Shadowrealm - By Paul S. Kemp Page 0,31

voice. He stared into his son’s brown eyes, unable to find words.

“Papa? You good?”

Endren rescued him. “He is a good man, Elden. He’s always been a good man.”

Elden smiled at his grandfather and embraced his father again.

Abelar nodded gratitude at Endren, held onto his son, and wondered.

Brennus ate, rested for a time, then walked the shadow shrouded halls of his manse on Shade Enclave. He did not relish the coming conversation but nevertheless reached out to Rivalen through his ring.

What have you learned? Rivalen asked.

Brennus recounted what Mephistopheles had told him. There is a world called Ephyras, a dead world, on which stands a temple at the edge of nothing, a temple that will soon be destroyed itself. Within is the Black Chalice, a holy artifact from which Kesson Rel drank to obtain his divinity.

Brennus paused, hesitant to continue. He felt Rivalen’s impatience through the connection.

And?

And a drink from the Black Chalice will transform the imbiber into a weapon who can take back what Kesson Rel stole, which appears to be a portion of Mask’s divine power.

Satisfaction, not surprise, poured through the magical conduit. Well done, Brother.

You already knew that Kesson Rel’s divinity has its origin in Mask and not Shar?

I did.

Brennus was not surprised. Rivalen was as secretive as his goddess.

Is there more? Rivalen asked.

Brennus hesitated, steeled himself, and dived ahead. Only a Chosen of Mask may imbibe from the Black Chalice. Any other will die. The artifact is holy to the Shadowlord.

Silence. So Rivalen had not known that.

Brennus felt Rivalen’s anger and understood it. A heretic of Shar threatened their plans for Sembia. To thwart him, it appeared they needed to beg the assistance of an enemy, an enemy who would profit in the bargain.

Erevis Cale, Rivalen said, the words hot with anger.

So it seems. Since Kesson Rel stole a portion of Mask’s divinity, it is not of him. Upon his death, presumably, it will revert to the Chosen of Mask who drank from the chalice.

We cannot allow that, Rivalen said.

Agreed, Brennus said.

After a time, Rivalen said, I will arrange for the assistance of Erevis Cale. Meanwhile, I have another task for you, Brennus.

Brennus waited.

When the power is freed upon Kesson Rel’s death, I want it.

The homunculi on Brennus’s shoulders gave a start, leaned forward, and stared at one another across the intervening landscape of Brennus’s face.

Shadows swirled around Brennus. You want it?

Yes. Or I want it obliterated, though I think that likely impossible.

Does the Most High know of this?

Rivalen’s silence provided answer enough.

Brennus made the connections between what he had learned from Mephistopheles and what Rivalen had told him of Kesson Rel.

Rivalen, the divinations suggest that the divinity can be recovered only by Mask’s Chosen. If you—

I need you to find another way, Brennus.

Rivalen …

We must kill Kesson Rel to stop the Shadowstorm, but we cannot afford to elevate Erevis Cale in his place.

True.

There is a way. There must be. Find it. Whatever methods you used before, use them again.

The homunculi squealed and darted into his cloak. Brennus shook his head, recalling the power and majesty of the archfiend. He did not relish another encounter.

You do not know what you are asking, Brennus sent.

Do you see another option?

Brennus shook his head. No.

You divined that the temple at the edge of nothing would soon be destroyed. We have little time.

Yes.

Then I will expect prompt word of your success. I will not forget your assistance in this, Brennus.

The connection went silent, leaving Brennus alone with his homunculi and his thoughts. Exhausted, he decided to take a meal. He strode the shadows to the dining hall and there found a platter of steamed mushrooms and braised beef awaiting him. A minor magic had kept it hot. His homunculi bounded from their perches and lingered over the mushrooms, inhaling the aroma. They did not need to eat, but enjoyed indulging their senses.

Dim glowballs cast the table in faint green. Thick shadows spun lazily in the air. A dying fire spat its last, defiant crackles from the large, central hearth. A framed portrait of his mother, formally posed, hung over the hearth. He loved the portrait; its laughing eyes and soft smile captured her perfectly.

She stood in a long, yellow gown, one hand on a side chair. Her dark hair, pulled up and tied with diamond studded silver wire, contrasted markedly with her pale skin. A diamond necklace hung from her neck, not the jacinth chain weighing down Brennus’s pocket, weighing down his soul. The portrait had been made before Shade Enclave