words to his god. He recalled the first time—he had been a mere boy—when Abbot Denril had first taught him the liturgy. Said in the face of the Shadowstorm, the words seemed hollow.
“May Lathander light our way, show us wisdom,” said his companions, their voices carried to him on the morning mist. His own lips formed the words, but he did not speak them aloud, would not, ever again.
“You should be among them,” said his father’s voice, turning Abelar around.
Endren wore his blade, a mail shirt, and a tabard embroidered with the Corrinthal horse and sun. He looked thin to Abelar, and the weight of recent events had turned his hair entirely gray. His ragged beard, untrimmed in days, gave him the look of a prophet, or a madman. The stump of his left hand, too, looked ragged.
Abelar shook his head. “I am no longer one of them.”
“The symbol you wore was not what made you one of them.”
Endren’s soft words surprised Abelar. “You have never shown such respect for my faith before, Father.”
Endren put his good hand on Abelar’s shoulder. “I am not showing respect for your faith. I am showing respect for my son. The light is in you, Abelar. Isn’t that what you say?”
Abelar felt himself color, nodded.
“Lathander did not put it there,” Endren said. “And Lathander did not make what was there brighter. Gods know I did not put it in there. But the light is in you.”
Abelar was not so certain but said only, “Thank you, Father.”
Endren gave him a final pat as the Lathanderians completed the Dawnmeet.
“Elden is well?” Endren asked.
“Yes. Sleeping.”
“That is well.”
Father and son stood together for a time in silence, watched the light of the sun war with the storm of shadows, watched gray dawn give way to a stark, shadow-shrouded day.
“We will need to break camp as soon as possible,” Abelar said. “Flee west. That storm grows uglier by the hour.”
“West takes us to the Mudslide. The droughts have shrunk it, but this sky—” Endren indicated the clouds—“seeks to refill it.”
Abelar nodded. “We will cross at the Stonebridge, continue around the southern horn of the Thunder Peaks and toward Daerlun. Maybe even all the way to Cormyr. There, we can reorganize, perhaps gain aid from Alusair or the western nobility.”
Endren eyed the distant storm. Thunder rumbled. “That will be a long, hard journey for these people. They are not soldiers used to marching so far. And I expect we’ll be adding refugees to our numbers as we go. No one outside of a protected city will willingly sit in the path of whatever magic summoned that storm.”
“What do we know of the whereabouts of the overmistress’s army?” Abelar said. “If we must leave a force to delay their pursuit …” Abelar almost volunteered to lead a rearguard but trapped his words behind his teeth. He would not leave his son again. “Regg will lead it.”
Endren nodded. Perhaps he understood Abelar’s stutter. “Scouts are in the field. I have not yet had word this morning. I will start to get the camp prepared. It may take a day or two to get all in order.”
A scream from within Abelar’s tent put a blade in his hand and speed in his feet.
“Elden!”
Abelar and Endren raced into the tent and found Elden sitting upright in his bed, brown eyes wide with fear, tears cutting a path through the layer of grime on his face. He saw Abelar and held out his arms.
“Papa!”
Abelar scanned the tent and the shadows, but saw nothing. His father did the same. Abelar sheathed his blade, hurried to his son’s bedside, and took him in his arms.
“What is it, Elden? What’s wrong?”
“My dreamed of bad men, Papa. Bad.”
Abelar surrounded Elden with his arms. His son buried his face in Abelar’s cloak. Tears shook Elden’s small body and Abelar’s relief at finding no real danger to his son moved aside for a sudden stab of rage that caused him to wish he had prolonged Forrin’s suffering. His son would have nightmares for years because of what Forrin had ordered done.
“It’s all right,” Abelar said, stroking his son’s hair, speaking to both himself and his son. “It will be all right.”
Endren put a hand on Elden and his stump on Abelar. After a time, Elden stopped crying. He looked up and Abelar wiped the tears and snot from his face with the sleeve of his cloak.
“You good man, Papa?”
The question took Abelar unawares, set his heart to running and stole his