Shadowrealm - By Paul S. Kemp Page 0,113

find that our relationship will change somewhat as Sembia is consolidated under Shadovar rule.”

A small pit opened in Thamalon’s stomach, a place for the truth to settle.

“I fear ‘somewhat’ does much work in that sentence, Prince.”

Rivalen waved a hand in the air, batting aside Thamalon’s point. “You will remain titular head of Sembia but you will answer ultimately to me and to the Most High.”

Thamalon tried to keep the shock from his face and voice. “But I assumed we would rule as equals. I thought—”

“Your assumption was incorrect. We are not equals. You are an instrument of my will, and the Lady’s.”

Thamalon’s mind spun. He struggled to keep his mental balance. “After all we have accomplished?”

“We accomplished nothing. I accomplished all. You are but the face of it to the outside.”

Thamalon flushed. “But—but I worship the Mistress. I minted coins, Prince. I thought to become a shade, like you. I thought we were … friends.”

Only after he had uttered the words did he realize how ridiculous they sounded, like the whines of a child. Embarrassment heated his cheeks.

“You will become a shade, Hulorn,” Rivalen said. “I will keep my word. Promises are kept in these days.”

“Thank you, Prince,” Thamalon said, pleased at least by that, though he could not meet Rivalen’s eyes.

“The transformation is prolonged and painful. Your body and soul are torn asunder and remade.”

Thamalon backed up a step, eyes wide.

Rivalen followed. “The agony will plague your dreams for years.”

Thamalon felt nauseated, and backed up another step. “Your family and friends will die and turn to dust. You will linger, alone.”

Thamalon bumped up against a wall. Rivalen loomed over him.

“But in the end, you will be hardened, made a better servant to the Lady, made a better servant to me.”

“That is not what I wanted, Prince.”

“It is exactly what you wanted. Power. You simply wanted to pay no price for it. But you are a Sembian, Hulorn. You should have known there is always a price. And the price will be pain and eternal loneliness.”

Rivalen said it in the tone of one who knew that of which he spoke.

Thamalon gulped, imagined the pain of his transformation. He looked into his future and saw a friendless, solitary existence, feared and hated by those he ostensibly ruled. He did not want it, not anymore.

“Please, Prince. No. I abdicate. Here, now. To you.”

“It is too late for that.”

Tears leaked from Thamalon’s eyes.

“What have I done?” he said, his voice soft.

Rivalen smiled, his fangs making him look diabolical. “Your bitterness is sweet to the Lady.”

Mask manifested in a place that was no place, amidst the nothingness of cold and featureless gray. He manifested fully, not in one of the trivial, semi-divine forms he sometimes showed to worshipers.

He floated alone and small in an infinite void, the womb of creation. He marveled that the bustling, colorful, life-filled multiverse had been born from such yawning emptiness. He marveled, too, that the creation would one day return to the void. He was pleased he would not see it, though he knew he would have played his small role in causing it.

As would those who came after him and took his station.

Or perhaps not, if things went as he wished. He had planted his own seeds in creation’s womb. Time would tell what fruit they bore.

“I am here,” he said, and his voice echoed through infinity. Fatigue settled on him all at once. He had been running a long while, delaying the inevitable. Surrender was not in him. He supposed that was why she had chosen him, why he had chosen his own servants.

His voice died as the feeling of nothingness, of endless solitude, intensified. He felt hollow, as empty as the space around him.

She was coming.

He held his ground and his nerve. The moment was foreordained. Within him, he carried all of the power he had stolen many millennia before, plus some—but not all—of the added power that he’d amassed since his ascension. And power was the coin she demanded in payment of his debts. The Cycle had turned.

“Show yourself. You owe me that, at least.”

It had taken him a long while to accept that he would not be the herald who broke the Cycle of Shadows. He had stolen the power thinking he would. His hubris amused him. He found hope in the possibility that those he had chosen might break it, sever the circle.

“I see hope in your expression,” she said, her voice as beautiful and cold as he remembered. “Hope is ill-suited to

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