his hands. He recalled, too, the golden eyes of Prince Rivalen, aglow with the approval Tamlin had never received from his father or Mister Cale, approval that he no longer craved.
He was his own man, and all he’d had to do to become so was give himself to Shar.
Holding in his hand the small, black disc that Prince Rivalen had given him as a meditative aid, he confessed to Shar in a whisper what would become his Own Secret, a truth known only to himself and Shar.
“I have never felt so afraid, or so powerful, as I did when sacrificing Vees.”
Clouds blotted out even the minimal starlight, and darkness as black as ink shrouded the room, closed in on him, pressed against his skin. A chill set the hair on his arms and the back of his neck on end, raised gooseflesh. His breath came fast. He felt the caress of his new mistress, as cold and hard as the dagger with which he had killed Vees.
“Thank you, Lady,” he said, as the pitch lifted and starlight again poked tentatively through the study’s windows.
Tamlin’s conversion to Shar had birthed not only a new faith but ambition. He wanted to be more than a servant to Shar, more than his own man. He wanted also to equal then surpass Mister Cale, to transform his body into that of a shade. And he wanted to surpass his father by ruling not merely a wealthy House, not even merely a city, but an entire realm.
He nodded to himself in the darkness, still rocking. He was not his father’s son. If he was born of anyone, it was Prince Rivalen and the Lady of Loss.
“‘Love is a lie,’” he said, reciting one of the Thirteen Truths that Prince Rivalen had taught him. “‘Only hate endures.’”
Footsteps carried from the hall outside the parlor. A form stepped into the doorway. Even in the darkness Tamlin recognized the upright posture and stiff movements of Irwyl, the Uskevren majordomo.
“My lord?” Irwyl called. “Are you within the parlor?”
Tamlin stopped rocking. “Yes. What is it, Irwyl?”
“Were you speaking just now, my lord?”
“To myself. What is it, Irwyl?”
Irwyl peered into the darkness, unable to pinpoint Tamlin’s location. “There is news from Daerlun, my lord. A missive from High Bergun Tymmyr about your mother.”
Tamlin felt little at the mention of his mother. She would not understand what he had done, or why. Perhaps she would even condemn him for it. No matter. He served another mistress, now.
“What are its contents?” Tamlin asked. Irwyl had permission to open and read all documents sent to Tamlin in his official capacity.
Irwyl cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. “High Bergun Tymmyr has made your mother, sister, and brother his personal guests. He asks that you allow him to offer them sanctuary in Daerlun until events in the rest of Sembia resolve themselves. He promises to show them the utmost hospitality.”
Tamlin understood the message behind the message. Daerlun had declared its neutrality in the Sembian Civil War. No doubt it had promises from Cormyrean forces to aid it should battle be brought to its walls. Cormyr had long coveted Daerlun and Daerlun, on the border between Cormyr and Sembia, was in many ways more Cormyrean than Sembian. So the high bergun, having heard of Selgaunt’s victory over Saerloon’s forces, wanted to inform Tamlin that his family would be held hostage to ensure that Daerlun be left out of the conflict to pursue its alliance with Cormyr. For the time being, that suited Tamlin. He had other concerns. Daerlun could wait.
“Acknowledge receipt and understanding, Irwyl. Thank the high bergun for his kindness and let him know that I will repay it in kind. Use both my official and my personal seal.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Irwyl lingered.
“What is it, Irwyl?”
“Will my lord be retiring soon? The hour grows late.”
Tamlin leaned back in the rocker. “I think not. I am enjoying the darkness.”
Irwyl cleared his throat. “As you wish my lord. May I retire, then?”
“Yes, but before you do, please send for Lord Rivalen and inform the gatemen that he is to be given entry. I need his counsel. He will be awake.”
Tamlin knew that the shadowstuff in Rivalen’s body obviated his need for sleep.
“Yes, Lord. Anything else?”
Tamlin glanced around the parlor, at his father’s detritus. It was time to make Stormweather his, then Selgaunt, then Sembia.
“Tomorrow I want the parlor emptied of my father’s things. New furnishings, Irwyl, for a new beginning.”