"Dark and empty," whispered Jak, repeatedly eyeing Riven, Cale, and the statue.
Who are you two? asked Magadon, trepidation evident in his mental voice.
For the only time in his life, Cale wasn't sure of the answer to that question. He shared a look with Riven—the assassin's face had gone pale—then averted his gaze. He looked to the statue's missing leg, then to the stump of his wrist.
Who am I? he thought to the Lord of Shadows, echoing Magadon's question. The statue only answered him with a sneer and silence.
He took a deep breath.
"Cyric is Vraggen's god and he is not represented here," Cale said. "The mage has been allowed passage only because he wields Shar's Shadow Weave. But he still is not welcome." He looked to Riven and said, "This is more our temple than his."
Riven nodded and said, "Let's end it."
Together, the four comrades sprinted for the doors of the Fane.
Vraggen uttered a word of opening and the double doors to the sanctum flew open. In the Grand Hall behind them, they had passed many gifts, many weapons. None of them interested Vraggen. If he was entitled to take only one prize from there, as the caretaker had told him, he would take only what lay beyond these doors.
"Come," he said to Azriim and Serrin. "Time is short."
With that, he walked through the doors. They closed behind them.
A domed ceiling soared above the circular floor of the sanctum. The black, gem-encrusted ceiling was a representation of Faerun's moonless night sky, exactly as the sky appeared in the star globe, exactly as the sky appeared on the surface above. It seemed to shimmer, as though it was made of water rather than stone. Vraggen knew that the ceiling changed to reflect the sky of the world in which the Fane currently existed. A marvel, really.
A border of inlaid amethyst circumscribed the polished slate floor, giving the whole the look of a black sphere bordered in purple: Shar's symbol. Though the Fane served the dark gods of many worlds, it was one goddess—Shar—who had first created it, who had first created the Shadow Weave; Shar, whose beautiful, dark house this was.
In the center of the sanctum sat a basalt, horseshoe-shaped altar inlaid with dusky opals and black pearls.
A purple altar cloth, marked with the symbol of Shar, lay draped over it.
That altar was where Vraggen's transformation would occur.
In the area of the ceiling directly above the altar, no stars glittered in the sky. Instead, a small circular area, devoid of light, yawned like the mouth of a beast. Shar's "moon." Vraggen found it hypnotic. It was a hole in reality, an eye into shadow. The transforming energy would emerge from that emptiness.
Candelabrum stood about the sanctum, though the wrist-thick tapers set therein did not burn. The diffuse, sourceless green light provided the only illumination.
Black velvet curtains lined the entirety of the walls except for the wall directly behind the altar. There, a lifelike depiction of a sapling tree decorated the wall. With smooth black bark, a few gray leaves, and three oval fruit of glistening silver, it was unlike any tree Vraggen had ever before seen. Azriim and Serrin seemed taken with the representation. They stared at it, unblinking.
Vraggen put a hand on each of their shoulders and said, "The altar."
He moved into the room. They followed.
Unlike the rest of the floor of the sanctum, a black crystalline substance covered the floor within the horseshoe of the altar's pulpit. A charge raced through Vraggen as he stepped upon it. Azriim stood near him. Serrin stood before the mosaic of the tree, lightly tracing the wall with his fingertips. In a generous mood, Vraggen allowed the easterner his fascination. He looked back to Azriim.
"Let us begin," he said, and began the ritual that would grant him the greatest of gifts offered by the Shadow Weave.
Cale pulled open the doors to the Fane. A long, wide hallway beckoned. Shadows played in the green light along its entire length. Paintings and mosaics covered the walls, each shifting and melding when Cale tried to focus on them. He thought them a representation of chaos, or reified deception.
Alcoves lined the hall at intervals. In each stood a small table or pedestal, and upon each of those sat an item, displayed as though the Fane were a merchant's shop: here a staff of power, there a sword; here a cloak, there a ring. Cale could feel the magic in the room— shadow magic. The hall terminated in a pair of black double doors.
"Don't touch anything," Cale said, and he stepped into the Fane.
The moment he broached the archway, a husky female voice spoke aloud, in perfect Chondathan, "Take one thing of what you would, servant of the secret, leave what you can, and extend the darkness thereby."
Cale turned to his comrades with raised eyebrows.
"Strange that she would speak in the tongue of Luiren," Jak said.
"Amnian, you mean," said Riven.
Cale realized then that the voice was nothing more than a phantasm. The magic must have let each listener hear it in a familiar tongue.
Ignore it, Cale sent. Keep moving.
When they had all stepped into the foyer, the doors of the Fane slowly closed behind them. They shared a look, readied their weapons, and advanced down the hallway. Cale steadfastly kept his eyes from the tempting items in the alcoves.
Before they'd taken ten strides, the shadows before them swirled threateningly. Cale leaped backward, dragging Jak with him. White fire took shape in Magadon's hands. Riven circled out wide.
The shadows amalgamated, whirled, and formed into a humanoid shape.
Hold, Cale ordered distantly, feeling strangely unthreatened.
He let his blade drop.
The shadows tightened, took on more definition, and finally assumed the shape of an elderly man in a gray cloak. His eyes were solid black, and in them Cale could see the twinkling of stars. Those eyes reminded him of a dream he had once had....
"More visitors?" the black-eyed man said.
He looked at Cale, and took a step closer.
Watch him, Jak said.
Riven slid around and behind the old man, sabers bare.
"You," the old man said. He smiled and his body momentarily dissipated into shadows, instantly reforming with his back to Cale and his eyes on Riven. "Oh, and you."
Cale started to speak. Before he had completed the first syllable, the old man was again face to face with him.
"Do you know me?" Cale asked.
The old man chuckled.
"As well as you know yourself. And you," he said to Riven.
"Who are you?" Riven asked, echoing Cale's thoughts.
"I am the caretaker."
"What are you?" Cale asked.
To that, the caretaker smiled softly, and answered, "A servant, like you. But perhaps a more willing one."
He held up a hand as though to touch Cale, but Cale backed off. Fast.
"You do not yet understand what you are," the caretaker said, then turned to Riven. "Nor you. But you will. Both of you. The darkness called you, and each of you answered. As have I, in my way. Your duty, like mine, will become clear in time."
Jak stepped protectively in front of Cale and Cale couldn't help but smile.
"What is this place?" the halfling demanded.
The caretaker stared down at Jak, thoughtful, and replied, "The darkness has called you too, not so? Recently. Ah, but you have not answered."
Jak said nothing but Cale saw him shiver. He thought of the halfling's face the day after the slaad had tortured him. It pleased him to hear the caretaker say that Jak had not answered the darkness.
Jak is a seventeen, Cale thought, recalling Sephris's words.
"Answer my question," Jak insisted.
The caretaker shrugged and looked up and down the hall.