a god. He will be beyond our ability to punish if he succeeds.”
“The power he seeks, once gained, is punishment enough.”
“I do not understand.”
“You would not. But I have looked into the void, Brennus. I stand on its edge each day but do not enter. Rivalen will embrace it and live with it the rest of his existence.”
“It is not enough. He murdered my mother.”
“What is enough is not for you to say. You will obey me in this as in all things. Assist Rivalen as you have been. He loves you, Brennus, in his way, considers you as much friend as brother. But he cannot know that I know. Not ever. And if you betray me in this, I will kill you.”
Brennus looked into his father’s eyes and knew he spoke truth. He did not give his father the satisfaction of more tears.
“You are not a man, Father.”
Telemont regarded him with an odd expression, both sad and defiant. “No. Not for a long time, Brennus.”
“All this for empire, Most High?”
Telemont looked puzzled at the question. “What else is there?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
4 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms
Cale and Riven took a meal with Abelar, Regg, and Endren then assisted the refugees with their preparations. Meanwhile, the sun continued its westward course across Faerûn’s sky and by late afternoon it broke out of the leading edge of the Shadowstorm like it was newly born. Light penetrated the rain clouds and blanketed the refugees’ camp. Spirits visibly lifted as the refugees went about their work. Cale stood in the light, his hand disincorporated, his powers diminished, and tried to feel human.
The rest of the Lathanderians moved among the refugees, assisting and encouraging them. Abelar, Endren, and Elden prepared a covered wagon for their transport. Regg approached, sloshing through the muck, the rose on his chest mud-spattered.
“The scouts report no sign of Forrin’s army,” Regg said to Abelar. “The entire force has vanished.”
Cale looked out at the expanding, lightning-veined blackness of the Shadowstorm and guessed at what had happened to them.
“Darkness eats its own,” said Abelar. “The storm has them, I’d wager.”
“Agreed,” said Regg. “I only regret that we were not able to avenge their attack on Saerb ourselves.”
“Aye,” Abelar said, and loaded a pack into the wagon. Elden climbed over barrels and bags, whooping as some tipped and he rode them down.
“Be mindful, Elden,” Abelar said, and Elden paid him no heed whatsoever.
Regg said, “The camp is prepared, Abelar. I have Swiftdawn ready for you.”
Abelar looked in the wagon to Elden, back to Regg. “I will ride in the wagon for a time, Regg.”
Regg kept his face expressionless, though his body stiffened some. “Well enough.”
“Our paths part here,” Cale said. He embraced Abelar and Endren then clasped Regg’s hand. Riven did the same.
“We will see you again in Daerlun,” Abelar said.
“In Daerlun,” Cale agreed.
Riven peeked into the wagon. “You show me what you can do with those balls when I see you again, yes?”
“Yes,” Elden peeped.
Riven returned to Cale’s side. Cale stood in Riven’s shadow, intensified the darkness, stared at the distant Shadowstorm, and felt for the shadows within it. Strangely, the contact eluded him. As it had been with Elgrin Fau, the darkness in the storm did not answer to him easily.
He felt instead for the edge of the storm, the point at which his ability to feel the correspondence ended. As the darkness closed on them, he heard Abelar call to them, “Good hunting.”
“Aye, that,” said Regg.
The shadows transported them across Sembia, to the edge of the Shadowstorm.
Brennus sat at his dining table. His mother looked down on him from her portrait and he saw accusations in her eyes. He took her necklace from his pocket and set it on the table. Shadows poured from him. Grief poured from him. He had lost his mother and been betrayed by his brother and his father. He had heard the truth only from an archfiend.
His homunculi sat on the table facing him, their legs crossed, their chins in their palms.
“You sad, Master?” one of them asked.
Brennus reached out and scratched the creature’s head, eliciting a growl of pleasure. The other, jealous, inched over to receive a scratching of his own. The creatures made him smile, made him think of his mother.
“I wish she could have seen you two,” he said.
His constructs had amused her endlessly. The homunculi were simple creations for him now, hardly representative of his Art, but their antics would have brought her delight.