Shadowrealm - By Paul S. Kemp Page 0,21

together,” Rivalen said. He picked up the queen, studied it, a frown playing at the corners of his mouth. “But we, too, have had our … disagreements.”

Tamlin smiled, thought of Talbot and the arguments they’d had over the years.

“Have you shared your secret with the Lady?” the prince asked as he replaced the black queen.

Tamlin nodded, running a fingertip over his holy symbol. “I have.”

“That is well.” Rivalen leaned back in his chair and his tone lightened. “I would like a coin from the treasury, minted this day. Is that possible? You’ve recently started minting your own coins, yes?”

A request so ordinary from the prince surprised Tamlin. “A coin? Of course. May I ask why?”

“I am a collector of coins, particularly those minted on or stamped with dates significant to me. They help me keep track of history.” Rivalen eyed him across the chessboard, looking so unlike Tamlin’s father. “And today is one such date.”

Tamlin took the point, raised his glass in a salute. He wanted the night to last, wanted the pristine coldness of the moonless hours to continue forever, wanted the discussion with Rivalen to go on and on. He felt at home, comfortable in the study for the first time he could recall. He leaned forward. “Tell me more about the Shadowstorm. How should we deal with it?”

“Brennus is examining it, but we have determined that the Shadowstorm is the creation of an ancient being, a one-time servant of Shar who holds the same heretical notions as those held—once held—by Vees Talendar.”

Tamlin felt a small pit open in his stomach at the mention of his one-time friend. Darkness filled it.

“As for how we deal with it,” Rivalen continued. “We use it.”

“Use it?”

“It began in Ordulin and is moving west toward Saerb and Archendale. It does not yet reach farther south than the midpoint of the Arkhen. It will, but we have some time. For now, Ordulin is gone and what remains of its army near Saerb will disband, surrender, or be consumed by the storm.”

Tamlin was vaguely disturbed by the obliteration of Ordulin but found comfort in the cold, hard touch of his new goddess.

“The Saerbian forces, too, stand in its path.”

Rivalen nodded. “True. But where was Saerb when Saerloon’s elementals shattered Selgaunt’s walls?”

“Defending its own holdings, I presume. Do you imply something else?”

“Hulorn, do you wish to rule all of Sembia?”

The question shocked Tamlin into silence.

“Do you?”

Tamlin re-gathered his nerve. “You know that I do, Prince Rivalen.”

Rivalen nodded. “Endren Corrinthal is a respected leader. He commanded the loyalty of many on the High Council before the overmistress dissolved it. Perhaps he would not look kindly upon your ascension. Perhaps, for the moment at least, the Saerbians should be left to their own devices. They are, after all, of no military use to you. It will not be an army that halts the Shadowstorm.”

Tamlin’s hand went to his holy symbol and ambition annihilated conscience.

“I take your point and agree with your recommendation.”

“Excellent,” Rivalen said. “And that returns us to Saerloon. Lady Merelith rules a city without an army. She broke it on these walls. She knows she must negotiate a peace. She may suspect the Shadowstorm to be a weapon unleashed by us against Ordulin. Before she learns otherwise, we should make Saerloon bend its knee to Selgaunt. And after Saerloon has surrendered, after the Saerbian forces are addressed, who will stand against Selgaunt’s consolidation of the realm?”

“Perhaps Daerlun,” Tamlin said, and sipped his wine. “But no other.”

“Not even Daerlun,” Rivalen said. “The high bergun is strengthened by the wall of a friendly Cormyr at his back. That wall will soon show cracks.”

“Prince?”

“Many matters are afoot, Tamlin. I ask you to trust me. Do you?”

Tamlin had come too far to hesitate. “I do.” “Then soon Sembia will name Selgaunt its capital and you its leader.”

“But the Shadowstorm?”

“We will halt it ere it reaches Selgaunt.”

“How?”

Rivalen looked across the table at Tamlin, irritation in his eyes. “Leave that to me, Hulorn.”

Tamlin could not bear the weight of Rivalen’s gaze. He felt, of a sudden, the way he had so many times when sitting across the table from his father. He looked into his wine chalice. The darkness turned the red wine black, made its depths limitless.

“I will obtain a Selgauntan fivestar for you, Prince,” he said, and disliked the boyishness in his tone. “From the mint, and made this day.”

“You are gracious, Hulorn,” Rivalen said, and Tamlin ignored the hint of condescension he heard in the tone.

Rivalen soon returned