by Monte Cook
“But how—” Mari began. Her words were interrupted by a shriek from above. She gave Morhion a startled glance. He nodded, confirming her fear.
“The shadevari have found us,” the mage said grimly.
“Go,” the ghost of Verraketh ordered. “I shall find a way to delay the Eyeless Ones.”
“But what about the song in the vale?” Mari protested. “How are we to restore it?”
“There is not time for me to explain the way,” Verraketh said curtly. “If indeed, after all these centuries, I would even remember how. It is up to thee to find a way to restore the Valesong.” His voice rose thunderously. “Now go!”
Another bloodcurdling cry rent the air. This time, the companions did not hesitate; they urged their mounts into a wild gallop. As they rode, Mari risked a glance over her shoulder. The ghost of Verraketh had vanished. However, she noticed that the sky had grown darker. Even as she watched, the clouds began to swirl in a spiral, faster and faster. High above, the unseen shadowsteeds screeched again, and this time their cries were not cries of hunger but of anger. Ghost or not, Verraketh was doing something that the winged steeds of the shadevari did not like.
The four horses raced toward the distant ridge that lay between them and the vale of the Shadowstar. Mari gripped Farenth’s mane with white-knuckled hands.
“Hold on, Caledan,” she whispered urgently. “We’re coming as fast as we can. Hold on just a little while longer …”
But the cold wind snatched the words from her lips.
Hooves clattering against loose stone, Mista scrambled up the last few feet to the summit of the knife-edged ridge.
“Good girl,” Caledan said, leaning forward in the saddle to stroke her neck. Despite the chill, her pale coat was flecked with foam. “I knew you could do it.”
Mista nickered uncertainly in reply. She did not like this place. Nor did Caledan. He gazed down into a dark hollow in the blasted landscape. The vale of the Shadowstar.
“Well,” he said. “We’re here.”
Though he had never seen this place before, Caledan had an eerie sense that he was coming home. Perhaps, in a way, he was. A thousand years of shadow magic ran in his veins. This was where it had all begun.
The vale itself was not so much a valley as it was a crater—a circular pit gouged into the surface of the world by a terrible, otherwordly force. The walls of the vale were formed of jagged black stone. Hot steam rose from countless fissures in the crater’s floor, creeping around a jagged spire of rock that stood like a sentinel in the vale’s center. He shut his eyes, and he could almost see it: the fiery streak plunging down through the sky to strike the ground with a flash as bright as the sun and a sound as deafening as two worlds colliding, leaving in its wake a gaping wound on the face of Toril.
Caledan opened his eyes and studied the steep slope leading down into the vale. Slowly, he dismounted. His joints ached fiercely, and he was horribly dizzy. Somehow he managed to stand upright.
“I’m afraid this is where we part ways, old friend,” he said haggardly.
Mista gave a firm snort, stamping her hoof in protest.
Caledan shook his head. “You can’t make it down that slope, Mista, and you know it. Frankly, I’m not certain I can, either.” He sighed. “But I have to try.”
The ghostly gray mare let out a worried nicker.
He encircled her strong neck with his arms. “I swear, I will come back for you, Mista, if it is at all in my power. I think that you’re the only one I really remember now. I know that there are others … others who were important to me once. But I don’t know their names anymore, or their faces.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Damn, but I hardly even remember my own name anymore.”
Mista nuzzled his cheek. She bared her big yellow teeth and bit his ear, but the gesture was only halfhearted. Caledan slapped her affectionately.
“Good-bye, old friend,” he said softly.
With that, he turned and began picking his way down the treacherous wall of the crater.
The going was agonizingly slow. Rocks skidded beneath his boots. Sharp edges sliced his hands when he reached out to steady himself. He was perhaps halfway down when his feet set a whole section of loose scree into motion. The small rocks were as slick as marbles, and there was nothing for Caledan to grab on to. With a cry he fell, tumbling down the slope in a small avalanche of loose rock. When he came to a stop at the bottom, he was surprised to find he was still alive. Groaning, he pulled himself from beneath a pile of rubble and staggered to his feet. He was bruised and bloodied, his clothes rent in a score of places.
“Well, that was the quick way down,” he said with a manic laugh, but there was no one to hear his words.
Taking a deep breath, he stumbled onward, skirting a dozen crevices. Hissing steam rose from the fissures along with a dull red glow, filling the air with a sulfurous reek that seared his lungs. Only after several minutes did he consciously hear the throbbing sound that thrummed in his chest in time to his rapidly pounding heart.
It was music.
So this was the Valesong. Exactly how he knew about the Valesong, Caledan was not certain. The knowledge had simply come to him, like knowledge of the Shadowstar and Ebenfar. He cocked his head to listen. The music echoed all around. It was chaotic and dissonant, and he could make out no melody. That was because the music was flawed. He knew that, just as he knew everything else. Long ago the music had been marred.
“And now I must restore it,” he whispered, the words hurting his parched throat. If the Valesong were complete, he would be free of the Shadowstar, free of the dark turmoil that raged within him.
Gripping the Shadowstar, Caledan lurched on. As he went, he racked his spinning brain, trying to figure out what he had to do to make the ancient Valesong whole once more. The knowledge was there, somewhere. It had to be. Then, like one groping blindly in the dark for a flint with which to light a candle, he found the answer.
The acrid smoke swirled. Caledan stumbled to a halt. Before him rose a massive pillar of solid basalt. Carved into its tapering surface were irregular stone steps. His gaze was drawn up the beckoning stairway that spiraled around the towering pinnacle all the way to the top. There, carved into the very summit of the pillar, was a gigantic chair. The throne of the Shadowking.
Even as Caledan gazed upon the onyx throne, he knew that he must sit upon it.
Desperately, he tried to cling to his plan of restoring the Valesong, of freeing himself from the dark power that raged within him, but those thoughts were brutally ripped away by a surging wave of desire. All he could think of was how good it would be to stop resisting, to finally let himself be swept away on that dark, turbulent sea. The other woke within him, and for the first time he was not frightened by its presence. At last, here was an end to his battle. He stepped forward, placing his boot upon the stairway.
As he did, one last fragment of the man who had been called Caledan Caldorien bubbled to the surface. He no longer remembered why he had created the myriad signs as he journeyed, or what they had meant. Yet an image drifted in his mind, of one last sign he intended to create. For a moment, the forces inside him struggled. Then, with a shudder, he reached out and pressed his hand against the pinnacle. Beneath his fingers, dark stone melted, flowed, resolidified. He pulled his hand back, not even bothering to look at the object he had forged. It did not matter now. All that mattered was the throne.
It drew him upward. No longer feeling pain or weariness, he climbed the spiral staircase. At last he reached the top and gazed at the tortured landscape that stretched in all directions. Soon, he thought, all this will be mine. A smile twisted his face. He ascended the final step and sat upon the throne.
Out of thin air, shadows appeared, coiling around him like a royal robe of black satin. He shut his eyes and curled up in the chair, knees to chest, like a child in its mother’s womb. It felt so sweet to rest, and finally to forget. More dusky tendrils swirled about him, cocooning him in the soft stuff of s
hadows. In moments, his body was completely covered by a dark, sticky sheath bound securely to the onyx throne. Swiftly, the jet-black sheath dried, becoming hard and glossy, sealing its contents safely within.
It was a chrysalis.
Nineteen
“There it is,” Morhion said solemnly. “The heart of Ebenfar.”
They dismounted and gazed into the smoking crater. A bitter wind whistled over the saw-toothed ridge, but clouds of warm mist rose up from the desolate vale. The acrid steam burned in their lungs.
Ferret scratched his stubbled chin nervously. “Let me guess—the Shadowking did his own decorating, am I right? The gloomy neo-gothic overtones highlighted by the retro-apocalyptic blasted rock are a dead giveaway.” He clapped his hands together. “It simply screams ‘Shadowking.’ ”
Kellen gave the weasely thief a curious look. “You’re a silly man, Uncle Ferret.”
Ferret shot Kellen a crooked-toothed grin. “I know. But don’t underestimate silliness, Kellen. It’s a surprisingly good self-defense mechanism, and a whole lot more fun than panicking.”
Kellen reached out and gently patted the thief’s hand. “If you say so, Uncle Ferret.”
A high-pitched whinny rang out on the frigid air. The companions turned in surprise to see a riderless horse trot toward them across the windswept ridgetop. It was Mista, Caledan’s gray mare. When Mari grabbed Mista’s bridle, the horse snorted nervously, rolling her eyes. Mari stroked the smooth arch of the horse’s neck, trying to calm her.
“Caledan,” she said hoarsely. “He’s already here. We’re too late.”
“Perhaps,” Morhion replied. “But perhaps not. We must believe that there is yet time to save him.”
Mari’s shoulders trembled. She clutched at Mista’s mane. “I don’t know if I can do it, Morhion,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“Do what, Mari?”
“Look at him,” she answered in anguish. “I don’t know if I can face him if he’s … changed. To see him, turned into a … a thing of evil. I’m not sure I have the strength to bear it.”
Morhion took a deep breath. He was not certain he could bear it either. Yet maybe he did not need to be so strong. Maybe none of them did. He reached out and gripped Mari’s shoulder. “We can all do it together, Mari,” he said softly. “Together, we will be strong enough.”
A fragile smile touched her lips. “Promise?”
He nodded solemnly. “I promise.” Abruptly, a low laugh escaped him. “Did I not warn you that one day, when you least expected it, I would be on your side?”
“Well,” she said with mock indignation, “it’s about time.”
Morhion smiled at her. Then his gaze was drawn downward, into the mist-shrouded vale.
“We’ll leave the horses here,” he said.
Traversing the steep slope down into the crater was an ordeal. At first, Morhion worried about Kellen’s ability to climb the jagged cliffs. Then he realized his fears were unfounded. Kellen moved as nimbly down the treacherous slope as did Ferret. Boy and thief picked their way lightly over sharp rock outcrops and across expanses of slick scree. Mari and Morhion followed more carefully. At one point, the mage’s boot slipped on a patch of loose rubble, and he lost his balance altogether. He would have gone sailing over the edge if Serafi had not materialized before him. The spectral knight raised his ethereal gauntlets, and a blast of frigid air blew Morhion backward. Serafi said nothing. He did not have to. Morhion knew the knight had saved his life for one reason only: to protect the body that the dark spirit would soon possess for his own. With a flash of his burning eyes, Serafi vanished. Mari and Morhion exchanged grim looks.
At last they reached the bottom of the crater.
Ferret let out a low whistle. “So this is what the Abyss looks like. Not that I can say I was really all that curious to know.”
The vale of the Shadowstar did indeed look like some dismal limbo for the damned. Perhaps it was, at that, Morhion thought with a bitter, silent laugh. Serafi, Caledan, Morhion himself—who were they but lost souls one and all?
Cautiously, the four made their way toward the center of the blasted vale. The sulfurous reek was almost overpowering. Tatters of steam scudded across the rocky ground, and a dull red glow hung on the air like a bloody miasma. Acrid steam rose from countless fissures in the dark rock, and it was from some of these crevices that the ruddy light emanated.
Morhion wasn’t exactly certain when he noticed the low thrumming. Abruptly he halted, cocking his head. By the expressions of the others, they had heard it as well. It was a vast sound, and incomprehensibly complex. Countless different tones and pitches blended together to forge a single throbbing voice that was almost like—
“Music,” Morhion finished the thought aloud.
“The Valesong,” Mari said in amazement. Gradually her expression became a frown. “But there’s something wrong with the music. I’m not certain exactly what—this is like no harmony I’ve ever heard before. It’s almost alien. Still, I can’t help but feel there’s something wrong. It’s almost as though some part of it were … missing.”
Morhion trusted Mari’s knowledge of music. “Verraketh said that he marred the Valesong long ago.” He gazed around at the rocky landscape. “But what is the source of the music? We cannot restore it if we do not know how it is formed. Does it truly echo here from the dawning of the world?”
“That would be some echo,” Ferret commented skeptically. The thief began to look around, exploring. Morhion wondered what he was doing. “Doesn’t this music seem familiar?” Ferret muttered. The thief hopped aside to avoid a blast of hot steam shooting from a nearby fissure. At the same moment, another tone was added to the music that throbbed in the vale.
Kellen looked at the fissure, his green eyes curious. “It’s almost like a pipe organ,” he said thoughtfully.
Ferret snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” He tousled Kellen’s dark hair. “Good work, kid!” Kellen grimaced, smoothing his hair with a hand.
Morhion gazed at the little thief. “What are you thinking, Ferret?”
“Just a minute,” Ferret said hastily. The thief continued to explore the vale in ever-widening circles, climbing atop heaps of rubble and peering into dark pits. At last he let out a hoot of victory. He waved an arm wildly, gesturing for the others.
“What have you found?” Mari asked as they reached the thief.
Ferret perched atop a blocky outcropping. Three jagged holes gaped in the rock beneath him. “Look at these fissures,” the thief directed.
“Are we supposed to be impressed?” Morhion asked dubiously.
Ferret hopped down. “Don’t you notice something strange about these holes, something that makes them different from all the other crevices in the vale?”
“There’s no steam,” Mari said after a moment.
“Exactly.” He peered into one of the fissures; it was large enough to crawl into. “As far as I can tell, these three holes join together a little way down. Unlike all the other fissures in the vale, no steam is blowing out of these. Something must be blocking them from below.”
Morhion suddenly understood what the clever thief was getting at. “Now I see, Ferret. The music doesn’t echo in the vale. The vale itself is making the music.”
“You got it,” Ferret beamed. “It was Kellen who made me understand. The steam blowing through all these crevices acts like a giant pipe organ. Each fissure makes one note, and all the notes blend together to make the Valesong.”
Mari nodded excitedly. “But something below ground is blocking these fissures, which means the Valesong is missing three notes. That’s how Verraketh marred it.”
Morhion bent to examine the rough-edged holes. He could see only darkness beyond. “We have to find a way to unblock these fissures. If we can restore the Valesong, we just might have a chance to—”
“Morhion! Mari! Ferret!”
The cry rang out over the vale. Kellen. Swiftly the three turned, peering into the
swirling steam, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy. He must have wandered off.
Mari’s sharp eyes found him first. “There!” she said, pointing. As they approached, they saw what had caused him to call out.
“Kellen,” Morhion said gravely. “I want you to take a step back. Carefully.”
The boy stood on the edge of a wide pit. Crimson light rose out of the pit, along with wisps of hot yellow smoke. Four yards below the rim of the pit was a bubbling pool of lava. When Kellen did as he was told, Morhion reached out and snatched the boy safely away from the edge.
Mari gazed down at the pool of molten rock, her face bathed in the ruddy glow. “The lava must be heating a source of underground water, and the resultant steam is forced up through the fissures in the rock, making the Valesong.”
“Hey, guys,” Ferret said with a gulp. “You may want to look up for a second.”
The others did as the thief bid. Morhion swore softly. On the far side of the pit stood a sharp-edged pinnacle of basalt. Carved into the jagged surface of the spire were stairs spiraling upward, leading to the pointed summit. There was something up there, a dark shape at the very top of the stone spire, but Morhion could not make it out.
Carefully, the four skirted the lava pit and approached the pinnacle. They found the beginning of the stone staircase on the far side of the spire, opposite the pit. They found something else as well: A patch of stone had been molded into a new shape. It was a human hand, reaching out of the surface of the pinnacle. An object rested in the outstretched hand, a set of pipes. They looked like the reed pipes a forest satyr might play to enchant a nymph, but they were made of smooth onyx stone.
“Caledan,” Mari whispered.
Kellen approached the stone hand and reached out to touch the onyx pipes. The instrument parted from the hand with a faint snick! and came away in Kellen’s grip. He stared at the pipes in wonder. They were beautiful, as smooth and fluid as midnight water.
