Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

Cale thought of his promise to Jak and the words came out before he could stop them.

"I promised him I'd try to be a hero."

Riven neither sneered nor laughed, surprising Cale again. "You will keep that promise. I will help you because you are the First. That is my promise. Now… let him go."

Cale shook his head and the tears flowed. Riven put a hand on his shoulder. "You must. Whatever is coming, there is no more room for doubt, no more room for questions. There is room for you, me, and the Shadowlord. Nothing more and nothing less."

Cale heard the truth of his words, knew the truth of his words.

"Who in the Nine Hells are you?" he asked Riven, and tried to smile. "This temple has gone to your head."

Riven looked him in the eyes. "It has, but not in the way you think. Cale, I am the Second of Mask. We are more than comrades, more than friends. I am at your shoulder through whatever comes. Now… be the First."

Cale stared into Riven's good eye and remembered Mask's words to him in the alley in Selgaunt. Do what you were born to do.

"Be the First," Riven repeated.

Cale swallowed, steadied himself. "This is the way it will be, then?"

"It cannot be any other way."

Cale looked at Jak, back at Riven, and nodded. He put his hand over Jak's.

"Go," he said to Jak, and meant it. "Thank you for the second chance. You are my friend, always. But that's enough. Rest, now."

Jak's flesh began to cool in his hand. Cale did not recoil. He held Jak's tiny hand in his own, took a deep breath, and turned to Riven.

"Spades?"

Riven nodded. "Somewhere."

"I will carry him," Cale said. "Also, bring something small and sharp."

Riven looked a question at him but Cale did not explain. He picked up the body of his friend and carried him out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the temple. When he got outside into the night, he walked like an ordinary man up to the top of a small hill near the temple. It afforded a view of the island but not the sea, which was just as well. Jak had disliked the sea.

Cale sat on the earth and awaited Riven. Jak was growing colder; his body was stiffening.

Riven soon arrived, bearing two metal spades. His dogs followed. Together, the First and Second of Mask dug a grave and gently placed a friend and priest of Brandobaris in it. They had no coffin. The dogs watched it all.

Cale threw the first shovelful of dirt over Jak. Riven said nothing, merely helped him fill the hole. The dogs howled. They worked until Jak was buried. Cale started to put Jak's pipe on the earthen mound as a marker, but Riven said, "He'd want you to keep it."

Cale looked at the pipe, nodded, put it in his pocket.

"Did you bring what I asked?" he asked Riven.

Riven produced a small, flat-bladed knife with a rounded tip.

"Small and sharp," Riven said.

Cale tested the edge and found it satisfactory. He kneeled at the side of the grave and started to cut his hair, first cutting it to a short, choppy length, then to stubs, then shaving it off with the knife. The wind blew it away and the dogs chased it. Cale opened countless gashes in his scalp, but the bleeding and pain lasted only a moment before the shadowstuff in his flesh repaired the damage.

Riven watched it all in silence.

When Cale had finished the job, he stood, returned the knife to Riven, and ran a hand over his bald pate. Shadows leaked from him and he felt like himself.

Riven eyed him, nodded.

Cale took out Jak's pipe, stuffed it with pipeweed, and smoked graveside. Riven pulled a wooden pipe from his belt pouch-a pipe like the one Jak had once given the assassin-and joined Cale. Afterward, they collected the spades and walked back to the temple.

The shadowwalkers awaited them on the drawbridge. Shadows swirled around them, around Cale, around Riven. The wind blew their cloaks.

Cale approached the leader. "Tell me your name."

"Nayan," the man said, his voice as soft as rainfall.

"Nayan," Cale said, testing the word.

Nayan turned to his fellows and indicated each in turn. The men bowed as their names were spoken. "Shadem, Vyrhas, Erynd, Dynd, Skelan, and Dahtem."

"Erevis Cale," Cale said.

"Drasek Riven," said Riven.

Nayan nodded to each, and held up both hands as he said, "You are the right and left hands of the Shadowlord and he still speaks through you."

"That is so," Cale said, and preferred Nayan's words to "First" and "Second."

Nayan said, "We are servants of the Shadowlord and therefore servants of his Chosen."

"You're offering to help us?" Riven asked.

Nayan nodded once.

Cale looked the shadowwalkers in the eyes. "You have been blooded. Anyone can see that. But being blooded is not enough. Where are your weapons?"

Nayan held up his hands again, touched his elbows, his knees, his feet. Cale understood-the shadowwalkers fought without weapons.

Cale knew some men could do it, but it took years of training and discipline. Cale decided to be candid with Nayan.

"We are not… kind men, Nayan. Do you take my meaning?"

"I know what you are," Nayan said, and held Cale's gaze.

Cale stared into Nayan's face, studied his impassive expression. He had known many killers through the years and all of them had the same cold, dead look in their eyes. Riven had it. Cale had it.

Nayan had it.

Cale nodded and looked to Riven. "They come. All of them."

Riven said to the shadowwalkers, "Get some sleep and prepare your gear. We hit the Hole of Yhaunn tomorrow night."

After they were gone, Riven said, "Looks like they are done waiting, too."

11 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

At Vees's urging, Tamlin decided to meet the Shadovar representative unaccompanied by other members of the Old Chauncel.

"The Shadovar prefer quiet negotiations," Vees told him.

Tamlin stood behind a polished conference table in a meeting room in the palace. Magical protections shrouded him, and the chamber itself was screened against scrying and magical transport. Glowballs in the corners of the chamber provided light.

The Shadovar delegation had arrived at twilight by magical means. A score of dark-armored men with wide swords had walked out of the night and entered Selgaunt through its Mountarr Gate. A ceremonial guard of Scepters escorted the delegation through the city's streets, and the dark strangers were the talk of the taverns. Tamlin provided the Shadovar with lodging in the eastern wing of the palace. After allowing them time to get settled, he requested a formal meeting with the Shadovar ambassador, Rivalen Tanthul, a prince of Shade Enclave.

Tamlin did not know what to expect. He had never met with anyone from Shade Enclave, and the stakes could not have been higher. Selgaunt needed assistance from outside of Sembia, or it would fall to the gathering army of the Overmistress. Tamlin, his family, the Old Chauncel, and the nobility of Saerb would all hang as traitors.

He calmed himself by recalling the words his father had oft spoke before important trade meetings: No matter their station, all men are men. Tamlin whispered the words to himself as he listened to the approaching footfalls of Rivalen Tanthul.

Vees stood beside him. Both men wore their finest jackets and stiff-collared shirts. A silver tray of sweetmeats, bread, cheese, and two bottles of red wine had been laid out on the table. A banner bearing Selgaunt's arms hung from the ceiling. Tamlin thought the room was lacking in the ceremonial trappings merited by the meeting, but they had done what they could on short notice.

"Here we go," Vees said to him softly. "Their appearance is unusual. Do not let it alarm you."

The door to the chamber opened and Chamberlain Thriistin, dressed in his finest attire, announced the ambassador.