Paul Kemp - Shadow witness

Jak looked at him as though he were a dolt. "Dark, Cale, you're not a mage. You don't need years of training. It's a divine gift. You will it to happen."

"Will it? That's it?"

"You will it," Jak said with a nod and a pained wince, "then pray to your god to realize your will."

Cale was incredulous. "That's it?"

"That's it," Jak replied. "Now try it."

Though he felt an idiot, Cale held the mask in his hand, closed his eyes, and willed his wrist healed.

Nothing happened.

"You have to pray," Jak said. "You can do it silently if you need to."

Cale saw Jak's smirk but chose to ignore it. He calmed himself and for the second time that day, prayed silently to Mask, this time for the power to heal. At first nothing happened, but then his consciousness flew open. A dam had burst in his brain.

"Dark," he whispered, awed. A warmth filled him, a presence joined with him and made its will his own. He knew then the feeling of serving something greater than himself, knew then the transcendence of the divine.

His wrist began to tingle. Suddenly, bones and tendons knit back together. The pain ceased. He opened his eyes, held his hand before his face, and rotated his wrist-no pain. The pain in his back and chest, too, had vanished. He had healed. The realization humbled and exhilarated him.

"You're still your own man," Jak reassured him.

"I know," he replied. Mask had made no demands. Cale would have done everything he had done with or without Mask's involvement. A convergence of the mortal and divine interests, Jak had called it.

So be it, he thought. Touching Jak, he prayed, and willed his best friend healed. The swelling in the little man's face diminished until it had all but vanished. Jak's bruises disappeared. His color returned and he shot Cale a grateful smile.

"This is going to be an interesting time, Cale," he said, and rose to his feet.

"Indeed," Cale replied. He gently tucked his holy symbol into his pocket.

Jak's smile fell when he looked around the shrine- ghoul corpses, charred pews, the stink of death. His eyes lingered long on the corpse of the Righteous Man.

"I guess you're finally out of the guild."

"I am," Cale replied. He had, however, entered into a brotherhood of a different sort.

"And I'm out of the Harpers."

"You are."

"So what now?"

Cale too looked around the shrine. The whole guild-house had become a slaughter-pen, an abomination to man and god.

"We burn it," he said. "Gut the entire place. The sewer entrance too. There's oil in a storeroom upstairs."

•(c)• • amp;• • amp;• • amp;• •€›•

They spent the next hour soaking the basement in lantern oil. Cale had seen many such fires set by Night Mask arsonists back in Westgate-he knew how to ensure a good burn. Afterward, he threw a torch on the kindling point. The fire would gut the basement before the flames were even visible from the street outside.

And by then, the building would be lost. Selgaunt's fire-crews would spend their energy preventing the flames from spreading to the buildings nearby. The Night Knife guildhouse was dead. The Night Knife guild was dead, and Cale had been reborn.

Side by side the two friends walked upstairs, from the darkness and toward the light.

"I can't believe it's over," Jak said. The smell of smoke was already strong in the air.

"It isn't," Cale said, and left it at that. This end was only a beginning-his whole life had changed in the course of only two days. He now had to return to Stormweather and face Thamalon with the truth, the whole truth, no more lying. He had to face Thazienne, who by now must have read his note and learned his feelings for her. His life would be different from now on, harder in some ways, but at least he'd be able to face himself.

"We never did find out who Yrsillar meant by'the other,' " Jak observed, as they emerged onto the street.

Cale nodded. His mind had already turned to his next task-Riven had set this entire nightmare into motion.

Viven rose and dressed in silence. Behind him on the feather bed, Iris lay amidst a sea of sweat-soaked sheets, still breathing heavily. Her dark hair pooled on the pillows. Small but nicely proportioned, her shapely legs stuck tantalizingly out of the blankets. The soft candlelight highlighted the curve of her thigh, the smoothness of her skin. He felt the stirrings of arousal again but sublimated them-he had too much on his mind to spend all night with a whore.

The Night Knife guildhouse had burned to the ground two nights ago. There had been rumors about peculiar remains found in the charred ruins, but he didn't know whether Yrsillar and the shadow demons had been caught within the flames or had used the arson as cover to hide themselves. As usual, Malix, who finally had returned from Zhentil Keep yesterday, could offer no insight. Riven had come within a bladewidth of splitting that self-satisfied dolt on the spot. Malix had foreseen nothing, and his plan to let Yrsillar slay the Zhentarim's enemies-while it had wiped out the Night Knives-had gone very bad very fast.

In typical fashion, it would fall to Riven to pick up the pieces. The aftermath of this misadventure would cause unrest in -the underworld. The various gangs would be scrambling for position. The Zhentarim had lost so many men-including Verdrinal, Riven thought with a satisfied sneer. It was far from certain that the Zhentarim would come out of this better off than they had come in.

This might be the time to get out, he thought. With the Zhentarim as weak as they now were in Selgaunt, old grudges would resurface. Carrying the black and gold badge of the Network might be the quickest way to a bloody endIris interrupted his thinking with a giggle.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing," she playfully replied in her lilting, singsong voice. "The smoke from the candle made a mask around your face. You looked like a bandit just now."

Riven waved the black smoke from his eyes and grunted at her foolishness.

"Come back to bed," she pleaded. He found the offer tempting, but resisted.

"No, I've got things to do yet."

She writhed around on the bed with an exaggerated sigh.

He ignored her, grunted a goodbye, pulled on his scarlet cloak, and strode from her flat.

Due to the late hour and bitter cold, Ironmongers

Lane stood empty and dark. All but one of the street torches had been extinguished by the wind and the city's linkboys didn't concern themselves with relighting the lamps on back streets.

Thoughtful, Riven crunched through the ankle deep snow.

For the next month or so, he would have to keep an eye on Malix. With Verdrinal dead, Malix likely would try to pass responsibility for this operation to Riven. He might even try to kill him and attribute blame posthumously. He thought again about getting out.

Movement a block ahead drew his attention. Out of habit, he backed into the shadows of a nearby building and peered up the street.

A short, cloaked form was staggering down the street. A drunk halfling, he recognized. Not especially unusual at this hour. A feathered capRecognition dawned and he exhaled a cloud of frozen mist sharply. Fleet. Riven could count the number of halflings in Selgaunt on both hands, and only one of them dressed like a peacock even in the depth of winter. Jak Fleet.

He snarled silently and his hand drifted to his back. He still bore a scar from the backstab that little whoreson had dealt him a month ago. Malix had forbidden him to hunt Fleet down for fear of Harper retaliation, if Riven even had been able to find the little puke. Fleet went underground as well as anyone.

But now here he was-drunk and alone. If Riven had worshiped a god, he would have thanked him for this.