chest. “A weight. But welcome. My soul is hers.”
Rivalen nodded.
“I wish to complete my conversion. Make my body hers as well.”
“You negotiate this with me as if it were just another contract between merchants. It is more.”
Tamlin looked crestfallen. “I know that, Prince. I do not make the request lightly. I know it is more.”
Rivalen eyed Tamlin, nodded, and the shadows around him swirled. He had done his work well.
“Understand, Tamlin, that becoming a shade does more than simply transform your body. You will no longer be human. You will live alone, with history as your companion. Your family will die, your friends, even elves die and you live on. Everything will crumble and you will continue. Imagine watching the world slowly surrender to its end, the end Shar’s teachings tell us is inevitable. You will be a witness to the end. No peace of the grave for you. Perhaps this sounds appealing, but I assure you it is as much burden as boon.”
“It is a burden I am ready to bear. I am already alone.”
“Very well,” Rivalen said. He gestured with a fingertip and a charge of arcane power disintegrated the prone black king nestled within the Shadowstorm. “But first things first.”
Kesson Rel stood on one of the stone balconies that protruded from his spire. He had moved his entire tower from the Adumbral Calyx to Toril. It hung over the blasted, withered ruins of Ordulin like an accusatory finger, a black dagger driven into the heart of the city. The stink of Ordulin’s dead hung in the air, as thick as the darkness.
Black clouds roiled in the sky as far as he could see, an expanding blanket of night that obliterated the sun, obliterated life.
In the distance, jagged bolts of green lightning knifed through the darkness, each bolt the byproduct of the energy gathered by the storm as it murdered Toril, each a conduit through which the energy was transferred back to Kesson’s spire, where a continual stream of crackling bolts attached the spire’s top to the sky like a hundred umbilicals. The spire transformed the gathered energy, focused it on a point in Ordulin below the floating spire. There, a small dark seed had rooted in Toril’s reality. Out of its emptiness would grow the annihilation of the world.
Kesson touched the holy symbol embroidered on his robes, the black disc of Shar, and smiled.
Living shadows thronged the air around the tower, wheeled and spun like a cloud of bats, their eyes like coals. Regiments of shadow giants marched in the darkness. And still darker things roamed the outer fringes of the storm. Kesson felt every life within the growing darkness, mice and men, felt each of them die in turn.
He savored the taste of destruction, luxuriated in the bitter tang of death. It had been a long while since he had enjoyed it on so massive a scale. He had destroyed Elgrin Fau long ago, but only imperfectly murdered his world. Its slow demise continued even now, thousands of years after it had begun. He still could not return to finish what he had begun. He had failed Shar then and his failure had driven him to madness. His goddess had bound him in the Calyx as punishment for his failure, allowing him freedom to Faerûn only now.
He would not fail her again. And his atonement would be the end of Toril.
Rivalen left and Tamlin walked the halls of the Hulorn’s Palace, his mind and body afire for his transformation.
His feet bore him up stairways until he stood on the highest balcony of the palace’s northwest tower. These days he often retreated to the balcony when he wished solitude, a moment with his thoughts away from the burden of leadership.
The brisk wind carried the smell of fish off the bay and snapped the pennons atop the turrets above him. The high vantage afforded him a panorama view of his city, of Selgaunt Bay, of the floating mountain of Sakkors. From so high up Selgaunt and the water of the bay looked still, quiet, like a painting, the bustle lost in the lens of distance.
The forest of the Hulorn’s hunting gardens stretched before him, a walled swath of green that fell away to reveal the towering spires, domes, and towers of Temple Avenue. The avenue was quiet, almost dead. No bells tolled the hour in Milil’s Tower of Song, and no flames danced in the ever-burning ewers on the portico of Sune Firehair’s House. No festive pennons danced