Shadowstorm by Kemp Paul S Page A

always die for trifles. Exceptions are rare.”
    “Your years have made you a cynic, Prince,” Tamlin said softly.
    Rivalen laughed, a hard, staccato sound. “A realist, Hulorn. In truth, everything is a trifle when viewed through the lens of history. Empires rise and fall, men live and die. The Jhaamdathan Empire ruled a great portion of the world at one time. Have you ever heard of it?”
    Tamlin felt ignorant but shook his head.
    “Of course not,” Rivalen said. “Only scholars have. Yet the Jhaamdathans thought their influence would extend forever. Men delude themselves into thinking that the events in which they participate are of particular significance to history, but they rarely are. One empire is the same as another.”
    “What of Netheril, Prince? Even I have heard of it. Its influence reaches through time, even unto now.”
    Rivalen waved a hand dismissively and it trailed shadows. “Netheril is an exception. A sole exception. But even it will fade from the memory of men someday. All is fleeting, Hulorn, and only one thing is certain—an end to all things.”
    Tamlin chuckled. “I mistook you, Prince. You are worse than a cynic. You are a nihilist.”
    Rivalen shrugged. “Things are what they are, whatever we may think. It is our task to wrestle meaning from meaningless-ness while we still can. Does that make me a nihilist still?”
    Tamlin’s smile faded. He envied Rivalen the perspective of two thousand years.
    “Are you a man of faith, Prince?”
    Rivalen’s golden eyes flared and narrowed.
    “Is that a rude question?” Tamlin stuttered. “If so, I apologize. I thought—”
    Rivalen waved a ringed hand. The shadows about him swirled. “It is not rude, Hulorn. It is forthright. That is one of the things I admire about you.”
    Tamlin felt himself color at Rivalen’s praise. He valued it as much—perhaps more—than he had ever valued the praise of his father.
    “I ask only because I have been considering matters of faith recently. In my own life, I mean. Our conversation put me in mind of it.”
    Rivalen said, “Times of crisis breed introspection. And yes, I am considered pious among my people.”
    The admission mildly surprised Tamlin.
    “May I inquire, then, which gods you worship?”
    Rivalen looked above Tamlin and into the moonless sky. When he looked down again, he smiled kindly, the expression made oddly threatening by his ornamental fangs.
    “I worship but one. A goddess.”
    “Really? I’ve known none but priests to worship only one god or goddess.”
    “I am a priest, Hulorn.”
    Tamlin reined his horse and stared at Rivalen. Their bodyguards looked startled for a moment, but quickly formed a cordon around the two.
    “A priest? I thought you were … something else.”
    “A mage?”
    Tamlin nodded.
    “I am both, Hulorn. A theurge, my people call me.”
    Tamlin’s respect for Rivalen redoubled. “That is a rare combination, Prince.”
    “Perhaps not as rare as you think. I have never found my faith to be at odds with my magical studies.”
    “You worship Mystra, then?”
    Rivalen stared at him, his face impossible to read. “No.” He
    gestured at the road, and shadows leaked from his fingers. “Shall we continue?”
    “Uh, of course.” Tamlin turned his mare and they started moving again. The bodyguards fell in around them.
    Rivalen said, “Mystra is not the only goddess who welcomes practitioners of the Art into her ecumenical orders. Have you considered formalizing your own worship, Hulorn?”
    Tamlin smiled and shook his head. “No. Religion does not speak to me, Prince. My father was the same way. Coin is in the Uskevren blood, not faith.”
    “You are not your father, Hulorn.”
    To that, Tamlin said nothing, though the words pleased him somehow.
    “You need only a Calling,” Rivalen said.
    “No god or goddess will be calling me, Prince.” Tamlin tried to laugh at the notion but could manage only a forced smile.
    “A Calling does not always come from the