Galaeron continued to look at her, trying to think of some other way to convey his suspicions without alerting the one spying upon them.
Irreph and Alduvar were lending their voices to Mourngrym’s, protesting that Alusair was wasting the council’s valuable time with a meaningless exercise of imagination.
“Galaeron,” Ruha asked, “is there something else?”
“No,” he said. If only she understood fingertalk; as it was, he was beginning to fear he would have to use his own magic to save the council. “That’s all.”
Ruha nodded—a bit uncertainly—and turned back to the council.
Galaeron sat fidgeting, lost in his own thoughts, trying to think of some other way to do what was needed. It was easily two months since he had last cast a spell. Surely, he could cast this one, not even a very difficult spell. It was just a simple abjuration to reveal the spy he knew to be lurking somewhere in the council chamber putting words in the mouths of the Dalesmen. Of course, he would need to use shadow magic; he was no longer sure that he even could use normal magic, but shadow magic was better against the phaerimm anyway. Normal spells had a tendency to ricochet off their magic-resistant scales, but shadow magic always worked.
The thought of touching the Shadow Weave again sent a shiver of anticipation up through Galaeron’s body. He could almost feel the cold power rising through him, quenching a thirst that had been building for two months. One simple spell was not going to do any harm. It would hardly give his shadow self the strength to overpower him completely—not for long anyway—and he had to expose the spy, didn’t he? He had to make the council see that the Dalesmen’s words were those of the enemy, that the phaerimm were trying to split the alliance—
A day never passed when Galaeron did not find some reason just as compelling to break his vow and reach out to the Shadow Weave. The temptation was always there, always awaiting the weak moment, always inviting him down the dark path, but he had only to remember Vala to resist, to think of her enslaved in Escanor’s palace in Shade and imagine the abuse being visited on her nightly in the prince’s bed.
It had been Galaeron’s shadow self that had persuaded him to abandon her there, that had filled his thoughts with so many bitter suspicions that he had finally surrendered to the darkness and vowed to have vengeance on a woman who had never shown him anything but love. It was a mistake he intended never to repeat, even if it meant his life.
And, with Ruha pledged to prevent him from slipping again, it very well might. She was watching him out of the corner of her eye, her thoughts hidden behind her Bedine veil, but her hand not far from the curved dagger stuck behind her sash.
For the second time in as many minutes, Galaeron wished that the witch understood fingertalk—then realized she didn’t need to. He caught her eye then dropped his gaze to his lap, where he was running his fingers through the gestures of the magic he wanted her to cast. Though he was not trying to cast anything, the very act of going through motions filled him with a powerful yearning to open himself to the Shadow Weave.
Ruha’s eyes widened, and she looked as though she might reach over to interfere. Galaeron stopped in what would have been mid-casting, then started over again. Ruha seemed to relax. He continued the gesture, being careful to make each element slow and precise so that she would have no trouble deciphering what he was doing. When the glimmer of recognition came to her eye, he stopped and looked down the table in the direction of the Dalesmen, who were now pretending that they did not understand the true nature of Alusair’s question.
“… suppose that had the Shadovar tried to free the phaerimm beneath Tarkhaldale, there would have been no problem at all,” Mourngrym was saying. “The saurials are far too intelligent to breach the Sharn Wall.”
Without using his own magic, Galaeron had no way to be certain the phaerimm spy was anywhere near his mind-slaves, but it seemed like a good place to start. He glanced back and found Ruha studying Mourngrym almost too intently, hands lying in her lap and her veil billowing ever-so-slightly as she whispered her incantation.
“Very well, Lord Mourngrym, you win,” Alusair said from her end of the table. “You have made it abundantly clear that the Dalelands have no interest in placing the blame for our troubles anywhere but Evereska. Now, would you care to explain why? I fail to see what you hope to accomplish.”
Mourngrym’s smile was so wooden it was almost a grimace. “Your Highness, the Dalelands have no interest in blaming anyone. We merely wish to point out—”
He was interrupted by the last syllables of a Bedine incantation as Ruha stood. Using the elemental magic of her native Anauroch, she sprinkled a few drops of water in his direction. A sharp crackle blasted through the chamber, and there was a bright flash near the ceiling above and behind the Dalesmen. Galaeron glimpsed the familiar, thorn-covered shape of a phaerimm’s conical body, and the thing was gone, vanished in almost the same instant it appeared.
The chamber broke into a wild tumult of shouting and clanging as guards rushed forward. Several of the envoys—most notably Sembia’s Korian Hovanay—dived for cover under the table. Others followed the lead of Piergeiron Paladinson. Grabbing polearms from the guards, they leaped onto the table and began to chink the ceiling in an attempt to find the intruder.
The three Dalesmen remained standing in front of their seats. Their vacant gazes were fixed on the envoys and soldiers closest to them, and they held themselves ready to spring into action.
“Order!” Alusair called. She had produced a sword from somewhere beneath her robe of office and was banging the pommel down on the table’s polished surface. “It’s gone.”
Though the princess’s assumption was a natural one—phaerimm usually teleported to safety at the first sign of danger—Galaeron rose.
“Actually, Your Highness, I believe it isn’t.” He pointed over Mourngrym’s shoulder. “I think it’s probably somewhere there.”
A dozen Purple Dragons immediately rushed to investigate. The three Dalesmen stepped away from the table and closed ranks around a spot not too far from where Galaeron had pointed. Caladnei—the slender, red-haired sorcerer who had replaced addled Vangerdahast as Cormyr’s royal magician—stepped into view behind Alusair’s chair and leveled her staff at the trio.
Before she could speak the word of command, the phaerimm appeared in the midst of the Dalesmen.
Hold! You have nothing to fear from me—unless you earn it.
Galaeron heard the words inside his mind, and he could tell by the startled reactions of those around him that they had as well. Caladnei held her attack, and the guards settled for surrounding the Dalesmen and leveling their poleaxes in the general direction of the phaerimm. Their restraint, Galaeron knew, probably saved their lives.
Better.
Galaeron saw a familiar blankness come to Ambassador Hovanay’s eyes and knew the phaerimm was not repaying its enemies’ restraint in kind.
Alusair laid her sword on the table and stared across its length at the intruder.
“This is a private council, worm, and you are our enemy.” She glanced over her shoulder and motioned Caladnei toward the creature. “Give me a reason I should not have my guards peel the thorny hide from your viper’s flesh.”
Because they would fail, the phaerimm replied. And because even enemies need to confer, if they are ever to be anything else.
Nasher Alagondar’s eyes went vacant.
Galaeron leveled a hand in the phaerimm’s direction. “Speak through Mourngrym, or not at all.” Then, without looking away, he said to Alusair, “Your Highness, this is how the phaerimm make their mind-slaves. Through their thoughtspeech.”
Very perceptive. But you have nothing to fear from us, Galaeron. From what I understand, my people are indebted—
“If you know who I am,” Galaeron interrupted, “you know that my magic will kill you as fast as a Shadovar’s.”
I also know you fear to use it.
“Not as much as I fear becoming your
slave,” Galaeron said. “Another word within my head, and I will use it.”
“Another word in anyone’s head, and I will command him to,” Alusair added. “If you wish to treat with us, you will release your slaves and speak aloud.”
“I cannot do both.” This time, the phaerimm’s words came from Mourngrym’s mouth. “Though once we are finished, I am willing to grant your request.”
Alusair’s eyes flashed at the word “request,” but she held her tongue and looked to Galaeron.
He was tempted to lie and claim that the phaerimm was deceiving her, for he already knew by the tenor of the Dalesmen’s earlier arguments what the creature intended. But Alusair had treated him with nothing but courtesy and fairness since the day of his arrival, and—even for the sake of Evereska—he would not repay her with treachery.
“Phaerimm speak to each other through magic winds,” Galaeron explained. “With other races, they must use thoughtspeech or an intermediary.”
Alusair considered this, then nodded to the phaerimm.
“Very well,” she said. “What is it you want?”
“Evereska.”
Though the answer was exactly what Galaeron had expected, the impact of hearing it actually spoken aloud was more than he could handle. He started to twist his fingers into a spellcasting—then his arm was forced to his side by the mailed hand of one of the Purple Dragons at his back.
Alusair cast a warning scowl in his direction, then said, “When I give the order, Sir Nihmedu—not before.”
“Thank you, Princess,” the phaerimm said. Its four arms appeared over the heads of the Dalesmen, spreading outward in what seemed to be a gesture of appreciation. “As I was saying, we and our allies from Anauroch will be content with Evereska and its lands.”
This elicited a collective gasp from the envoys—at least those who were not still under the phaerimm’s mental control—and even Alusair cocked a brow.
“Evereska is not ours to give,” she said.
The noncommittal answer caused a dark anger to rise in Galaeron, and he had to fight it down by closing his eyes and reminding himself of all that Alusair had done on his behalf.
“Nor is it yours to defend,” the phaerimm answered through Mourngrym. “All we are suggesting is that you concern yourselves with the Shadovar and leave Evereska to our brothers.”
“Then you are not from Anauroch?” Alusair asked. She was stalling, trying to buy time to consider all the ramifications of the phaerimm’s proposal. “You are here on behalf of the Myth Drannor phaerimm?”
“The Shadovar have made this the fight of all phaerimm,” Mourngrym’s voice replied. “Much as they have made it the fight of all the human realms.”
“And what do we receive in return?” asked Ambassador Hovanay. The selfish light in his eye made clear that he was free of the phaerimm’s influence. That was not, at least for Evereska, necessarily a good thing. “How will you repay us for our help?”
The phaerimm pushed its many-fanged mouth over the shoulders of the Dalesmen and said, “A better question would be what will you receive for our help.”
Hovanay waited expectantly, and the phaerimm swung its mouth in Alusair’s direction.
“Your enemy is our enemy,” the phaerimm said. “Should your alliance strike a bargain with us, it would be in our interest to stop the melting of the High Ice. Your realms would be able to rebuild their armies and feed their people. They would be strong again.”
Though every sinew in Galaeron was screaming for him to leap to his feet and denounce the phaerimm as a fraud and a liar, he knew he would win nothing by such a display. The humans would believe—rightly enough—that he was only trying to protect Evereska’s interests, that he would claim such a thing whether the phaerimm could be trusted or not. Instead, he had to speak reasonably and make the humans see the pitfalls for themselves, make them realize that by selling out the elves, they would be selling themselves out as well.
“You are promising a lot,” Galaeron said, not quite able to keep the quaver out of his voice, “but I’ve seen the Shadovar magic, and it is not defeated easily. If you can do what you promise, why do you need the humans at all? Why are your cousins still trapped inside the shadowshell?”
Instead of answering Galaeron, the phaerimm had Mourngrym turn to address Korian Hovanay again.
“We would pledge to leave your caravans in peace, even to protect them when it is in our power.”
This brought a grin to the Sembian’s lips, if to no one else’s.
Piergeiron Paladinson said, “You have not spoken to Galaeron’s point. If the phaerimm can do what you claim, why does the shadowshell still stand?”
“Because, as you yourselves learned at Tilverton, the Shadovar are formidable enemies,” the phaerimm said. “We who are free are too few to prevail, and those who are trapped in the Shaeradim are weak and starving. When the shadowshell falls, that will change.”
“So you say,” Piergeiron said.
“So we will prove,” the phaerimm replied. “You are familiar with the peak Untrivvin, in the east of the High Ice?”
“Where the tomb tappers rise,” said Borg Ohlmak, the woolly-headed chieftain sent by the barbarians of the Ride. “We know the place well.”
Mourngrym’s head nodded to Borg. “There are three shadow blankets at the base of the mount. When the shell falls, we will destroy all three as proof of our capabilities.”
“And still we will not be able to come to terms,” Alusair said. “Evereska is not ours to bargain away. Wouldn’t some other place serve you as well? The Goblin Marches, for instance, are—”
“Worthless wastelands,” the phaerimm said. “It must be Evereska. We have no interest in your castoff barrens.”
“Then perhaps the Tun Valley,” Alusair suggested. “The lands there are as fertile as any in Cormyr, and I’m certain the alliance would be willing to provide any assistance required to take Darkhold.”
“Evereska.”
Alusair frowned, clearly trying to think of some other place the phaerimm might desire. She was, Galaeron knew, trying to reach an unreachable compromise. The phaerimm wanted Evereska for the same reason they lived in Myth Drannor: its mythal. They needed magic the way other races needed air, and the mythals that surrounded both cities were living mantles of woven magic. Asking a phaerimm to choose another place to live was like asking a fish to make his home someplace other than in the water.
“Evereska is not ours to grant,” Alusair continued, still trying. “Name another place.”
“He’s not going to name another place,” Galaeron interjected, though he did not say why. The existence of the mythal was an elven secret, and he no longer felt any trust for the humans gathered there, not even Alusair. “When will you learn? You can’t treat with phaerimm—only surrender to them like cowards, or stand and fight them like warriors.”
Alusair’s head snapped around to glare at him, her eyes furious and black.
“And when will you learn, elf, that it is not wise to call someone a coward when it is her people’s blood that must be shed to save that of yours?”
Allowing no opportunity for a reply, Alusair glanced at the guards behind Galaeron’s chair and said, “I have heard enough from him.”
One Purple Dragon pinned Galaeron’s arms to his chair, and the other covered his mouth with a waist sash. A sinister voice whispered to Galaeron that Alusair had betrayed him and would seal the bargain by turning him over to the phaerimm, but he was wise enough not to struggle. The Steel Regent was famous for her fiery temper, and though some part of him knew she would never do as his shadow’s voice suggested, he did not think she would hesitate to have him thrown in a very deep, dark dungeon.
Alusair nodded her approval, then turned back to the phaerimm and said, “You were about to name a place it is in the alliance’s power to grant.”
“Evereska,” Mourngrym’s mouth said again. “There is no other place. The elf is right about that much.”
> Alusair sank back in exasperation.
Through its mind-slave, the phaerimm said, “You have until the third blanket vanishes.”
The creature drifted out from behind its shield of Dalesmen, and ignoring the ring of guards around it, panicked Borg Ohlmak and Nasher Alagondar by floating to their end of the table.
“We expect your assent by then.”
Alusair’s eyes hardened. “And if we do not give it?”
The phaerimm braced two of its arms on the table.
You will.
Alusair sat bolt upright and started to order the guards forward, but the phaerimm had already vanished.
Mourngrym and his fellow Dalesmen cried out in bewildered voices, then stumbled toward the nearest chairs, their hands trembling and their mouths hanging agape. The Purple Dragons looked to Caladnei for orders while the royal magician busied herself casting detection magic. The envoys sat in their chairs looking alternately relieved and uncertain as they considered the wisdom of betraying Evereska.
After a moment, Alusair brought order back to the chamber by turning to her royal magician.
“Can you tell me how that spy came to be in here?” It was a deft maneuver, turning the envoys’ thoughts from the phaerimm’s proposal to the threat it had displayed in its arrogant use of its power. “It could have killed us all!”
Caladnei paled and shook her head.
“The chamber is warded against invisibility, teleportation, scrying—”
“Obviously, it was not,” Alusair interrupted. Still determined to keep the envoys’ thoughts on the how of the phaerimm’s presence rather than the why—no doubt buying time to gather her own thoughts on the matter—she looked to Galaeron. “Perhaps Sir Nihmedu can explain how it was done?”
When the guard lowered the sash covering Galaeron’s mouth, he glanced around the council table and saw—or at least his shadow saw—guilty expressions on every face.
“Galaeron?” Alusair prodded.
No longer able to ignore the outrage rising in his breast, Galaeron glowered at the princess.
“You truly expect an answer?” he asked.
The Sorcerer Page 2
