsin said.
“Came out?” Vasen said. His mind was fuzzy.
Gerak stood at a narrow window nearby, looking out. His body looked bunched with stress. The drumming and roar came from outside the window. “Can you stand?” Orsin asked him.
When Vasen nodded, Orsin pulled him to his feet. His entire body ached and his chest still burned. The energy from Rivalen’s spell had left a painful scorched patch on the skin of his hand. He sheathed Weaveshear. The weapon felt at home on his belt.
“Where are we?” Vasen asked.
“You tell us,” Gerak said over his shoulder. “Come here. Look.” Vasen and Orsin joined Gerak at the window and both of them gasped. The narrow window focused the volume of the drumming and roaring and the sound hit them like a gale. The three comrades stood in a high tower of obsidian, part of a larger keep or castle that featured delicate spires and high, smooth walls, the whole of it awash in shadows.
Outside the walls, surrounding it on all sides, was a horde of nightmarish size. Devils stood in ranks, thousands of them, some horned, armored, and as tall as giants. Others short and fanged, like the spined devils. Some stood as tall as giants, others as short as halflings. Some flew in the air on membranous wings. Some oozed or crawled. Large horned devils, their red skin emitting flames the same way Vasen’s skin emitted shadows, moved among the multitude. Weapons bristled everywhere: pikes, axes, swords. The size of the force took Vasen’s breath away. Shadows poured from his flesh. And throughout the horde the same heraldry was featured, huge oriflammes that showed a black hand and a sword, both sheathed in flames.
“Gods,” Vasen breathed.
“We’re in the Hells,” Gerak said, a hint of panic in his tone. “We must be.” Vasen felt the shadows behind him deepen, fill with power. He turned to see a short, lithe man step from the darkness, although the shadows clung to his form in a mist. A goatee hid a mouth that looked like it never smiled. His angular face, the dark skin pockmarked with scars, looked sharp enough to cut wood. Twin rapiers hung from his belt and he held a pipe in his hand. Black smoke curled up from the pipe to mix with the shadows.
“You’re not in the Hells,” said the man, his accented voice rich with power. “You’re in the Shadowfell. And it’s about time. Things are moving quickly now, and so must we.”
Orsin assumed a fighting stance while Gerak fumbled for an arrow.
The man’s mouth formed a sneer, showing stained teeth. The shadows about him whirled. He drew on the pipe, inhaled deeply, blew it out in a dark cloud.
“Wait,” said Vasen to his comrades, and held up his hand.
“Thinking before you act,” the man said with an approving nod. “Your father was the same way. Most of the time.”
“You’re Drasek Riven,” Vasen said. He had to be.
Riven nodded, took another draw on the pipe.
“The Left Hand of Shadow,” Orsin breathed.
Riven looked sidelong at Orsin. “If you fall to your knees, shadowalker, I promise you I’ll stab you in the face.”
Outside, the roar of the fiendish army and the beat of the drums rose higher, seemed to make the entire citadel shake.
Riven seemed barely to notice. He had eyes only for Vasen. “We don’t have a lot of time for explanations. You’re going to have to do as I tell you.”
As if to make his point, a blare of horns from outside sounded.
“I don’t even know what’s happening,” Vasen said. “I just watched my abbey burn, saw the Oracle die. We fought devils, Shadovar-”
“Shadovar? Which Shadovar?”
“What?” Vasen said. He was still processing events.
“Rivalen,” Orsin offered.
Riven’s face darkened. Shadows swirled around him. “Rivalen left Ordulin? What did he say?”
“He didn’t say much of anything,” Vasen said, and shadows boiled from his skin.
Riven paced the room. “He saw you and let you go?”
“We escaped,” Vasen said. “He didn’t let us do anything.”
“What are you saying?” Orsin asked.
“I’m saying you’re here because he let you go. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I didn’t. . see that.” He looked sharply at Vasen. “Do you feel anything unusual when you look at me?”
Vasen shook his head. “I don’t understand. Should I?”
Riven stared into his face. “He changed you, Vasen. Or rather I changed you. . Shit, shit, shit. Did I miss something? What am I overlooking? I thought you’d know, that you’d come here and know.”
Shadow churned around Vasen, too. “You thought I’d know what?”
Riven whirled on him. “Know how to get this out of me! And out of Rivalen and Mephistopheles! You’re the key, Vasen! You’re supposed to be able to get the godhood out of all of us.”
A long silence followed.
“I don’t know how to do that,” Vasen said at last.
Riven stared at him a long moment, their shadows, their lives, intersecting, crossing.
“I see that,” he said at last, and took a step back. He exhaled, shadows churning around him. “Fine. Things are where they are. We have to keep going.”
“Going where?” Gerak asked.
“To the Hells,” Riven said. “Vasen is going to Cania to rescue his father. Erevis Cale is our best hope now.”
“You’re mad,” Vasen said. “My father’s dead.”
“No, Riven said. “He’s alive. Trapped in magical stasis. And you’re going to get him out.”