Those dire voices cast more chill than an Alturiak gale.
In answer, Cale's sword vibrated and cast off more wisps of darkness.
I don't know, Cale said to his comrades, to cut off the questions he felt forming in their minds.
'Trickster's toes,' Jak said.
The moaning abruptly ceased, and Cale's sword stopped vibrating. A silent communication seemed to pass between the shadows and they parted like a curtain to allow Cale and his comrades passage.
Jak's voice sounded in Cale's head, Whatever was in that starsphere went into your sword.
Cale nodded, and hoped again that whatever had transformed his sword had not transformed him, too. Cale looked at his blade. The dull steel still emitted streamers of shadow. He thought of the strange language that Riven had learned in his dreams, the speaking of which struck like a physical blow. He saw Mask's hand in both the sword and the words.
Sephris's voice sounded in his memory: Two and two are four.
Cale led his comrades through the shadows, which dispersed after they passed.
The statues that littered the courtyard were of extraordinary craftsmanship. Carved from black veined marble, basalt, obsidian, or ebony, all depicted what could only be a god or goddess of night. Many appeared as old and worn as the multiverse. Others likely had seen only a century or two. Intuitively, Cale understood the deities represented there to be gods and goddesses of darkness, night, or shadows on a hundred different worlds.
Who sculpted these? Jak asked, and even his mental voice held a touch of awe.
Cale wondered the same thing.
A metal plaque on the pedestal of each set forth the name of the represented deity. Most were in tongues or alphabets that even Cale had never before seen, but-
He stopped before a towering blacksteel sculpture of a long, dark-haired woman in a flowing cloak-the largest, most conspicuous sculpture in the courtyard. A cowl partially hid her features, but her mouth smiled knowingly. The plaque at the base was engraved in Thorass, an ancient form of common on Faerun-Shar, it read. The Dark Maiden, Keeper of the Secret Weave.
Beside and slightly behind the statue of Shar, nearly hidden in its shadow, stood another statue, smaller and carved from black hematite: A one-legged human male in thieving leathers, with a cowled cloak pulled up to reveal only the lower half of his face. He seemed to be looking up at Shar from the shadows and sneering.
The expression reminded Cale of Riven.
In its hand, the statue held a long sword that looked strikingly similar to Cale's own. Cale's heart raced as he read the plaque: Mask, it read, and nothing more, as if any more than that one word was unnecessary.
'Dark and empty,' whispered Jak, repeatedly eyeing Riven, Cale, and the statue.
Who are you two? asked Magadon, trepidation evident in his mental voice.
For the only time in his life, Cale wasn't sure of the answer to that question. He shared a look with Riven-the assassin's face had gone pale-then averted his gaze. He looked to the statue's missing leg, then to the stump of his wrist.
Who am I? he thought to the Lord of Shadows, echoing Magadon's question. The statue only answered him with a sneer and silence.
He took a deep breath.
'Cyric is Vraggen's god and he is not represented here,' Cale said. 'The mage has been allowed passage only because he wields Shar's Shadow Weave. But he still is not welcome.' He looked to Riven and said, 'This is more our temple than his.'
Riven nodded and said, 'Let's end it.'
Together, the four comrades sprinted for the doors of the Fane.
Vraggen uttered a word of opening and the double doors to the sanctum flew open. In the Grand Hall behind them, they had passed many gifts, many weapons. None of them interested Vraggen. If he was entitled to take only one prize from there, as the caretaker had told him, he would take only what lay beyond these doors.
'Come,' he said to Azriim and Serrin. 'Time is short.'
With that, he walked through the doors. They closed behind them.
A domed ceiling soared above the circular floor of the sanctum. The black, gem-encrusted ceiling was a representation of Faerun's moonless night sky, exactly as the sky appeared in the star globe, exactly as the sky appeared on the surface above. It seemed to shimmer, as though it was made of water rather than stone. Vraggen knew that the ceiling changed to reflect the sky of the world in which the Fane currently existed. A marvel, really.
A border of inlaid amethyst circumscribed the polished slate floor, giving the whole the look of a black sphere bordered in purple: Shar's symbol. Though the Fane served the dark gods of many worlds, it was one goddess- Shar-who had first created it, who had first created the Shadow Weave; Shar, whose beautiful, dark house this was.
In the center of the sanctum sat a basalt, horseshoe-shaped altar inlaid with dusky opals and black pearls.
A purple altar cloth, marked with the symbol of Shar, lay draped over it.
That altar was where Vraggen's transformation would occur.
In the area of the ceiling directly above the altar, no stars glittered in the sky. Instead, a small circular area, devoid of light, yawned like the mouth of a beast. Shar's 'moon.' Vraggen found it hypnotic. It was a hole in reality, an eye into shadow. The transforming energy would emerge from that emptiness.
Candelabrum stood about the sanctum, though the wrist-thick tapers set therein did not burn. The diffuse, sourceless green light provided the only illumination.
Black velvet curtains lined the entirety of the walls except for the wall directly behind the altar. There, a lifelike depiction of a sapling tree decorated the wall. With smooth black bark, a few gray leaves, and three oval fruit of glistening silver, it was unlike any tree Vraggen had ever before seen. Azriim and Serrin seemed taken with the representation. They stared at it, unblinking.
Vraggen put a hand on each of their shoulders and said, 'The altar.'
He moved into the room. They followed.
Unlike the rest of the floor of the sanctum, a black crystalline substance covered the floor within the horseshoe of the altar's pulpit. A charge raced through Vraggen as he stepped upon it. Azriim stood near him. Serrin stood before the mosaic of the tree, lightly tracing the wall with his fingertips. In a generous mood, Vraggen allowed the easterner his fascination. He looked back to Azriim.
'Let us begin,' he said, and began the ritual that would grant him the greatest of gifts offered by the Shadow Weave.
Cale pulled open the doors to the Fane. A long, wide hallway beckoned. Shadows played in the green light along its entire length. Paintings and mosaics covered the walls, each shifting and melding when Cale tried to focus on them. He thought them a representation of chaos, or reified deception.
Alcoves lined the hall at intervals. In each stood a small table or pedestal, and upon each of those sat an item, displayed as though the Fane were a merchant's shop: here a staff of power, there a sword; here a cloak, there a ring. Cale could feel the magic in the room- shadow magic. The hall terminated in a pair of black double doors.
'Don't touch anything,' Cale said, and he stepped into the Fane.
The moment he broached the archway, a husky female voice spoke aloud, in perfect Chondathan, 'Take one thing of what you would, servant of the secret, leave what you can, and extend the darkness thereby.'
Cale turned to his comrades with raised eyebrows.
'Strange that she would speak in the tongue of Luiren,' Jak said.
'Amnian, you mean,' said Riven.
Cale realized then that the voice was nothing more than a phantasm. The magic must have let each listener hear it in a familiar tongue.
Ignore it, Cale sent. Keep moving.
When they had all stepped into the foyer, the doors of the Fane slowly closed behind them. They shared a look, readied their weapons, and advanced down the hallway. Cale steadfastly kept his eyes from the tempting
