Midnights Mask Read Online Free

him with more powers every tenday. He’d had no intention of remaining the Shadowlord’s Second forever.
    But he could see now that his calculus had been off. He had stood face to face with high-ranking members of the Zhentarim, powerful priests, skilled warriors, all of them powerful men and women, but he had never before stood in the presence of anything like the Sojourner. The creature’s thin body fairly sparked with pent-up power; his presence implied might. There would be no defeating him.
    If Riven wanted to side with the winner, he had to side with the Sojourner and the slaadi.
    He reconsidered the plan, reconsidered everything. He may or may not have planned a betrayal of the betrayal back on the Plane of Shadow, but now…
    Don’t come, he thought to Cale and Magadon, in case Magadon was somehow connected to him. Don’t bother.
    The Sojourner looked past Riven and Azriim to Dolgan and said, “Stand, Dolgan.” His soft voice leaked so much power that it seemed to squeeze everything else out of the room.
    Over his shoulder, Riven watched the big slaad lurch to his feet, as obedient as a well-trained dog. Dolgan was gnawing excitedly at his lower lip, so hard it was bleeding. Riven wanted to sneer at the oaf’s obsequiousness but could not quite manage it. Obsequiousness seemed appropriate, somehow.
    Dolgan caught his gaze, made a bloody grin, and said, “Maybe you’re tense now, eh?”
    Riven resisted the urge to slit the bastard’s throat and turned back to face the Sojourner.
    The creature held a smooth duskwood staff in his pale, long-fingered hands. A tracery of gold or electrum spiraled around the shaft from base to top. He inclined the staff slightly and the hole in the wall behind him vanished, replaced again by smooth stone.
    No wonder Riven had seen no exits. The Sojourner created them as needed. Riven was doubly pleased that he had lifted Dolgan’s teleportation rod. He would need to figure out its operation quickly, should an emergency arise.
    Riven considered the Sojourner. He looked vaguely human, but unlike any race of humans with which the assassin was familiar. Standing a head taller than even Cale, the Sojourner’s thin body looked as though it had been stretched overlong by pulling him at the ankles and head. Sunken black eyes in cavernous sockets stared out of a similarly elongated face. His nose was little more than a bump with two vertical slits, his lips as thin as blades. The points of his backswept ears reached nearly to the top of his bald, spotted pate. A handful of magical gemstones whirred around his head in different orbits. Seeing them, Riven was reminded somehow of Cale’s celestial sphere, the magical artifact that had started everything.
    “A present, Azriim?” the Sojourner asked, letting his gaze fall on Riven as he floated forward across the room. Outside the light of the glow globe, the Sojourner was reduced to a shadow in Riven’s sight.
    With great effort, Riven kept his face a mask—no fear, no wonder, no dread—even while his mind moved through possibilities.
    Azriim said, “Yes, Sojourner. This human was… helpful in our successful use of the Weave Tap. His clothes are unfortunate, I acknowledge. And his taste is poor in general. But neither of those are fatal flaws.”
    Riven did not bother to correct Azriim, though he had been more than merely helpful with planting the Weave Tap seed—he had been instrumental. Without Riven’s intervention, Cale would have killed Azriim.
    But instead of speaking, Riven made a stiff bow. The gesture did not come easily to him.
    “Sojourner,” Riven said.
    The creature did not acknowledge him, and Riven dared take no offense. The Sojourner stopped in the air two paces from Riven. Up close, his power was even more palpable. Fear threatened, but Riven managed to hold his ground and his expressionless mask. Riven’s eyesight adjusted somewhat to the darkness and he could again mark the Sojourner’s features.
    Though he was