Realms of War

She turned from him, and he began the murder.

He whispered the words to a powerful abjuration that nullified all magic out to a distance of five paces from his person. The wards and alarms that protected his mother would not operate within the area of his spell.

His mother seemed not to notice, but the tinkling of the pollen fell silent when he completed the incantation, as if the flowers had grown sullen.

'I have never seen so many,' she said, looking out over the field of flowers. 'Do you think the elves know of this meadow?'

'The arnothoi moved west,' he said, tensing. 'The meadow is long forgotten. We are alone here.'

Possibly she heard something unusual in his tone. Possibly she noticed the silence of the flowers at last. She turned back and looked at him strangely.

'Are you all right?' she asked. 'You look pale.'

For a moment Rivalen could not speak. He stared at her while his heartbeat drummed in his ears and his mouth went dry.

Concern creased the skin around his mother's eyes and furrowed her brow. 'Rivalen?'

She took a step toward him.

His hand tightened on the dagger hilt under his cloak. He swallowed.

'Rivalen?'

She neared him, one hand outstretched. His breath came fast. He readied himself.

She stopped two paces from him, and her expression changed, hardened.

She knew.

'Rivalen,' she said, and the word was not a question.

He jerked the dagger free and lunged at her, blade held before him.

Her reflexes surprised him. She sidestepped his attack and kicked him in the knee, wrenching it. He shouted with pain and waved the dagger at her as he fell. He felt the blade bite flesh, heard his mother curse. He fell amid the flowers, amid a shower of silver pollen. He rolled over and looked up, the dagger held defensively before him.

His mother stood over him, a short blade already in her right hand. She held her left hand to the shallow gash that his blade had put in her hip. Her eyes looked as cold as those of his goddess when Shar had come to him in dreams. Her lower lip trembled. He did not understand why.

'I killed fifty men before you uttered your first squall and you think to take me unaware with that?' She nodded at the dagger. 'Are you enspelled? Mad? What are you doing?'

Rivalen looked at the dagger in his fist, the black poison on its blade, the smear of his mother's red blood. 'Murdering you,' he answered, and started to stand.

She snarled and stepped toward him, blade ready, but staggered. Her eyes widened and she wobbled.

'Poison,' she said, and slurred the word. 'But...'

'None of your protective wards are functioning.'

She swayed, backed up a step.

'Nor your alarm spells,' Rivalen said, on his feet. 'Nor the contingency spells placed on you by my father.'

She tried to back off another step, but the poison had stolen her coordination. She fell amid the flowers and sent up a cloud of silver.

He stepped near her, stood over her, held his holy symbol for her to see.

She stared up at him through eyes turning glassy. 'Why, Rivalen?'

'Because love is a lie. Only hate endures.'

Shock widened her eyes. 'I am your mother.'

'Only of my flesh,' he said. 'Not of my soul.'

Tears showed at the corners of her eyes.

'Your bitterness is sweet to the Lady, Mother.'

He kneeled beside her to watch her die. The tinkling flowers sang a funeral dirge.

She swallowed rapidly, reflexively. Her breathing was shallow. Her fingers worked, clawed at the ground, and reached for him.

'Hold my... hand, Rivalen,' she said in a whispered gasp.

He did not reach for her, merely stared into her wan face. 'We all die alone, Mother.'

She closed her eyes, and the tears leaked down her cheeks.

'Your father will learn of this.'

'No. This will be known only to us. And to Shar.'

To that, she said nothing. She stared at him for a moment, then closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

When her intentions registered, he smiled.

'What did you wish for, Mother?'

She opened her eyes and the hurt in her gaze was gone, replaced by anger. 'To be the instrument of your downfall.'

He stood. 'Good night, Mother. I answer to another mistress now.'

She gagged, tried to speak, but failed. Her eyes turned distant. She stared up at the twilight sky, and he saw the awareness melt out of her eyes.

Looking upon her corpse, he felt nothing—emptiness, a hole. He ran his fingertips over the edge of his holy symbol and supposed that was point.

Rivalen.

He looked around the avenorani patch, and noticed for the first time that many of the flowers were wilted, dead. How had he not noticed before?

Rivalen.

His mother was calling him from the next world.

Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Rivalen.

Brennus's mental voice, communicated to Rivalen through the magical rings each wore, pulled Rivalen from sleep. He sat up in his bed, still groggy, haunted by tinkling bells, the smell of flowers, and the dead eyes of his mother.

Brennus?

A pause, then, Are you well? You sound different.

Shadows churned around Rivalen. Moonlight leaked through the shutter slats of his room. He ran a hand through his black hair, tried to dislodge from his mind the dream of his mother, the memory of matricide.

I am well, he said. What is it?

Erevis Cale has a woman.

Rivalen grew alert. A woman? A wife?

No, Brennus answered. But a woman he cares for. I am unable to scry Cale, but he may return to her.

Where is she?

She lives alone in a cottage northwest of Ordulin.

The shadows around Rivalen spun, coiled as he considered possible courses. Watch her.

Just watch?

Yes. If Cale appears, inform me immediately.

Very well. Rivalen, she is pregnant.

With his child?

Yes. But she does not know it yet.

Rivalen blinked. How do you know it, then?

His brother spoke in the self-satisfied tone of one who has mastered his Art. Brennus was a diviner without peer. Discovering things is my gift, he said.