The Shadow Stone ta-1

by Richard Baker

  Sitting cross-legged before the misty plume, eyes closed and hands folded, Fineghal waited. He glanced up and rose to greet his hound as she barked and played in the water that ran past his feet. "My thanks, Baillegh," he said quietly. Then he turned to Aeron and Eriale, springing lightly from boulder to boulder as he came down to meet them. His garb had changed in the daylight to a deep green and russet brown. Aeron could still sense the otherworldly aura mantling the elf lord, but it struck him now as a sense of health, vigor, or rightness-Fineghal belonged here. "Welcome, Aeron Morieth and Eriale of Maerchlin. You honor me by accepting my invitation."

  Aeron couldn't think of any gracious response. Instead, he asked, "Where are we?"

  "This is my home. Or one of them, anyway. All of the Maerchwood is my home, but I require some place to abide. I took the liberty of coming ahead, but I see that Baillegh showed you the way." The elf's expression was difficult to read, wry and self-deprecating, yet not bitter. He gestured behind him to a small satchel that lay beside where he'd been waiting. "If you have not yet eaten, I've some breakfast to share."

  "Thank you, Lord Fineghal," Aeron said. "I'm hungry."

  Fineghal held up a hand. "Please. I am simply Fineghal, and I'll have no one at my table call me lord." He sat down on a low shelf of stone, and Aeron and Eriale joined him. From the satchel, he produced a number of small cakes, apples and pears, honey, cheese, and a flagon of fruited wine. While they ate, Aeron related the story of his encounter with Phoros and subsequent flight. Fineghal listened, his eyes never leaving Aeron's face.

  When Aeron finished, Fineghal looked toward the north and Maerchlin. "They hunt for you still, Aeron. Fortunately they can't find your trail from the tower to this place."

  "Another enchantment?" Aeron asked.

  "The tower was a place of refuge many years ago. Those who came to it in need were not meant to be found or followed." Fineghal seemed lost in his recollections for a long moment before he returned his attention to Aeron and Eriale. "So, young Aeron, what do you intend to do now?"

  "I can't go home," Aeron said. "I can't even stay close by. I'll have to go somewhere far from here. I'd thought I might live off the land until things calm down, but it might be years before I can return to Maerchlin."

  "If ever," Fineghal replied. "You have no kin?"

  "No, my-er, no, Fineghal. I was orphaned when I was young. My father, Stiche Morieth, led a revolt against Lord Raedel twelve years ago. He was hanged for it, and many other people with him. Including my mother."

  "It seems hard to believe that the Morieths could ever come to grief in Maerchlin," Fineghal mused. "I remember a time when the Morieths were held in great honor, both by your people and by mine. In fact, there were Morieths who married elven folk a long time ago."

  Aeron grimaced. "Phoros and his friends used to call me a half-breed for that."

  "I can see traces of elven blood in your features. It must have been hard for you, Aeron. In my experience, Chessentans are not forgiving of such faults."

  They fell silent for a time, listening to the wind in the trees and the rushing of the water.

  "Fineghal, you said the tower was a place of refuge," Eriale asked. "What did you mean by that?"

  The elf glanced at her. "Centuries ago, the Maerchwood was home to Calmaercor, a small elven realm akin to the great kingdoms of the Chondalwood or distant Cormanthyr," he said. "In those days, elven lands such as Calmaercor were scattered across all of Faerun. But the elven folk have many enemies-dragons and orcs, giants and goblins, and even human, with their lands that grew up around our borders. The people of Calmaercor fought the troll kings of the mountains that men call the Riders to the Sky, the fire creatures of the Smoking Mountains, and finally the power of ancient Unther. Our forest, which once stretched from the Adder Peaks to the Sky Riders, has been burned, logged, and settled a piece at a time. And we have been diminished while our old foes have grown more numerous.

  "Unlike the elves of Myth Drannor or the hidden fastnesses of other lands, we didn't place our faith in cities or fortresses. Instead, we built watchtowers to hide our people in times of danger. The first were built to thwart the trolls and salamanders, but as humans migrated into what is now Chessenta and brought axe and fire against our forest, we hid from them as well. In time the towers all fell, sniffed out by human sorcery and pulled down one by one."

  "What happened to Calmaercor?" Aeron asked.

  "Two hundred years past, we decided to withdraw from the Maerchwood and leave these lands to the Chessentans. I am one of the few who remain."

  "Why do you stay?" asked Eriale.

  Fineghal straightened and swept one arm out to indicate the cascade, the glistening rock, the rich forest. "I cannot bear the thought of leaving," he said. "I miss my people, but having lived under these trees all my life, I can't imagine living anywhere else. There is magic here still."

  "You must have lived here a long time," Eriale said.

  Fineghal looked up at the sky overhead. It was as bright as burnished brass, promising another day of summer heat. "As humans reckon time, about a thousand years," he said quietly. "The very stars have shifted since my youth. Yet it seems like no more than a long summer's day."

  Aeron stared at the elven lord. A thousand years … if he lived to be a hundred, Fineghal would have lived his life span ten times over. "By Tchazzar," he murmured, awestruck. "A thousand years …"

  Fineghal smiled sadly. "Time doesn't touch the elves in the way it touches humans. Although you may find, Aeron, that your elven blood is stronger than your human blood. I suspect that the years will pass lightly for you." With a fluid ease of motion, Fineghal came to his feet and stood over Aeron and Eriale. "I am afraid that I must leave now. I have responsibilities elsewhere within the forest's bounds. You are welcome to remain here, both of you, as long as you like. No humans will find you here. Come and go as you please, Eriale. Aeron, you would be wise to abide here for a time to avoid those who seek you. Perhaps matters will settle themselves in a few months."

  "You're leaving us here?" Eriale asked.

  The elf nodded gravely. "I ask only that you do not reveal this place to anyone else and that you treat it with care. Harm nothing that lives within this dell." He paused and then added, "I may be back in a month or two, certainly before autumn. Eriale, Baillegh can show you a hidden trail back to Maerchlin." He picked up his thin pack, slung it over one shoulder, and started down the gorge, lightly stepping from stone to stone in the white-rushing stream. Baillegh wagged her tail and followed with a yip.

  Aeron and Eriale exchanged puzzled glances. "Did we say something to offend him?" Eriale asked.

  "I don't know," Aeron replied. Fineghal's offer was generous. The valley would make an excellent campsite, with good water, plenty of fishing and hunting nearby, and Maerchlin only ten miles away when he chose to go home. But as he watched the noble elf striding off into the emerald shadows of the Maerchwoods, he found that he longed to know more. He could remain here, but he would be a peasant squatting in a king's castle, never understanding the many fine and beautiful things that surrounded him. A strange intuition coalesced in his mind, a certainty that his meeting with Fineghal was no accident, no fortunate coincidence, but the intangible hand of fate at work. Fineghal had said that he'd been waiting for Aeron, but Aeron realized that he had been waiting for Fineghal, too, a sign to shape him into the man he was meant to be.

  Without thinking, he splashed across the cold, swift stream and scrambled down the wet gray stone after Fineghal. Desperation gripped his heart. He forgot Eriale, gaping after him. "Wait, Fineghal! Wait a moment!"

  The elf turned, his face impassive. "Yes, Aeron?"

  He stopped ten paces short of the elf, his breeches darkened to the knee with cold water, breathless and suddenly horrified by his own temerity. What in Faerun was he thinking about? Fineghal waited patiently as Aeron wrestled with his fears. Closing his eyes, Aeron forced himself to speak what was in his heart. "I–I want
to come with you. I want to know more … about the elves, about the forest.. " His voice trailed off as he fumbled for the words to express what he felt. "I want to know about the old magic."

  Fineghal studied him. "Aeron, the power that I wield is no magician's trick to be learned and forgotten on a young man's whim. It is a road that will chain your feet from the moment you set foot upon it. Should you take this step, there will be no turning back for you."

  "You were waiting for me," Aeron said. "Why? What's special about me?"

  "More than you might guess, Aeron Morieth."

  "Aeron! Have you lost your mind?" Eriale stood pale as a ghost, her mouth open in shock.

  Aeron ignored her, his attention fixed on Fineghal. "I can keep up. I'll do anything you ask. I need to see what you see, to learn what you know. I have nothing to lose."

  The elf faced Aeron, measuring the boy with a long, serious glance. An hour ago, Aeron would have wilted beneath that searching gaze, unable to confront the scrutiny of the elf's ancient wisdom. But as he met Fineghal's face, the turmoil of emotion in his heart calmed. His destiny was bound up with the elf lord; all his life had led to this confrontation beneath the soaring spray of the cascade.

  Fineghal's cool gaze softened. He recognized the unbending purity of purpose that infused Aeron at that moment. "All right, Aeron. I will let you come with me … if you consent to a test."

  "A test?"

  "Yes. Before I try to teach you, I must know whether or not you can be taught."

  "Anything!" Aeron replied.

  "You should think before you answer so quickly. There may be a time when you discover that your heart's desire is not what it seems." Fineghal shook his head. "I can see it would be useless to ask you to reconsider. Very well, then. Come with me." With a rueful glance at the misted dell, the elf turned and started down along the stream again, moving slower this time. Aeron and Eriale hurried after him. Baillegh skipped and bounded from rock to rock behind them, bringing up the rear.

  Fineghal chose a nearly invisible path that wound southeast, crossing the rocky ridge and snaking through the rugged country beyond. By midday, they were deep into the spine of the forest, the great range of tree-mantled hills that ran through the heart of the Maerchwood. Fineghal led them on a steep trail that eventually climbed clear of the trees altogether, bringing them to a windswept spire of weathered stone. "This will do," he announced as Aeron and Eriale collapsed on the ground.

  "What is this place?" Eriale gasped.

  "The cumarha midhe," Fineghal said over his shoulder. "In Common, Forest's Stonemantle. It's a place of strength and purpose, a place of magic."

  "This is where you'll test me?" guessed Aeron.

  Fineghal turned his ancient eyes on Aeron. Despite himself, the young forester quailed. "Aeron, you will imagine that you are in another place, facing a dire threat. The test varies for every person who attempts it; the place and the peril are locked within your heart. But anything you can imagine, you can attempt."

  "Is it dangerous?" Eriale asked.

  "Magic is dangerous," Fineghal replied. "If Aeron succeeds, he won't be harmed. If he fails. . many have sustained injury in tests of this kind."

  The girl frowned. "Aeron, maybe you should-"

  Aeron cut her off with a curt slash of his hand. "I'm ready," he told Fineghal.

  "As you wish," Fineghal said. He raised his hand, pointing at Aeron, and hummed a soft melody under his breath. A strange prickling sensation danced across Aeron's entire body, and the hollow of his chest reverberated with a chordlike resonance that drew his breath away. For the second time in the span of a day, Aeron felt magic at work nearby. He gasped in astonishment, closing his eyes.

  The world tumbled away in darkness, vanishing like a bird taking wing at dusk. His heart fluttered in his chest in sudden panic, and his hands scrabbled at the nothingness that embraced him. Before his panic could master him entirely, light silently flared around him. He gaped in amazement at what he saw.

  He was standing in the great hall of Raedel Keep.

  Every detail was perfect, down to the tiny crack in the flagstone by the door, the stale sunbeams that slanted in through the leaded-glass windows, the dancing of dust motes in the yellow light. Aeron had only been in the great hall half a dozen times, and never alone, but here he stood. A ghostlike flicker caught the corner of his eye, and he saw a pale lord hovering behind him.

  I am here, Aeron, Fineghal said silently inside his mind. This is the test you have created for yourself. Be strong.

  Aeron turned slowly. He could sense the dreamlike quality of the vision, the inordinately still air, the rhythmic beating of his heart in his ears, the impression that things wavered and vanished when he wasn't looking directly at them. Why Raedel Hall? he wondered.

  Ghostly shapes began to fill the chamber, becoming darker and more substantial. Phantom guards in black mail lined the walls, holding gleaming halberds. In the empty wooden seat before him, an image of Lord Raedel materialized, a stout man with a blunt, unforgiving face. He scowled past Aeron. Turning his head, Aeron saw the tall figure of a proud, golden-haired man in chains. A cold lance of pain seared his heart. "Father?" he whispered. Behind Stiche Morieth, a young and beautiful woman stood holding the hand of a small, thin boy with a bright mass of yellow curls atop his head. Aeron realized that he was looking at himself as he appeared that day.

  The wraiths ignored him. In an eerie absence of sound, Raedel stood and spoke, his eyes cold flecks of granite in his stone face. The beautiful woman sagged to her knees, her open mouth wailing in perfect silence. The boy hid his face in her skirts. The guards seized Stiche by his chains and dragged him away.

  The scene faded suddenly, the ghostly figures vanishing. Aeron reeled and shifted his weight. The rough scrape of iron on iron startled him. He looked down and saw that he was chained at his wrists and ankles. The silence was gone, broken by a murmur of voices and clattering weapons and armor. His eyes leapt to the wooden seat, where Phoros Raedel, no phantom but a real and living enemy, leaned back, sneering at him. "Are you prepared to follow your father to the gallows, Morieth?" he hissed. "We should've let you swing the same day he danced on the rope."

  Aeron tried to retreat, but the shackles held him fast. Rusty iron abraded his wrists. "Damn you, Phoros!"

  "Silence!" Phoros gestured at the guards on either side and rose from his seat. "Take him to the gallows."

  Two heavyset guardsmen in black armor caught his arms and dragged him backward, through the hall's great doors and into the bright sunlight of the castle courtyard. Phoros sauntered after him, one hand cocked on the hilt of his sword. Aeron tried to struggle, but it was no use. The guardsmen merely tightened their grip. Their boots clomped on the wooden steps of the gibbet. The weathered planks barked his shins as he tried to get his feet under him. "Let me go!" he roared in desperate fury.

  You can stop this, Aeron, said the wraith of Fineghal. The elven lord watched dispassionately from the side, his arms folded. If you have the will, you can end this or turn it to any course you desire. Defend yourself, escape, do anything you want.

  "But how?" Aeron shouted. One of the faceless guards pinned his arms, while the other slipped the coarse noose over his head. "What do I do?"

  Magic begins in the heart and is shaped by the will. Decide what you want, then want it with all your being. Use your will to shape it into what you need.

  Aeron gagged as the noose was drawn tight around his neck. For a moment he panicked, too stricken with terror to do anything except thrash and struggle, but then he tried to make sense of Fineghal's cryptic words. Decide what you want. . Right now, he wanted the noose off his neck and the fetters removed from his limbs. The guards stepped back, clearing the gallows for its grisly task. The structure creaked and swayed slightly in the wind. He kept his attention on the manacles, fiercely wishing them to fall open.

  A faint vibration or prickling seemed to hum softly in the center of his chest.

&nbs
p; He sharpened his desire to a white-hot fury, driven by his old grief for his parents and his simple desire to live. He became aware of a sea of discordant melodies surrounding him, a chaotic maelstrom of light and life and energy. The wind currents danced and sang in his ears. The faded life of the wood that made up the gallows smoldered dimly, a memory of water and sunlight. Multicolored auras burned around each of the men who stood by the scene, the potent fire of their life-forces burning like brands in the night. The rush he felt in his heart was the echo of his own life, the great magical power of being.

  Aeron flailed out, trying to seize the strongest auras and bend them to his will. They seemed to slip through his grasp, and he felt panic rising in his throat.

  Shape yourself to the Weave, Aeron. No one can bend the Weave to himself

  The executioner threw his lever, dropping the trapdoor from beneath Aeron's feet. The world wheeled slowly as he felt the aura of his body fluctuate, gaining energy as he started to fall. A fleeting resonance sounded between the wind currents in the courtyard and his own motion, and with a sudden act of will, he altered the energy in his heart, matching the wind again, imitating it, imagining it beneath his feet.

  He stood on a column of air, his fall arrested.

  Tentatively he reached out, feeling through the stone and earth beneath his feet until he detected a faint resonance that matched the iron chains that bound him. With care, he softened them until they glowed cherry-red and sagged from his legs and arms. He basked in Fineghal's silent approval. "I can do anything?"

  A long silence stretched out for a dozen heartbeats as Aeron marveled at the sensation of magic in his grasp. Anything, Fineghal replied at last.

  Aeron turned to confront the frozen statues of Phoros Raedel, the guards, and the ominous towers of the castle. He listened for a deep, powerful force far beneath him, heat and crushing power from miles within the earth. Fineghal's approval turned to astonishment as Aeron coaxed the incalculable energy upward, linking it to the cold and ordered stones that surrounded him. At the last moment, Fineghal raised a hand in warning, but Aeron was too caught up in his task.