Shadowbred (38 page)

“Spades?”

Riven nodded. “Somewhere.”

“I will carry him,” Cale said. “Also, bring something small and sharp.”

Riven looked a question at him but Cale did not explain. He picked up the body of his friend and carried him out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the temple. When he got outside into the night, he walked like an ordinary man up to the top of a small hill near the temple. It afforded a view of the island but not the sea, which was just as well. Jak had disliked the sea.

Cale sat on the earth and awaited Riven. Jak was growing colder; his body was stiffening.

Riven soon arrived, bearing two metal spades. His dogs followed. Together, the First and Second of Mask dug a grave and gently placed a friend and priest of Brandobaris in it. They had no coffin. The dogs watched it all.

Cale threw the first shovelful of dirt over Jak. Riven said nothing, merely helped him fill the hole. The dogs howled. They worked until Jak was buried. Cale started to put Jak’s pipe on the earthen mound as a marker, but Riven said, “He’d want you to keep it.”

Cale looked at the pipe, nodded, put it in his pocket.

“Did you bring what I asked?” he asked Riven.

Riven produced a small, flat-bladed knife with a rounded tip.

“Small and sharp,” Riven said.

Cale tested the edge and found it satisfactory. He kneeled at the side of the grave and started to cut his hair, first cutting it to a short, choppy length, then to stubs, then shaving it off with the knife. The wind blew it away and the dogs chased it. Cale opened countless

gashes in his scalp, but the bleeding and pain lasted only a moment before the shadowstuff in his flesh repaired the damage. Riven watched it all in silence.

When Cale had finished the job, he stood, returned the knife to Riven, and ran a hand over his bald pate. Shadows leaked from him and he felt like himself.

Riven eyed him, nodded.

Cale took out Jak’s pipe, stuffed it with pipeweed, and smoked graveside. Riven pulled a wooden pipe from his belr pouch—a pipe like the one Jak had once given the assassin—and joined Cale. Afterward, they collected the spades and walked back to the temple.

The shadowwalkers awaked them on the drawbridge. Shadows swirled around them, around Cale, around Riven. The wind blew their cloaks.

Cale approached the leader. “Tell me your name.” “Nayan,” the man said, his voice as soft as rainfall. “Nayan,” Cale said, testing the word.

Nayan turned to his fellows and indicated each in turn. The men bowed as theit names were spoken. “Shadem, Vyrhas, Erynd, Dynd, Skelan, and Dahtem.”

“Erevis Cale,” Cale said.

“Drasek Riven,” said Riven.

Nayan nodded to each, and held up both hands as he said, “You are the right and left hands of the Shadowlord and he still speaks through you.”

“That is so,” Cale said, and preferred Nayan’s words to “First” and “Second.”

Nayan said, “We are servants of the Shadowlord and therefore servants of his Chosen.”

“You’re offering to help us?” Riven asked. Nayan nodded once.

Cale looked the shadowwalkers in the eyes. “You have been blooded. Anyone can see that. But being blooded is not enough. Where are your weapons?”

Nayan held up his hands again, touched his elbows, his knees, his feet. Cale understood—the shadowwalkeis fought without weapons.

Cale knew some men could do it, but it took years of training and discipline. Cale decided to be candid with Nayan.

“We are not… kind men, Nayan. Do you take my meaning?”

“I know what you are,” Nayan said, and held Cale’s gaze.

Cale stared into Nayan’s face, studied his impassive expression. He had known many killers through the years and all of them had the same cold, dead look in their eyes. Riven had it. Cale had it.

Nayan had it.

Cale nodded and looked to Riven. “They come. All of them.”

Riven said to the shadowwalkers, “Get some sleep and prepare your gear. We hit the Hole of Yhaunn tomorrow night.”

After they were gone, Riven said, “Looks like they ate done waiting, too.”

11 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

jr\x Vees’s urging, Tamlin decided to meet the Shadovar representative unaccompanied by other members of the Old Chauncel.

“The Shadovar prefer quiet negotiations,” Vees told him.

Tamlin stood behind a polished conference table in a meeting room in the palace. Magical protections shrouded him, and the chamber itself was screened against scrying and magical transport. Glowballs in the corners of the chamber provided light.

The Shadovar delegation had arrived at twilight by magical means. A score of dark-armored men with wide swords had walked out of the night and entered Selgaunt through its Mountarr Gate. A ceremonial guard of Scepters escorted the delegation through the city’s streets, and the dark strangers were the talk of the taverns. Tamlin

provided the Shadovar with lodging in the eastern wing of the palace. After allowing them time to get settled, he requested a formal meeting with the Shadovar ambassador, Rivalen Tanthul, a prince of Shade Enclave.

Tamlin did not know what to expect. He had never met with anyone from Shade Enclave, and the stakes could not have been higher. Selgaunt needed assistance from outside of Sembia, or it would fall to the gathering army of the Overmistress. Tamlin, his family, the Old Chauncel, and the nobility of Saerb would all hang as traitors.

He calmed himself by recalling rhe words his father had oft spoke before important trade meetings: No matter their station, all men are men. Tamlin whispered the words to himself as he listened to the approaching footfalls of Rivalen Tanthul.

Vees stood beside him. Both men wore their finest jackets and stiff-collared shirts. A silver tray of sweetmeats, bread, cheese, and two bottles of red wine had been laid out on the table. A banner bearing Selgaunt’s arms hung from the ceiling. Tamlin thought the room was lacking in the ceremonial trappings merited by the meeting, but they had done what they could on short notice.

“Here we go,” Vees said to him softly. “Their appearance is unusual. Do not let it alarm you.”

The door to the chamber opened and Chamberlain Thriistin, dressed in his finest attire, announced the ambassador.

“My Lord Hulorn, I presenr Rivalen Tanthul, Prince of Shade Enclave, emissary of the Shadovar.”

The darkness swirled like mist around Thriistin as a towering figure strode past him into the chamber. Rivalen Tanthul stood only slightly shorter than Mister Cale. Golden eyes shone out of a dark, angular face that featured a large, sharp nose. Long black hair hung loose to his broad shoulders. His drab cloak did not hide the narrow sword at his hip. Darkness alternately clung or flowed from him.

Tamlin realized immediately that Rivalen was a shade, like Mister Cale. He managed to meet and hold the Shadovar’s gaze.

“Prince Rivalen,” he said, and bowed.

“Hulorn,” the Shadovar said, and his deep voice sounded as if

it had emerged from the bottom of a well.

Thriistin scurried around Prince Rivalen, poured wine into three goblets, and took his leave.

“Please sit,” Tamlin said, and gestured at the comfortable armchair before the table. “And enjoy the food. The wine is from my personal vineyards.”

Rivalen walked up to the table but did not sit. He brought the shadows with him and the light in the room dimmed.

“You are gracious, Hulorn,” Rivalen said. He lifted the wine and inhaled its bouquet but did not drink.

“I regret the informality of our reception,” Tamlin said. “I hope you understand.”

“Formality is a crutch for the foolish,” Rivalen said, and held up his goblet. “To Selgaunt.”

Vees handed Tamlin a goblet. He raised it and said, “To the Shadovar.”

“And to a new friendship between us,” Rivalen said. “Indeed,” Vees said with enthusiasm.

The three men sat. Vees started the discussion. “It is a pleasure to see you once more, Prince Rivalen. I trust the Talendar stone has met your expectations?”

Rivalen nodded. “It has.” He eyed Tamlin. “My Lord Hulorn, I know it is customary for ambassadors to exchange gifts and pleasantries before discussing weighty matters, but I propose—since we are dispensing with formality—that we ignore such trivia and move directly to the point.”

Tamlin nodded. He said, “Very well, then. You are a shade.”

Vees choked on his wine. “Hulorn, that is—”

Rivalen held up a dusky hand to silence Vees. He wore several rings, all of them silver or platinum and of archaic design. One of them was an amethyst ring not unlike the one favored by Vees.

“That is so,” Rivalen said. “In the interest of serving the good of all our citizens, a fortunate few among my people are selected to become shades.”

Tamlin could not hide his surprise or keep in his words. “Fortunate? I have heard others describe the transformation as a curse.”

Rivalen smiled and Tamlin noticed his fangs for the first time. He presumed they were an affectation but could not be certain. “Only those who do not understand it would so describe it. Where have you heard such a thing?”

Vees cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

Tamlin hesitated. “I… read of it. I have studied what I could of shadow magic. A trifling amount, I assure you.”

Rivalen regarded him with a half-smile. “Your reading habits are unusual, Hulorn. I am impressed.”

Tamlin could not help himself. He preened. Rivalen continued. “The transformation into a shade is no curse, nor is it painful. It is a blessing. But it demands of its recipient a lifetime of service to the city.

Tamlin well understood the burden of service. “Intriguing.”

Rivalen breathed in the wine. “I could arrange for you to learn more. Perhaps a tour of Shade Enclave at some later date?”

“I would like that,” Tamlin said, and found that he liked Rivalen Tanthul, liked him a great deal. He seemed… certain of himself.

“We were about to discuss weighty matters,” Vees offered.

Tamlin dared one more personal question. “You said the transformation demands a lifetime of service. How long is that lifetime? How old are you, Prince Rivalen?”

Vees looked agog. His mouth hung open.

Rivalen’s eyes flared but he did not hesitate. “I am nearly two thousand years old.”

Tamlin’s mouth fell open then. “Two thousand,” he said softly. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine. To live so long, to be immune to disease, to regenerate wounds. Tamlin well understood how Rivalen could call the transformation a blessing. Mister Cale was a fool.

“I can see you are interested in learning more, Hulorn, and I am pleased bv your interest. Most of those we have encountered since our return are small minded about such things. They see darkness and assume evil. Let us plan further discussion of it later. Not as representatives of our governments, but as friends.”

Tamlin smiled, quite pleased with the offer.

“I see I needn’t have been here to broker anything,” Vees said with a laugh. “You two already are boon companions.”

Tamlin leaned forward in his chair and decided to be frank. “Prince Rivalen, you are aware of recent events in Sembia?”

Rivalen nodded. “Of course. A most unfortunate turn.” He shook his head and looked thoughtful. “It is difficult to know in these days who works for good and who for ill.”

“That it is,” Vees said sadly. “That it is.”

Tamlin could not keep the indignance from his tone. “I assure you that I am no traitor to my nation, Prince Rivalen, if that is what you mean, nor is any noble of Selgaunt. Or of Saerb, for that matter. Mirabeta Selkirk has lied and murdered her way into a civil war so that she can seize and hold power.”

Rivalen looked across rhe table at Tamlin. Shadows swirled around him. Tamlin wanted to quail before the golden eyes but held steady.

“What you describe is consistent with some reports that we have received. The overmistress wishes to be queen, it would seem. I have lived a long time and seen her like before.”

“The things some will do for power,” Vees said, and shook his head.

Rivalen continued. “But even had I not heard those reports, still I would have believed you. Even our brief exchange here has shown me your measure. You are no traitor.”

The words gave Tamlin great satisfaction. He hid his pleasure behind a drink of his wine. “Yes, well… I am but one man, and Selgaunt is but one city. We are in need of aid. Military aid.”

“If I may be so bold, you are in need of much more than that,” Rivalen said. “Your city is overcrowded, filthy, rife with disease and hunger. Your priests hold disease and starvation at bay but for how long? How will they cope with winter, or when the siege begins and their spells are needed for other things?”

Tamlin neither acknowledged not denied Rivalen’s words, though both of them knew the Shadovat spoke truth. Rivalen continued, “The situation in Selgaunt, indeed, in all of Sembia, is dire. I am authorized by my father, the Most High, to offer assistance.”

“What form will the assistance you offer take?” Tamlin asked.

“We are a magical people, my lord,” Rivalen said, and shadows swirled around him, as if to make his point. “Many powerful priests and wizards work for the betterment of our city. And while the military forces with which we could aid you are not numerous, they are nevertheless formidable, and highly mobile.”

Tamlin had no doubt, but he feared the price to be paid.

“What do you ask in exchange?”

Rivalen leaned back in his chair and gestured casually with his hand, as if he were requesting trifles. “I ask that the ties between our people become much closer. I would need a formal treaty between our cities, an embassy in Selgaunt, and an informal position as advisor to the hulorn. We also would request a trade alliance—the specific terms of which would be negotiated, of course—and use of your port for importing and exporting goods. Should the conflict in Sembia turn in favor of Selgaunt—and with Netheril’s assistance, I believe it will—we would expect you to advocate a similar arrangement with a few other key cities of the realm.”

“Netheril?” Tamlin asked, puzzled. “You mean Shade Enclave.”