In truth, Vraggen cared little for personal power, or at least cared little for power for its own sake. His plan to war with Sembia's Zhents had nothing to do with self-aggrandizement. As he saw it, he had no choice. He could flee the city and die a coward—something he could not live with—or he could stand, fight, and serve the god he had chosen to follow. At least the latter offered a chance for survival. But to maximize that chance, he had to maximize his own power.
Azriim smiled at Vraggen's offer, a secret smile Vraggen did not care for, and said, "You won't be human anymore."
"No," Vraggen acknowledged, staring across the table. "I'll be more than human."
Azriim seemed to digest that.
"Well enough," the half-drow said with a laugh. "I sure hope you don't die before we find the Fane. This, I really want to witness."
CHAPTER 3
FAREWELLS
The light of the rising sun crept across the floor of Cale's quarters. Half his room was alight with the brightness of dawn, half cast in shadow. Cale thought it an apt metaphor for his life.
His purposeful movements about the small bedroom took him between the light and shadow. In the process, he stirred up the seemingly endless amount of unswept dust on the floor. The motes swirled in the sun's rays like dancing faeries. If anyone on his staff had left any other room in Stormweather Towers as ill kept as Cale maintained his own quarters, he would have dismissed that person summarily. Cale was a poor housekeeper—a strange fault in a butler, he acknowledged—but he forbade any member of his staff from entering his quarters.
And for good reason, he thought, eyeing the battered wooden trunk at the base of his metal-framed bed. He had never wanted to risk an overly curious member of the household staff jigging the lock of the trunk and drawing conclusions about him and his past from the contents.
He keyed the lock and opened the trunk's lid. Within lay his enchanted leather armor, slashed and grooved from the many blades it had turned, and a leather pouch holding two of the three potions he had taken from the Night Knives's guildhouse before he and Jak had burned it to the ground. Two months before he had paid a gnome alchemist to identify the properties of the potions. The one that smelled of clover would turn him invisible for a time, and the cloudy azure one would allow him to fly for a while. He laid the potion pouch and the armor on the bed. At the bottom of the trunk were his weapons belt with his enchanted long sword and two balanced daggers. Those too he laid on the bed. He would no longer keep his weapons and armor hidden away.
Through his window, the great bells of the House of Song sounded the sixth hour. Tamlin—Lord Uskevren, he corrected himself—would be taking his breakfast. Lady Uskevren would be there as well. He would inform them first.
Shamur and Tamlin sat at a small table on a sundrenched balcony off of the main dining room, talking. Cale could not make out their conversation and would not be so impolite as to read their lips, though he could have.
Shamur wore a violet sundress, sandals, and only a few tasteful jewels. Her hair hung loose and cascaded down to her shoulders. To be dressed so casually, Cale deemed that she must have no appointments that morning. Tamlin, however, had already donned a formal doublet and hose. The lord of Stormweather had business that morning then. The fact that Cale did not know of Tamlin's appointments ahead of time showed just how small a role he played in the life of the new lord of Stormweather.
Cale walked through the dining room toward the balcony—deliberately loud, so that Tamlin and Shamur would hear him coming. They turned in their chairs to face him as he approached. Tamlin looked grave, but not displeased to see him. Shamur smiled. Cale nodded a greeting to Tamlin and gave Shamur a warm look. Cale and Shamur had reached an understanding while in the strange otherworld reflected in a magical painting. There, they had faced death together and saved each other's lives. Later, they had mourned Thamalon together. Cale had come to realize that his lady was no more a sedentary noble in her soul than he was a butler in his. He marveled at her ability to suppress what she was. He had never been quite able to do it.
Out of habit, he evaluated the table settings and fare with a professional eye. All appeared in order—the table services appropriately set, the meal suitable for a spring breakfast. Cora, one of the household staff, hovered on the far side of the balcony, within earshot and sight of the Uskevren if they required anything, but far enough away to give them privacy. Cale gave the young woman a nod of approval then waited to be acknowledged formally by his employers.
"Mister Cale," Tamlin said around a mouthful of poached egg.
"My lord," Cale said, though he still found it hard to apply the title to Tamlin.
"Erevis," Shamur said and smiled still more brightly. The sun reflected off the jewels in her hair, and sparkled in her eyes. She looked radiant. She gestured at a nearby chair. "How very nice to see you. Please sit down."
Tamlin frowned at Shamur's familiar use of Cale's first name, and her offer to allow a servant to dine with the lord of the House.
"Lady, you are gracious as always, but I must decline," Cale said. He smiled back at her, a soft smile but genuine. Having come to know her, he thought he might miss her the most after he was gone, more even perhaps than Thazienne. He looked to Cora and said, "That will be all."
Tamlin and Shamur exchanged a glance at that. Cora looked surprised but made no protest before hurrying off.
Surprisingly, Cale felt no anxiety. In fact, he felt comfortable for the first time in months. He looked beyond both of the Uskevren and went straight to the point.
"Lord, Lady, some unfortunate events have befallen my cousin."
When he had first come to Stormweather, Cale had concocted a fictional cousin whose frequent problems required Cale's aid, and thereby provided cover for his guild activities. Tamlin and Shamur did not know that his cousin was non-existent. Even Thamalon had not known, though he may have suspected.
"I fear these events will require my long-term attention," Cale continued, "and will take me from the city. I must therefore request that you accept my resignation, which I offer now."
For a moment, the balcony stood silent.
At last, Tamlin said, "What? When?"
He did not look unhappy, merely surprised.
"Immediately, my l—"
"No." Shamur threw her napkin to the table, pushed back her chair, and stood. "Your request is denied."
"Mother..."
Tamlin reached for her hand, but she jerked it away. She had eyes only for Cale. And what eyes! For a fleeting, guilt-ridden instant, he thought how beautiful she looked, how much he wished he had known her in the days when she had been Shamur the burglar, before she had become the lady of House Uskevren.
"My lady ..." Cale began.
She strode forward, looked him defiantly in the face, and said, "This is nonsense, Erevis, and I will not suffer it."
"Lady—"
"You have no cousin!" she hissed. "Do you think I'm blind or do you think I'm stupid?"
Stunned, Cale could only stare. Her eyes did not hold accusations, just certainty. How long had she known? He had never even told Thamalon.
"Neither, my lady," he managed to mutter.
Tamlin rose from his seat and asked, "What are you talking about? Of course he has a cousin. Mister Cale has spoken of him often. Tell her, Cale. And now he needs to leave to attend to family matters. Surely we can understand that."
Shamur didn't turn around but her face darkened— first with anger, then with . . . disgust? Was she that disappointed in the man her son had become? Cale thought her face gave him the answer and made plain her thoughts: How will the House survive with Tamlin at its head?