to his holy symbol and ambition annihilated conscience.
"I take your point and agree with your recommendation."
"Excellent," Rivalen said. "And that returns us to Saerloon. Lady Merelith rules a city without an army. She broke it on these walls. She knows she must negotiate a peace. She may suspect the Shadowstorm to be a weapon unleashed by us against Ordulin. Before she learns otherwise, we should make Saerloon bend its knee to Selgaunt. And after Saerloon has surrendered, after the Saerbian forces are addressed, who will stand against Selgaunt's consolidation of the realm?"
"Perhaps Daerlun," Tamlin said, and sipped his wine. "But no other."
"Not even Daerlun," Rivalen said. "The high bergun is strengthened by the wall of a friendly Cormyr at his back. That wall will soon show cracks."
"Prince?"
"Many matters are afoot, Tamlin. I ask you to trust me. Do you?"
Tamlin had come too far to hesitate. "I do." "Then soon Sembia will name Selgaunt its capital and you its leader."
"But the Shadowstorm?"
"We will halt it ere it reaches Selgaunt."
"How?"
Rivalen looked across the table at Tamlin, irritation in his eyes. "Leave that to me, Hulorn."
Tamlin could not bear the weight of Rivalen's gaze. He felt, of a sudden, the way he had so many times when sitting across the table from his father. He looked into his wine chalice. The darkness turned the red wine black, made its depths limitless.
"I will obtain a Selgauntan fivestar for you, Prince," he said, and disliked the boyishness in his tone. "From the mint, and made this day."
"You are gracious, Hulorn," Rivalen said, and Tamlin ignored the hint of condescension he heard in the tone.
Rivalen soon returned to his quarters and Tamlin did not sleep, could not sleep. He continually found himself rubbing his right hand on his trousers, as if to remove something offensive.
The morning brought a griffon-mounted messenger from Saerloon. Rivalen had been a prophet. The messenger bore a missive from Lady Merelith, requesting terms for the peaceful turnover of her city. Tamlin's hands shook has he read it.
Let the hardships of the Sembian people end, she wrote. Let Saerloon and Selgaunt advance into the future in brotherhood.
Tamlin had heralds read the surrender on street corners and declared a holiday. The bells and gongs of Shar's new temple rang all morning.
Tamlin composed a response with the advice of Prince Rivalen. He agreed to an end to hostilities, required that Lady Merelith and her court publically abdicate, that Saerloon accept a regent appointed by Tamlin, and that the city allow a garrison of three hundred Selgauntan and Shadovar troops barracks within Saerloon's walls to ensure the peace.
"She will not accept these terms," Tamlin said to Rivalen.
"She will," Rivalen answered. "She has no choice. Choose as regent a trusted member of the Old Chauncel, perhaps one with mercantile ties to Saerloon. I will arrange the Shadovar contingent of the garrison."
----
Cale wandered the island as the setting sun ducked under the horizon and painted the shimmering surface of the Inner Sea in red and gold. The cries of gulls gave way to the steady heartbeat of the surf on the shore. Night crept out of its holes and hollows and slowly stretched its dark hand over the island, a sea-beset, solitary dot of rock.
He eventually found himself atop the low hill where they had buried Jak. A few of the stones marking the grave had fallen from the cairn. He replaced them, missing his friend, missing... many things. To one side of him the night-shrouded sea stretched out to the limits of his vision, black and impenetrable; the other side, the shadow-wrapped spire of Mask.
He crouched with his forearms on his knees and stared at Jak's grave. Patches of grass dotted the soil and poked up through the loose rock. Shadows curled around Cale, languid and dark. The wind blew and he fooled himself into thinking he smelled tobacco from Jak's pipe rather than sea salt. He felt eyes on him
"I take your point and agree with your recommendation."
"Excellent," Rivalen said. "And that returns us to Saerloon. Lady Merelith rules a city without an army. She broke it on these walls. She knows she must negotiate a peace. She may suspect the Shadowstorm to be a weapon unleashed by us against Ordulin. Before she learns otherwise, we should make Saerloon bend its knee to Selgaunt. And after Saerloon has surrendered, after the Saerbian forces are addressed, who will stand against Selgaunt's consolidation of the realm?"
"Perhaps Daerlun," Tamlin said, and sipped his wine. "But no other."
"Not even Daerlun," Rivalen said. "The high bergun is strengthened by the wall of a friendly Cormyr at his back. That wall will soon show cracks."
"Prince?"
"Many matters are afoot, Tamlin. I ask you to trust me. Do you?"
Tamlin had come too far to hesitate. "I do." "Then soon Sembia will name Selgaunt its capital and you its leader."
"But the Shadowstorm?"
"We will halt it ere it reaches Selgaunt."
"How?"
Rivalen looked across the table at Tamlin, irritation in his eyes. "Leave that to me, Hulorn."
Tamlin could not bear the weight of Rivalen's gaze. He felt, of a sudden, the way he had so many times when sitting across the table from his father. He looked into his wine chalice. The darkness turned the red wine black, made its depths limitless.
"I will obtain a Selgauntan fivestar for you, Prince," he said, and disliked the boyishness in his tone. "From the mint, and made this day."
"You are gracious, Hulorn," Rivalen said, and Tamlin ignored the hint of condescension he heard in the tone.
Rivalen soon returned to his quarters and Tamlin did not sleep, could not sleep. He continually found himself rubbing his right hand on his trousers, as if to remove something offensive.
The morning brought a griffon-mounted messenger from Saerloon. Rivalen had been a prophet. The messenger bore a missive from Lady Merelith, requesting terms for the peaceful turnover of her city. Tamlin's hands shook has he read it.
Let the hardships of the Sembian people end, she wrote. Let Saerloon and Selgaunt advance into the future in brotherhood.
Tamlin had heralds read the surrender on street corners and declared a holiday. The bells and gongs of Shar's new temple rang all morning.
Tamlin composed a response with the advice of Prince Rivalen. He agreed to an end to hostilities, required that Lady Merelith and her court publically abdicate, that Saerloon accept a regent appointed by Tamlin, and that the city allow a garrison of three hundred Selgauntan and Shadovar troops barracks within Saerloon's walls to ensure the peace.
"She will not accept these terms," Tamlin said to Rivalen.
"She will," Rivalen answered. "She has no choice. Choose as regent a trusted member of the Old Chauncel, perhaps one with mercantile ties to Saerloon. I will arrange the Shadovar contingent of the garrison."
----
Cale wandered the island as the setting sun ducked under the horizon and painted the shimmering surface of the Inner Sea in red and gold. The cries of gulls gave way to the steady heartbeat of the surf on the shore. Night crept out of its holes and hollows and slowly stretched its dark hand over the island, a sea-beset, solitary dot of rock.
He eventually found himself atop the low hill where they had buried Jak. A few of the stones marking the grave had fallen from the cairn. He replaced them, missing his friend, missing... many things. To one side of him the night-shrouded sea stretched out to the limits of his vision, black and impenetrable; the other side, the shadow-wrapped spire of Mask.
He crouched with his forearms on his knees and stared at Jak's grave. Patches of grass dotted the soil and poked up through the loose rock. Shadows curled around Cale, languid and dark. The wind blew and he fooled himself into thinking he smelled tobacco from Jak's pipe rather than sea salt. He felt eyes on him
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