The devils growled but did not charge him.

"Kill him!" Zeeahd shrieked.

The beam of light faded, as did the light in the Oracle's eyes. His expression slackened, grew childlike. His mouth fell open partially and split in a dumb smile. He spoke a single word, his tone that of a lack wit, not the leader of a congregation, not the head of an abbey that had provided light in darkness for a century.

"Papa," the Oracle said.

The devils snarled and bounded forward. The Oracle closed his eyes and started to fall but before he hit the floor, the devils struck his body at a run and drove him to the stone floor. Claws and fangs tore into his body, ripping robes, ripping flesh. Blood spread in a pool across the floor.

The devils lapped at the gore eagerly, chuffing, snorting, but then they began to whine, then to shriek as their flesh began to smoke. The dead Oracle's flesh glowed on their muzzles and claws. They squirmed like mad things, snarling, growling, spitting, trying to get the Oracle's gore off of them. Their skin began to sizzle, bubble, and melt. They shrieked a final time as their hides sloughed from their bones, the spines falling like rain to the floor, their organs melting into putrescence.

Zeeahd could only watch it, mesmerized, horrified, as even in death the Oracle took his final revenge.

Rage rose in him, hatred, darker and fouler even than the sputum he'd left on the floor, hatred for Abelar, for the Oracle, for himself and what he had become, for daring to hope.

"Oracle!" came a third shout from down below, perhaps at the base of the stairs.

Zeeahd dared the devils' fate. He turned and kicked what was left of the Oracle's body, once, twice, again, again. Nothing happened to him, and he warmed to the task, venting his rage in violence. Bones broke, flesh split, and blood seeped from the rag doll corpse. But his outburst served only to amplify his rage, not abate it. He began to cough during his tirade, felt again the stirring in his innards, but did not care. He stared at the image of Abelar Corrinthal, carved in the wood surface of the bier. The peaceful expression. He spit on the image, slammed a fist on the wood. His skin split and blood marred Abelar's visage.

"You! You! You are why all of this has happened to me!"

He seized the lid of the bier and with a grunt threw it to the side, revealing the wrapped, mummified body within.

"You have rest!" he shouted to Abelar. "You have peace! And I have nothing but the promise of the Hells! Because of you!"

"The life he lived brought him peace," said a strong, firm voice behind him. "The life you've lived will bring you something far worse."

Zeeahd turned slowly, a snarl on his lips. The man who stood at the entrance to the shrine was only slightly shorter than Sayeed. Long, dark hair was pulled off his strong-jawed face in a horse's tail. The beard and moustache he wore did not disguise the violence promised by the hard line of his mouth. Dull, gray plate armor wrapped his broad body. He carried a shield emblazoned with a battle-scarred rose, a large, dark blade from which darkness poured. A thin stream of shadow led off from the blade back the way the man had come. Shadows emerged in flickers from his exposed flesh.

Zeeahd's fists clenched. "There is nothing worse!"

The man stepped into the room. Zeeahd backed off a step, his stomach writhing with hell.

Vasen took in the remains of the devils, the body of the Oracle, the defiled bier of Dawnlord Abelar. He fixed his gaze on the thin man.

"My name is Vasen Cale. My father was Erevis Cale. I'm the one you've been trying to find."

"And yet you found me," the man said, and a maniacal laugh slipped past his lips. The laugh turned to wet coughing.

Vasen took another step into the room, trailing shadows, bearing light. The man backed away from the bier, toward the double doors behind him. His eyes darted back and forth, as if he were awaiting something.

"Here he is, Lord of Cania," the man said, and pointed a bony finger at Vasen. "He's found. The son of Cale. Now free me of this!"

The man coughed, gagged. Vasen could make no sense of his babblings and didn't need to. He needed only to kill him.

He held up Abelar's shield and Weaveshear. "This is the Dawnlord's shield and this is my father's sword. I'm going to kill you with them."

The man shrieked with despair, rage, and hate, spitting black phlegm as he did.

"Where is your promise now, Lord of Cania?" The man glared at the dark places in the room as if they held some secret. "I've done what you asked! I've done it! Here he is! Free me!"

"You're mad," Vasen said.

The man glared at Vasen, his breathing a forge bellows. "Maybe I am mad. And maybe I'll be freed only if you're dead!"

He raised his hands and a line of fire exploded outward from his palms. Vasen raised his shield and the fire slammed into the steel, drove him back a step. Shadows poured from Vasen's flesh, from Weaveshear, and those from the blade surrounded the fire in darkness and contained it.

Still the man continued to shout, an animal cry of mindless hate, the fire pouring from his hands, black spit pouring from his mouth.

Licks of flame ignited the biers and spread to one of the wall tapestries, which quickly turned into a curtain of fire. In moments the entire room was ablaze.

Vasen pushed against the fire, enduring the heat, one step, another.

"Vasen!" he heard from the stairway below. "Vasen!"

"Here!" he called, the flames licking around his shield.

Orsin and Gerak ran up to the doorway behind him and stopped, eyes wide at the conflagration. Gerak drew and aimed with his usual rapidity, but the thin man separated his hands and sent a second line of fire into the bowman. It hit Gerak squarely in the chest and knocked him against the wall. He quickly aimed another blast at Orsin, but the deva dived aside and dodged it.

The man laughed. "I'll kill you all! Then I'll be free. Watch, Lord of Cania! Watch!"

Gerak's bow sang and an arrow thunked into the man's shoulder. The man grimaced with pain, staggered back, hunched, snarling. His flames faltered. He raised his left hand to unleash another blast of fire, but again Gerak's bow spoke first and a second arrow sank into the man, this time his left shoulder. The impact spun the man around and he shouted with pain.

"Die," Gerak said.

A third arrow buried itself in his left thigh, and the man went down. He collapsed, coughing, spitting gouts of black phlegm.

Gerak stepped beside Vasen, nocked and drew again, sighting for the man's throat. Vasen lowered his shield and weapon and watched. The man deserved death, and Gerak had earned the right to give it to him.

Gerak's bowstring creaked as he drew back to his ear.

The man writhed frenetically on the floor, snapping the arrows stuck in his body, his arms wrapped around his stomach, screaming wildly, maniacally, between coughs. His body pulsed, roiled, as if something within him were trying to get out.

"It hurts!" he shouted. "Kill me! Kill me!"

"Give him no relief," Orsin said. "He deserves what pain comes his way."

Gerak sighted along his arrow, and after a long pause, lowered his bow.

The man rolled over onto his stomach, dark, bloodshot eyes staring out of the pale oval of his face. His teeth, crooked and stained black, bared in a snarl.

"I'll kill you! All of you!"

He lifted himself on his wounded arms, grunting against the pain, and staggered to his feet. He lifted a hand at them. Vasen readied his shield and Gerak readied a killing shot, but before the man could discharge any fire, his eyes filled with pain and fear. He went rigid, threw his head back, and uttered a piercing shriek of pain. His back arched and he cast his arms out wide, his hands bent like claws. Tapestries and the biers burned all around him.

"Suffer, bastard!" Gerak shouted. "Suffer like she did."

"We should go," Orsin said. "The other one's still alive, and many devils besides."

Vasen nodded. Shadows poured off of him, off of Weaveshear, and led off down the abbey's corridors.

Another scream from the man, a wet gurgle that ended in him vomiting a black rope of phlegm down the front of his robes. He put his hands on his face, screaming, as black fluid poured from his eyes, his nose, his ears, saturating his robes.

"This is not what you promised!" the man screamed. "This is not what you promised!"

Snarls and the heavy, scrabbling tread of clawed feet on the floor of the corridor behind the man grew loud enough to hear over his screams and the crackle of the flames.

"They're coming," Orsin said.

"You've seen what you need to see," Vasen said to Gerak. "Leave him to suffer or kill him. Your decision."

Gerak looked at the screaming man, seemingly insensate of all but his pain. Anger twisted Gerak's expression and he drew, nocked, and fired. An arrow sank to the fletching in the screaming man. He seemed barely to notice the wound as black fluid poured from the hole.

"Gerak," Orsin said.

But Gerak was past hearing him. He drew again, fired. Drew, nocked, and fired, the arrows coming so fast that Vasen was dumbstruck. In moments, six more arrows sprouted from the man's flesh . Black, putrescent fluid poured from the wounds, but still he stood, screaming, bleeding, dying, changing.

"We have to go!" Orsin said, as something large and strong slammed into the double doors behind the dying, bleeding man.

The man uttered an inhuman shriek as the skin on his thin body cracked and split, blood and ichor spraying the room all around as something expanded within him, his flesh an egg birthing a horror.

"No!" he screamed. "No!"

Sharp claws burst in a black spray from the tips of his fingers. His spine lengthened with a wet, cracking sound, making him taller, thinner. He screamed in agony as the transformation twisted his body. His skull elongated, the jaw widened. His teeth rained out of his mouth as fangs burst from his gums to replace them. His voice deepened. An appendage burst from his back, a bony tail that ended in a spiked wedge of bone that looked like a halberd blade. The devil-a bone devil, Vasen realized-used its clawed fingers to help it slip the rest of the man's flesh and body, as if it were undressing.

"We must go," Orsin said.

Vasen took Gerak by the arm. "She's avenged, Gerak. Elle is avenged. Come on."

The bone devil stood like a man but twice as tall, its nude body the color of old ivory, the flesh pulled so tight over it that it seemed composed of nothing but skin, sinew, and bone. Hate burned in eyes the black of the phlegm that polluted the floor. Fingers on its overlarge hands ended in black claws the length of a knife blade. The devil clacked them together, as if trying out a new toy.

Finally the double door behind gave way and a half-dozen spined devils and Sayeed burst through. All of them pulled up at the sight of the towering bone devil.

Sayeed's emotionless, dead eyes went to the ripped pile of flesh gathered around the clawed feet of the devil, the face of the thin man still visible at the top of it, the eye sockets staring, the slack mouth open in a scream.

"Zeeahd?" Sayeed said, his blade limp at his side.

Orsin took hold of Vasen and Gerak, his grip like iron. "We have our path." He nodded at the line of shadows that led from Weaveshear down the hall, away from the devils. "We must go. Right now."

"This is freedom, Sayeed," the devil said, his voice deep and gravely. "Freedom at last."

Sayeed fell to his knees, staring at the devil. His expression went slack and Vasen saw something in him die. The spined devils abased themselves before their larger kin.

Vasen, Orsin, and Gerak turned and ran.

Before they'd taken five strides, he heard the bone devil say, "Kill them all."

Vasen turned to see the spined devils tumble into the hall behind them, all spines and scales and teeth. They launched dozens of spines from their twisted forms, the quills lighting up as they flew.

He channeled Amaunator's power through his shield and it blazed rosecolored light across the entire corridor. The quills hit the light and fell inert to the ground. Vasen turned back and ran on, following the twisting tendril of shadow put before him by Weaveshear.

The devils shrieked and gave chase, their claws clicking over the floors. Orsin plowed down the stair and through a set of doors, and Vasen slammed them shut behind them, hoping to delay the devils. He held Weaveshear before him, following the thread it offered. He had no idea where it would lead.

"It could be nothing!" he shouted to Orsin, indicating the thread of shadow that led them on.

"Follow it," Orsin said. "Trust me! It's happened before!"

Every corner they turned, every door they opened, Vasen feared encountering more devils, but the way remained clear. They burst through an outer door and into the northern courtyard, sprinting over the smooth flagstones and the shining sun symbol of Amaunator.

"The sword is leading us into the valley," Gerak said. "We'll be exposed in the woods. We should find a defensible spot and make a stand."

"Always you want to make a stand," Orsin said with a grin, pulling him along. "Keep moving!"

The devils burst through the doors behind them, caught sight of the three comrades, and loosed a hail of flaming spines. The missiles thudded into the walls, burning.

"Keep going!" Vasen said, and shoved Gerak forward. "Follow the line! Follow the line!"

They cleared the courtyard, the outbuildings and livestock pens, and sprinted into the pines. The devils pursued relentlessly. Vasen could hear them roaring and growling not only behind but off to either side.

Brennus stood before the tarnished scrying cube, his mind racing.

"Look, now?" the homunculi asked. One of the constructs was perched on each of his shoulders.

Brennus nodded. He raised a hand and shot a charge of power into the scrying cube, activating it. The tarnish on its silver surface flowed together to make dark clouds, revealing the shining metal surface beneath.

Shadows spun around him wildly, aping the wild beating of his heart. He took the rose holy symbol in one hand, took his mother's necklace in the other, held them before him, the two pieces of jewelry crafted thousands of years apart, yet together forming another piece of the puzzle he'd long sought to solve.

He'd tried to scry the Abbey of the Rose hundreds of times and always failed. He had concluded that it was a myth. He knew better now. He'd tried to scry the son of Erevis Cale just as often, and also failed, and so concluded that Cale's son was dead or out of reach. But now he knew better about that, too. Before those examples, the only other person or thing he'd been unable to scry had been Erevis Cale himself, and that was because Mask had shielded Cale from Brennus's divinations. But Mask was dead, was he not? So who was shielding Cale's son?

Everything had come together at just the right time. He thought Mask must have somehow been at the root of it. Brennus was probably helping the Lord of Shadows somehow, and that was fine with him. By helping Mask, he was, presumably, hurting Shar. And hurting Shar meant hurting Rivalen. And hurting Rivalen was all he cared about.

"Now for the test," he murmured.

Possession of Cale's son's holy symbol would hopefully provide the focus he needed to pierce the wards, whatever their source.

His homunculi rubbed their hands together, reflecting his eagerness.

Holding the rose in his fingers, he held his hands above his head and incanted the words to one of his most powerful divinations. He focused the spell's seeing eye on Cale's son, on the Abbey of the Rose, and let power pour from him. Magic charged the shadows swirling around his body, veined them in red and orange, and they extended to the face of the scrying cube and joined with the churning black clouds of the tarnish.

The silver face of the cube took on depth, darkened, but showed him nothing. His spell reached across Sembia, feeling for the focus of the spell. Brennus continued to pour power into the spell until sweat soaked him, fell in rivulets down his face. He held the rose symbol so tightly in his palm that the edges bit into his flesh. The homunculi squeaked with fear and covered their eyes as ever more power gathered.

Dots of orange light formed on the surface of the cube, like stars in the deep. Controlling his exhilaration, he willed the scrying eye of the divination to move closer, realized that he was looking down from on high at a mountain valley. The orange lights were burning trees. Struggling to control a rush of emotion, he forced the eye of the spell downward so he could make out details. A river divided the valley. Tarns dotted it here and there. Ancient pines covered it in a blanket of green. Many of them burned, with fires blazing here and there throughout the woods. He saw movement among the trees all over the valley, but ignored it for now. Instead, he focused on the structures partially screened by the pines. Although dark, he recognized it as a temple or abbey.

"I have you," he said.

He moved the scrying eye to the frenetic motion he saw among the burning pines. Perspective blurred as the eye whirled across the valley, focusing on three men pelting through the woods. One of them, tall, dark-skinned, and with darkness clinging to his flesh, had to be the scion of Cale. The others, a deva and a bow-armed human, were his companions. Spined devils bounded through the woods in pursuit of the men. A single bone devil plodded through the woods, too.

The devils meant that Mephistopheles was somehow involved. Not surprising given the Lord of Cania's connection to Mask. Brennus could not let Cale's son be killed or taken by agents of the Archfiend. Brennus needed the son, needed to know what he knew, what he was, and how he could use the son to harm Rivalen.