He stood on the balcony for over an hour, watching Sakkors vanish into the night. His city came to life with nightfall. Linkboys illuminated the streetlamps. Shop windows glowed. He watched it all with a smile. He had fed his people in the midst of famine, defended them against an unwarranted attack instigated by an ambitious, lying overmistress. Saerloon was already his. Urmlaspyr would soon follow, as would Yhaunn.
If anyone had the right to rule Sembia, it was him. He had earned it. He need only convince Prince Rivalen to share with him the secret of transforming into a shade. Then his rule would last for a thousand years.
He looked into the darkening sky. Selûne had not yet risen. The moonless twilight belonged to Shar.
“In the darkness of night, I hear the whisper of the void.”
He found he was wiping his right hand on his trousers and could not understand why.
CHAPTER SIX
4 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cale and Riven materialized on a rise in the shadow of a stand of towering larch at the outskirts of the Saerbian refugee camp at Lake Veladon. The wind tore leaves from the limbs, showering them in debris. Iron-gray clouds roofed the sky directly above. Behind them loomed the Shadowstorm. Cale did not turn but he felt the weight of it between his shoulder blades, imagined in his mind the dark clouds sliding across the sky, a black curtain closing on Sembia’s final act. Thunder growled like a beast, announcing the storm’s hunger.
“We need to hurry,” Cale said. He felt urgency down to his bones. He tried to contact Magadon.
No response. The connection remained dormant.
From their vantage point atop the rise, they saw the camp below bustling with activity. Wagons and mule-drawn carts were being arranged around the outskirts of the camp into a large caravan. Teamsters checked yokes, wheels, axles, the animals themselves. The horses, oxen, and mules endured their examinations with the passivity of the exhausted and underfed. Many gave starts or snorts with each roll of thunder.
The men and women of Abelar’s company, their otherwise shining armor dulled by the wan light of a diseased day, supervised the organization of the caravan. Cale noted only a few score. He presumed the rest to be on patrol.
Several men stood knee deep in the lake, filling barrels and skins with water, then passing them on to pairs of youths who splashed out of the shallows and carried them to the wagons. Thin dogs darted around the camp, tails wagging, barking, excited by the activity.
“Breaking camp,” Riven said.
“Wise,” Cale said.
Behind them, the sky rumbled its disapproval.
“Come on,” Cale said, and started down the rise. Riven’s words slowed his stride.
“Abelar is as broken as Mags, Cale. He just doesn’t know it yet. Remember that.”
Cale considered the words, considered the man, and shook his head. “Not broken. Cracked. Both of them. But fixable.”
Riven looked unconvinced but let it go. Together, they hurried down toward the camp.
The teamsters saw them coming, stopped their work, and hailed them. Children waved and smiled. Women and men packing up their goods took a moment to nod a greeting or utter a hail. Cale did not know where they found their resiliency.
“Tough folk,” Riven said, taking the thoughts from Cale’s head.
Cale nodded. He wanted to feel fondness for them but did not. He didn’t know what he felt. He pitied them, understood their plight, but felt no connection, at least no human connection.
He was broken, too. Or cracked. And he was not fixable.
By the time they had reached the center of the camp, they had picked up a contingent of children and young men. Cale did not need his darkness-enhanced hearing to hear the frequent mention of the words “hero,” “shadows,” and “Mask.”
Two of Abelar’s company directed them to Abelar and shooed the children back to their duties.
They found Abelar standing among a stand of trees at the shore of the lake, away from those gathering water, arms across his chest, staring out at the still waters as if he had lost something in them. Cale and Riven navigated down the riverbank.
“Abelar,” Cale said, and his voice pulled Abelar around only reluctantly. Cale noted the lack of a holy symbol, the new breastplate that did not feature an enameled rose.
Abelar smiled a welcome, stepped forward and clasped hands.
“Erevis, Riven, well met and welcome. I am pleased to see you returned. How did matters fare within the storm? Your