Paul Kemp: Twilight Falling

"Don't touch anything," Cale said, and he stepped into the Fane.

The moment he broached the archway, a husky female voice spoke aloud, in perfect Chondathan, "Take one thing of what you would, servant of the secret, leave what you can, and extend the darkness thereby."

Cale turned to his comrades with raised eyebrows.

"Strange that she would speak in the tongue of Luiren," Jak said.

"Amnian, you mean," said Riven.

Cale realized then that the voice was nothing more than a phantasm. The magic must have let each listener hear it in a familiar tongue.

Ignore it, Cale sent. Keep moving.

When they had all stepped into the foyer, the doors of the Fane slowly closed behind them. They shared a look, readied their weapons, and advanced down the hallway. Cale steadfastly kept his eyes from the tempting items in the alcoves.

Before they'd taken ten strides, the shadows before them swirled threateningly. Cale leaped backward, dragging Jak with him. White fire took shape in Magadon's hands. Riven circled out wide.

The shadows amalgamated, whirled, and formed into a humanoid shape.

Hold, Cale ordered distantly, feeling strangely unthreatened.

He let his blade drop.

The shadows tightened, took on more definition, and finally assumed the shape of an elderly man in a gray cloak. His eyes were solid black, and in them Cale could see the twinkling of stars. Those eyes reminded him of a dream he had once had….

"More visitors?" the black-eyed man said.

He looked at Cale, and took a step closer.

Watch him, Jak said.

Riven slid around and behind the old man, sabers bare.

"You," the old man said. He smiled and his body momentarily dissipated into shadows, instantly reforming with his back to Cale and his eyes on Riven. "Oh, and you."

Cale started to speak. Before he had completed the first syllable, the old man was again face to face with him.

"Do you know me?" Cale asked.

The old man chuckled.

"As well as you know yourself. And you," he said to Riven.

"Who are you?" Riven asked, echoing Cale's thoughts.

"I am the caretaker."

"What are you?" Cale asked.

To that, the caretaker smiled softly, and answered, "A servant, like you. But perhaps a more willing one."

He held up a hand as though to touch Cale, but Cale backed off. Fast.

"You do not yet understand what you are," the caretaker said, then turned to Riven. "Nor you. But you will. Both of you. The darkness called you, and each of you answered. As have I, in my way. Your duty, like mine, will become clear in time."

Jak stepped protectively in front of Cale and Cale couldn't help but smile.

"What is this place?" the halfling demanded.

The caretaker stared down at Jak, thoughtful, and replied, "The darkness has called you too, not so? Recently. Ah, but you have not answered."

Jak said nothing but Cale saw him shiver. He thought of the halfling's face the day after the slaad had tortured him. It pleased him to hear the caretaker say that Jak had not answered the darkness.

Jak is a seventeen, Cale thought, recalling Sephris's words.

"Answer my question," Jak insisted.

The caretaker shrugged and looked up and down the hall.

"This place has many names, in many tongues. The Temple of Night. The Fane of Shadows. The Umbral Shrine. For my part, I consider it a toolbox. It, and I, travel the worlds, offering assistance to the servants of the night."

Silence settled over the hall until Cale asked, "A toolbox?"

The caretaker replied, "Indeed. You," he said to Cale, then turned to Riven, "and you, may take from this place one gift. One tool."

Riven started to spit but stopped himself.

"I'll take nothing from this place," he said.

The caretaker nodded, unoffended, and replied, "As you will."

"A mage entered here before us," Cale said.

The caretaker nodded, indicating the double doors behind him.

"He is within the sanctum, even now claiming the gift that he came seeking."

Cale looked down the hall to the double doors but resisted the urge to charge down there.

"We know what he seeks," said Cale.

Smiling cryptically, the caretaker said, "What he desires is slight compared to what those who are with him seek."

That took Cale aback. Did Azriim have his own agenda?

"And what is that?" Cale asked.

"The Weave Tap of the Dark Maiden."

The words meant nothing to Cale. He looked to Magadon and Jak. Both shrugged and shook their heads.

"What is that?" asked Cale.

The caretaker frowned and said, "Knowledge you ask for." He extended his hands and a tome as large as any wizard's spellbook took shape there. Black, scaled leather covered gilded vellum pages. "Then knowledge shall be your gift. This is a history, of sorts. The answer to your questions lies within these pages. Take it."

After a moment's hesitation, Cale took the tome. Surprisingly, it felt ordinary in his hands. He placed it in his pack, deliberately showing it no reverence.

The caretaker merely smiled.

"May we pass?" Cale asked.

"Of course. I am a caretaker," he replied, "not a guardian."

I doubt that, Jak said.

Cale nodded.

"Let's move," he said to his comrades, and brushed past the caretaker.

Already, the old man was dissipating into his component shadows.

"It was my honor to meet you both, the First and the Second. Farewell."

With that, he was gone.

Cale put the caretaker's reference out of his mind as the comrades jogged down the hall for the double doors. Before they reached them, a pulsing sensation, so deep that Cale felt it more than heard it, assaulted their ears. They gritted their teeth and ran on.

Jak, running at Cale's side, said in a mental voice that Cale knew was directed only at him, Erevis, whatever's happening here is bigger than that sphere. That statue. Your sword. Calling you the First. Do you see that?

I see it.

This is not just a Calling by Mask, it's something more…. Don't lose yourself, Cale.

Cale looked at him sidelong and sent, I won't. That's why I've got you.

They reached the landing before the double doors of the sanctum. The pulsing had grown in intensity, the intervals between pulses shorter. They originated behind those doors.

Cale gripped one door, Riven gripped the other, and they readied themselves to pull them open.

The pulses accelerated. The sky-ceiling of the sanctum grew blurry and began to swirl around the starless hole above the altar. Slowly at first, then faster. Faster it spun; faster it pulsed. Energy was building to a focused crescendo. Azriim could sense it. Vraggen stood at the altar with his back to Azriim and Serrin. His head was thrown back and he held his arms out from his sides as though he was awaiting the embrace of a lover.

Enjoy it mage, Azriim thought, for it is doomed to be a short love affair.

Dolgan's voice sounded in Azriim's mind, I am within the Fane. They are past the caretaker.

Azriim nodded and silently replied, We are locating the Weave Tap. The human has begun his transformation.

Azriim knew that Dolgan had entered the Fane under cover of one of the rings provided to the brood by the Sojourner. Dolgan's ring rendered him invisible, silent, and undetectable to divinations.

Remain unseen until the moment is right, Azriim ordered. The caretaker cannot observe you.

Dolgan sent a mental acknowledgement.

Azriim returned his attention to the mage and watched, mildly curious, as black, arm-thick tendrils erupted from the hole in the spinning sky-ceiling and squirmed down toward Vraggen. The human tensed as they approached, screamed when they pierced his skin, and sighed in ecstasy as they began to throb, drawing away his mortal lifestuff and replacing it with that of shadow. The process was unstoppable.