The Sorcerer

by Denning, Troy

  “It is safe for Laeral and Storm to come ahead with Aris,” Galaeron said. He spoke without turning to look at Khelben. “You can be sure there are no phaerimm within a mile of us.”

  “That’s awfully quick to be so certain of their positions,” Khelben observed. “We haven’t been here a minute.”

  “A minute is all I need,” Galaeron said. He rose to his knees and waved a hand in the direction of the burning city. “The phaerimm are down there, looting Evereska of its magic.”

  “And their servants?” Khelben asked. “All it takes to sound the alarm is a beholder or even a gnoll.”

  “The phaerimm think they have won,” Galaeron explained. “They will have their servants with them, carrying their plunder and helping to claim and defend their new lairs.”

  “They have no fear of a counterattack?” Khelben asked.

  “At the moment, they fear us less than they fear each other.” Though the words were Galaeron’s, the knowledge came to him in the form of a strange half-thought, closer to a premonition or a feeling than something he actually remembered. “They will know how preoccupied Faerûn has been with the problems caused by Shade, and how impossible it would be for anyone to send an army against them.”

  “True as that may be,” Khelben said, “it does not always require an army to defeat one.”

  “They are certainly worried about the Chosen,” Galaeron said, picking up on Khelben’s meaning, “but I doubt they have a choice in the matter. It is not in the nature of the phaerimm to work together. Now that the prize is in hand, everyone must claim his share or watch another steal it from beneath him.”

  As Galaeron explained this, the tiny shape of a stick figure elf tumbled out of the smoke cloud, hit the edge of the cliff summit, and pinwheeled all the way down into the meadow. Had the mythal been functioning properly, it was not something that would have happened. A protective spell would have caught the victim and lowered him—or her—gently to the ground.

  The death made Galaeron wonder what had become of his sister, Keya. The last he had heard, she was doing well with her pregnancy and also as a warrior, joining Vala’s men on hunting forays and claiming half a dozen tails for her own belt, but that had been before the mythal fell. Could she be one of the bodies lying down in the meadow or perhaps the one he had just watched plummeting out of the smoke? He longed to try another thought sending, but knew that would be foolish. Assuming she remained alive, there was a good chance that she was fighting at the moment, and the distraction of an unexpected thought popping into her head might well prove fatal. Galaeron could only hope that the moment of fleeting terror he had experienced the first time meant she was still alive—and that his intrusion had not changed that.

  “How long will the phaerimm remain at each other’s throats?” Khelben asked.

  “A tenday, at least,” he answered, “but not much longer. Their internal squabbles are swift and deadly.”

  “A tenday.” Khelben’s discouragement was hard to miss. “What then?”

  “By then, they will have settled matters and prepared their individual defenses.” Galaeron did not like the drift Khelben’s questions were taking. “They will be impossible to root out.”

  “The Shadovar did it at Myth Drannor,” Khelben countered.

  “At the cost of their other ambitions in Faerûn,” Vala pointed out. “And there were only a few dozen at Myth Drannor. Here, there will be hundreds.”

  Khelben sighed and said, “We have lost Evereska.” His fist thudded into the ground, raising a small cloud of ash and dust. “It will be all we can do to contain them in the vale.”

  Though Galaeron did not share Khelben’s despair, he remained silent, ordering his thoughts and summoning to mind all he knew about the situation in Evereska. He had an inkling that matters were not as hopeless as Khelben thought, but whether that feeling was due to Melegaunt’s wisdom or his own need to undo the terrible mistakes that had led to the fall of the LastHome, he could not say.

  Vala laid a warm hand on his forearm and said, “I’m sorry, Galaeron. You did everything you could.”

  Galaeron started to say that he had not yet done everything, but he was cut off by the soft crackle of a teleport spell. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain the new arrivals were who they expected and saw a gray cloud rising two terraces above. Laeral and the others lay on the ground, spitting soot and blinking confusion from their eyes.

  “Hold your spells, miladies,” Khelben called to his fellow Chosen. “We’re safe enough for now.”

  The sound of Khelben’s voice seemed to draw Laeral out of her afterdaze. She glanced into the bottom of the valley, and her face fell.

  “Goddess help us!” she gasped. “We’re too late.”

  “I think not,” Galaeron said, finally convinced that the inspiration he felt was more than his own desperation.

  He rose and motioned for Laeral to bring the others down, then took a length of shadowsilk from his pocket and began to wrap it around his little finger, fashioning it into a small cone.

  “We have come just in time.”

  Khelben rose to his knees and pulled Galaeron back down.

  “Have patience, elf. We’ll save as many Tel’Quessir as we can, but first we must plan.”

  “The best way to save my people is to kill the phaerimm in their city.”

  Galaeron went back to fashioning his cone.

  Laeral and Khelben exchanged knowing glances, and Khelben said, “This isn’t your fault, Galaeron. It was Melegaunt who freed the phaerimm, not you.”

  “That’s right,” Storm said. Having recovered from her afterdaze, she was jumping down onto the terrace with Galaeron and the others. “We know how the Shadovar think, now. They planned all along to make the phaerimm everyone else’s problem. I’d bet my hair that Melegaunt breached the Sharn Wall where he did on purpose. What better way to lure the phaerimm out of Anauroch than to offer them Evereska’s mythal?”

  “If it was indeed an accident, it worked to the Shadovar’s advantage,” Galaeron agreed. He finished his cone and carefully removed it from his finger, then set it aside on a stone. “But I am no innocent in this. I was warned many times about Melegaunt, and still I brought Shade into the world.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” Aris said. He was sitting on the back wall of the terrace, leaning over to cup a hand beneath one of the thousand springs that had once watered the terraces of the Vine Vale. “They would have found another way.”

  Galaeron raised a hand to forestall more forgiving words, and said, “I’m not seeking absolution … nor am I speaking out of guilt.”

  “Then out of vengeance.” Laeral phrased this as a fact, not a question. She glanced at Storm, then added, “I know how I would feel, were my sister down there and I unable to contact her.”

  “If I was seeking vengeance, I would not want your help.” Galaeron could see they were still afraid his shadow might be influencing him, and he had no doubt it was. That did not mean he was wrong. “I am talking about victory, not retribution. Hear me out. If you don’t like what I say, I’ll not hold it against anyone who chooses to remain behind.”

  Khelben scowled, clearly unhappy with having someone else assume the leadership. Still, he listened patiently. When Galaeron finished, his frown turned thoughtful, and he looked to the other Chosen.

  “What do you think?”

  “Simple plans are the best,” Storm said. “This one is simple, I’ll give it that.”

  “Perhaps too simple,” Laeral said. “What’s to stop the phaerimm from seeing through it?”

  “The arrogance of the phaerimm themselves,” Galaeron answered. “They won’t believe anyone capable of defeating their spells of clear-seeing.”

  Leaving the others to consider the merits of his plan on their own, Galaeron started to fashion another cone out of shadowsilk. After a moment, Aris removed a stone from the terrace wall and shaped it into a small bowl with two quick strikes of his hammer, then fille
d it with soot from a charred log and used the spring to moisten it. When he began to smear the resulting paste up his legs in thick black stripes, Vala cocked a doubtful eyebrow.

  “You’re a little large for camouflage,” she said. “Don’t you trust Galaeron’s magic?”

  “I trust Galaeron,” Aris replied. He glanced at Galaeron and gave a grim nod. “But given who we are going to attack, I think it wise for one of us to use no magic. Besides, stone giant camouflage is better than you know. The number of times you have walked past one of us and not known it would surprise you.”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore,” Vala said. She dipped her hand in the bowl and leaped up on the terrace behind Aris. “Bend down, and I’ll do your neck before we go.”

  “Then you’ve decided to go as well?” Laeral asked.

  “Have to. My men and our darkswords are down there.” She peered around Aris, looked down at Galaeron, and added, “And I really need to see how this turns out.”

  Her words made Galaeron ruin the shadow cone he was pulling off his finger. She was probably alluding to the promise she had made to slay him if he ever fell completely under the sway of his shadow, but there was a warmth in her tone that made him hope that she might forgive him, that there might still be room in her heart to love him.

  Continuing to hold Vala’s gaze, Galaeron began to wrap the shadowsilk around his little finger again. At the same time, he whispered the incantation for a spell of thought sending and began to speak to her in his mind.

  Vala.

  Her jaw dropped, and her sooty hand came off the back of Aris’s bald skull.

  Before we go, I want to apologize for leaving you behind, Galaeron said. I’d understand if you never forgive me, but I hope you can.

  Vala’s eyes softened.

  There’s nothing to forgive. The choice was mine, and I knew what could happen. She returned to camouflaging the back of Aris’s head, adding, But I am torn up, Galaeron. Inside.

  Galaeron’s heart sank. I see. I didn’t mean to intrude. Please forgive—

  There’s that word again, Vala interrupted. I don’t blame you—that’s not what I mean. But since Khelben and the others helped me escape, I’ve been filled with this … I haven’t felt anything good. I just want to go home and drink mead in front of the fire. Alone.

  What about Sheldon? You must want to see him.

  Galaeron felt ashamed of himself. He had allowed Vala’s usual stoic bearing to lull him into thinking she had somehow emerged whole from her enslavement. He had been thinking only of how her ordeal affected him, not of what it might have done to her.

  Not like this, she replied. Not all broken inside.

  You won’t always be broken, Galaeron said. I’ll stand by you for however long it takes. I wish I’d told you this before, Vala. I do love you.

  Vala gave him a wistful smile.

  Now you tell me. Now that your shadow made you.

  Galaeron didn’t realize they had become an object of attention until Vala’s eyes grew self-conscious and her gaze darted away. Khelben cleared his throat, and either ignoring the looks that had been passing between the two or pretending he had not noticed, he stepped in front of Galaeron.

  “You are quite certain the phaerimm will not be able to detect or dispel your magic?” he asked.

  “They would have to use the Shadow Weave,” Galaeron said, “but we must be wary of beholders. They could undo us with their antimagic rays.”

  “Beholders we can handle,” Storm said.

  Khelben sighed, then said, “Very well. If you are determined to pursue this foolish plan of yours, it seems we have no choice except to come along to protect you. How soon can you be ready?”

  In answer, Galaeron slipped the last cone of shadowsilk off his finger and pressed it to Khelben’s chest.

  “Hold that there.”

  Khelben did as instructed, and Galaeron drew on the Shadow Weave to cast a spell. The black cone expanded to a full ten feet in length, engulfing the Chosen in a stocking of darkness. Galaeron fashioned a barbed tail at the narrow end and four crooked arms at the wide end, added some teeth and other details to create the head-disk, and he found himself looking at what appeared to be a shadow-swathed phaerimm.

  “An excellent likeness,” Aris complimented. “Though the elbows are too far down the arms, and the tail barb should curve a little more.”

  Galaeron made the necessary corrections and a few more when Vala, Laeral, and Storm added their opinions. When everyone agreed the likeness was true, he stepped back and spoke a final word to set the shape.

  “In Evereska, we should try to stay in the wooded areas where shadows won’t seem out of place,” Galaeron said. “I assume you can use your own magic to fly and speak the phaerimm wind language.”

  Khelben replied with a whistling gust of wind and floated into the air.

  “Good,” Galaeron said. “Avoid using your silver fire. If the phaerimm see it, they will know you are here.”

  “What about wands and rings?” Laeral asked.

  “The shadow mask will conceal their use, as it will your voices and gestures,” Galaeron said, “but you must careful not to fling any spell components outside your disguise. The phaerimm do not need components, so if they see you using them.…”

  “Understood,” Storm said, stepping forward. “Me next. I always like fighting with four arms.”

  Galaeron pressed a shadow cone to her chest and repeated the spell he had used to disguise Khelben, then did the same for himself and Laeral. Finally, he turned to Vala.

  “Since you’re not a spellcaster, it would be best to disguise you as a mind-slave.”

  Vala rolled her eyes and tried to make light of the suggestion, but the hurt was plain in her eyes.

  “Don’t enjoy it too much.”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “If you think you could hold a blank look—”

  “Galaeron, just do it.”

  Galaeron flattened a small disk of shadowstuff in his hand and carefully molded it over her face. When he cast his spell, Vala’s complexion darkened by half a dozen shades. Her eyes grew glassy and vacant, and her expression fell dead and still. It pained Galaeron to see her even in this counterfeit bondage. It reminded him of how selfish and deluded he had been during his shadow crisis and of all she had sacrificed to save him. How he would ever repay her, he could not begin to imagine.

  “Are we all set then?” Khelben asked. “I’ve opened a door to the woods at the base of Cloudcrown Hill. Unless you’ve a better idea, I thought Lord Duirsar’s palace the ideal place to open our campaign.”

  “There is no better idea,” Galaeron said. He turned to find a magic door shimmering at the downhill edge of the terrace. “The phaerimm are sure to be fighting over the plunder there.”

  “I thought as much.” Khelben waved a slender phaerimm arm toward the door. “Storm and Laeral have departed.”

  Not bothering to ask why Khelben had asked for an opinion if he had already sent the two sisters through, Galaeron started toward the shimmering door. He made it only one step before Vala caught him by his collar—she probably thought she was holding onto one of his disguise’s four arms—and pulled him back.

  “Wait.”

  She spun him around and stood there staring at him with her vacant eyes. Finally, she asked, “Where do I kiss?”

  Galaeron leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. It felt a little like kissing a zombie, at least until he closed his eyes, and even then it remained tentative and reserved—at least by Vaasan standards.

  When they finally finished and Galaeron caught his breath again, he asked, “For luck?”

  “Just in case,” Vala corrected, drawing her darksword. “I wouldn’t want a Shadovar’s fist to be the last thing that ever touched my lips.”

  She stepped past Galaeron into the magic door and vanished with a crackle.

  Galaeron followed Vala into the portal. He had grown so accustomed to teleport magic that he wa
s no longer bothered by the breath-taking cold or the eternal instant of falling, but that did not prevent him from being dazed when he finally felt the ground beneath his feet again. The air was filled with sluggish rumbles and long, unintelligible howls. A crimson ball of fire was rolling toward him in slow motion, with orange tendrils curling out from its flanks in listless swirls.

  Galaeron dived out of the way and found himself floating among the enormous trunks of a majestic bluetop forest, four spindly arms waving in front of his face. The sight reminded him that he was supposed to be impersonating a phaerimm, though exactly why still remained a mystery to him. While the open woods around him felt familiar, there was something that did not seem quite right, as though he turned a corner and found himself in an unexpected room.

  The fireball was still coming, slowly. Behind it, a fork of lightning flickered into existence and slithered through the trees like a crooked white snake, then exploded through a bugbear’s chest and twisted off in pursuit of a mind flayer. The attack was answered by ten golden bolts, flying along in a tight wedge formation that angled toward their moon elf target at about the speed of a flock of migrating geese.

  Galaeron floated out of the fireball’s path. Crouching behind a freshly split boulder about fifty paces distant, he saw a much-battered bladesinger still holding up the smoking hand that had hurled the spell. More offended by the attack than concerned about it, he pulled a few strands of shadowsilk from his pocket and hurled them in the bladesinger’s direction, hissing an incantation. The elf was instantly wrapped in a cocoon of sticky black shadow.

  Galaeron! the familiar voice of Laeral Silverhand sounded inside his mind. There’s no need to defend yourself. You can fly faster than that spell’s coming.

  A pair of shadow-swathed phaerimm emerged from the trees behind him, Vala close on their barbed tails. As soon as Galaeron saw the emptiness in her eyes, he recalled their plan and saw that something had gone terribly wrong.

  This isn’t Cloudcrown Hill, he objected.