Chapter FOUR
4 Nightal, the Year of Lightning Storms
Brennus held his mother’s platinum necklace in his palm. The facets of the large jacinths caught the dim light of the glowballs and sparkled like flames.
“Pretty,” said the homunculi perched on his shoulder.
He nodded. His father had given it to his mother thousands of years earlier, on the night she died. Her body had been found in her chambers that night, as though she had died in her sleep, but the missing necklace suggested something else—murder. Despite a magical and mundane search of first the palace then the city, the murderer and the necklace had never been found.
Until recently.
Brennus had found the necklace buried in the soft earth of a meadow in a Sembian forest while he had been trying to determine the whereabouts of Erevis Cale’s woman, Varra. Varra, pursued by living shadows, had inexplicably disappeared from the face of Faerûn. Brennus had scoured the meadow from which she’d vanished. He’d found no clue to Varra’s fate, but had found one to his mother’s.
The find unnerved him. He recalled Rivalen’s words about the involvement of Mask and Shar in the events unfolding in Sembia. Like Rivalen, Brennus did not accept coincidence.
He turned the necklace over, eyed the inscription on the charm, the words of another age resurrected from a shallow Sembian grave: For Alashar, my love.
He had mentioned the necklace to no one, not Rivalen or his other brothers, not his father. The necklace had torn open the scab of long forgotten grief, returned to him memories and feelings buried with his mother’s body centuries ago. Perhaps that was why he had not shared his find with his brothers or father. He saw no reason to raise their grief from the dead.
He had cast numerous divinations on the necklace to ensure its authenticity, used it as the focus for other divinations, all in an effort to determine his mother’s true fate, and all to no avail. Thousands of years had passed since her death. He knew the murderer was dead. But he still had to know the truth. He owed his mother that much.
He had been closer to his mother than any of his brothers. She nurtured his love of constructs, clapped with delight at the first gear-driven wood and leather automatons he had built as a boy. He mastered the art of divination only later, at his father’s urging, to learn the truth of his mother’s fate.
But the truth had eluded him then, as it did now, and now the inquiry must wait still longer. He needed to turn his Art fully to Erevis Cale, to Kesson Rel, to the Shadowstorm. He and Rivalen needed information if they were to fulfill the Most High’s charge to annex Sembia and make it the economic workhorse of the reborn Empire of Netheril. To that end, they were to leave the realm only mildly scarred by war.
The Shadowstorm would leave more than mild scars were it not stopped soon.
He puzzled only a little over the religious implications of the fact that two of Shar’s most powerful servants, Rivalen the Nightseer and Kesson Rel the Divine One, seemed at cross-purposes in Sembia’s fate. Brennus’s faith in Shar started and ended with nothing more than words, and those mostly to appease his father and Rivalen. Belief did not sink below the surface in him. Whatever conflict existed in the Sharran church, it was a matter for Rivalen to answer for himself. Though he would also answer to the Most High should he be unable to stop Kesson Rel.
Brennus put his mother’s necklace in an inner pocket, near his heart. A sudden sensory memory struck him—the smell of her dark hair. The shadows around him swirled. He recalled her laughter, the crisp, unrestrained sound of it. …
“Home now?” his homunculi said in unison, bringing him back to himself.
“Yes,” Brennus said. He pulled the darkness around him, pictured in his mind the circular divination chamber in his manse on Shade Enclave, and rode the shadows there.
He smiled when he felt the air change. Unlike the moist air of Selgaunt, rich with the tang of the sea, the cool air of the enclave bore the dense, aggressive aridity of the great desert over which the city flew, though it wouldn’t be a desert for much longer.
Ephemeral ribbons of shadow formed and dissolved in the murk, the welcome tenebrous air of home. A domed ceiling of dusky quartz soared over the circular chamber in which Brennus performed his most challenging divinations. Dim stars peered down through the quartz, diffident pinpoints of light that barely penetrated the haze.
“Home,” his homunculi said, their voices gleeful. They leaped from their shoulder perches and pelted across the polished floor of the chamber, sniffing at the floor and occasionally squealing with delight.
“Mouse turd,” one of them said, holding a tiny mouse pellet aloft like a trophy.
Brennus smiled and shook his head at their foolishness. He intoned the words to a sending spell and transmitted a message to his seneschal, Lhaaril.
I am returned to Shade Enclave for a short time to work my Art. In four hours I will take a meal.
Lhaaril returned, I will have it prepared. Welcome home, Prince Brennus.
Brennus gave the homunculi some time to frolic then walked to the center of the scrying chamber where stood a cube of tarnished silver, half again as tall as a man and positioned to take advantage of the invisible lines of magical force that veined the world. His homunculi, having completed their olfactory reunion with their home, climbed his robes and resumed their normal place atop his shoulders.
He held an open palm before one of the cube’s faces. His homunculi mimicked his movement, giggling. Shadows extended from his hand and brushed the cube. At their touch the silvery face took on depth. Black tarnish swirled slowly on its surface, a cloudy ocean of molten metal.
When the cube fully activated, Brennus began his inquiry. He cast one divination after another, scoured the past and the present, and the entire face of Faerûn. Shadows and sweat leaked from his flesh. He worked in silence and his homunculi soon grew bored and fell asleep on their perches, bookending his ears. Their snores did not affect his concentration.
Despite the comprehensiveness of his magic, Brennus’s spells resulted mostly in frustration. He learned nothing of Varra; she remained … absent. And he learned nothing of Erevis Cale, his activities or location. The power that warded him allowed him to slip the grasp of any attempted divination. Brennus suspected that Mask himself might cloak Cale.
Brennus did learn of the world from which Kesson Rel hailed, a cold world of which Brennus’s most powerful spells revealed little more than a name—Ephyras—and the promise of darkness as deep as the void. He pulled back before pushing his spells further. The hole felt too deep. He feared falling into it.
He turned his spells back to Faerûn and another series of divinations showed the swirling darkness of the Shadowstorm as it roiled across Sembia, deforming and transforming the life with which it came into contact. It grew in strength as it expanded. The currents of negative energy swirling invisibly in its midst could drain the life from a man in a matter of hours.
Within the storm, Brennus saw the ever growing army of shadows, their numbers legion. He saw the regiments of towering, pallid, shadow giants clad in gray armor and darkness, saw the spire of Kesson Rel’s otherworldly abode hovering like an executioner’s blade over the twisted, shadow-haunted ruins of Ordulin, and saw in the tortured sky a slowly turning maelstrom of shadow and dull viridian light, the rictus of the planar rift vomiting up the corrupting darkness of the Plane of Shadow. Repeated lightning strokes flashed between the clouds and the spire. The sight of it made Brennus dizzy. His homunculi stirred uneasily in their sleep, and one waved a hand before its face as if to shoo away a pest.
Brennus resisted the urge to turn the eye of his divinations to the interior of the spire. He didn’t want to alert Kesson Rel to his spying, lest Kesson redouble his wards. Still, he heard Kesson’s name in the dull thunder that rumbled within the Shadowstorm, and felt like an ache in his teeth Kesson’s immense power, even through the scrying cube. Brennus knew that Kesson Rel was no longer a man. He was semi-divine, a godling, and what the Shadovar intended to conquer and use, Kesson intended to pervert and destroy.
Brennus watched for a short time longer then deactivated the cube. Sweat soaked him. His body ached. Fatigue dulled his mind. But he needed to know more. He knew that Kesson’s divine nature would make killing him problematic.
Brennus occasionally relied on powerful extraplanar entities to assist his inquiries, immortal creatures whose knowledge and understanding sometimes exceeded even Brennus’s. He would have to rely on such assistance again were he to be of assistance to his brother. Knowledge floated on strange currents in the lower planes, and powerful devils sometimes learned important snippets of information about gods and men. Such information was as much the currency of the Nine Hells and the Abyss as were mortal souls.
He strode to the far corner of the room where a large triangle surrounded by a circle had been inlaid with lead into the floor. His movement awakened his homunculi. They yawned, smacked their lips, noticed the thaumaturgic triangle, and sat up straight.
“Devil!” they said, and clapped with glee.
“Retrieve candles,” Brennus said, and they jumped off his shoulders to perform their task.
In moments they returned with wrist-thick candles. Streaks of crimson spiraled around the otherwise ivory-colored shafts of the tapers. Brennus placed them so that their bases exactly straddled the three points where the triangle touched the circle that enveloped it. He backed away, lit them with a command word, and they birthed blue flames.
He cleared his mind and intoned the words to the summoning that would bring forth one of the most powerful devils in the Nine Hells, a fiend of the pit.
After the first stanza, the room grew cool His homunculi shivered and tried to wrap themselves in the loose folds of his cloak, chuckling nervously at the clouds their breathing formed. Ice rimed the lines of the thaumaturgic triangle. The blue flames burned steadily.
After the second and third stanzas, the air grew cold and a point of red light, a hole into the Nine Hells, formed in the air above the center of the summoning triangle. First groans then screams leaked through the hole, a tunnel that ended in a realm of suffering.
Shadows poured from Brennus as he voiced the words to the conjuration. Power coalesced in the room and concentrated in the air between his upraised hands and the summoning triangle. The air became frigid and frost formed on his fingers and palms, the cold like the bite of sharp teeth. He let nothing disturb his recitation of the arcane couplets.
After the fourth stanza the power of the spell peaked and Brennus pronounced the name of the devil he wished to draw forth.
“Baziel, come!”
The mention of the pit fiend’s name concentrated the arcane power, gave it voice, and his call went forth into the Hells.
In answer, a cyclone of coruscating fire formed in the space over the summoning triangle. Darkness gathered in the core of the flames, a black seed of evil that began to expand into a doorway between worlds. The flames whirled around it, flared. Smoke churned above the circle and mixed with the shadowy air, obscuring his vision. The smell of brimstone polluted the room and Brennus thought something had gone awry.
A form materialized in the doorway amidst the smoke and flame, and slowly took on definition, features. Brennus recognized the towering, muscular, red-skinned frame and membranous black wings of a pit fiend. He ended his summoning with the final words of binding.
“You are called, Baziel and you are bound to answer my …”
The devil stepped through the doorway and into the triangle and Brennus’s voice died. The fiend’s face resolved not into the bestial, horned visage of Baziel, but into a handsome mien that could have been human but for the black horns that jutted from the brow, but for the pupiless white eyes that stared out of the cavernous sockets and pinioned Brennus to the floor of the chamber.
Brennus recognized the fiend—the archfiend—immediately. Shadows whirled around Brennus, the physical manifestation of the jumble in his mind. The archfiend gazed around the room with only mild interest. He seemed to take up too much space, to be too heavy for the floor, too real, too present.
The homunculi lost their stomach for the summoning.
“Wrong devil!” they squealed, and darted into the folds of Brennus’s cloak, trembling with fear.
Brennus struggled to hold his ground under the weight of the fiend’s gaze. He licked his lips, fought for calm, and called to mind the various defensive spells at his disposal.
None of them would be of any use. The archfiend was beyond him. His father, with assistance perhaps, could match the fiend on the Prime Material Plane, but no other in Shade Enclave.
Only the binding circle and the constraints of the conjuration protected Brennus from soul death.
Or so he hoped.
Mephistopheles showed fangs in a smile, as if reading Brennus’s mind. His voice, deeper even than Rivalen’s, resonated with power ancient even by Shadovar standards.
“What a pleasant locale,” the archfiend said. With his clawed forefinger, he pulled a tendril of diaphanous shadow from the air, spun it around his finger, and watched it dissolve. “Shadows seem to be my lot in these days.”
Brennus cleared his throat. “The summoning called Baziel.”
He realized the stupidity of the words only after they exited his mouth.
“Baziel is in service to me, now, and resides in my court at Mephistar.”
“I … was not aware of that, Lord of Cania. It was not so when last I summoned him.”
The archfiend’s features hardened, and when they did they reminded Brennus of someone, though he could not draw forth the name.
“You should have inquired, shadeling. By summoning him, you have offended me. I am here to receive your apology.”
Two thousand years of co-rule in Shade Enclave rendered Brennus unused to demands. He held the archfiend’s gaze with difficulty.
“I intended no offense, Lord of the Eighth.” He waved a hand and released the binding. “You are released.”
He expected Mephistopheles to dissipate, return to Cania. Instead, the archfiend remained before him, towering, solid, threatening.
“You are dismissed,” Brennus said, and put power into his voice.
The archfiend drew in his wings. “I do not wish to leave. There are matters we should discuss.”
The homunculi squeaked and tried to burrow farther into Brennus’s cloak. Despite his trepidation, Brennus was intrigued by the archfiend’s words.
“You wish—”
Words failed him as Mephistopheles reached through the magical field that encapsulated the summoning triangle and binding circle. The magic flared a feeble orange as the archfiend broke through, the whole of Brennus’s binding mere cobwebs to the archfiend’s power.
“First, apologize,” Mephistopheles said.
Brennus backed up a step, activated the communication ring on his finger. His heart slammed against his ribs. The shadows in the room darkened, churned.
Rivalen, I am in my summoning chamber in the enclave. Attend me with the Most High. I have—
“Your ring is not functioning,” Mephistopheles said. He picked up one of the candles from the thaumaturgic triangle, and snuffed the flame with thumb and forefinger. “Apologize.”
Brennus retreated another step, drew the shadows around him, and prepared to ride them to the mansion of the Most High where he would get aid to face the archfiend.
“Your spells will not serve you either, nor your powers over darkness,” the archfiend said, his voice rising. He extended his wings, and dark power, deeper and blacker than shadows, haloed his form. “Apologize!”
The power in the archfiend’s voice shook the manse, cracked the quartz roof of the summoning chamber, and dusted Brennus and the entire room in ice.
“My apologies, Mephistopheles,” Brennus said, the humiliating words bitter on his tongue. He refused to bow, even halfway. “I intended you no offense. I merely wished to question Baziel on certain matters beyond my Art to answer alone.”
Power retreated back into the archfiend’s form and his voice returned to normal. He seemed to shrink, to shed some of the threat implicit in his mere existence.
“We understand one another now.” He smiled and inclined his head. “I accept your apology, Prince of Shade. And the matters about which you wished to query Baziel are the matters that I wish us to discuss. Kesson Rel?”
Brennus looked up, his mind racing. He knew all fiends to be liars. If Mephistopheles wished to answer Brennus’s questions, it was because his answer, whether true or false, served the archfiend’s purpose. What stake did Mephistopheles have in matters in Sembia?
“Why make this offer?”
“It amuses me to see you correctly informed.”
Brennus bluffed. “I have no questions.”
Mephistopheles smiled. “You lie poorly.”
The shadows around Brennus swirled.
“You bear an interesting trinket,” the archfiend said, and nodded at Brennus’s chest.
It took Brennus a moment to process the conversational detour. The archfiend meant his mother’s necklace. He tried to keep eagerness from his tone. The necklace suddenly felt warm against his flesh. He could feel his heart pounding against it.
“You know something of it?”
“Now you have questions?”
“Do you?”
Mephistopheles made a dismissive gesture. “Perhaps.”
Brennus took a step toward the summoning circle, the whiff of a revelation drawing him forward.
“Who murdered my mother?”
“Kesson Rel.”
Brennus stopped short. “Kesson Rel?”
“We were discussing Kesson Rel.”
Brennus shook his head. “No, no. We were discussing my mother.”
“Were we?”
“Yes. Yes. Tell me about my mother!”
Mephistopheles crossed his muscular arms across his chest. “No. First things first.”
Brennus realized he was breathing rapidly. The shadows around him whirled and spun.
“Kesson Rel,” he said.
The archfiend nodded. “Continue.”
“We want him dead.”
“He is powerful, infused with the power of a god.”
“A god? Not a goddess?”
Mephistopheles smiled. “Kesson Rel stole his power from the Shadowlord. Shar lays claims to it, now. Of course, how the Shadowlord came by it is … another tale.”
Brennus processed the new information, and would ponder its implications later. He looked up at the crack in the quartz ceiling, at the dusting of ice that still rimed the room, back at the fiend. “Can it be done? Can Kesson Rel be killed?”
The archfiend beat his wings, once, stirring a breeze that smelled of corpses. “Everything dies. Even worlds.”
Brennus did not understand that last. “How then, if he is as powerful as you say?”
Irritation wrinkled Mephistopheles’s high brow, narrowed the orbs of his eyes.
“Because his power is not his own. He came by it as all faithless thieves do. By stealing it. He thinks to have locked it away, but the key yet remains. You will find it in Ephyras.”
“The world from which he came?”
The fiend nodded. Smoke issued from his nostrils.
Brennus considered the information. “You want him dead, too, else you would not have come. Why?”
The archfiend’s face was expressionless. “To collect a debt.”
Brennus knew he would get nothing more. “Tell me how to do it. Then tell me of my mother.”
Mephistopheles chuckled. “I will tell you one or the other. How to kill Kesson Rel or the identity of your mother’s murderer. Which will you have answered?”
Brennus swallowed his anger, his frustration, struggled, and finally said, “Tell me how to kill Kesson Rel.”
The archfiend smiled, and began to speak.
Lifelong habits died only with difficulty and time. As he had for over a decade, Abelar awakened before the dawn. He lay on a bed of wool blankets set on the cold, damp earth in his tent. Elden slept on the cot near him and the sound of his son’s breathing, easy and untroubled, soothed Abelar’s troubled spirit. After a short time, he donned trousers, cloak, and boots, kissed Elden on the forehead, and stepped out of the tent.
The rain had slacked and the faint light of false dawn painted the water-soaked camp in lurid grays. Coughs and soft conversation carried from here and there among the cluster of tents. The smell of pipe smoke carried from somewhere.
He looked east to the rising sun, but saw there only the swirling dark clouds of the magical storm, a black lesion marring the sky. It had grown during the night. It was coming for them, for all of Sembia.
Atop the rise overlooking the camp he saw the men and women of his company, servants of Lathander, gathered for Dawnmeet. His separateness sent an ache through him. He led them now only on the field, not in worship. They looked east, their backs to Abelar, facing the sky where the shadows masked the dawn sun. The sound of their voices carried through the morning’s quiet.
“Dawn dispels the night and births the world anew.”
The words resounded in Abelar’s mind, the echo of the thousands of Dawnmeets when he had spoken the same words to his god. He recalled the first time—he had been a mere boy—when Abbot Denril had first taught him the liturgy. Said in the face of the Shadowstorm, the words seemed hollow.
“May Lathander light our way, show us wisdom,” said his companions, their voices carried to him on the morning mist. His own lips formed the words, but he did not speak them aloud, would not, ever again.
“You should be among them,” said his father’s voice, turning Abelar around.
Endren wore his blade, a mail shirt, and a tabard embroidered with the Corrinthal horse and sun. He looked thin to Abelar, and the weight of recent events had turned his hair entirely gray. His ragged beard, untrimmed in days, gave him the look of a prophet, or a madman. The stump of his left hand, too, looked ragged.
Abelar shook his head. “I am no longer one of them.”
“The symbol you wore was not what made you one of them.”
Endren’s soft words surprised Abelar. “You have never shown such respect for my faith before, Father.”
Endren put his good hand on Abelar’s shoulder. “I am not showing respect for your faith. I am showing respect for my son. The light is in you, Abelar. Isn’t that what you say?”
Abelar felt himself color, nodded.
“Lathander did not put it there,” Endren said. “And Lathander did not make what was there brighter. Gods know I did not put it in there. But the light is in you.”
Abelar was not so certain but said only, “Thank you, Father.”
Endren gave him a final pat as the Lathanderians completed the Dawnmeet.
“Elden is well?” Endren asked.
“Yes. Sleeping.”
“That is well.”
Father and son stood together for a time in silence, watched the light of the sun war with the storm of shadows, watched gray dawn give way to a stark, shadow-shrouded day.
“We will need to break camp as soon as possible,” Abelar said. “Flee west. That storm grows uglier by the hour.”
“West takes us to the Mudslide. The droughts have shrunk it, but this sky—” Endren indicated the clouds—“seeks to refill it.”
Abelar nodded. “We will cross at the Stonebridge, continue around the southern horn of the Thunder Peaks and toward Daerlun. Maybe even all the way to Cormyr. There, we can reorganize, perhaps gain aid from Alusair or the western nobility.”
Endren eyed the distant storm. Thunder rumbled. “That will be a long, hard journey for these people. They are not soldiers used to marching so far. And I expect we’ll be adding refugees to our numbers as we go. No one outside of a protected city will willingly sit in the path of whatever magic summoned that storm.”
“What do we know of the whereabouts of the overmistress’s army?” Abelar said. “If we must leave a force to delay their pursuit …” Abelar almost volunteered to lead a rearguard but trapped his words behind his teeth. He would not leave his son again. “Regg will lead it.”
Endren nodded. Perhaps he understood Abelar’s stutter. “Scouts are in the field. I have not yet had word this morning. I will start to get the camp prepared. It may take a day or two to get all in order.”
A scream from within Abelar’s tent put a blade in his hand and speed in his feet.
“Elden!”
Abelar and Endren raced into the tent and found Elden sitting upright in his bed, brown eyes wide with fear, tears cutting a path through the layer of grime on his face. He saw Abelar and held out his arms.
“Papa!”
Abelar scanned the tent and the shadows, but saw nothing. His father did the same. Abelar sheathed his blade, hurried to his son’s bedside, and took him in his arms.
“What is it, Elden? What’s wrong?”
“My dreamed of bad men, Papa. Bad.”
Abelar surrounded Elden with his arms. His son buried his face in Abelar’s cloak. Tears shook Elden’s small body and Abelar’s relief at finding no real danger to his son moved aside for a sudden stab of rage that caused him to wish he had prolonged Forrin’s suffering. His son would have nightmares for years because of what Forrin had ordered done.
“It’s all right,” Abelar said, stroking his son’s hair, speaking to both himself and his son. “It will be all right.”
Endren put a hand on Elden and his stump on Abelar. After a time, Elden stopped crying. He looked up and Abelar wiped the tears and snot from his face with the sleeve of his cloak.
“You good man, Papa?”
The question took Abelar unawares, set his heart to running and stole his voice. He stared into his son’s brown eyes, unable to find words.
“Papa? You good?”
Endren rescued him. “He is a good man, Elden. He’s always been a good man.”
Elden smiled at his grandfather and embraced his father again.
Abelar nodded gratitude at Endren, held onto his son, and wondered.
Brennus ate, rested for a time, then walked the shadow shrouded halls of his manse on Shade Enclave. He did not relish the coming conversation but nevertheless reached out to Rivalen through his ring.
What have you learned? Rivalen asked.
Brennus recounted what Mephistopheles had told him. There is a world called Ephyras, a dead world, on which stands a temple at the edge of nothing, a temple that will soon be destroyed itself. Within is the Black Chalice, a holy artifact from which Kesson Rel drank to obtain his divinity.
Brennus paused, hesitant to continue. He felt Rivalen’s impatience through the connection.
And?
And a drink from the Black Chalice will transform the imbiber into a weapon who can take back what Kesson Rel stole, which appears to be a portion of Mask’s divine power.
Satisfaction, not surprise, poured through the magical conduit. Well done, Brother.
You already knew that Kesson Rel’s divinity has its origin in Mask and not Shar?
I did.
Brennus was not surprised. Rivalen was as secretive as his goddess.
Is there more? Rivalen asked.
Brennus hesitated, steeled himself, and dived ahead. Only a Chosen of Mask may imbibe from the Black Chalice. Any other will die. The artifact is holy to the Shadowlord.
Silence. So Rivalen had not known that.
Brennus felt Rivalen’s anger and understood it. A heretic of Shar threatened their plans for Sembia. To thwart him, it appeared they needed to beg the assistance of an enemy, an enemy who would profit in the bargain.
Erevis Cale, Rivalen said, the words hot with anger.
So it seems. Since Kesson Rel stole a portion of Mask’s divinity, it is not of him. Upon his death, presumably, it will revert to the Chosen of Mask who drank from the chalice.
We cannot allow that, Rivalen said.
Agreed, Brennus said.
After a time, Rivalen said, I will arrange for the assistance of Erevis Cale. Meanwhile, I have another task for you, Brennus.
Brennus waited.
When the power is freed upon Kesson Rel’s death, I want it.
The homunculi on Brennus’s shoulders gave a start, leaned forward, and stared at one another across the intervening landscape of Brennus’s face.
Shadows swirled around Brennus. You want it?
Yes. Or I want it obliterated, though I think that likely impossible.
Does the Most High know of this?
Rivalen’s silence provided answer enough.
Brennus made the connections between what he had learned from Mephistopheles and what Rivalen had told him of Kesson Rel.
Rivalen, the divinations suggest that the divinity can be recovered only by Mask’s Chosen. If you—
I need you to find another way, Brennus.
Rivalen …
We must kill Kesson Rel to stop the Shadowstorm, but we cannot afford to elevate Erevis Cale in his place.
True.
There is a way. There must be. Find it. Whatever methods you used before, use them again.
The homunculi squealed and darted into his cloak. Brennus shook his head, recalling the power and majesty of the archfiend. He did not relish another encounter.
You do not know what you are asking, Brennus sent.
Do you see another option?
Brennus shook his head. No.
You divined that the temple at the edge of nothing would soon be destroyed. We have little time.
Yes.
Then I will expect prompt word of your success. I will not forget your assistance in this, Brennus.
The connection went silent, leaving Brennus alone with his homunculi and his thoughts. Exhausted, he decided to take a meal. He strode the shadows to the dining hall and there found a platter of steamed mushrooms and braised beef awaiting him. A minor magic had kept it hot. His homunculi bounded from their perches and lingered over the mushrooms, inhaling the aroma. They did not need to eat, but enjoyed indulging their senses.
Dim glowballs cast the table in faint green. Thick shadows spun lazily in the air. A dying fire spat its last, defiant crackles from the large, central hearth. A framed portrait of his mother, formally posed, hung over the hearth. He loved the portrait; its laughing eyes and soft smile captured her perfectly.
She stood in a long, yellow gown, one hand on a side chair. Her dark hair, pulled up and tied with diamond studded silver wire, contrasted markedly with her pale skin. A diamond necklace hung from her neck, not the jacinth chain weighing down Brennus’s pocket, weighing down his soul. The portrait had been made before Shade Enclave had fled Karsus’s folly to the Plane of Shadow, before Brennus had abandoned shaping for divination. His life would have been different had his mother lived.
He owed it to her to discover the identity of her murderer. If he could learn how to kill a god, surely he could learn that. He would learn that. Mephistopheles knew the name of the murderer. Or purported to know.
He lifted a goblet of nightwine, drank, but barely tasted it. He held it before his face, shadows coiling around it, and studied it while he thought. His mind turned to the Black Chalice, and he tried to understand events and their implications. But matters were complicated, dark. He could not see through them to the endgame.
“Brennus.”
The voice startled Brennus. His homunculi gasped, and looked up with mushrooms held limply in their hands. Shadows poured from Brennus.
His father, Telemont Tanthul, the Most High, emerged from the darkness at the far end of the table. His platinum eyes glowed in the dark hole of his face. The darkness in the room coalesced around him like iron shavings to a lodestone. He glided forward, his legs indistinguishable from the cloud of shadows that moved with him.
Brennus sprung from his seat, bumping the table, spilling the wine, and startling his homunculi.
“Most High. This is a rare pleasure.”
His father seldom left the palace. Plots and counterplots, and a quiet, ongoing spell war with Mystra’s Chosen kept him occupied and in seclusion.
“It has been long since we have shared a meal, Brennus,” the Most High said. His deep voice sounded most like Rivalen’s among all the Princes of Shade. The two shared many traits.
“Please sit,” Brennus said, and gestured at a chair opposite his.
Instead, the Most High stopped before the hearth and stared up at the portrait of his wife. The shadows around him churned, reached out to caress the portrait. The glowballs dimmed still further.
A voice to Brennus’s right said, “The Lady Alashar was a rare woman.”
Hadrhune, the Most High’s chief counselor, stepped from the darkness. He bore his darkstaff in both hands and shadows played along the runes embroidered on his robes.
“Hadrhune,” Brennus said, unable to keep the distaste from his voice. His homunculi made an obscene gesture at the counselor. Hadrhune pretended not to notice.
“Prince Brennus,” the chief counselor said, inclining his head.
Brennus pointedly did not invite Hadrhune to sit.
The Most High turned from the portrait. His narrow face carried sadness in the eyes. Brennus had seen it only rarely.
“She was more than rare, Hadrhune. She was my life.”
“Of course, Most High,” said Hadrhune, and inclined his head.
“I think of Mother often,” Brennus said.
The Most High and Hadrhune shared a look at his words. Both approached him and Brennus could not rid himself of the feeling of walls closing in.
“You are wondering why we have come,” the Most High said, as if reading his mind.
The homunculi nodded in unison.
“Yes,” Brennus said. “It appears more than a social visit.”
The Most High took station across the table from Brennus, the portrait of his wife visible over his shoulder. Hadrhune stopped at the head of the table, his gaze alternating between Brennus and the Most High.
“You have been discussing with Prince Rivalen the manner in which Kesson Rel can be killed and the divine power within him taken,” the Most High said.
Brennus felt only fleeting surprise that his father knew of his discussions with Rivalen. The Most High was, after all, the Most High. Still, shadows and sweat leaked from Brennus in abundance. His homunculi stood still as statues on the table, mushrooms held aloft.
“Yes,” Brennus acknowledged and offered all he knew. “It appears that the power, once freed, can be taken only by a Chosen of Mask, but Rivalen wishes to take the power for himself. I am to find a way to make that possible.”
Brennus expected the Most High to show anger, or at least concern, that Rivalen thought to arrogate divinity to himself. But the Most High seemed untroubled.
“Is it possible, Most High?” he asked.
“I believe it must be, but we will soon know for certain. You are to return to your summoning chamber and again call forth Mephistopheles.”
Once more, Brennus found himself unsurprised by the depths of his father’s knowledge. He started to ask why the Most High would not summon the archfiend himself but realized the answer before he uttered the words—Mephistopheles would answer Brennus, but he might hesitate to answer the call of the Most High.
“Come,” the Most High said. “Let us make a second query of the Lord of Cania.”