by Monte Cook
The events in the crypt had taken place two and a half years ago. Afterward, Kellen went to live with Caledan and Mari at Estah’s inn, and for a time they had all been happy. For a time. Kellen sighed. Once again, he wondered why Caledan and Mari could not seem to get along. He supposed that, sometimes, even love wasn’t enough to overcome all differences. Picking up his flute, he played a melancholy tune. Shadows swirled once more on the wall, and the dark silhouettes of two birds whirled and dived gracefully. Kellen concentrated, and the music changed, growing bolder. Suddenly, the two bird shadows flew off the wall. Like wisps of dark silk, they swirled around Kellen’s head, flapping their silent wings in time to the music.
“Your father could never do that.”
Kellen jumped out of his chair at the sound of the voice, nearly dropping the flute. The shadow birds vanished like puffs of smoke. He spun around to see a tall man with eyes like blue ice and hair as long and golden as a lion’s mane. Though Kellen had seen the man only a handful of times over the last two years, he recognized him all the same. It was Morhion, the mage who had once belonged to the Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon.
Morhion took a step closer. He was clad in shirt and breeches of pearl gray, and over these flowed a vest of twilight purple so long it almost reached the ground. The mage spoke again in his resonant voice. “Caledan can make shadows dance with his music, but I have never seen him pipe them right off the wall. How long have you been able to perform this feat, Kellen?”
Kellen thought about this. “Always, I suppose,” he said finally. “However, it was only a few months ago that I discovered I could do it. It isn’t so hard, really. I just think about the shadows jumping off the wall … and they do!”
A musing smile touched the handsome mage’s lips. “Something tells me that it is not quite so simple as you present it, Kellen. You have great talent at magic.”
Kellen only shrugged, but inwardly he beamed. He barely knew Morhion, but Kellen liked the mage all the same. Morhion was cool, even distant, but there was lightning in his blue eyes, and he wore power comfortably, like a soft cloak. An idea struck Kellen. “I think that we should be friends, Morhion.”
Morhion raised a single eyebrow. “Oh? And why is that?”
Kellen thought of the years he had spent locked in a tower room by his mother, so that his power over shadows would remain a secret. He knew Morhion spent most of his time in solitude in his own tower, studying spells. “Because,” he said finally, “we both know what it is to be alone with our magic.”
After a long moment, Morhion nodded. “I think perhaps you’re right. Very well. Come to my tower tomorrow, Kellen. We shall talk of magic, you and I.”
Kellen gave the mage a smile. Then, placing his flute in its leather pouch, he dashed off to the kitchen to help Estah and Jolle with the evening meal. Outside, the storm had passed, and by sundown the inn would be crowded with hungry patrons once again.
Caledan returned from his wanderings late in the afternoon. Mari came downstairs just as he stepped through the inn’s door. The two exchanged troubled looks but no words. Morhion spoke briefly with each. He had some news concerning their investigation into the unexplained deaths, though Kellen did not learn its precise nature. After that, Morhion left the inn to return to his tower. Belatedly, Kellen realized that the mage would have been the perfect person to tell about the frosty handprint.
“I suppose I can tell Morhion tomorrow,” Kellen decided as he cranked the handle of the iron spit, turning the sizzling piglet over the hot flames.
Estah appeared before him. “I need some more sage for the stew, Kellen. Do you think you could pick some in the garden for me?”
Kellen nodded and ran out the back door of the inn. He was glad to escape the heat of the fire; the cool evening air felt good against his glowing cheeks. The inn was perched on the precipitous western edge of the Tor, and Kellen paused to gaze at the distant horizon, watching the sun sink into a sea of clouds as brilliant as molten copper. He hurriedly made his way through the garden. This late in the year, the garden was mostly a tangle of dried brown plants and witchgrass. At last Kellen found a patch of dark green herbs. He knew which was sage by its dusty scent, and he picked a handful. Turning, he started back toward the inn.
That was when he saw them. They glittered on the hard ground, outlined in white crystals of frost. Footprints. Kellen’s heart skipped a beat. He took in a deep breath of air—air no longer just cool, but sharp and cold, like steel in the dead of winter. Slowly, he followed the trail of shimmering footprints with his eyes.
The ghost stood on the edge of the Tor.
The last rays of sunlight filtered through the man’s translucent body. He seemed to waver in and out of existence—now dim, now bright—like the flickering light of a dying candle. The man was clad in peculiar, ancient clothes, at once more flowing and more angular than modern attire. Although he wasn’t certain how, he realized who the spirit was. His father had encountered this same shade once before, though that had been far from here, in the desolate land known as the Fields of the Dead. Kellen’s breath fogged on the frigid air as he whispered the words.
“Talek Talembar.”
The ghost gazed at Kellen with eyes like emeralds, then stretched out his arms in a plaintive, urgent gesture. The spirit’s voice blended eerily with the low moan of the wind.
“The old king hath fallen … and a new king doth rise to take his place …”
As the last sliver of the sun slipped below the far horizon, the ghost vanished, leaving Kellen to shiver alone in the gathering gloom of the garden.
Two
Mari Al’maren sat in the common room of the Dreaming Dragon, waiting. Through a window, she watched as the black night sky softened to slate blue, then pearl gray, and at last blazed into scarlet brilliance. She had been up all night. Finally she heard the sounds she had been waiting for outside the inn’s door: the grating of a boot heel on stone, the rattling of an iron key in the lock, the creak of hinges as the door swung open. A tall figure wrapped in a tattered midnight blue cloak stepped into the common room. Surprise registered in his faded green eyes.
“You’re up early,” Caledan said cheerfully.
“No,” Mari countered crisply. “I’m up late.”
It took a moment for the implication of her words to register on his angular visage. His grin faded. “How about if I told you that I went out for a midnight constitutional and lost track of the time?”
Mari gazed at him steadily. “You can give it a try, but don’t get your hopes up. I’d really hate for you to be disappointed.”
Caledan winced. “I was afraid of that.” He shrugged off his ragged cloak. Beneath, he wore the old travel-stained black leathers he preferred for night work.
Mari stood, taking a half dozen paces toward the stairs before turning to regard him. “All right, Caledan. Where have you been all night? You can tell me now, or if you’d rather, we can scream at each other first. But either way, you are going to tell me.”
Caledan opted to cooperate directly. “I went to the Barbed Hook,” he said. “It’s a tavern down in the New City, on the waterfront.”
“I’ve heard of the place,” she said coolly, crossing her arms. “The clientele consists of brawling sailors, besotted dockhands, one-handed cutpurses, and a generous sprinkling of harlots. A little too high class for you, don’t you think?”
Caledan grimaced. “I’ll be generous and ignore that. Do you remember the spy we discovered in the High Tower?”
“A man dancing around trying to pull a dagger out of his back before he drops dead is a curiously memorable image.”
He pretended not to hear the sarcasm in her voice. “I did a little investigating and found out that our spy had been seen down at the Barbed Hook, so I decided to scout things out. Guess what? I noticed a few of our friend’s cohorts disappearing down a hidden passage into a back storeroom. One of them bore ritual scars on his cheekbones. There’s no question about it. T
hey were definitely Zhentarim.”
Mari arched an eyebrow. She had a sinking feeling. “Were Zhentarim?”
“You can stop worrying,” Caledan snapped in annoyance. “I didn’t harm a hair on their evil little heads. Not that I wouldn’t have liked to. Whatever you may think, I’m not so impulsive I’d follow three Zhentarim into their hideout without someone to back me up.” He shook his head in frustration. “But I still can’t understand this overwhelming desire of yours to sit and have a pleasant chat with every member of the Black Network we turn up. That’s exactly why I left—”
Caledan halted, swallowing his words. Mari finished for him. “That’s exactly why you left me behind last night. Is that what you were going to say?” He stared at her sulkily. Mari felt her wrath building. He had gone too far this time.
“How dare you?” Her voice was low and even, but there was scorching fire in it. “How dare you sneak behind my back, like some cowardly adulterous husband, just so you can indulge your childish impulses? In case you’ve forgotten, Caledan Caldorien, you are not the only Harper in Iriaebor.”
Anger flared in his eyes. “Well, maybe I should be. After all this time, you still don’t have the faintest idea how evil the Zhentarim are, do you, Mari? There’s only one thing worth doing with a member of the Black Network—and that involves a good sharp blade, not polite questions.” His voice rose dangerously. “And by the way, I am not your husband.”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that fact,” Mari replied caustically. All in a rush, harsh words she had been saving up for months poured out of her. “I just don’t understand, Caledan. You never would have behaved this rashly a year ago. I’m not sure exactly what is going on, but you … you’ve gotten careless—no, not careless, but reckless. You don’t give a damn about anything or anyone these days, least of all yourself.” She was shouting now. The noise would wake everyone up, but she didn’t care. “You’ve changed, and I’m not certain I even know who you are anymore, Caledan Caldorien!”
“Maybe you never did,” he snarled, clenching a fist in rage. “Maybe you don’t have the faintest idea, Mari Al’maren!”
It happened so fast that, afterward, Mari was never certain what really happened. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Caledan’s shadow expand on the wall, growing to monstrous proportions. Like a black serpent, the shadow lashed out an arm, striking at her own shadow. A searing line of fire raced across her cheek. She screamed, reeling backward, falling to her knees. Dazed, she lifted a hand to her cheek. It came away wet with blood.
Suddenly, Caledan was there, kneeling beside her. “By the gods—Mari, are you all right?” His voice was desperate. “Mari, talk to me!” He gripped her shoulders with big hands.
She shrank away from him, casting a furtive glance at the wall. Now their shadows were mundane silhouettes, nothing more. Gradually, she let herself relax into his strong embrace. “I’m all right,” she gasped. “It’s a scratch, that’s all.”
“But how did …?”
Mari thought of the way his shadow had moved … or had it? She had been angry and distracted. Caledan could make the shadows dance on the wall—that was the nature of his shadow magic—but the shadows he controlled did not have physical substance or the ability to harm. Maybe in her rage she had imagined it. She could have scratched her cheek when she fell in her attempt to back away from him. She realized that her anger had receded, whatever the explanation for her injury. All she felt now was a great weariness.
“Forget it, Caledan.” She took a deep breath. “It’s nothing. Really.”
Mari pulled herself to her feet. She drew a handkerchief from her pocket and blotted her cheek; already the flow of blood had stopped. There were more pressing matters to concern her now. She took her wine-colored cloak from its hook and opened the door.
Quickly, Caledan stood. “Where are you going?” he asked in confusion.
“The Barbed Hook. It might have slipped your mind, but we still have a mission to complete.” She gave him a wan smile. “So are you coming or not, Harper?”
His wolfish visage was unreadable. At last he nodded. “Lead the way.”
* * * * *
The narrow crag upon which Iriaebor’s Old City was built soared a full three hundred feet above the surrounding plains. Leaving the precarious towers and mazelike streets of the Old City behind, Mari and Caledan made their way down a serpentine road to the sprawling New City below. It was nearing midmorning, and the New City’s broad avenues were crowded with throngs of cityfolk. Iriaebor was prosperous these days.
And that was precisely why the Zhentarim would love to dig their claws into the city once again. With Iriaebor’s gold draining into their own coffers, the Black Network could fuel their evil designs of domination in a dozen other lands. Mari still wasn’t certain how the strange murders might benefit a Zhent plot to overthrow the city, but she didn’t doubt that they could. The Zhentarim were as insidiously ingenious as they were wicked.
A thought struck her. Kellen had told them about the apparition he witnessed yesterday, and she wondered if this strange occurrence had something to do with the Zhentarim. Mari had no doubt that Kellen had in truth seen the ghost of Talek Talembar. She had witnessed Talembar’s shade once herself, far away in the Fields of the Dead, and Kellen’s description of the ghost coincided with her memories. Yet what did the appearance of the ghost portend? And what of his peculiar message? The old king hath fallen … and a new king doth rise to take his place. Perhaps it was a warning that the Zhentarim plotted against City Lord Bron. The appearance of the ghost had left them all shaken, except for Caledan. He had merely brushed the strange occurrence aside, as he did everything these days.
As they walked, Mari glanced sidelong at Caledan. For a time, after the Fellowship defeated Ravendas in the crypt of the Shadowking, life with Caledan had been joyous. Then, gradually—so gradually she didn’t even notice it at first—they had slipped back into their old habits, quarreling bitterly as often as they embraced. She sighed deeply.
Consciously, Mari forced her thoughts to the mission at hand. Morhion had come to the inn yesterday bearing news from their old friend, the monk Tyveris. Tyveris had once been a member of the Fellowship. Now he served as an advisor to City Lord Bron in the High Tower. According to Tyveris, the perpetrator of the unexplained murders had finally been apprehended. Two nights ago, city guards had caught a thief beside the mangled corpse of a petty nobleman. The mystery, Tyveris reported, had been solved. Yet for some reason, Mari did not feel as certain as the monk. It was difficult to believe that a common thief could be responsible for over a score of grisly deaths. Mari fully intended to visit the dungeon, to question the thief before he received judgment. However, first there was the task at hand.
Mari and Caledan turned from the main avenue and picked their way down a narrow lane, trying to avoid the rivulet of foul water that trickled down the middle. The city was not so crowded here. The rank scent of rotting fish hung on the air; gulls cried out raucously above. Between ramshackle warehouses, Mari caught a glimpse of a flat, silvery surface, the Chionthar River. The two reached the end of the lane, finding themselves before a dilapidated building fashioned from the overturned hull of a barnacle-encrusted galleon. The Barbed Hook.
Mari and Caledan exchanged looks. Making an assault on a Zhentarim lair by daylight had its risks, but Zhents tended to do their work under cover of night. They were used to fighting in the dark and to resting during daylight hours. With luck, that would give Mari and Caledan the advantage.
Caledan gestured to the door of the tavern, his grin almost like that of old. “After you, my lady.”
“You’re too kind,” she replied dryly. She sauntered casually toward the door.
And kicked it in.
The two Harpers stepped through a cloud of splinters and dust into the murky interior of the tavern. A dozen coarse faces gaped in surprise at the sudden intrusion. Quickly, surprise gave way to anger. “Harpers!” someone shouted.
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“You forgot to take your badge off again,” Caledan said in annoyance, jabbing a finger at the silver moon-and-harp brooch pinned to Mari’s jacket. “Now they know who we are.”
“Oh, bother,” she replied with mock exasperation. “I suppose that means we’ll have to kill them all.”
Caledan bared his teeth in a nasty smile. “Why, I suppose you’re right.”
A brawny sailor launched himself forward, ready to snap Caledan’s neck with his big, callused hands. In one fluid movement, Caledan crouched down, drew a dagger from his boot sheath, and spun inside the sailor’s reach. As he rose, he deftly plunged the blade inward just beneath the other’s sternum, angling it upward until it pierced the man’s heart. The sailor collapsed to the floor like a side of beef falling from a meat hook. Caledan wrenched the dagger free and gestured with its crimson tip. A one-eyed dockhand leapt over a table, bellowing as he unsheathed a rusty short sword.
“Your turn, Mari,” Caledan said graciously.
“Why, thank you.” She dodged a wild swing of the dock-hand’s sword, then whirled inside the circle of his arms. “Care to dance?” she asked demurely. She grabbed the wrist of his sword arm and gave it an expert twist. Bones snapped audibly. The dockhand howled in pain as the short sword clattered to the floor. She spun him around in a dizzy circle, then let go. The dockhand careened backward against a wall covered with dusty fishing trophies. He stared down in dull wonder at the serrated snout of a spearfish protruding from his chest, then had the sense to realize he was dead. His eyes rolled up in their sockets as he slumped on the end of the fish’s sharp proboscis.
Mari turned around in time to see the bony, hook-nosed man who stood behind the bar reach down and pull something out of a hidden recess. With a quick move, the man threw the object in Caledan’s direction. Metal glinted dully. Caledan lifted a black-gloved hand, snatching the thing in midflight.
