Paul Kemp - Shadow witness

Verdrinal, recovered now from the blow to his nose, and actually grinned. Disgusted, Riven threw him to the floor.

"Our time can come tonight, Drasek," Verdrinal taunted. "If you want to stay. I'm sure Hov would appreciate some company."

Riven turned and found himself staring into the wide, leather-armored chest of Hov. He took a step back and looked up into the big man's dull brown eyes. Hov glared down, right hand on his sword hilt, left hand clenched in a fist.

"Anytime," Riven whispered. "I've already left one of yours dead on the floor. What's one more to me?"

Hov smirked but said nothing.

Riven stalked past and headed for the foyer. Behind him, Verdrinal's mocking voice rang in his ears. "Praise r to Cyric," the nobleman said, the standard Zhentarim words of greeting and farewell, but only among compatriots.

Without breaking stride, Riven shouldered over a delicate nude female statue. It shattered into hundreds of pieces on the foyer floor, chunks of marble splashed into the pool of blood that Varra had yet to clean up. Verdrinal squealed in protest.

"You bastard! You-*

Riven smiled and strode out the door. "Praise to Cyric," he said-mockingly over his shoulder.

Call le waited anxiously in the carpeted hall outside Thazienne's room. Sweat beaded his brow and a lump sat in his throat. When he had left her side to organize the cleanup, she still had been unconscious and barely breathing. Her face had looked so pale and drawn.

Behind the closed door of the bedroom, he could hear Thamalon, Shamur, and Tamlin praying with High Songmaster Ansril Amm-haddan, Priest of Milil. Talbot had not yet arrived. Cale had sent a servant for him several hours ago, and was growing worried by his continued absence. Talbot would never forgive himself if something happened to her and he was not here for it.

Though Thazienne still treated her little brother as if he were an adolescent-much to the rapidly maturing young man's annoyance-Cale knew that brother and sister still shared a close bond. He hoped Talbot arrived soon.

Through the thick door Cale listened to the soft, melodic murmur of the High Songmaster's song spells and the teary, answering chorus of the grief-stricken Uskevren. Thamalon had invited Cale to accompany the family in prayer of course, but Cale had gently declined. He was not a religious man. His presence would be a hindrance to them, not a help. Prayer and priests made him uncomfortable. Gods made him uneasy. He thought people of faith often to be overly gullible-followers not leaders. Only Jak had shown himself an exception to that rule. Religion distracted men, made them bond to the true nature of events around them. The Righteous Man embodied the point. His obsession with the worship of Mask had made the old man vulnerable. Cale would never allow himself to fall into such a trap. No, Cale preferred to rely not on divine assistance, but on his brains, his body, and his blades. Now more than ever before, however, he realized that those three things could not solve all problems. He saw in his mind Thazienne lying unconscious in her bed, weak and stricken, barely breathing. His wits and steel could do nothing for her, he knew, but he still could not bring himself to offer prayer.

Of course, his brains and blades could solve other problems. The need for payback, for example.

Later, he reminded himself, and swallowed his rising anger. For now, Thazienne's well-being was all that mattered. Besides, at the moment he felt too exhausted and worried to plan vengeance. For an instant, he wished he could allow himself to find solace in faith.

Instead, he found solace in a high backed armchair. His anxious pacing did nothing but wear out the carpet and his nervous fidgeting only fed his worry. Trying to

calm himself, he crossed his long legsy clenched the carved arms of the chair, took a deep breath, and tried hard to remain still. He had ordered the staff away so that they would not see the family distraught, but he would have welcomed someone to talk to now. Even Larajin. Anything to distract him. He felt so damned useless!.

The praying within Thazienne's bedroom stopped. Cale waited anxiously. After a moment, the door to her room slowly opened and the High Priest shuffled out. A heavyset yet stately looking old man with a thick beard and a neatly combed mane of gray hair, High Songmaster Ammhaddan looked so somber that Cale's stomach hit the floor. He tried to rise from the chair but the strength had gone out of his legs.

Tamlin, eyes red and swollen, followed the High Songmaster out. Thamalon and Shamur came last. Both still wore their attire from the celebration, the fine clothes now stained, wrinkled, and disheveled.

With tears streaming unabashedly down his cleanshaven face, Thamalon gently pulled the door closed. Beside him, Shamur struggled to hold back her own tears, but finally lost the fight and wept openly. Her slight body shook with sobs.

Awkwardly,- as if unsure of himself, Thamalon took her in his arms. She stiffened immediately, haltingly returned his embrace, and quickly disengaged. Though grief-stricken, she still insisted on maintaining her distance from Lord Uskevren.

Cale saw the hurt on his lord's face. The wound in his heart of a stricken daughter salted by the coolness of his wife. At that moment, Cale detested Lady Uskevren.

"It will be all right," Thamalon whispered to her. He lifted a hand as though to touch her face, but let it fall to his side without contact. "It will be all right."

Caught up in their emotion, Gale felt his own eyes begin to well. He lowered his head and looked at his hands. She can't be dead! he inwardly protested. She can't.

He had to hear it explicitly before he would believe it.

He stood on legs still weak and walked over to the solemn High Songmaster, who looked on the grieving Thamalon and Shamur with an understanding, fatherly expression. High Priest Ammhaddan turned to see him coming and regarded him with the same paternal warmth. Gale's legs gave out and he nearly fell to the floor. The High Songmaster, strong despite his years, caught him by the arm and helped him to stand upright.

Gale gave him a grateful smile through teary eyes. His voice caught when he spoke. "Well?" he asked, and winced in anticipation of the answer. "How is she?"

Still holding him by the arm, the High Songmaster scrutinized his face with a look Gale found ominous. "Mister Gale, is your first name Erevjs?"

His throat constricted and he could barely find his voice. Tea." He felt as though he were floating.

His distress must have been plain on his face for Ansril Ammhaddan softly patted his shoulder. "Shell live, son. Rest easy. She'll live."

Gale's vision instantly went blurry. She'll live!

Tears of joy replaced those of grief and streamed down his face. He smiled like a buffoon until he saw that the High Songmaster still wore a somber expression. He clutched a handful of the priest's crimson robe so hard that he pulled Ansril forward a step.

"What? You said she would live. How is she? Will she-" He could not bring himself to mouth the words. A thousand terrible possibilities flew through his mind but he could give voice to none. He stared into

Ansril Ammhaddan's wrinkled face and tried to read the priest's eyes.

"What is it, Ansril?" Thamalon asked. "I thought you said she would be all right." Thamalon and Tamlin closed in around them, apprehensive. No longer crying, Shamur seemed to be holding her breath.

High Songmaster Ammhaddan gently disengaged Gale's fingers from his robe and turned to Thamalon. "I did say that she would live, Thamalon…" he began to say.

Immediately, Shamur began again to laugh and cry all at once. Thamalon smiled like a fool through his own wet eyes. Gale gave Tamlin's shoulder a squeeze and the heir patted him on the back.