Shadowbred (19 page)

No mask. He smiled with relief and put the book in his satchel. Varra watched him throughout. “Must you leave tonight?” “I think it is better this way, Varra.” She nodded and said softly, “I have something for you.” She went to her night table and took something from the drawer— a piece of cloth, a black piece of cloth. A mask. Cale’s holy symbol. Shadows swirled around him.

“I found it in the garden two days ago. The wind must have blown it there. I knew what it was but I said nothing. I’m … sorry. But I kept it for you. I’ve known since then that you would leave.”

She held it out for Cale.

He hesitated, took it, and stuffed it in his pocket. It lay there like a lead weight.

She looked up into his face. “When I wake up, you will be gone?

He nodded. “I will wait until you fall asleep before I leave.” “I hope you will return.”

He said nothing, kissed her once more, embraced her one last time, and she climbed into bed, into their bed. He sat with his hand on her hip while sobs shook her. He could not stop his own tears. Exhaustion eventually overcame her and her breathing grew steady.

He stood and took a long look around the cottage. He had called it home for over a year. It had been a good year. He looked down on Varra, committed her sleeping face to memory, pulled the shadows about him, and transported himself to Selgaunt, back to the only family he’d ever had.

29 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms

“Ao, but you took time enough coming back,” said a

Cale whirled around, jerking Weaveshear from its scabbard. Shadows swirled from steel and flesh. He spotted the speaker—a slim, dark-haired man with several days’ growth of beard on his face—huddled prone against the alley wall. How had Cale missed him the first time?

The man lifted himself on his elbow and peered up at Cale out of a mass of threadbare, filthy clothes and

voice.

a misshapen, stained cap. Cale figured him a drunk. He saw no weapons.

Cale lowered Weaveshear, took a few fivestars from one of his belt pouches, and tossed them on the ground near the drunk. “Mind your own affairs, friend.”

The drunk did not even glance at the coins. He had eyes only for Cale.

“Haven’t I been doing that all this time?” he asked.

The man’s knowing tone made Cale wary. Weaveshear still in hand, Cale approached until he stood two paces from the stranger. Shadows oozed lazily from Cale’s blade.

“How do you mean?” Cale asked.

The drunk chuckled and sat up with a grunt. Cale realized that the stench of vomit and piss came from the man’s clothing, not the alley. Close proximity made the smell worse. Cale wrinkled his nose.

“Foul, eh?” the man said and looked down at his clothing. “Keeps the stray dogs from bothering me.”

The man seemed to notice the coins for the first time.

“Ah,” he said, and all three vanished under a single deft pass of his hand.

Cale could tell the man was not what he appeared—he was too clear-eyed, to precise in his movements—though Cale did not yet know whether he was dangerous. He had encountered shapeshifters before and decided to take no chances. He pointed Weaveshear’s tip at the man’s face.

“Who are you?”

The man seemed unbothered by the shadow-bleeding blade pointed at his face. He reached up and put a fingertip on the edge. Shadows from the steel corkscrewed his finger.

“Nice weapon,” the man said. He took his finget from the blade, produced one of Cale’s fivestars, and tossed it into the air. He caught it on his fingertip, balanced upright on one of its five corners.

Cale kept the wonder from his face. He knocked the coin from its perch with Weaveshear and it chinked on the stones of the alley.

“I will ask you only once more. Who are you?”

The man frowned at the fallen coin. He looked up and asked, “Who do you think I am?”

Cale said nothing, though something about the man felt familiar.

The man leaned over, picked up the fivestar, pocketed it, and stood.

“Why are you backing away?” the man asked.

Cale had not realized he was.

The man smiled, nodded at the pocket in Cale’s vest.

“Is that where you keep it?”

Cale’s flesh goosepimpled. “Keep what?”

The man said, “The mask.”

Shadows swirled around Cale. How could the man have known of the mask?

“You have been scrying me,” Cale said, and tightened his grip on Weaveshear.

The man smiled and shook his head. “No. I left it for you in the meadow and you often keep it in that pocket. I do not need to scry you, Erevis. I know you better than anyone.”

An identity for the speaker registered and Cale’s heart thumped against his ribs. His breath came fast. Who could have known of the mask? Who could have left it for him in the meadow?

“You are backing away again,” the man observed.

Cale held his ground, his mind racing. The idea was absurd. He shook his head. He refused to believe it.

The man examined his fingernails and said casually, “We have not spoken much of late. Remind me again of the reason for that.”

Cale grasped at an explanation. “Tamlin sent you to meet me. And you were scrying me, despite yout denial.”

The man smiled. “No. But you already know that.”

Cale was shaking his head. It was impossible. Impossible.

“Why do you not just ask me?” the man said.

Cale just stared, sweating. He dared not ask. He dared not.

“Go on,” pressed rhe man, and rook a step toward him.

Cale stood his ground, but only with difficulty.

“Ask,” the man said. “I know how you like to ask questions to

which you already know the answer Ask.”

Cale licked his lips but his tongue was dry. His thoughts faced through his head so quickly they did not make sense. He felt dizzy.

“It cannot be,” he mumbled.

The man chuckled. “But it is. I am slumming,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Words crept up behind Cale’s teeth and he could not hold them in. He had to hear the man say it. The man smiled, waiting.

“Who are you?” Cale asked.

The man winked and shadows engulfed him. When they parted, the filthy rags had disappeared, replaced by oiled black leathers, high boots, a gray cloak, and several slim blades at his wide belt.

Cale took another step back, eyes wide. His legs gave way under him. He used Weaveshear to prop himself up.

The stink vanished with the old clothing. The man’s face went from plain and unshaven to sharp, clean, and handsome. He appeared years younger than Cale. Only his smile remained the same. Cale tecognized the face. He had seen it before on a statue in the Fane of Shadows, on the statue of Mask the Shadowlord.

“It cannot be,” Cale said. The walls of the alley were falling in on him.

“I have already explained that it is possible,” said the man—the god—as he dusted off his breeches. “Filthy alley.” He looked up and stared an accusation at Cale. “I give you power to walk the shadows anywhere you like and always you appear in alleys. Why not a bathhouse? Or better still, a high-end brothel?”

Cale could only stare, his mind racing, his heart pounding. To his surprise, the awe subsided, replaced by the seed of something else. He was looking at the god who had caused him to sacrifice his humanity, whose schemes had led to Jak’s death.

Anger rooted in Cale’s soul, chased away the fear, killed the reverence.

“What is it?” the man asked him, a puzzled look in his eye.

“Speak your name,” Cale said, his tone hard. He wanted to hear the name aloud before he did what he had to do. Shadows haloed his body.

Mask looked across the alley at Cale with a frown. “You look upset. You are not still angry about Jak, are you? You know, you have never had a sense of humor. Even as a boy, you—”

Cale snapped like a bowstring, and once loose, his pent-up anger could not be reined. He roared, bounded forward with his shadow speed, and slashed with Weaveshear at Mask’s throat. Rage fueled his strength; the blow could have decapitated an ogre.

The god barely moved. He produced a slim black dagger from his belt and parried the larger blade with a casual air and an infuriating smirk.

“Now that is amusing. Trying to kill your own god.”

Cale gritted his teeth and used his greater size to push Mask against the alley wall.

“Really?” Mask asked. “We are going to go through all this? I wasn’t sure, but—”

Cale reached down to his belt, pulled a punch dagger, and drove it into the god’s abdomen. The blade sank to the hilt.

Cale stared Mask in the face. Rage made his voice a growl. “Never say his name! Never!”

Mask did not even wince. He glanced down with a surprised look at the dagger protruding from his gut.

Cale twisted it. He had never in his life felt such satisfaction.

Mask looked into Cale’s face and anger flashed in the god’s eyes.

“That is overdoing it a bit, don’t you think?”

The god covered Cale’s dagger hand with his own. Cale felt the strength in Mask’s grip. The god muscled the blade backward, out of his flesh, and twisted Cale’s hand with a jerk. Cale’s wrist audibly snapped.

Agony flared; Cale screamed. The dagger fell from his limp hand. His shadow-steeped flesh immediately set to repairing the break. “Now …” Mask began.

Cale are the pain, threw himself forward, and smashed his head into the bridge of the god’s nose. He heard a satisfying crunch.

“Damn it,” Mask snarled. He shoved Cale backward to arm s length and kicked him across the alley. The blow hit Cale in the

center of his chest and cracked his sternum. The impact with the opposite wall broke several ribs and drove the breath from his lungs.

Cale grimaced from the pain and slid to the ground among a pile of crates. Shadows roiled protectively around him. He breathed with difficulty through the shattered ribs.

Head cocked, Mask srared at him across the alley. Surprise had replaced anger in the god’s eyes. His nose was not bleeding and showed no sign that Cale’s blow had broken it.

Cale knew then that he could not harm Mask, not permanently, but he did not care. He lifted himself to his feet and brandished Weaveshear.

“Let’s finish this,” he said. “Now. Here.”

Mask studied him for a moment. He put two fingers to the bridge of his nose and tested the flesh.

“That was a good blow,” he said, and chuckled.

Cale’s flesh had mended his broken wrist and partially repaired his ribs. He took a step fotward, blade ready. “I have another one for you.”

Mask shook his head and sighed. He shearhed his dagger and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. I will never say his name again. Well enough?”

Cale said nothing but stopped his advance, breathing heavily.

Mask chuckled. “Ao, but you are stubborn. You should have been Torm’s Chosen.”

A rush of emotion pulled words from Cale. “I should not have been anyone’s Chosen!”

Mask scoffed, then sneered. The latter expression looked so like Riven’s that Cale would have thought them brothers.

“Come now,” the god said. “You are what you are, Erevis. You chose me as much as I you. That is the way of the multiverse. How could it be otherwise?”

Cale recognized the truth in the words and hated it. He had chosen Mask. Again and again he’d had the opportunity to walk away. He never did. He never would. He’d left the Uskevren to serve Mask; he’d left Varra to serve Mask.

The anger went out of him. He had no one to blame but himself.

Mask continued. “Chin up now, priest. You have done very well for yourself and for me. And what were you before we met? An assassin dressed up as a butler, preoccupied with the petty goings-on of Sembian nobility. Now the fates of thousands turn on your actions, tens of thousands. Admit it. You would not have it otherwise.”

Cale did not bothet to respond. Mask knew the truth of the words, the same as Cale. He could not imagine going back to his old life. He did not want to go back to it.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“You mean why am I sullying my divine form on this drab plane in this revolting alley? In short, I was waiting for you to make up yout mind. You can badger a decision as well as Tyr himself.”

Cale leaned on Weaveshear to steady himself. “As usual,” Cale said, “that is no answer to my question.”

Mask smiled. “True. Here is the answer, then. I came here because I wanted to give you something and to ask you for something.”

“You can keep whatever you’d give. I’ve had enough of what you offer.”

Mask said, “Ah, but you have already accepted my offer. I gave you a place to put your anger.” He looked down and poked a finger through the hole Cale had put in his leathers. “I think that should do it. You feel better, no?”

Actually, Cale did, though he did not say so.

“Good. Now take the mask from your pocket and put it on. Cast a spell. Do what you were called to do. There is no time for your doubts.”

Cale thought of Jak, stood up straight, and sheathed Weaveshear. “No.”

Mask looked surprised, then puzzled, then angry. “No?” “In my own time,” Cale said. “If ever. You aren’t the one to whom I answer.”

“That halfling again,” Mask said, and shook his head. “Time is running out, priest, your own and that of everyone else. You will learn that soon enough.”

Cale held his ground. “In my own time, I said.”

Mask glared at him. “Who do you think you are? You are nothing more than my tool, my weapon.”

Cale answered the glare with one of his own and dared speak his thoughts aloud. “A bluff. You chose me and I chose you. You said so yourself. I may be your tool, but you are also mine. I am your Chosen, the First of Five. I may need you, but you need me, too.”

Mask stared at him, clucked his tongue. Then he shrugged and tried ro look casual. “I will get another. The Second will do.”