by Monte Cook
“Yes,” the mage replied gravely. “Just like the shadow magic.”
Chill fingers danced up Mari’s spine. “Get to the point, Morhion.”
The mage pulled a sheaf of parchment from his belt and unrolled it on the table. He pointed to a series of runes. “This is the name Talek Talembar. It is written in Talfir, the language spoken in these lands a thousand years ago. Later, when folk came from the east, crossing the Sunset Mountains to settle the Western Heartlands, they brought their own language with them. Many of the old names, of both people and places, were still used, but the tongue of the easterners contained different sounds than the speech of the Talfirc. As a result, the old names were bastardized—their pronunciations changed—so they could be written in the new language.”
Morhion pointed to another line of writing on the parchment. The letters looked vaguely familiar, but Mari couldn’t quite read them.
“This is ‘Talek Talembar’ as it was written in the language of the easterners,” Morhion explained. “Only it wouldn’t have been pronounced the same as in Talfir. It would have sounded something more like ‘Calen Calendir.’ A few centuries ago, a new wave of immigrants came over the Sunset Mountains from the kingdoms of Cormyr and Sembia. These were our direct ancestors, Mari. They brought yet another language—the one we now speak—and the names of people and places in the Western Heartlands were changed once again, this time to conform to Cormyrean writing and pronunciation.” The mage pointed to the final line of writing on the parchment. “This is the Cormyrean version of the name ‘Calen Calendir.’ ”
Mari read the words, then looked at the mage. “Caledan Caldorien?” she whispered.
Morhion’s chill blue gaze locked on her own. “The very same.”
“But that means that Caledan is a direct descendant of Talek Talembar!” Estah exclaimed.
Mari spoke, half in a daze. “And a descendant of the Shadowking as well. Of course! It all makes sense now. That’s why Caledan’s shadow magic had the power to defeat the Shadowking. It came from the Shadowking himself!”
“It must be so,” Morhion replied grimly. “The same magic that flowed in the veins of Verraketh flows in Caledan’s.”
Mari grappled for understanding. “But if that’s true, why didn’t any of Caledan’s other ancestors become shadowkings?”
“I believe I know the answer to that,” Morhion explained. “Talek Talembar had many descendants, and all possessed the shadow magic, though many to only a slight degree. In them, the power of the shadow magic was diffused. None inherited enough of the magic to undergo the dark metamorphosis. Then Ravendas’s Lord Steward, Snake—who in truth served the Shadowking—summoned a shadevar, one of thirteen ancient beings of mayhem banished from the world by Azuth the High One. The shadevar’s orders were to hunt down and slay all in the Realms who possessed the shadow magic. This it did before we destroyed it.”
“Save for Caledan and Kellen,” Mari said in amazement.
“Yes. And in them, the shadow magic is concentrated as never before. I think that is why Caledan’s transformation seems to be progressing so quickly, while Verraketh’s took centuries.”
A terrible thought occurred to her. “Then will … will Kellen become a shadowking, too?”
Morhion shook his head. “I do not know. However, I suspect there can be but one Shadowking at a time. For now, let us concern ourselves with Caledan.” He rolled up the parchment and replaced it in his belt. “Oh, there is one more thing that I learned. The Shadowstar has the power to halt Caledan’s metamorphosis … or complete it.”
Mari pondered the implications. “You think Caledan is searching for the Shadowstar, don’t you?”
He nodded in affirmation. “Long ago, the Shadowstar was buried in the crypt of the Shadowking beneath Iriaebor, but at some point it was stolen by a tomb robber. I have discovered that it is presently in the possession of a mysterious personage known only as Stiletto.”
A thought struck Mari. “You couldn’t possibly have read that in the Mal’eb’dala, Morhion. Where did you learn about this Stiletto?”
For the first time in this grim conversation, Mari saw a troubled look cross Morhion’s impassive visage. “I dare not reveal my source,” the mage said coolly. “Suffice it to say that I know, and leave it at that.”
Mari did not press the point. Regardless of how Morhion had come by the knowledge, the important thing was that the Shadowstar had the power to save Caledan. The three agreed that they had to find the medallion before Caledan did.
“Do you have any idea who this Stiletto person is, Morhion?” Estah asked. “Or where we could find him?”
Morhion regained his composure. “I am afraid that knowledge has eluded even me.”
Mari tapped a cheek thoughtfully. “Stiletto … Too bad Ferret isn’t around to lend a hand.”
Ferret had once been a member of the Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon. The weasely thief had helped the others escape the crypt of the Shadowking as it crumbled, while he himself was lost in the destruction. Despite his wily and greedy exterior, Mari had met few in her life as truly selfless as the thief Ferret. She wished he were here now, but it was a vain thought.
Morhion offered a suggestion. “We do need to find someone like Ferret, someone who deals in information and who casts a wide enough net that he may have heard of this Stiletto.”
A crooked smile curled about Mari’s lips. “On second thought, I think I know just the person. And he adores me.”
Seven
Mari groaned. Why did these things always seem to happen to her?
“I thought Cormik adored you,” Morhion said coldly.
“I thought he did, too,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Well, if you don’t mind my saying, he has a rather peculiar manner of expressing his affection.”
For emphasis, Morhion rattled the heavy iron shackles that bound his wrists. He and Mari were chained to a rough stone wall in a dank underground chamber. The muffled sounds of raucous laughter and clinking coins drifted down from above. They were somewhere in the basement of the Prince and Pauper, the seamiest gambling house in Iriaebor.
“In case you’re wondering, you really aren’t being helpful, Morhion,” Mari replied in a surly tone. “Can’t you get us out of here with a spell?”
“No, I can’t. Casting a spell requires ritual gestures as well as magical words”—he cast a rueful look at the thick bands of iron that held his hands immobile—“a fact of which your dear friend Cormik seems well aware.”
“Everyone’s entitled to a few mistakes,” Mari grumbled. She seemed to remember Caledan saying that exact phrase once when the two of them were caught in a similar predicament. Things were worse than she thought if she was starting to sound like Caldorien.
Mari racked her brain, trying to think of what she might have done to get on Cormik’s bad side. Cormik was the proprietor of the Prince and Pauper, but he was also one of the most powerful underworld lords in Iriaebor. Officially, Mari could not condone Cormik’s illicit practices, but he had helped the Fellowship to defeat Ravendas. Besides, she had always liked his daggerlike wit and impeccable sense of taste.
It must have been that incident a year ago, she decided. Cormik had wanted her help in prying some compromising secrets out of a particularly wealthy nobleman. Mari had haughtily told Cormik to go ask one of the painted ladies on the Street of Lanterns instead, and had run him out of the Dreaming Dragon. She had not spoken to him since that day. Well, if he was still holding a grudge, she was going to have to find a way to—
The chamber’s ironbound door flew open. Mari blinked against the glare of crimson torchlight that gushed through the opening. When her vision cleared, a figure stood before her. Cormik. He was a corpulent man with a florid, pockmarked complexion and a jewel-encrusted patch over one eye. As ever, he was clad in gaudy finery that involved voluminous quantities of blue silk, wine-colored velvet, and gold brocade. Flanking him were two hulking bodyguards, ea
ch bearing a jeweled sword.
Mari licked her lips. “Cormik, if you’ll let me explain—”
He cut her off with a wave of a chubby, ring-laden hand. “Haven’t we been through this once before, Harper?” he said impatiently. “I didn’t want to hear Caledan’s explanation then, and I don’t want to hear yours now. I’m a busy man, you know.” He made a sharp gesture to his bodyguards. “Jad, Kevrek—deal with these two for me.”
Cormik strode from the chamber. His two bull-necked servants stepped forward, grinning fiercely as they reached into leather pouches on their belts. Mari’s eyes widened as she caught a glint of silver and a wisp of steam. She shut her eyes, bracing herself against the coming attack.
“A mirror and a hot towel?” Morhion’s incredulous voice said beside her.
Mari’s eyes fluttered open. She gaped in surprise. Sure enough, each of the bodyguards held a small silver mirror and a steaming cloth towel.
“Of course,” one of the muscle-bound men said in a surprisingly cultured voice. “You’ll both need to freshen up before your audience with the Master.”
“Dungeons can be so messy,” the other hulk added in an equally genteel tone. “Don’t you agree?”
Jad and Kevrek held up the silver mirrors while Mari and Morhion wiped themselves clean of dust and cobwebs. The towels were deliciously hot and scented faintly with ginger. Mari was forced to admit that she felt refreshed. However, she was still furious with Cormik.
A few minutes later, Cormik’s bodyguards led Mari and Morhion into a brightly lit chamber richly appointed with Sembian tapestries and Calishite statuary.
“So, did you like my little ruse, Al’maren?” Cormik inquired coyly. The rotund man was sprawled across a pile of embroidered cushions, a glass of pale wine held loosely in one stubby hand. “I can’t believe you fell for it a second time!”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not laughing,” Mari griped. “Are you laughing, Morhion?”
An ironic smile touched the corners of the mage’s lips. “Actually, I think I am.”
Mari flopped sulkily onto a pile of cushions and treated Cormik to her best scathing look. It was an expression she had perfected in her years working with Caledan. After a moment, Cormik squirmed uncomfortably.
“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” he said testily. “I’m sorry I had to have you thrown in chains, but you really should have given me some warning before you stopped by the Prince and Pauper.”
“So this is all my fault?” Mari inquired dubiously.
“Everyone in Iriaebor knows you’re good friends with the monk Tyveris. And everyone also knows Tyveris is City Lord Bron’s closest advisor. I couldn’t very well have acted as if we were the best of chums when you walked through my front door. If my clients thought I was in cahoots with Bron, I wouldn’t have a customer left. I’d be ruined.”
Mari was forced to admit, she could see the logic of his actions. However, she wasn’t about to concede the argument that easily. “Couldn’t you have thought of something besides throwing us in your dungeon?”
Cormik shrugged noncommittally. “I was rushed. It’s hard to be creative under pressure, you know.”
“All right, Cormik. I’ll forgive you this once. But you owe me a favor.”
The corpulent man gave her a sardonic wink. “Why, I’ll do anything you desire, my sweet.”
“I’m sure you would,” she noted dryly. “But don’t get your hopes up. It’s your mind I need, Cormik, not the rest of you.” Mari drained her wine, gathering strength, then proceeded to tell Cormik all they had learned concerning Caledan, the Shadowstar, and Stiletto.
When she finished, Cormik seemed visibly shaken. “Caledan is becoming a shadowking?” he murmured in disbelief. “I always knew the man had a dark side, but this is ridiculous.”
“So, do you know anything about this Stiletto character or not?” Mari asked impatiently.
A calculating gleam appeared in his one good eye. “I’m afraid that’s an answer that will cost the Harpers a good amount of gold, Al’maren.”
“I’m not asking for the Harpers,” she said quietly. “I’m asking for myself.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is now.” Mari swallowed hard. She might as well get used to telling people. “I’ve resigned from the Harpers, Cormik.”
His reaction surprised her. “Good for you, Mari! It’s high time you left behind that meddling bunch of do-gooders. And don’t worry about money. You can always come work for me.”
Mari smiled wistfully. “I just might take you up on that offer when this is all over.”
“What of Mari’s question?” Morhion asked grimly.
Cormik shot him an annoyed look. “Don’t worry, my good, repressed mage. I hadn’t forgotten.” His gaze returned to Mari. “Because the information is for you, my dear, I’ll waive the usual fee.”
“So you know where we can find this Stiletto?” she asked excitedly.
“No, I don’t. However,” he added in response to her crestfallen look, “I think I know someone who might.”
* * * * *
The sun was shining overhead as Mari and Morhion followed Cormik along a precarious stone bridge high above the streets of the Old City. Over the centuries, Iriaebor’s myriad towers had been connected by a tangled web work of bridges, stone arches, and midair causeways. Many of the bridges were crumbling and in ill repair, and a few were trod only at great risk, but it was still possible to travel from one end of the Tor to the other without ever descending to the streets below. Some of the larger causeways were broad enough to accommodate merchants’ stalls, and vendors hawked food and drink. Everything one needed to survive was available on the heights, and some folk who lived high in the towers never bothered to venture down to the ground.
The three passed through an open turret atop a dilapidated tower and proceeded onto another bridge. It was a spindly arch, its stones cracked and pitted with age. Mari could feel the span shudder beneath her with every step. Nervously, she clutched the stone balustrade to steady herself. A chunk of the railing broke off in her hand. She swallowed hard, casting a look at Cormik.
“Are you certain this bridge is safe?” she asked in a quavering voice.
“Oh, the bridge is sturdy enough,” Cormik replied, “but I wish someone would clean up after the pigeons.” With a sound of disgust, he hiked up the hem of his rich velvet robe and picked his way delicately around the piles of bird droppings.
To Mari’s relief, they soon turned onto an intersecting causeway that was in better repair. After that, they followed a confusing succession of bridges until the city seemed to spin beneath her.
“Do watch where you’re going, Mari,” Cormik complained.
Mari blinked. The rotund man had stopped on the bridge, and she had run right into him. She gasped, seeing why he had halted.
The bridge ended in midair. The stones trailed off raggedly, as if half the bridge had collapsed and the other half had remained, hanging unsupported over the city below. In panic, she clutched Cormik’s hand and hauled him backward.
“We have to get off!” she shouted urgently. “The rest of the bridge could collapse at any second.”
To her astonishment, he shook off her hand. “Calm down, Mari,” he said in a perturbed voice. “You’re rumpling my silk shirt.” He fussed with the soft material, smoothing out wrinkles that would have been imperceptible to less fastidious eyes. “Now, follow me. And whatever you do, don’t look down.”
With that he turned and stepped off the end of the bridge. Mari screamed. She lunged forward, trying to grab him, but he had already vanished from sight. Frantically, she peered over the edge of the bridge. She could see the labyrinthine streets of the Old City far below, but she caught no glimpse of Cormik. His body must have already landed.
“Why, Morhion? Why did he do it?”
“Indeed, why?” Morhion echoed her, but Mari had the distinct impression he was mocking her. “Cormik was ha
rdly the suicidal type. In fact, I’ve never met a man as obsessed with staying alive.”
Mari shook her head in disbelief. Yet she had seen Cormik step off the edge of the bridge.
“Oh, stop this nonsense,” a voice said impatiently. “We haven’t got all day.”
A chubby hand shot out of thin air and grabbed Mari’s green jacket, yanking her off the end of the bridge. This time she was too surprised to cry out. She braced for the shock of the plunge, but she wasn’t falling. In fact, she could feel a hard surface beneath her deerskin boots.
Cormik was glaring at her. She looked down. That was a mistake. Though it felt as if she were standing on solid rock, all she could see beneath her feet was clear air and the twisting streets a hundred feet below. A wave of nausea crashed through her, and she clutched Cormik’s arm for support.
“Didn’t I tell you not to look down?” he chided her.
“Invisible,” Morhion murmured with interest. “The bridge doesn’t end at all. It merely becomes invisible. And when we stand upon it, we are invisible as well.” He turned to Cormik. “This was wrought with powerful magic. Who are we going to find at the other end of the bridge?”
“You’ll see,” Cormik replied mysteriously.
Cormik was right, Mari realized. It was definitely better if she did not look down. Her feet were content to believe they trod upon hard stone, and she didn’t want to give them any other notions. She kept her gaze fixed ahead. Far below was a dark and seamy section of the Old City. They continued to walk.
“We’re here,” Cormik announced.
“Er, where’s here?” Mari asked hesitantly. “I don’t see anything.”
“Must you always be so negative, my dear?” Cormik asked in exasperation. “I know it’s difficult for you, but just trust me.”
He moved forward and vanished from sight. Mari knew there was little point in protesting. “Here goes nothing,” she grumbled, stepping forward.
