Midnights Mask (36 page)

The moment stretched. As one they stepped forward and embraced, briefly. A warriors’ farewell.

Cale stepped back, pulled the shadows around him, and said, “Let’s go, Mags.”

The surf roared far below them. The foam dancing in the shoals was barely visible in the predawn light. A cool breeze rustled Cale’s cloak. The glow from a cluster of lights far up the coast could only be Urlamspyr, one of Sembia’s largest cities. Cale had never seen it. Perhaps now he would. He had no reason to return to Selgaunt. He had no reason to do anything.

Varra looked around, unable to see much in the darkness but the fading stars. Cale had convinced her to let him temporarily take her from Skullport. He could not yet commit to a we-he agreed with Riven that Mask was not done with them-but he wanted to do something for her, and at least for the moment, he did not want to be alone.

“It’s been a long while since I’ve seen the sky,” she said, her voice soft.

“I know,” Cale replied. He held Jak’s pipe in his fist.

She must have heard the tightness in his voice, the barely controlled grief. He did not seem able to make it go away.

“What’s wrong, Vasen?” she asked. She did not touch him.

For a moment, he could not speak. Finally, he said, “I lost my best friend recently.”

He was not certain how long ago it had been. One day seemed to bleed into another.

She stared at him for a time before saying, “I’m so sorry.”

Quiet lay between them. Only the surf spoke.

Cale looked straight ahead, out on the whitecaps of the Inner Sea. He felt Varra looking at him, staring at him. He wondered what she was thinking. Cale still did not know why he had returned to her rather than Tazi, rather than staying with Magadon in Starmantle. They had shared little; they had exchanged only a few sentences. Still, he felt… drawn to her. He supposed everyone needed someone to whom they could confess.

“Tell me something about yourself,” she said, and he thought she had read his mind.

“Like what?”

She did not hesitate. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.”

Cale’s heart thumped hard in his chest. He still did not look at her.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do. Tell me.”

He swallowed and turned to look at her. Her expression contained no judgment. He held her gaze. She waited, saying nothing.

“I’ve killed men for no reason other than coin,” he said, and once he started, he could not stop. “Lots of men. I’ve killed many others for what I thought were good reasons. I serve a god who lives in the dark and now I think the dark lives in me. I’ve spent almost the entirety of my adult life doing violence. I’ve had only two close friends.” The admission pained him distantly, but it was true. “Both of them are dead now.” His voice broke but he recovered and finished. “I’ve done many, many evil things in my life. And now I’m alone.”

She stared at him in silence with such sympathy in her brown eyes that he could not hold back tears—tears for yak, for Thamalon, for himself, for everything. He squeezed the ivory-bowled pipe and put it back into his vest pocket.

She reached up and touched his face. “Oh, Vasen

He turned his face away from her and stared out at the sea. He gulped down the knot in his throat.

“Call me Erevis. Erevis Cale. Vasen Coriver died a long time ago.”

To her credit, she did not ask any questions about his name. Instead, she leaned against him, slipped her hand into his, and said, “You are not alone.”

To that, Cale said nothing. There was nothing to say. He allowed himself to take pleasure in the smell of her hair and the feel of her skin.

After a time he said, “Don’t wait for me, Varra.” “What do you mean?” she asked.

“There are things I have yet to do. Hard things. This may be the closest we ever get.”

She was quiet for a while then said, “It’s for me to decide if I wait.”

To that, Cale could say nothing.

Together, they sat atop the cliff, took comfort in the other’s company, and waited in satisfying silence as the stars vanished and the sky Tightened. Within an hour, the sun broke the horizon.

When it did both of them gasped, but for different reasons.

“It’s so beautiful,” Varra whispered.

“It is,” Cale said, and his hand vanished in the sun. He watched the sun crest the horizon and thought of Jak, of their conversation as they walked along Selgaunt’s docks. Cale had promised the little man that he would be a hero, if he got the chance.

“Today is a new day,” he said, more to himself, more to Jak, than to Varra.

He decided that he would keep his promise to the little man.

*****

Riven had paid a guild mage to identify the properties of the Sojourner’s stones, sold the four that did not interest him, and retained the three that did. Weighted down with several thousand platinum suns, he walked Selgaunt’s nighttime streets. It would be the last. time he set foot in the city for some time.

The city still bustled with rumors of what had transpired in the sky and on Temple Avenue and what each portended. It was said that the Oghmanytes had begun to quietly desert the city. All wondered what they knew but would not share. Riven couldn’t have cared less. He cared only about what Mask wanted of him.

As always, the Shadowlord had spoken to him in his dreams. Riven was to use the wealth to fit out the tower of the Sojourner as a temple, taking what had been Cyric’s and turning it to the use of the Shadowlord. Riven would be its caretaker, along with his girls. Riven had found a chamber within the tower littered with magical gear— weapons, wands, staffs. He assumed it once belonged to the Cyricists. Now it belonged to him. He was not certain what he was to do with all of it. Others would come, he assumed. Cale, at least.

But first he had something else to do. An honor to make. Then he would leave the past behind.

He walked the streets, stopping at every tavern and eatery he could find, asking if they had what he sought. None did. Finally, he found himself at the corner where the Black Stag tavern had stood until a shadow adept had burned it to the ground in an effort to kill Cale and Riven. That was when everything had begun.

A new tavern had been built on the site—The Charred Ruin.

Riven would have grinned at the name had he been in the mood for grins instead, he donned his professional sneer and pushed open the door to the Ruin. The moment he did, the smell of the night’s soup hit his nostrils and he knew he had found what he wanted. Strange, that he would have found it there, of all places.

Scanning the dark-eyed patrons, none of whom held his gaze, he found a table along the wall and sat. The middle-aged bar wench plodded over to his table and took his order.

“Soup,” Riven said.

“That’s it?” she asked

“And a tankard of something decent,” Riven said. He flipped her a fivestar and she hurried away to fill his order.

Sitting in the Ruin, Riven waited and brooded. His life had changed and he wondered where it all would lead. Riven saw now that he and Cale were linked, Mask’s First and Mask’s Second, neither able to exist without the other, the right and left hands of their god.

After a short time, the bar wench returned with a tin tankard of ale and a steaming wooden bowl of soup-potato soup. She set it down and said, “There you are.”

Riven said nothing, did not even look up. She harrumphed and stalked off.

Riven stared at the thick soup, thought of the time he had shared with his comrades another bowl of potato soup on the Plane of Shadow. He was not entirely certain how he felt about Fleet. Had he been a friend? Riven did not know. He did know, however, that he would miss him.

He raised his tankard in a toast and turned his attention to the soup. He ate it all without a pause and set down the spoon. Overcome for a moment, he stared down at the empty howl.

Finally he said softly, “No doubt it’s a poor imitation of your mother’s

little man.”

With that, he pushed his chair back, stood, and walked out of the tavern. He wanted to see his girls.

Midnight’s Mask0Paul S. Kemp

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