The Siege

by Denning, Troy

  “You killed the phaerimm,” Corineus said from up the passage. “Are you trying to kill its ghost as well, or do you have no further use for me now that we have destroyed the last phaerimm?”

  “It’s dead?” Vala stopped weaving but did not return her sword to its scabbard. Phaerimm were tricky creatures, and even if the Shadovar helmet protected her from its mind control, it would be an easy matter for it to use its magic to impersonate the baelnorn. “You’re sure?”

  “I am sure.” An icy hand grabbed hers and guided the darksword back toward its scabbard. “Put that away. I have something I want to give you.”

  Vala sheathed the weapon, certain of the baelnorn’s identity. She had grown so accustomed to his chill aura that she’d scarcely noticed it until he’d taken her hand.

  “You’ll have to tell me what it is,” she said. “I’m afraid my eyes are still a bit dazzled from that fireball.”

  “It is a treasure from Myth Drannor.”

  Corineus slipped a ring onto her finger, and she could see him—not the withered baelnorn she had come to know during her trials in the Irithlium, but a tall sun elf with gold-flecked eyes and a long mane of silky red hair.

  “When you wear it this way,” the elf said, “you will see things as they truly are.”

  He turned the ring a quarter turn, and Vala’s vision returned to normal—which was to say that she couldn’t see a thing, since her hand was not on her darksword.

  “When you wear it this way, no one will know you are wearing it.” He turned it another quarter turn. “And when you wear it this way, no one will see you.”

  Corineus started to remove his icy hand, but Vala caught it between hers.

  “You know I killed the phaerimm for my own reasons,” she said. “It’s not necessary to gift me.”

  “I think it is, Vala Thorsdotter.” Corineus freed his hands from hers and stepped away. “I have seen a little of the future while we were together.”

  The chill aura began to fade rapidly. Vala turned the ring and saw the dead phaerimm floating in the water in two pieces, neither as long as her arm. She nudged them aside and peered down the tunnel from which it had come, where Corineus’s noble figure was wading into the darkness.

  “Thank you, Corineus,” she called after him, “and not only for the ring.”

  Corineus turned his head around on his shoulders and gave her a broad grin that reminded her of Galaeron’s joyful smile—back when he had one.

  “Thank you, Vala Thorsdotter,” he said, “and not only for killing the phaerimm.”

  As dungeons went, the one beneath the Citadel at Arabel was kinder than most—certainly kinder than the cramped cells of the Evereskan Tomb Guard, where crypt breakers were forced to kneel with their arms locked in stocks and gags in their mouths. Here, Galaeron and Ruha sat in side by side cages, with Aris chained to a wall in the interrogation chamber outside. There were no rats and only the typical human infestations of fleas and lice. Save for the acrid stench of the impure oil used in the wall lamps, the place didn’t even smell that bad.

  But it was secure. Aris had been scratching at the mortar around his chain mountings for half the night and done nothing more than bloody his fingertips. Ruha had tried half a dozen spells, only to have the magic sputter away as soon as it left her hands. Galaeron had kicked at the latch of his door until an ominous rumble sounded from above and he looked up to realize that the cell ceiling was a set of interlocked drop-blocks, with the keystone supported by the same jamb he was kicking. Fearful that ill-considered attempts might cost his life, he had given up trying to escape the cell at all.

  Galaeron pressed his face to the bars and strained to see if there was anyone in the guard station, which was positioned at the end of the row of cages where it was almost impossible to see from inside a cell. He could see flamelight dancing on the walls, but no shadows that suggested someone upright and moving.

  “No one there,” Aris hissed, his whisper as loud as wind in trees. “The last check was about an hour ago.”

  “Confident in their dungeoncraft, aren’t these Cormyreans?” Galaeron said.

  “They have every reason to be,” Ruha said, speaking from the corner of her cell. “I don’t hear you kicking any more, and the spell-guard has defeated everything I’ve tried.”

  “Then we really don’t have any choice, do we?” Galaeron stepped back from the door and, hoping the guards had missed a few strands of shadowsilk when they searched him, began to fish through his cloak pockets. “I can get us out of here.”

  Aris’s eyes grew round and alarmed. “How?”

  “Their spell-guard won’t stop shadow magic,” he said, “and since it didn’t occur to Rivalen to erect his own—”

  “Galaeron, no,” Ruha said. “It is too risky for you to cast another shadow spell.”

  “What’s too risky is waiting here for Rivalen.” He found a strand of shadowsilk and began to tie it into a closed loop. “I’ll have us out of here with one spell.”

  “And then what?” Aris demanded. “Wait until we are counting on you again, then let your shadow get us all killed?”

  Galaeron stopped tying and looked across the chamber. “I’m sorry about the Saiyaddar, Aris, I truly am. Had I let you drop the shadow blanket, you wouldn’t have been so eager to reach water—”

  “And you would have had nothing to show Storm,” Aris interrupted. “It is not what you did, my friend, but why. When your shadow self takes control, you lose sight of what is right and think only of vengeance.”

  “I’m entitled,” Galaeron said, growing irritated with the giant’s lecturing. “Telamont was trying to bring out my shadow, and Escanor … well, never mind Escanor.”

  “You were going to say that Escanor stole Vala,” Aris said, “but you know that isn’t so. You know you drove her away.”

  “You’re right,” Galaeron replied, “but I can see that now. I’m in control.”

  Despite the admission, Galaeron began to knot the shadowsilk again. Aris exchanged concerned gazes with Ruha, and the witch pushed a hand through the bars to grab Galaeron’s arm.

  “You’re not in control now, Galaeron,” Ruha said. “Your shadow is trying to tempt you into another mistake.”

  She slipped her hand down to his and tried, gently, to pluck the shadowsilk from his fingers. He held tight.

  “Storm will send help,” Ruha said. “I have told her of our troubles.”

  Galaeron started to demand how she could get a message past the spell-guard but answered his own question when he recalled that the guard was fashioned of Weave magic. Because Storm was one of the Chosen, Ruha merely had to speak her name, and the Weave would carry the next few words directly to her ear—no spells required. What it would not do, however, was carry a reply.

  “You know she is coming?” Galaeron asked. “You know that for certain?”

  Ruha’s eyes remained locked with his. “No, but it is wiser to trust in her than to believe you can control your shadow when it is so plainly controlling you. At the moment, I would rather place my life in Malik’s hands.”

  The witch’s frank words were enough to remind Galaeron of his remorse after Aris was wounded and to make him see that he was only using their situation as an excuse to cast a spell and feel cool shadow magic rushing through his body. It was an almost physical sensation, like being thirsty and longing for water or being exhausted and yearning for sleep, and it was just as hard to deny. The Shadow Weave was always there, within easy reach, inviting him to reach out and touch it.

  Galaeron released the strand of shadowsilk, then watched as Ruha rolled it into a tiny ball and flicked it toward a lamp flame. She missed, but the wad bounced off the wall, then landed in the murk and was lost.

  “You know what will happen if Rivalen takes me back to Shade?” Galaeron asked, talking to both Ruha and Aris. “I won’t be able to stop Telamont from bringing out my shadow. It would be better to get us out of here and let it happen now, where you two ca
n still do something about it.”

  “Only a fool would think us capable,” Aris said. “Your shadow is still tempting you, Galaeron. If you yield to it—even for a minute—we are lost.”

  “Trust in Storm,” Ruha urged. “I do, and I will die first if we are returned to the enclave.”

  That much was true, Galaeron knew. Aris’s talent would probably buy his life, at least if he could find it in himself to continue sculpting. Galaeron himself would be kept alive and corrupted and might eventually find a way to overcome his shadow, but Ruha had nothing to offer the Shadovar except trouble. The interrogation that followed the trio’s return would reveal that she was an agent of the Chosen—if Telamont didn’t know it already—and Galaeron didn’t even want to contemplate the fate that awaited spies in Shade Enclave.

  Galaeron nodded and said, “Very well.” He stepped away from the bars, and sat on the stone bench that served as his cot. “If you are willing to trust in Storm to save us, then I ought to be, too.”

  “But are you?” demanded Aris. “You must promise not to use shadow magic again, even if it means our deaths.”

  Galaeron shook his head. “I can only promise to try.”

  “That is no promise at all,” Ruha retorted. “Trying is easy. Doing is hard.”

  Galaeron looked away. He had already broken that promise once, so he knew how difficult it would be to keep—even harder than the last time, perhaps impossible—but Ruha was right. Trying was easy, and doing the easy thing had been leading him deeper into disaster from the beginning. He had breached the Sharn Wall and released the phaerimm when he ordered his patrol to attack with magic bolts instead of swords. He had allowed his shadow to sneak inside him when he ignored Melegaunt’s warning and used more shadow magic than he had the strength to control. He had loosed the Shadovar on Faerûn when he brought their flying city into the world to save Evereska from the phaerimm. He had lost Vala when he had been foolish enough to believe that Telamont Tanthul would teach him to control his shadow self. And he had nearly lost his closest friend in pursuit of an easy vengeance. The time had come to start doing the hard thing.

  Galaeron looked across the interrogation chamber and said, “You’re right. On my word as a Tomb Guard, I promise never to use shadow magic again.”

  Aris gave a curt nod. “Good, then you have already defeated the Shadovar.”

  “The defeat is in the keeping,” Ruha said, “but it is a start.”

  She returned to her own bench, and they fell into silence again. Aris went back to tugging at his chains and scratching at the mortar around the mountings. Ruha and Galaeron tried to think of some way to escape that didn’t involve using shadow magic. A little later, two night sentries came in and sat down at the table at the guard station. Constant companions through this night and no doubt many others, they exchanged a few stale words in a half-hearted attempt to stay awake, then fell to snoring within a few moments of each other. Galaeron was not surprised. Boredom was ever the watchman’s curse and one that would be especially potent in a dungeon where escape seemed such a remote possibility.

  A quarter hour later, the snoring came to a gurgled end. A pair of armored bodies clanged to the floor, and Aris’s eyes grew wide. Galaeron pressed himself to the bars and looked toward the guard station. The sentries lay with their feet in view, surrounded by a circle of murk that might have been blood or shadow—without dark-sight, it was impossible to tell which. Rivalen and half a dozen Shadovar lords were stepping out of the shadows behind them.

  Galaeron’s throat went dry. The moment had come sooner than expected, but he knew that his temptation would have been the same in the morning—or anytime. His body was fairly aching for him to cast a spell. He felt feverish and hollow and thirsty for the cool sensation of the Shadow Weave, but even aside from his promise, it was too late for that. He could never hope to best Rivalen in a duel of magic. Still, when their eyes met, Galaeron maintained a calm composure and gave a nonchalant tip of his head.

  “Rather early, aren’t we?” the elf said.

  “I grew tired of waiting for you.”

  Rivalen motioned a trio of warriors toward Aris and two more toward Ruha, then had the last one accompany him to Galaeron’s cell.

  “As a matter of fact,” the prince said, “I was beginning to fear you had found some way other than shadow magic to leave the dungeon.”

  Galaeron shook his head. “No, just stopped using shadow magic.”

  Rivalen gave him a disbelieving smirk. “Of course you have.” He came to Galaeron’s door and studied his cell for a moment, then motioned him toward the back. “If you don’t mind kneeling.”

  Galaeron did as the prince requested, though he took care to tuck his toes under him so he could spring to his feet quickly. To avoid letting his gaze stray toward the keystone in the ceiling and give away his plan, he kept his eyes locked on Rivalen.

  “Why the hurry?” he asked. “A few more hours, and you wouldn’t have to kidnap us.”

  The prince drew a set of lockpicks from his cloak pocket and kneeled in front of the door. “In a few more hours, you would have escaped and been in another realm betraying the Most High to someone else.”

  “Not actually,” Galaeron said, “but I see your point.”

  He fell silent and allowed the prince to work. On the other side of the interrogation chamber, Aris’s escorts finished binding his wrists and ankles with shadow line and set to work on the chains binding him to the wall. The giant kept jerking his arms and legs away, complicating their task to the point that one of them was drawing his sword.

  “Aris, don’t get yourself hurt,” Galaeron ordered. He was beginning to see how he might help Aris and Ruha escape, but he needed the giant free of the chains. “It isn’t worth it.”

  “Yes, you must be careful with those hands,” Rivalen called, still working on Galaeron’s lock. “The Most High values them nearly as highly as he does the secrets Galaeron carries from Melegaunt.”

  Ruha’s escorts succeeded in opening her cell and motioned the witch out. As she approached the door, she glanced over her shoulder and raised her brow.

  “At least you’ll be in the same city as Malik,” Galaeron said, nodding her out into the interrogation chamber. “Assuming he’s still alive.”

  “He is, indeed,” Rivalen said. “After betraying your plan, he is a favorite of the Most High.”

  The tumblers in Galaeron’s lock clicked open. The prince smiled and withdrew the picks.

  Galaeron leaped to his feet and launched himself at the doorjamb with as much force as he could gather in two steps.

  “Run!” he yelled. “Save your—”

  The prince waved a dark hand at him, and Galaeron slammed into the back of the cell so hard his breath left him. He slid halfway down the wall, then found himself floating out the door still gasping for breath.

  “Did you think I would fail to see the trap?” Rivalen asked. He held Galaeron suspended in front of him. “You are foolish as well as ungrateful. If you try something foolish again, Weluk will cut the witch’s throat.”

  One of Ruha’s escorts pressed a glassy dagger blade to her throat, and Rivalen’s assistant began to bind Galaeron’s wrists.

  “You Shadovar have a strange sense of gratitude,” Galaeron said. “If you think I’ll help you destroy Faerûn to save Evereska, you are wrong.”

  “Your thinking will change,” Rivalen assured him. “And we have no wish to destroy Faerûn.”

  “Then your wishes are different from your actions,” Ruha said, ignoring the knife at her throat. “You have seen for yourself what the melting of the High Ice is doing to the Sword Coast and the Heartlands. You are starving whole nations out of existence.”

  “The Shadovar have spent seventeen centuries starving, and we endure,” Rivalen shot back. “If the Faerûnian kingdoms are too weak to survive a few decades of hunger so the Netherese lands can grow fertile again, then they were not meant to last.”

  “I would
take issue with that,” said a familiar—and very angry—female voice. “As would Waterdeep, Silvery-moon, the Dalelands, and even Thay, I’m sure.”

  A tremendous clanking filled the dungeon as an entire company of Purple Dragons literally stepped out of the opposite wall of the interrogation chamber, followed closely by Alusair Obarskyr, Vangerdahast, and Dauneth Marliir. Galaeron was almost embarrassed to realize that he had been staring at an illusion the entire night without realizing it.

  Galaeron looked over to Ruha, and she shook her head. The issue remained in doubt. Her confidence in Storm had not been because she knew they were being watched.

  Alusair turned to a wiry priest who followed her out of the wall and gestured toward the two sentries lying on the floor over at the guard station.

  “Owden,” she said, “would you mind.… ”

  “Of course, Princess.”

  The priest scurried away. Alusair, attired in a full suit of battered plate armor, clanked across the interrogation chamber to where Rivalen stood.

  “You will be kind enough to return the prisoners to their cells, Prince,” she said, pointing to Galaeron and Ruha. “It is not yet morning.”

  Rivalen looked around the room and, finding several dozen crossbows not quite trained in his direction, seemed confused. He bowed but did not give the order—apparently deciding that since he was not yet under attack, Alusair had either not heard everything he had said or did not find it indefensible.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Majesty,” he said. “I did not mean to be presumptuous, but fearing the elf would use his shadow magic to escape, I assigned certain of my lords to keep a watch on their prison.”

  Alusair said nothing and looked to the guard station, where the one she had addressed as Owden was kneeling over the fallen sentries. He looked up and shook his head.

  Rivalen was quick to cover. “As it happened, my caution was well-warranted. We spied a shadow whorl outside and followed it down to this dungeon.” He waved a hand at the fallen guards. “Alas, we were too late to save your men, but we did capture the elf and his accomplices as they were attempting to leave.”