Dave Gross - Mistress of the Night

Month of Kytkom, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)

The black wood screens that lined the Fane of Shar on Shade Enclave had been oiled and polished over long centuries until the reflections of those who passed them flickered like specters in their ancient surface. Legends whispered among the faithful claimed that the wood of the screens came from trees that had grown in a mountain valley so deep that light touched its floor for only minutes each day, around a clearing where Shar herself had once danced alone in the shadows.

In fact, Variance Amatick knew, they had been carved by a once-famous artisan from perfectly ordinary wood and had originally graced the temple of another god entirely. An account of the looting of that rival temple and of the rededica-tion of the screens to the glory of Shar resided in the vaulted archives beneath the Fane. Variance saw no good reason to dispel the legends, though.

They served Shar at least as well asand perhaps better thanthe truth.

Variance's own dim reflection rippled along the wood of the screens as she strode through the Fane. Gray-black skin, black hair, a black mantle over black clothes embroidered in the darkest shades of purpleher reflection might have been her shadow. She might have been her shadow.

"Mistress of the Night," Variance whispered, touching the symbol she wore beneath her mantle, "guide me in what I must do."

She found the man she sought in one of the rooms that lay behind the Fane's great altar. He and the seven men and women who sat with him around a broad table littered with papers looked up in surprise as she entered. Variance bent her head.

"Rivalen Tanthul," she said humbly, "Flame of Darkness, Singer after Twilight. Father Night, I ask your permission to leave Shade Enclave at once."

Surprise crossed Rivalen's face, momentarily furrowing skin as gray-black as Variance's own. The others at the tabletwo of them shadow-skinned as well, but the rest pale humansglanced at the high priest. He gestured in dismissal and they rose silently and without question to file out of the room. When the last of them had closed the door, Rivalen rose and waved Variance to one of the vacated chairs.

"You wouldn't interrupt me without serious cause, vigilant sister," he said. His voice was rich, but not displeased. "And I know you wouldn't seek to leave your charge unless the cause was even more serious. What's wrong?"

Variance stepped forward, but didn't sit down. She drew a deep breath. "At the time of the fall of Netheril," she said, "there existed in the town of Sepulcher a remarkable temple to Shar."

"The House of Mystery," said Rivalen. "I remember it." He seated himself and leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin, to look at her intently. "What about it?"

"Among the mysteries within the House, there was reputed to be an ancient text, The Leaves of One Night."

Rivalen's eyebrows rose. "I've never heard of it."

A trace of irritation had entered his voice. Variance inclined her head. She waited. After a moment, the high priest bent his head in turn.

"The Dark Goddess does not surrender her secrets lightly," he said. "Vigilant sister, I am rebuked." He smiled thinly and abandoned formality. "What of this text?"

Variance spread her hands and said, "It was lostlike so much of the empire while our city sheltered in the Plane of Shadow. It is referred to only sparingly in our own archives and not at all outside of them. I had thought it vanished for all time, if it was real at all."

"But it is real, isn't it?" Rivalen guessed. His smile grew wide and genuine. "And it has been found?"

"I I hear it," said Variance. "Here" she touched her temple, then the symbol of Shar under her mantle" and here. The Mistress of the Night wishes that what once was lost be returned to her possession."

"It will be." Rivalen stood up. "What do you need?"

"Nothing." She lifted her mantle to reveal a satchel of black leather, packed for a journey. "Except your permission to leave Shade."

"You have it."

Rivalen stepped around the table and laid his right hand on her head. His fingers were cool. Within them, Variance could feel the even colder touch of the goddess.

"Shar bless you," the high priest intoned, "vigilant sister, keeper of secrets, and recorder of doctrine." He lifted his hand. "Be subtle, Variance."

"Always, Father Night."

Variance bowed her head to him once more, then turned and left quickly. Outside, the men and women who had been speaking with Rivalen were still waiting. They bowed to her as she passed. Variance ignored them. She swept back out through the Fane, past the great altar of Shar, and past the black wood screens.

The acolytes tending the doors of the Fane pulled them open in respectful silence as she approached. She stepped through.

The flying city of Shade, last enclave of an empire that fell out of Faerun's history seventeen hundred years before, spread out below her. Overhead, eternal shadow churned in black clouds, a reminder of the dark dimension that had given sanctuary to the city duringand for centuries afterthe cataclysm that had laid Netheril low.

And that had given birth to the powers within her.

Variance took a step forward. Shadows wrapped around and through her, sliding into the shadowstuff that took the place of her flesh and soul. She stepped out of another shadow hundreds of yards along the street. Two human Shadovar dipped their pale faces to the dark shade suddenly standing beside them, but Variance walked on. A few long strides carried her to the very edge of Shade. Scant feet away, the ground dropped off. It was a long fall from the floating city to the soil of Faerun.

The shadows that wrapped the city were thinner at its edge. Stars glinted among the strands of darknessstars and the silver-white radiance of a gibbous moon, waning but still bright. Variance clenched her teeth at the hated light and stepped back into deeper shadows. Calling to mind the location that Shar had revealed to her, the city to the south and west where The Leaves of One Night waited, she wove the shadows tight around herself and vanished into darkness.

Dhauna Myritar's eyes snapped open. Her body jerked and she sat upright, sucking air into her lungs in painful, wracking gulps. She stared around the dimness of her bedchamber. For a moment, everything seemed preter-naturally clear as her mind and body struggled for unity, then the hazy nausea of interrupted sleep swam over her. Dhauna shook her head, trying to clear it of the terror that had awakened her. She only succeeded in making her stomach churn. She sat back, propping herself against the headboard, and forced herself to breathe slowly.

A nightmare, a part of her mind urged her, it was only a nightmare. Lie down. Go back to sleep. You've already forgotten what happened in the dream, haven't you? By morning, you'll have forgotten you dreamed at all.

"But it's not always 'just a dream,' is it?" Dhauna muttered. "Not always."

The high priestess of Selune reached down and untwined the bed sheetsdamp with sweat born from another stifling summer night in the Sembian city of Yhaunnthat wrapped around her like a shroud, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. There was a robe of clean white linen on a chair next to it. She wrapped the robe around herself, then stretched to reach her canes. Bracing them against the floor with one hand she levered her old body up off the bed, then stood still for a moment and steadied herself. When she felt balanced, she wobbled carefully across the bedchamber and out into her sitting room.

Moonlight slanted through the many panes of the big window in the south wall. Selune's celestial face was a waning gibbous tonight and at that hour, well past its zenith. Was that an omen, Dhauna wondered, a nightmare just as the moon entered its period of descent? She grunted. She was just imagining things.