"From ends, beginnings, from darkness, light, from tragedy, triumph. Night gives way to dawn, and dawn to noon. Stand in the warmth and purifying light of Amaunator who was Lathander and fear nothing. Fear nothing, Varra."

She felt herself fading, slipping. The room darkened.

"Care for him," she whispered to Derreg.

"Him?" Derreg said.

Varra nodded. She knew the child would be a son, a son for the father, the spirits in the pass had told her. "His name is Vasen. After his father."

"I will, Varra," Derreg said. "I promise."

Varra heard a rush like roaring surf. The room darkened. She could no longer see. She felt herself drifting, floating in warm water, sinking . . .

She heard a tiny cough, then a newborn's cry, the defiant call of her son as he entered a world of light and darkness.

She smiled, drifted, thought of Erevis, of Derreg, and feared nothing.

Derreg had slain many men in combat, had seen battlefields littered with corpses, but he had to force himself to look on Varra's body, at the bloodsoaked bed, at the opening in her abdomen out of which Erdan, the priest, had mined the child. Her face, finally free of pain, looked as pale as a new moon.

He could not release her still-warm hand. He held onto it as if with it he could pull her back to life.

"She is gone," the midwife said. "Gone to light."

Derreg nodded. He'd known Varra perhaps two hours, but he had felt a connection with her, a whispered hint of what might have been had they met under other circumstances. Through sixty winters he had never married, and now he knew why. He was to meet his love only in the twilight of his life, and he was to know her for less than a day.

He thanked Amaunator for that, at least.

"What's wrong with it?" the midwife said, her exclamation pulling Derreg's attention from Varra.

Hand to her mouth, the midwife backed away a step from the birthing bed, a step away from the child. Erdan, eyes as wide as coins, held the baby out at arm's length, as he might something foul.

The child, pinched, dark, and bloody, his legs kicking, cried in sharp gasps. The umbilical cord still connected him to Varra, and a thin vein of shadow twined around the cord's length and slowly snaked toward the child as if the baby-Vasen, Varra had named him-had received nourishment not only from blood but also from darkness. Vasen's eyes flashed yellow with each of his wails.

"It's born of the Shadovar!" said Erdan, and looked as if he might drop the child. "Look at it! The darkness moves toward it!"

Vasen's appearance and the coil of shadow around the umbilical made the claim hard to deny, but deny it Derreg did.

"He's born of this woman, Erdan. And his name is Vasen."

The child kicked, wailed.

"It must be killed, Derreg," Erdan said, although uncertainty colored his tone, and he paled as he spoke. "If the Shadovar learn of the abbey . . ."

"Killed?" the midwife said, and put her hand to her mouth. "A child? You cannot!"

"No," Derreg said, his hand still holding Varra's, feeling it cool. "We cannot. You heard me give this woman my word. I'll keep it." He let go of Varra's hand and held out his arms for the child. "Give him to me."

Erdan looked dumbfounded, his mouth half open. His two rotten front teeth looked as dark as Vasen's skin.

"Give him to me, Erdan. It's not a request."

The priest blinked, handed the blood-slicked boy to Derreg, then wiped his bloody hands on his yellow robes.

Vasen stilled in Derreg's hands. His small form felt awkward, fragile. Derreg's hands were accustomed to holding hard steel and worn leather, not a babe. Shadows coiled around the baby, around Derreg's forearms.

"You'd damn us all for the child of a stranger?" Erdan said, his tone as much puzzled as angry.

Derreg did not bother to explain that he did not regard Varra as a stranger. "I gave my word."

"I must take this to the abbot. I take no responsibility-"

"Yes," Derreg snapped, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice. "You take no responsibility. I understand that quite well."

Erdan tried to hold Derreg's gaze, failed.

"Give me the knife," Derreg said.

"What?"

"The knife, man. I can't use a sword on the cord."

Muttering, Erdan handed Derreg the small knife he'd used to cut open Varra's womb. With it, Derreg cut the shadow-veined umbilical, separating boy from mother, then wrapped him in one of the sheets stained with Varra's blood.

"You must find a-" the priest began.

"Shut up, Erdan," Derreg said. "I know he'll require a wet nurse. I'm childless, not a dolt."

"Of course," Erdan said. He stared quizzically at the boy. "The shadows, Derreg. What is he if not a shade?"

"What he is," Derreg said. "Is my son."

Holding the boy against his chest, Derreg stepped to Varra's side and leaned over her so the boy could see his mother's face. Her mouth was frozen in a half smile, her dark eyes open and staring.

"That is your mother, Vasen. Her name was Varra."

"You know the abbot will consult the Oracle," said Erdan. "You risk much."

"Perhaps," Derreg said. He stared down at the tiny, bloody child in his arms-the tiny nose, the strange yellow eyes, the dusky skin, the thin black hair slicked back on his small head. He resolved that he would not turn Vasen over to the abbot, no matter what the Oracle said. "If the Oracle sees danger in the child, I'll take him from here. But I won't abandon him."

Erdan studied him for a moment, then said, "I will see to the woman's- burial. And we'll see what the abbot and Oracle say. Perhaps I'm mistaken. I was . . . surprised by the boy's appearance and spoke hastily. Harshly, perhaps."

"It's forgotten, Erdan," Derreg said softly. He knew the priest to be a good man.

"I'll prepare her . . . body for the rituals," said the midwife. "I, too, was-"

The lantern light dimmed and the shadows deepened. The child uttered a single cry and burrowed his face into Derreg's chest.

Derreg felt pressure on his ears, felt the air grow heavy and found it difficult to draw breath. The shadows in the far corner of the room swirled like a thunderhead, their hypnotic motion giving Derreg an instant headache. He caught a pungent, spicy whiff of smoke, the smell somehow redolent of times old and gone.

"By the light," said the midwife, fear raising her voice an octave.

The shadows coalesced. A presence manifested in the darkness.

"Shadovar," Erdan hissed. "I told you, Derreg!" Then, to the midwife, "Get aid! Go!"

She ran from the room without looking back, stumbling over the bloody sheets in her haste.

The entire room fell deeper into darkness, the lantern's flame reduced to the light of a distant star.

Cradling Vasen against his chest, Derreg drew his blade and took a step backward, toward the door. "Go, Erdan. Now."

"You have the child," Erdan said, taking his holy symbol in his hand. "You go."

An orange light flared in the darkness-the glowing embers of a pipe bowl. They lit the face of the man who resided in the shadows, a man who was the shadows.

Long black hair hung loose around a swarthy, pockmarked visage. A goatee surrounded the sneer he formed around the pipe's stem. He was missing an eye and the scarred, empty socket looked like a hole that went on forever. The embers in the pipe went dark and the man once more disappeared into the shadows.

"Maybe you should both stay," the man said, and the lock bolt on the door slid into place.

Erdan looked at the door, at the man, back at the door, his rapid breathing audible.

"You won't need your blade, knight of Lathander," the man said to Derreg. "Or is it Amaunator these days? I haven't kept up."

Erdan intoned the words to a prayer and the pipe flared again, showing the man's face twisted in a frown.

"Close your mouth," the man said to Erdan, his voice as sharp-edged as a blade. "Your words are empty."

Erdan's mouth audibly shut. His eyes widened and he doubled over and pawed at his face, moaning behind his lips as if they were sealed shut.

"Priests," the man said contemptuously, shaking his head as the light from the pipe died and the darkness engulfed him.

"Release him," Derreg said, nodding at Erdan, and advancing a step toward the man. The baby went still in the cradle of Derreg's arm.

The man took a long drag on his pipe, and the light showed him smiling. "Well enough. He's released."

Erdan opened his mouth, gasped. "By the light!"

"Hardly by the light," the man said. "But you needn't fear. I'm not here for either of you." He nodded at Vasen. "I'm here for him."

Derreg cradled Vasen more tightly to his chest. The boy remained eerily still, his yellow eyes like embers. Derreg recalled Varra's words to him about a dark man who had changed the boy. He tightened his grip on his blade's hilt.

"You're the child's father?"

The man exhaled smoke and stepped closer to them, shedding some of the darkness that clung to him. He moved with the precision of a skilled combatant. Twin sabers hung from his belt and the hilt of a larger sword-sheathed on his back-peeked over his shoulder. His one good eye fixed not on Derreg but on Vasen, then on Varra. Derreg could read nothing in his expression.

"Are you the father?" Derreg repeated. "The dark man?"

"Oh, I am a dark man," the man said, smiling softly. "But I'm not the father. And I'm not the dark man you mean, at least not exactly."

He was suddenly standing directly before Derreg. Had he crossed the room?

The man extended a finger toward Vasen-the baby still did not move-but stopped before touching him. A stream of shadow stretched from the man's fingertip and touched Vasen, for a moment connecting man and child, an umbilical of another sort, perhaps.

"How peculiar," the man said, and withdrew his finger.

"How so?" Derreg asked, and turned his body to shield the child from the man's touch.

"His father was Erevis Cale," the man said, still staring at the child. "And I've been searching for this child for some . . . time."

Derreg heard the echo of some distant pain in the man's utterance of Cale's name. He knew the name, of course. His father, Regg, had spoken of Cale often, had watched Cale destroy a godling at the battle of Sakkors.

"Erevis Cale? Abelar's traveling companion?"

Shadows spun about the man. His lips curled with contempt.

"Traveling companion? Is that how he's remembered?" He shook his head. "You've lost much more than half this world to the Spellplague. And you'll lose more of it yet if the cycle runs it course."

"The cycle?" Derreg asked.

"You're Drasek Riven," said Erdan, his voice rapid, excited. "By the light, you are!"

The man inclined his head. "Partly."

Derreg did not understand the cryptic comment. He'd heard Riven's name in tales, too. "You can't take the child, Drasek Riven. I gave my word."

"Do you think you could stop me?" Riven asked.

Derreg blinked and licked his lips, but held his ground. "No. But I'd try."

Riven leaned in close, studied Derreg's face. His breath smelled of smoke. "I believe you. That's good."

"You haven't aged," blurted Erdan, stepping closer to Riven, curiosity pinching his wrinkled face into a question. "You're not Shadovar?"

Riven turned to face Erdan and the priest blanched, retreated. "My kinship with darkness runs deeper than that of the Shadovar, priest. And I won't tell you again to keep your mouth closed. You're a witness to this, nothing more."

Erdan's eyes widened even as his mouth closed.

"You knew my father," Derreg said. "He spoke of you sometimes."

"Just sometimes, eh?" Riven drew on his pipe, a faint smile on his face, a distant memory in his eye. "I confess I'm not surprised."

"When he talked about those days he spoke mostly of Dawnlord Abelar."

"Dawnlord?" Riven looked up and past Derreg. His brow furrowed as he wrestled down some memory. "What is that? Some kind of holy title?"

"Of course it's holy," said Erdan, his tone as defiant as he dared. "His tomb is in this abbey. Pilgrims come from across Faern to lay eyes on it."

"You . . . question his holiness?" Derreg said.