Curse of the Shadowmage

by Monte Cook

  She approached Cormik, who bent over the still-unconscious mage. He had placed his velvet cloak under Morhion’s head for a pillow, and the crime lord was deftly binding a bandage over the wound on the mage’s brow.

  “I didn’t realize you were so adept at healing,” Mari said softly.

  “I’m not,” Cormik replied. “But in my line of work, unwanted holes have a nasty way of appearing in one’s self and one’s co-workers, and so one gets accustomed to plugging them up.” He tied the bandage and leaned back, sighing. “I’m afraid that’s all I can do.”

  Mari reached out and gripped the mage’s chill hand. Don’t leave me Morhion, she thought fiercely. Don’t you dare leave me. Not now. I can’t do this alone.

  Kellen and Jewel moved back from the window in the outer sphere.

  “Did you see anything near the opening that might help us?” Cormik asked eagerly.

  Jewel ran a hand through her short, dark hair. “Do you want some inane but optimistic possibilities calculated solely to keep our spirits up? Or do you want the truth?”

  “You make it seem like such an attractive choice,” Cormik commented acidly.

  “Sorry,” Jewel apologized. “I suppose that’s why I’m a thief, not a politician. Not that there’s much difference in what we do, just how we present it afterward.” She went on. “There’s only the thinnest crack between this sphere and the one that surrounds it. The window is too small to climb through, and I couldn’t so much as scratch the stone with my knife. If our taciturn friend the mage were awake, I think he would tell us the sphere is enchanted. In other words, we’re trapped quite nicely.”

  “Unless we could rotate the sphere again,” Kellen went on. “Then we could realign the opening in the inner sphere with the hole we fell through in the outer sphere. Maybe we could boost ourselves up and get through.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Cormik admitted with an impressed look. However, they could find no trace of a mechanism by which the globe might be rotated. If any of them could unlock this mystery, it would be Morhion.

  “How is he?” Jewel asked quietly.

  Cormik shook his head. “I’m not sure, really. The truth is, the blow to his forehead really isn’t all that serious. It’s enough to give him a good headache, but that’s all. I don’t know why his breathing is so shallow, or his heartbeats are so fluttery.”

  “It was the lightning,” spoke a cracked voice. “The power of the bolt has confused the life energy that commands his heart to beat.”

  They looked up in shock to see a face hovering outside the narrow window. The light of the flickering candle revealed the speaker for a wizened woman with straggly gray hair. Her face looked as tough as old leather, and her bright obsidian eyes were nearly lost in masses of wrinkled skin.

  “Who are you?” Mari asked breathlessly.

  The ancient woman laughed, a sound like the call of a crow. “No one and nothing,” she replied hoarsely. “A bad memory, and one best forgotten. That’s all. And who are you?”

  The old woman seemed more than half mad, but she might be able to help them. “We’re on a quest,” Mari replied.

  “Truly?” the old woman said caustically. “Well, if you were searching for a bad end, then your quest is over, for you’ve found that here.”

  Mari winced. That reply hardly showed a helpful attitude.

  “My friend has been hurt,” Kellen said gravely.

  “And what makes you think I can do anything about it?” the old woman snapped.

  Kellen didn’t even blink. “I imagine that you’re very wise, that’s all.”

  The old woman grunted at this. “Well, you’d be right to imagine so,” she said in a surly tone. “And my wisdom tells me that I am too old and far too weary to concern myself with a lot of meddlers and troublemakers. I would say farewell, but I suppose it would be wasted on you, so I’ll say nothing at all.” She started to draw away.

  “Wait!” Kellen cried, reaching his hand toward the window.

  The old woman froze. A hissing sound escaped her lips. At last she whispered in a voice filled with wonder and dread. “The child wizard …”

  With swiftness surprising in one so old, she reached through the narrow opening and clutched Kellen’s hand before he could pull away. She ran a gnarled finger over the puckered scar on his left palm. “So young, yet already marked by magic,” she murmured in awe. “Of course. After all this time, I had dared to let myself forget. I waited so long, you see, but you never came. Finally I dismissed the prophecy as foolishness. And now, in the dark winter of my life, you have come at last.” Her voice became a moan of despair. “But why have you waited all these years? Why have you come when I am so old, so weak, so tired?”

  Kellen managed to pull his hand out of her gnarled grasp. He gave her a frightened look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not a wizard. Not yet, anyway.”

  The old woman laughed at this, an eerie sound. “But you will be. You will be a wizard the likes of which this world has never known. Ah, but do I have the strength to do what I must?” She fell silent.

  Mari stepped forward. “Please, listen to me,” she said earnestly. “You seem to know much I don’t pretend to understand. Won’t you help us, so we can talk with you more about … about this prophecy?”

  The old woman hesitated, then vanished from the window. Mari groaned in despair. Abruptly the old woman reappeared and thrust a hand through the window. “Here, place this on the mage’s chest,” she ordered.

  Mari took the proffered object. It was a small black seed. She thought to question the old woman, then bit her tongue. This was not the time to annoy the stranger. She knelt before Morhion and unlaced his shirt, then placed the tiny seed on the pale flesh above his heart.

  At first nothing happened. She traded skeptical looks with Cormik and Jewel. Perhaps the old woman was mad after all. Then Kellen whispered softly, “Look.”

  The seed was sprouting. As they watched in wonder, a small, dark purple leaf unfurled itself from the seed, and a root tendril snaked outward, plunging into the flesh of Morhion’s chest. More leaves uncurled themselves, and the strange purple plant grew larger as its roots sank deeper into Morhion’s body. The mage trembled, and his back arched off the stone beneath him.

  “It’s hurting him!” Mari cried out in horror, reaching to pull the magical plant from his body.

  “Stop!” the old woman commanded. Something in her voice made Mari freeze. “If you pluck the heartroot out now, your friend will surely perish.”

  Mari forced herself to remain still. There was nothing to do now but watch. The plant grew fuller, more lush. Its roots writhed like snakes beneath Morhion’s skin. Its deep purple leaves began to throb in time to the mage’s erratically beating heart. Morhion convulsed, his hands scratching reflexively against the black marble. Suddenly his entire body went limp.

  For a terrified moment Mari thought he was dead. She clasped a hand to Morhion’s wrist. His pulse was strong and even.

  Abruptly, the plant began to wither. Its purple leaves turned black and curled upon themselves. The stem broke, and the brittle plant crumbled as it fell to the floor. The only trace it left on Morhion’s flesh was a tiny violet circle, and even this began to fade. The mage took in a deep, shuddering breath and sat up, eyes open wide. Immediately he grimaced, touching a hand tentatively to his wounded brow.

  “What happened?” he asked in a dazed voice, and the others let out a collective sigh of relief.

  * * * * *

  The witch’s name was Isela, and as far as they could tell from the bits and fragments she told them, she had dwelt in the ruined city—she called it Talis—all her life. She left them for a brief time, only to return to the window with dried fruit, nuts, and a leather jug of water. The others accepted these gratefully, and thanked Isela when she told them she had retrieved and picketed their horses.

  “Though I suppose we’ll have little need of them if we cannot find a way to esca
pe this trap,” Morhion said darkly. Thanks to Isela’s magic, the mage had largely recovered from the lightning strike. “I wonder what this prison was originally for. And the pyramid. Do you know, Isela?”

  “I think I did once,” she said wistfully. “I’ve forgotten so much … so much I wonder how I ever knew it all. It seems to me that the wizards who dwelt here long ago used the pyramid and the orb to defend Talis from its enemies. The orb remembered the touch of magic, and when the boy laid a hand upon it, it called down the lightning to protect the city. But you had no idea what was coming, and so were caught by the trap that would have served to guard the wizards of long ago.” She paused, licking her thin lips. “There is a way to rotate the sphere, you know.”

  “How?” Mari asked intently.

  “A wizard could do it.” She gave Morhion a piercing look. “But you are too weak from the heartroot.”

  Morhion took a deep breath. “I’ll try it,” he said solemnly. “Tell me how.”

  “It would kill you,” Isela said flatly.

  “That is not important.” Anger flashed in his icy eyes. “We dare not delay our quest any longer. If the price is death, then I will pay it.”

  Isela gave a derisive snort. “A lot of good that would do your friends. Especially when there is one other who has the power.” Her sharp gaze drifted toward Kellen.

  “He’s only a child,” Mari said scornfully. “You would truly have him attempt something so perilous?”

  “He has already faced grave peril once.” Isela’s gaze flickered back toward Morhion. The mage fell silent.

  “What do I need to do?” Kellen asked quietly.

  Mari started to protest, then halted. What choice did they have? All she could do was watch Kellen closely, and stop him if he appeared to be in danger.

  “Close your eyes,” Isela instructed in a low voice. “Imagine that you are not inside the sphere, but rather that the sphere is a small black orb you hold in your hand.”

  Kellen sat cross-legged and shut his eyes. After a moment, he spoke in a dreamy voice. “I can see it.” He cupped his hand as if holding a ball.

  “Now, you must turn the orb a half-turn to the left.”

  “It’s hard,” Kellen protested, his brow furrowing.

  “Try!” Isela hissed. “You must try!”

  Kellen shook his head slowly. “No, it’s too heavy,” he said with a moan. “It’s … it’s crushing me …”

  Alarmed, Mari started forward, but Morhion was faster. He knelt beside the boy and whispered in his ear. “Do not fight the weight of the sphere, Kellen. That is its magic you feel. Let that magic fill you.”

  “I can’t,” Kellen gasped. “It hurts …”

  “Do not resist it,” Morhion said in a chantlike voice. “Clear your mind. Imagine your body an empty vessel. Then let the magic fill you. It will not harm you if you do not fight it.”

  A spasm crossed Kellen’s face, then his visage relaxed. “Yes …,” he whispered. He moved his hands, and the sphere lurched into motion. The window—and Isela with it—vanished as the opening in the wall rotated. After a moment the sphere ground to a halt. Kellen’s eyes flew open. “Did it work?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, it did,” Mari said in amazement.

  The opening in the inner sphere was now aligned with a similar-sized opening in the outer sphere. Beyond was moonlight. Without warning, Isela’s wizened face appeared in the opening. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she snapped. “An invitation?”

  Twelve

  Isela served them soup as they huddled around a dancing fire. The night was cold, and Isela’s dwelling offered scant protection from the frosty autumn air. The witch made her home in a chamber of what Morhion supposed was once a palace. Only three of the chamber’s walls still stood, and the roof had collapsed in one corner.

  The witch shoved a rudely carved wooden bowl into Morhion’s hands. “Eat, wizard,” she said curtly. “You will need your strength for what lies ahead.”

  The mage gave Isela a curious look. She made a peculiar figure, with her straggly gray hair, her craggy face, her bony form huddled inside a shapeless mass of dirty rags. Yet the keen light of intelligence in her eyes was unmistakable. Whatever the witch Isela was, she was not crazy. Morhion did not feel hungry—his head ached fiercely from the wound on his brow—but he did his best to eat some of the soup, so as not to offend Isela. The broth was flavored with strange herbs and contained the meat of an animal he did not recognize.

  Cormik cautiously stirred his own bowl. “I really hate to complain—”

  “Then I suggest you don’t,” Jewel interrupted, digging an elbow into his side as she glanced at Isela.

  He shot her a perturbed look. “It’s only a figure of speech, Jewel. You know perfectly well that I actually love to complain.”

  “Really, Cormik,” she chided him, “you have no idea what you’re missing.” She scooped up a large spoonful of soup, including the scaly foot of some nameless creature, and ate it with relish. After that, Cormik made only gagging noises, and the others were able to eat in peace.

  It was Kellen who broke the silence. “Isela, why do you think I’m the one mentioned in the prophecy?”

  Isela fixed him with her piercing gaze. “I do not think you are the one, child. You are the one.” She shook her head wearily, passing a gnarled hand before her eyes. “But I had no idea you would be so long in coming. How I have longed to lie down upon the forest floor, to let my bones sink deep into the ground and nourish my beloved trees. Still I waited, as I was pledged to do.” She lifted her gaze once more to Kellen’s face. “And now my waiting is over at last. The prophecy has come to pass.”

  “But what is the prophecy?” Kellen asked.

  When Isela finally spoke, it was in an eerie whisper. “Long, long ago, in an age now lost in the mists of time, there was a great oracle who was a leader of his people, a tribe of the Talfirc. The oracle journeyed to this place and said that, one day, there would come a child marked by magic, in whose hands would lie the fate of all the Talfirc. The child would come on a quest to stop a great darkness. Someone must await his coming, to aid him when he was in need. So the Talfirc built a city here, and they called it Talis. They remembered the prophecy and awaited the coming of the child wizard.” Isela sighed heavily. “But the child never came, the city fell to ruin, and the prophecy was forgotten.”

  “Except by you,” Kellen said, reaching out to touch her crooked hand.

  Isela stared at Kellen in surprise, then her expression darkened. “Aye, I remembered. But what does it matter now if the child wizard holds the fate of all the Talfirc in his hands? There are no more Talfirc. They vanished long ago. They are all gone now. All gone.”

  “Except for you, Isela?” Morhion asked softly.

  The witch only laughed her dry, cackling laugh and gazed at him with hard obsidian eyes. After that, Isela seemed unwilling to talk. She curled up in a corner and was still and silent. The companions retrieved their bedrolls from the horses outside and readied themselves for sleep.

  “Do you really think she’s a thousand years old, Morhion?” Mari whispered as they lay down by the fire. “I know it’s impossible, but I almost believe she has lived in Talis since its destruction, awaiting the fulfillment of the prophecy. She does seem to know a great deal about what happened here a thousand years ago. What do you think?”

  Morhion met her gaze. “I think, Mari, that you have answered your own question.” With that he shut his eyes and swiftly passed into sleep.

  “Morhion.”

  The whisper jolted him awake. His eyes fluttered open. It was Isela. She held a fìnger to her lips, then gestured for him to follow. He slipped silently from his blanket and padded after her in the sooty predawn light. She led him through twisting corridors until they came to another room. He guessed it might once have been a library, though the wooden shelves had rotted to splinters, and the books had long ago become mulch for the fragrant wild mint that carpete
d the floor.

  Isela moved to a rusted iron chest and threw back the lid. She drew out two objects and handed them to Morhion. One was a book, its crackling yellow pages still protected by a cover of oiled leather. The second was a silver ring set with a violet gem.

  Morhion raised an eyebrow. “What are these things, Isela?”

  She placed her gnarled hands on her hips. “That is for you to discover, wizard. But I will tell you this—you will have need of them on your quest.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How is it you know what we seek to do?”

  She waved this away as if it were an unimportant detail. “How I know matters not. But heed me, wizard. You seek to destroy a great shadow. Yet shadows can exist only when there is light to cast them. To destroy the shadow, you must destroy the light as well. Do not forget that.”

  “I won’t,” he promised solemnly, though he was not sure what she meant.

  She nodded and, without a word, turned to leave. By the time they made it back to the sleeping chamber, the others were waking. They ate a breakfast of hardtack and leftover soup—ignoring more of Cormik’s grumbling—and discussed their plans. They had to cross the River Reaching and return to the Dusk Road to search for Caledan’s trail. Isela claimed to know a way across the river, though she remained deliberately mysterious.

  “You shall see,” was all she said.

  They gathered on the damp green bank of the river in the misty light of dawn.

  “You have got to be joking,” Cormik said in blatant disbelief. “How, by all the gold of Ghaethluntar, are we going to get a horse across the river in that?”

  Jewel gave Cormik’s paunch an appraising look. “I’m not certain it’s the horses that will be the problem.”

  Cormik treated her to a withering glare. “You actually enjoy being unpleasant, don’t you?”