The Sorcerer

by Denning, Troy

  “Not if it means losing three of Mystra’s Chosen,” Galaeron said. “Impotent though you may be, you are the only hope Faerûn has, and I will not—”

  “Impotent?” Khelben grumbled. He stepped closer, all trace of his earlier camaraderie vanished. He raised his famous black staff as though he meant to rap Galaeron on the brow with it. “I will teach you impotent!”

  Galaeron stood unflinching, ready to take whatever blow the wizard cared to deliver, if that would make him and the other Chosen listen.

  Laeral spared him the necessity, catching Khelben by the arm and dragging him back a step.

  “He has a point, my love. Telamont will not have failed to notice our helplessness once the mythallar was cracked.”

  “All the more reason to strike now.” Khelben’s glare slid from Galaeron to Laeral as he said, “Before he expects our return. If we are as ‘impotent’ as the elf claims, surprise may be our only chance.”

  “And if we fail, we have no chance,” Aris countered.

  “ ‘We?’ ” Storm echoed. “I doubt there is any sense in your risking your life as well, my friend. Your size is nothing but a hindrance, and your strength will do us little good.”

  “Little good?” Aris boomed. “Did you not notice that I am the one who cracked the mythallar? You are not returning without me, I promise you that.”

  Though it did not escape Galaeron’s notice how smoothly Storm had shifted the topic to how they would return from whether, he turned a deaf ear to the argument and glanced toward Vala. She had remained on the fringes of the argument, silent and withdrawn, watching him the entire time in the blunt Vaasan way. Her green eyes remained as enigmatic as the emeralds they resembled.

  Galaeron would have given anything to know what she was thinking. Did she consider him weak for yielding to his shadow? Or was she under the misconception—as he had been—that it was a sacrifice necessary to save Faerûn? He considered it a given that she hated him for abandoning her to Escanor. After all that had befallen her—and Telamont had described it to him many times while he was a prisoner in the Palace Most High—he did not understand how she could stand to look upon his face without drawing her sword, but the choice had been hers. She was the one who had hurt him in order to save him, and if her plan had worked she had only herself to blame.

  Galaeron knew what he saw in Vala’s eyes: anger. She had given so much to protect him. It could only seem to her that he had thrown her sacrifice back in her face, that he had returned to Shade without a thought to what she had done and become the thing she had so desperately tried to prevent.

  She was right. Though he had certainly hoped to free Vala, it was Evereska and Faerûn he had come to save. The Chosen would never have agreed to help him otherwise, and he could see how right they would have been. Vala was a mere afterthought, one even Galaeron would have forsaken for a slight increase in their chances of success.

  None of that changed his love for her—or how he wished he had spoken to her about it when there was still a chance she would listen.

  Galaeron grew aware of a heavy silence and realized the others were looking at him.

  Without taking his eyes off Vala, he said, “You know the Shadovar better than anyone here. What do you want to do?”

  “What I want is to end this and go home.” Vala’s gaze finally left Galaeron’s. She turned to face Khelben and said, “What I think—”

  Vala pulled her darksword and spun back in Galaeron’s direction, her arm drawing back to throw.

  Startled by just how badly he had underestimated her anger, Galaeron opened himself to the Shadow Weave. He swirled his hand before his body and hissed a wispy Shadovar spell, and a shadowy disk of protection sprang into existence between him and Vala.

  Vala dropped her gaze and scowled, and it was only then that Galaeron realized she had been looking past his shoulder. Khelben took advantage of the distraction to slip to her side and catch her by the crook of the elbow.

  “No need, my dear,” he said. “It’s Ruha.”

  Vala squinted into the sky above Galaeron and said, “So it is. She really should wear some other color.”

  Galaeron turned to see Ruha’s black-cloaked figure sweeping down from the sky, her aba and veil flapping wildly in the wind and a familiar figure dangling from a manacle chain attached to her wrist.

  “Aha!” Aris boomed, yelling in Malik’s direction. “Let us see how you like life in bondage!”

  Ruha circled them once, losing altitude, then let Malik slam down and dragged him half a dozen steps across the rocky ground before alighting gently herself.

  She bowed in Storm’s direction, and pinning Malik’s neck to the ground with her foot, touched her fingers to her brow.

  “Well met, my friends. Have you conversed with your sisters?”

  Storm cast a quick glance in the direction of the other Chosen then said, “Not since our defeat in Shade.”

  Thinking that no one was paying attention to him, Malik snaked his free hand out to reach for a rock. He found three throwing daggers—Galaeron’s, Vala’s, and Ruha’s—planted in the ground around his wrist and quickly withdrew the offending arm.

  Ruha continued the conversation without pause.

  “I am pleased to say they both survived. When they could not reach you in the customary ways, Alustriel grew worried and asked me to investigate.”

  “How long before they’re ready to attack the mythallar again?” Khelben asked. Turning to Galaeron, he added, “They’d make a big difference, especially if we’re willing to risk the silver fire.”

  “Fight? In the shadow harlot’s den?” Malik cried. “I will cut my wrist off before I allow you to drag me back there!”

  “Your wrist is safe for now.” Galaeron met Khelben’s gaze and said, “There is no point in fighting on their ground. Better to attack the shadow blankets directly and draw them out as the phaerimm were doing.”

  “It hardly matters to you, Malik,” Ruha said. She pulled him to his feet, jerking his hand away from Vala’s dagger just as his fingers brushed the hilt. “If I am not needed here, I ask leave to return Malik to the justice of Twilight Hall, while I still have him chained to my wrist.”

  All three Chosen inclined their heads with expressions that suggested they would be just as happy to adjudicate the matter themselves and be done with it there.

  Storm said, “An excellent plan, and I think enough magic remains here for us to see you safely sped along your way.”

  “To Twilight Hall?” Malik’s fear was evident in the way his voice cracked. “I’ll be murdered!”

  “Only after you are found guilty of a few of your crimes,” Khelben answered. “And the word is ‘executed’.”

  “Executed or murdered, it is all the same!” Malik cast a plaintive gaze in Aris’s direction and said, “Will you just sit by and let them do this to someone who has saved your life so many times?”

  “I will be glad to describe how you saved me,” he said, “and also how you enslaved me so you could use my shape studies to grow your church!”

  For the first time, a look of despair came over Malik’s round face. He seemed to consider his options for a moment then turned to Khelben with a wild-eyed gaze.

  “I can tell you how to destroy Telamont Tanthul in a single strike!” He remained silent only a moment before his mouth began to twitch, and more words spilled out. “Of course, there is every chance that you will destroy all of Shade and half of Anauroch with him.…”

  Even a prospect that terrible was not enough to keep Khelben from cocking his eyebrow.

  “You know I can never lie,” Malik reminded him.

  “We’re listening,” Laeral said.

  Malik’s bulging eyes appeared to focus on the tip of Ruha’s boot as he planned what he would say next. Given what he had already told them about the pitfalls, Galaeron could not believe the Chosen were even interested in hearing the suggestion.

  Finally, Malik looked back to Khelben and said,
“What good will it do me to save the world if I am not here to see it?”

  Ruha dropped a knee into the middle of his back and used a cuckold’s antler to pull his head up, then wrapped the chain connecting their manacles around his neck.

  “What makes you think I would ever let you tell them something that would destroy Anauroch?” Ruha asked. “I would rather see you dead and stand before the judges of Twilight Hall myself!”

  She tightened the chain until he began to gasp. “Ruha!” Khelben shouted. He seemed as surprised as Galaeron was by the witch’s behavior. “Let him speak.”

  “Never!” she replied, pulling until Malik’s eyes began to bulge. “If you want to know—”

  Ruha’s exclamation came to an abrupt end as Storm plucked her off Malik’s back.

  “Harper hag!” Malik croaked. “I ought to tell them just for spite!” Again, his face contorted into a conflicted mask, and he added, “Except that after what happened in Shadowdale, I know no Chosen would ever be foolish enough to fling a bolt of silver fire into a being of pure shadow essence.”

  Galaeron did not realize Ruha’s threat had been a ruse until he saw her exchange congratulatory glances with each of the Chosen.

  Laeral said, “Not very helpful, Malik.”

  “Actually, we’ve already tried silver fire,” Storm said. She didn’t explain that the attack had only been a ruse designed to buy time for Vala. “Telamont blocked it with a shielding spell.”

  “Though that hardly matters,” Khelben added. “I no longer have much influence with the Harpers anyway.”

  “Harpers?” Malik screeched. “I am talking about Ruha.”

  “In exchange for revealing that Telamont Tanthul is pure shadowstuff?” Galaeron scoffed. He was beginning to understand the game the Chosen were playing. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to set you free.”

  “There is no use listening to him, Malik,” Ruha warned. “That will never happen.”

  The anger in Ruha’s eyes was convincing, and it occurred to Galaeron that the others might not realize he had joined their game.

  “Perhaps not while you live,” Galaeron said, keeping his tone even. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. “It makes no difference to me.”

  Malik’s eyes lit like a pair of torches.

  “Kill her?” asked Malik. He considered the situation for a moment, then grew doubtful. “You are too much of a coward. You would never do such a thing.”

  “To save Evereska?” Galaeron responded. “What do you think I wouldn’t do?”

  It did not escape Galaeron’s notice that Khelben, Vala, and all the rest were inching in his direction—nor did it escape Malik’s. He considered the proposal only a moment.

  “You have already won!” Malik blurted. “There is no need to destroy the mythallar or even to slay Telamont.” He would have stopped there, but for Mystra’s curse. “They cannot make their shadow blankets without the magic of the Karsestone, and the Karsestone is gone!”

  “What?” This from Vala, who was finally beginning to seem interested in the discussion. “Gone how?”

  “Into the lake,” Ruha explained. “It was attached to his other wrist and fell free. A waterspout reached up to take it.”

  “It was Shar’s hand,” Malik explained in a dismal voice. “She has had control of the Shadow Weave all along.”

  This was enough to make Galaeron draw his sword and press the blade to Ruha’s throat. Storm and Vala drew their own blades and stepped over to defend the witch, and it was not clear to Galaeron whether they were warning him off or just supporting his act. In fact, he was no longer sure that he was acting. Doing his best to seem as though he might be worried about the possibility of fighting two of the best swordswomen in Faerûn, Galaeron kept his blade pressed to Ruha’s throat.

  “Before I set you free,” he said to Malik, “tell me how you know all this.”

  Malik eagerly recounted how, while chained to the Karsestone in Shar’s hidden temple, he came to the realization that it was the symbol of her control over the Shadow Weave. Then he told of how, when the city began to fall, the stone had pulled him down into one of the looming chambers, and of how hard he had struggled to steal the stone for Cyric so that he would one day rule the Shadow Weave—and perhaps the Weave itself, since if there was any god capable of putting the two back together, it was the One and All.

  By the time Malik finished, Galaeron was not only sure that the seraph was telling the truth, but also that he had correctly interpreted everything he’d seen. Even Khelben seemed convinced.

  “I’m willing to grant that Shar caught the Karsestone,” Khelben said, “and even that the stone is the symbol of her control over the Shadow Weave, but if the Shadovar need it to create more shadow blankets, I don’t see what’s to stop her from returning it.”

  “Nothing,” Galaeron answered. “Except that Shar is the goddess of unrevealed secrets. After Prince Yder allowed the seraph of an arch rival to not only discover the Karsestone’s role and location, but to come so close to stealing it, I am sure she will find a safer place to hide it.”

  “And let the Shadovar suffer for their sins,” Laeral said. “I agree.”

  This drew a broad smile from Malik, who looked up at Galaeron and said, “I am waiting.”

  “I would do many things to save Evereska,” Galaeron said. “and one of them is lie.”

  “Lie?” Malik screeched. “The One will punish you for this—though I will surely be the one who suffers in your place! After the many times I have saved your life, how can you do this to me?”

  “Because it is necessary.”

  Though Malik had never done anything to hurt Galaeron and it pained the elf to betray an old friend, he lowered his sword. He stepped back, and with the little man still hurling invectives at his back, he turned to Storm.

  “It seems our plan worked for most of Faerûn, if not Evereska,” he said. “I thank you for trying.”

  “As we thank you,” Khelben said, slapping a hand on Galaeron’s shoulder, “but we are not done yet. Did I not overhear you telling Telamont that you now have a complete understanding of the phaerimm?”

  Galaeron nodded, not daring to believe Khelben would say what he hoped Khelben was going to say.

  “You did.”

  Khelben glanced over his shoulder toward Shadow Lake, where the erratic torrent of debris falling from the gloom-cloaked enclave had finally dwindled to a sporadic rain. Instead of fleeing the city, most veserabs seemed to be trying to find a safe route back, and even the crash of collapsing buildings was growing more intermittent and muted.

  “Laeral, Storm, what say you?” he asked. “Have we done enough damage here?”

  “Not enough,” Storm said, “but all we can.”

  “Yes,” Laeral said. “I think it is high time we returned to Evereska.”

  She held out her arms, inviting Galaeron and the others to join hands with her for an instantaneous return to the Shaeradim. Aris kneeled down and extended a pinky for her to hold, but Vala made no move to join the circle. Galaeron was surprised—and perhaps just a little relieved—to discover he had a sinking feeling in his chest. If his heart was breaking, then sorrow could not be a weakness his shadow had overcome. He went to stand close to Vala.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask,” Galaeron began, “especially after what I put you through, so I won’t. If you want to come to Evereska with us, you and your sword are more than welcome.”

  Vala grunted what might have been acceptance, refusal, or simply an acknowledgment of the question, then said, “One thing. Were you watching when Yder and Aglarel chased me out of the mythallar?”

  Galaeron nodded.

  “And you didn’t come after me?”

  Galaeron shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wanted to destroy the mythallar, and I knew our chances would be better if Aris and I remained in hiding until Telamont showed all of his tricks.” Galaeron
swallowed, then added, “And because I knew you could take care of yourself.”

  “Knew, Galaeron?” she asked.

  “Hoped, anyway.”

  Vala pushed her upper lip into a half-hearted sneer, then shrugged and smiled.

  “At least you’re honest.” She grasped his hand, stepped over to Laeral’s teleport circle, and said, “Of course I’m coming. Do you think I’d dare go back to Vaasa without my men and our darkswords?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  2 Eleasias, the Year of Wild Magic

  After Ruha departed for Twilight Hall with Malik chained to her wrist, Khelben used his sending magic to advise Lord Duirsar of their imminent arrival. The spell failed. Nor did he receive any reply when he tried to contact Kiinyon Colbathin, and when Galaeron tried to contact Keya, the only response he experienced was a fleeting impression of terror. The six of them wasted a few more minutes hazarding uninformed guesses as to how the phaerimm might be interfering with communication magic based on the Shadow Weave as well as the Weave. Able to imagine only dire scenarios, they finally concluded that they simply could not know what was happening and divided themselves into two traveling groups.

  A few moments later, Galaeron was lying between Vala and Khelben on a sooty terrace high in the Vine Vale, staring down a staircase wasteland into the crater-pocked pasture inside the Meadow Wall. The once-lush grass was gone, burned off or blasted away by battle magic or withering beneath the rotting corpse of one of the thousands of elf warriors scattered across the field. In the center of the meadow, the marble cliffs of the Three Sisters were speckled around the base with stars of soot and sprays of crusted blood. Atop the hills themselves, curtains of black fume were rising out of the great bluetop forest, coalescing into a single dark cloud that left visible only the lowest reaches of Evereska’s majestic towers.

  As Galaeron watched, a leaden light erupted in the woods beneath the Groaning Cave, and a deafening crack reverberated across the entire vale and echoed off the looming cliffs of the High Shaeradim. As Galaeron blinked the flash from his eyes, he noticed a ring of falling trees expanding outward, their crowns all pointing away from the center of the explosion. By the time the blast played itself out, the circle of destruction was more than a mile across.