"Where would she go?" he mused aloud. And then it struck him. "When would she go?"

Hope swelled in him, the antipode of Shar's despair. He hurried to his library to renew his search.

Rivalen rode the darkness back to Ordulin, back to his haunt among the cracked stones of the plaza. Upon arrival, his expanded consciousness took in every shadow in the maelstrom. The darkness was an extension of his mind and will. In the emptiness of the ruins he heard the voice of his goddess, who whispered dooms in his ears.

Wind gusted, tore at his cloak and hair. Forks of green lightning flashed again and again across the inky vault of the sky, dividing it into a shifting matrix of jagged angles, the bursts of light painting deeper shadows on the ruined landscape.

The hole of Shar's eye hung in the air before him, slowly rotating, imperceptibly expanding year by year, a void that would in time consume the world. Even Rivalen could not stare at it for long without feeling dizzy, nauseated. The hole took up space, but seemed apart from space, not a thing that existed but a thing that was the absence of existence.

Its depth seemed to go on forever, a hole that tunneled through the multiverse, a hole that would pull him and everything and everyone into its emptiness and stretch them across its length until all of existence was so thin that it simply ceased to be.

He felt her in there, Shar, or at least felt her essence. Her regard radiated out of the hole, like a poisonous annihilating cloud. The Shadowstorm had begun the Cycle of Night and heralded her arrival on Faern, and The Leaves of One Night, a singular tome sacred to Shar, held her here. Rivalen had recovered the tome from the ruins of the Shadowstorm. But she was trapped now, stuck in the middle of her incarnation.

Small pieces of The Leaves of One Night, bits of parchment, whipped in the wind around the hole like wounded birds, orbiting it the way the Tears orbited Selne, darting in and out of the void, as if Shar were reading them page by page.

But she wasn't reading them. She was writing them, writing them for Rivalen, so that he could read them and finish the Cycle of Night.

"Write the story," he whispered to himself.

Once, long ago, he'd possessed The Leaves of One Night. When he tried to read it then, he'd found the pages empty. He'd thought the emptiness profound, meaningful somehow. How wrong he'd been. They'd merely been incomplete. They'd merely been waiting.

He watched them flutter around Shar's eye, moths to the flame of her spite. He could see the black ink on the pages, characters, words, but the language was nothing he'd ever seen before. He needed a mortal filter to translate it, a despairing soul to serve as the lens. And that mortal filter would suffer in the process.

He intended to use Brennus. He'd lied when he said he hadn't killed his brother because they were already dead. He hadn't killed Brennus because he needed him, and because Brennus was not yet ripe for picking. The bitterness in his brother grew with each passing year, a tumor in Brennus's soul. Rivalen had heightened it by showing Brennus the murder of their mother.

Rivalen would read the book's words through the lens of his brother's bitterness and despair.

The thought made Rivalen smile. Shadows whirled around him.

The Leaves of One Night were said to articulate Shar's moment of greatest triumph-a ritual that would destroy a world-but also to suggest her moment of greatest weakness.

Of that Rivalen was doubtful.

He longed to read the book. He desired an end. He was tired; he existed only to complete the Cycle of Night, only to end Toril. And when that was done, either his goddess would reward him after death or he would pass into nothingness. Both appealed to him more than the state in which he currently existed.

Both Shar and Rivalen were aware that the powerful were moving in Toril. They knew that the gods and their Chosen were plotting, that something was happening with the overlapping worlds of Abeir and Toril. Wars were being fought all across Faern, the Silver Marches, the Dalelands. Rivalen understood those events no better than anyone, but he didn't need to, because he knew that all of it was for nothing. When he succeeded, the gods, their Chosen, and everyone else would precede him into the void, and then he would follow them to his own end.

Distantly, numbly, he admired Shar's ability to turn what had been his zeal to preserve himself into a zeal to end himself. When he'd first turned to her worship, when he'd murdered his mother to seal his oath to Shar, he'd done so, strangely, with a sense of hope. He'd recognized even then that everything must one day end, that Shar would have her eventual victory, but he'd thought that worshiping her would allow him to extend that day far into the future and that in the meanwhile he'd have power to make the world as he wished it.

How she must have laughed at his naivete. How she must have laughed hundreds of times, thousands of times on other worlds, with other nightseers, whose worship started in hope and ended in nihilism and annihilation.

"My bitterness is sweet to the Lady," he whispered.

Lightning split the sky. Darkness reigned. Shar's eye looked out on the world in hunger.

Chapter Five.

Vasen stood toward the rear of the abbey's northern courtyard, near a columned gate, arms crossed over his chest. A mail shirt and breastplate sheathed him under his traveling cloak. Sword and dagger hung from his weapon belt. His pack, stuffed full with the supplies he'd need for the journey, as well as some extra for needy pilgrims, lay on the ground near his feet. His most important possession, the rose holy symbol given him by the Oracle, the symbol that had belonged to Saint Abelar, hung from a lanyard around his throat.

The air smelled damp, rife with the promise of autumn's coming decay. Distant thunder rumbled in the black, starless sky, vibrating the earth under his feet, threatening to drop rain on the open-air courtyard. The gathered pilgrims did not seem to mind. At the moment, they did not see the darkness. They were, instead, awaiting the light. They had their backs to Vasen-young and old, thin and fat, tall and short-facing the high balcony that jutted from the side of the abbey's sanctum, where the Oracle would soon appear.

Cracked, age-pitted flagstones paved the courtyard, trod underfoot for decades by groups of pilgrims just like those who stood upon them now. The stones in the center of the courtyard had been inlaid with colored quartz to form a sunburst pattern, a symbol of Amaunator's light, defiant in the face of the perpetual darkness. None of the pilgrims stood upon the sunburst. Instead they surrounded it, orbiting it in faith.

Roses of gray stone, petrified by the passage of the Spellplague's blue fire a hundred years earlier, bordered the courtyard on three sides. They had been red and yellow once-or so Vasen had heard-but now they, like the sky, were forever gray, their forms eternally fixed, unchanging, bound forever to the valley.

Like Vasen.

Vasen felt eyes on him and turned. Orsin stood beside him, a larger pack than even Vasen's slung over his shoulders. Vasen had not heard him approach. The man's quiet was disconcerting, as was his gaze, with his eyes like opals, as if he were not man or even deva but some kind of construct.

"You move with less sound than a field mouse," Vasen whispered to him.

The corners of Orsin's mouth rose slightly in a smile. "Old habits." He cleared his throat. "Is it acceptable if I remain?"

"What do you mean?"

"Since I'm not of the faith," Orsin explained. "I'd understand if you wanted me to wait outside the courtyard and-"

Vasen shook his head. "No, no, stay. The Oracle's light won't diminish in the presence of your Mask-shadowed soul."

Orsin grinned and lowered his pack to the ground. "Nor your shadowed flesh."

"Indeed," Vasen said, and smiled. "Is this also ground you stood upon in another life?"

He meant the words as jest, but Orsin seemed to take them seriously, and glanced around.

"Not this particular ground, no. But I've stood on the ground to your right hand before."

Shadows leaked from Vasen's hands. "A joke, yes?"

Orsin smiled and nodded. "A joke, yes."

"You're more than a little strange."

Orsin clasped his hands behind his back. "Well, then, quite a pair are we."

Vasen chuckled. "Quite a pair."

For a time they stood beside one another in silence. Vasen admitted that Orsin at his side felt right, and the feeling struck him oddly. He had no one in his life he'd call friend, never had. Comrade, yes. Trusted ally, brother in faith, these he had in abundance. But a friend? He had none. His blood, the shadows that clung to him, set him apart from everyone else.

Except Orsin. And while they weren't exactly friends, he certainly felt . . . comfortable with the deva.

A distant chime rang from somewhere within the abbey and its sound cut through the murmur of the pilgrims. They fell silent as the chime sounded ten times, a ring for each hour of daylight at that time of year.

"Dawn follows night and chases the darkness," Vasen whispered.

The chiming ended and the pilgrims shifted as one, their collective movement an expectant assurance over the cobblestones. They inhaled audibly as the Oracle emerged from an archway, his hand on his dog, Browny, and stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the courtyard. "The Oracle," one of the pilgrims whispered.

"Look at his eyes," said another.

Kindled by Amaunator's touch, the Oracle's eyes glowed orange in the dim light. His colorful robes seemed illuminated from within, a stark contrast with the dull gray of the day. He seemed more real than the world, too bright for Sembia's drab air, a portion of the sun come to earth. Age lines seamed his clean-shaven face, crevasses in his flesh. His platinum holy symbol hung from a thong around his neck-a rose in a sunburst.

Vasen's hand went to the symbol he wore, a rose, the symbol of Amaunator in his morning guise of Lathander. It felt warm to the touch, sun-kissed.

The Oracle patted Browny, and the magical dog lay on the balcony beside his master. Putting his hands on the balustrade, the Oracle stared down at the assembled pilgrims. Vasen imagined him seeing not the world but the possibilities of the world. A smile pulled the Oracle's lips from his rotted teeth and he raised his hands. Heads bowed, including Vasen's, including Orsin's, and a reverent hush fell.

"His light keep you," the Oracle said, his voice forceful, portentous.

As one the pilgrims and Vasen looked up and recited the ritual answer. "And warm you, Oracle."

The presence of so many faithful warmed Vasen's heart, as it always did. It pleased him that, for the moment, at least, no shadows leaked from his skin.

"You braved the journey to this abbey to see the light that lives in the darkness."

"Yes, Oracle," the pilgrims answered.

"You need not have come. The light lives not here but in each of you. We are all but humble servants to the Dawnfather."

Smiles around, murmured thanks, nodded heads.

"I hope that the time you spent here, although brief, has kindled a blaze in your heart."

More nods and murmured assent.

"Carry that with you always as the world changes around you. The path ahead is fraught for all of Toril. Be a light to others, a torch in the deep that shows the way. Will you do this?"

A resounding shout. "We will!"

The Oracle nodded. "I have met with each of you, seen for each of you."

Orsin shifted his feet at that and Vasen didn't miss it. The Oracle continued: "I know you all would have preferred to remain longer. But it is important now that you return to the lands of the sun, before the war in the Dales, a war that has already cost many of you a great deal, makes it impossible to get you safely through. Go forth with his light and warmth upon you. Be a light to a world in which war and darkness threaten."

"Bless you, Oracle," said many.

"Thank you, Oracle," said others.

"The light is in him," said another.

And with that, the Oracle backed away from the balustrade. Browny stood and came to his side. The Oracle placed his hand on the large canine's shoulder and the two of them moved off into the abbey.

The moment he removed himself from view, the pilgrims turned to one another smiling, laughing, embracing, alight with the Oracle's blessing. Vasen turned to Orsin.

"You seemed affected by his words when he mentioned a seeing. Did he see for you?"

"He did," Orsin said. "The first day I was here."

Vasen was mildly incredulous. "The first day? But you're not. . ."

"Among the faithful? Very good. He knew that."

Vasen had never heard of the Oracle performing a seeing for someone not of the faith. "Then what did he-" He stopped himself mid-question. "Forgive me. His words are for you alone. I was just . . . surprised to hear this."

Orsin wore a peculiar expression, a half smile, perhaps. "As was I. And I'll tell you what he told me, if you wish."

Vasen stared at Orsin but said nothing.

"He told me to walk in the woods of the valley this day, and to do so exactly where we met."

Shadows curled out of Vasen's skin. His eyes went to the balcony, now empty. "That's what he told you?"

Orsin nodded. "He wanted us to meet, I presume."

Vasen nodded absently, puzzled.

"When do we leave?" Orsin asked.

"Right now," Vasen said. He stepped forward and called for the pilgrims' attention.

Faces turned toward him and he watched their expressions fall. They'd gone from looking upon the face of the Oracle, lit with Amaunator's light, to looking upon Vasen, with his dusky skin and yellow eyes.

"The Oracle has spoken. Today is the most auspicious time for us to leave."

Resigned faces, nods.

"I'll lead the squad of Dawnswords that will take you back to your homes." Shadows leaked from his skin, wisps of night that diffused into the dusky air. More nods.

"I didn't lead you here, but I'll lead you back. I've made this passage many times. The rules are the same going out as they were coming in. Stay close together. You experienced the pass coming in and know how easy it would be to get lost there. Don't heed the voices of the spirits. They won't harm you. Once we've cleared the mountains, make little noise. The aberrations of the plains are attracted to sound. As we near the Dalelands, we'll have to watch carefully for Sembian troops. We know ways to get through. Fear not."

The import of his words caused the pilgrims' expressions to cloud. He saw fear settling on them, watched it fill the lonely places in their spirit that their courage had left vacant. They'd always known in theory what it would mean to once more dare the dark of the Sembian plains and run the gauntlet of an ongoing war, but the reality of it, its immediacy after only ten days in the valley, was hitting them now.

Vasen continued, his tone even. "Be aware of your surroundings. You're all eyes and ears until we see the sun. Signal to me or another Dawnsword if you notice anything that causes you alarm. Anything. And if I or another member of my squad gives you an instruction, follow it without question or delay. Your life and ours may depend on it. Do you understand?"

Nods all around, murmured assent.

The youngest of the pilgrims, a boy of ten or eleven, took hold of his mother's hand, fear in his wide eyes. She absently mussed his hair, her own gaze distant, haunted. An elderly gray-haired woman, so thin she looked like a bag of dry sticks, smiled crookedly at Vasen.

He winked at her, smiled. "I'll die to keep you safe. My oath on that. Now, gear up. Your packs are already prepared and await you in your quarters. We leave within the hour."

"Only an hour?" someone asked.

"The Oracle has spoken," Vasen said, and that was that.

The pilgrims filed past him as they returned to their quarters to gather their packs. Several touched his shoulder or offered him a thankful gaze. He smiled in return, nodded.