The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

  “I’d use a length of wood a little shorter and stouter than an arrow’s shaft, but the idea is sound,” Fineghal replied. “The type of wood you choose, the way you shape it, the design you trace … you could represent a complicated enchantment with ease.”

  “Do other wizards mark their spells in this way?”

  Fineghal smiled. “My master of old did, long years ago. He called them duarran glyphwoods.” With a glance outside at the pale winter daylight, he continued. “It’s an hour or two until nightfall. Why don’t we see if you can find a form for the water hand in a piece of driftwood?”

  Within a week, Aeron had carved his first three glyphwoods. As winter slowly slipped away and the rains of spring returned to the Maerchwood, he struggled to master as many of Fineghal’s signs as the elf lord would allow, adding to his store of knowledge. With painstaking care, he crafted a sturdy leather pouch to hold the duarran and wove simple spells of preservation and protection over the growing collection.

  Despite Aeron’s progress, or perhaps because of it, Fineghal began to exercise more control over the spells that Aeron chose to study. A number of the elf lord’s sigils marked spells of war, enchantments that could wreak grievous harm to the wizard’s enemies by fire, lightning, ice, or subtle terrors of the mind. But Fineghal discouraged Aeron from these enchantments, giving him instead spells of learning, concealment, and evasion. Aeron ached to wrestle with more difficult topics, but Fineghal simply deflected him with more reading, more research, and quiet challenges to learn more of the forest around him.

  Finally Aeron openly broached the matter as they gathered their traveling gear and prepared to leave Caerhuan for the summer. “I would like to study some new spells,” he told Fineghal. “The incandescent missile, or maybe the charm of blindness.”

  Fineghal considered in silence as he pondered which of his books to take with him. “Those are dangerous enchantments,” he said at length.

  “I’m ready for them. They’re within my skill.”

  “I do not doubt that, Aeron. I suspect you have learned your lesson about tampering with magic beyond your abilities. However, I question the wisdom of teaching you spells of that sort.”

  “Why? I wouldn’t use them wrongly.”

  Fineghal gave up on the bookshelf and turned his full attention to Aeron, his face taut and serious. “Some would say that any use of those spells is wrong. Wielding magic as a weapon demonstrates shortsightedness, a weakness of the will. There is always a better way.”

  “But many of your spells are meant for battle,” Aeron said. “No one would dare raise his hand against you.”

  Fineghal snorted. “I learned the greater portion of those many years ago, Aeron, when I was not so old or wise as I am now. And my skill in battle, such as it is, has provoked more fights than it’s deterred.”

  “If I do find myself in a fight, wouldn’t it be common sense to know a spell or two that can end it quickly? I don’t want to be able to kill people with a word. I just want to know that I can defend myself if I have to.”

  “Answer me this, Aeron: If you had no spell that could serve as a weapon, would you seek out a fight or avoid it?”

  Aeron snorted. “Avoid it, of course.”

  “That’s why I’m hesitant to teach you spells that might lead you into a fight you can’t win. If you know you cannot prevail, you’ll make sure that you don’t find yourself in a dangerous situation. In my experience, if you give a boy a sword, he starts thinking that it’s the answer to any problem that comes along.” Fineghal glanced away, rubbing his temple. “You’re young yet, Aeron. Despite your best intentions, you’re impulsive and rash. I’d rather not encourage these traits if I can help it.”

  “You’ve used your magic in battle before, haven’t you?” Aeron pressed. “Were you wrong when you did that?”

  “I won’t be baited, Aeron,” Fineghal said sharply. “The matter is closed. Now, make certain that you have packed the books you wish to study over the next few weeks.”

  Aeron bit off his response and stomped away. Some mage he’d be if he was beaten to a bloody pulp by the first brigand to corner him, a headful of safe and useless spells in his mind!

  He resolved to change Fineghal’s mind one way or another. For the next few weeks, he badgered the elven lord several times a day on the topic, until even Fineghal’s elven patience began to wear thin. The unfinished argument soured Aeron’s taste for elven lore, and their wanderings in the Maerchwood’s golden glens and green hills became a series of tedious hikes and silent, tense evenings by the campfire. Aeron knew his limits. He was capable of mastering the enchantments in question and had the common sense not to use them unless he had to. Fineghal’s suspicion and reticence abraded his nerves and challenged him to show that he was more advanced than the elf lord believed.

  The festival of Midsummer approached, a time of dancing and celebration in Aeron’s home. For the first time in his studies, loneliness crept into his heart. Even though his mind was fully engaged each and every day with the boundless learning Fineghal offered him, Aeron still missed Kestrel and Eriale. I’d be a dead man if I returned to Maerchlin and Phoros caught me, he decided. But what if I could ensure that I wouldn’t be caught? I could come and go as I pleased.

  Fineghal was still in the habit of setting off by himself for a day or two, leaving Aeron in the campsite they’d last moved to. For months now, he’d allowed Aeron to keep one or two of his spellstones at a time in order to create a glyphwood of his own based on Fineghal’s token. Over the spring, Aeron had recorded a dozen spells in this way, including a minor illusion that could change the appearance of an object. This was the key element in his plan.

  The green, humid heat of Flamerule found wizard and student in the cascade-misted glen where Aeron and Eriale had met Fineghal. After a few days of exploring the nearby area and discussing elven history by night, Fineghal decided to cross the forest to check on the western woodlands. “I may rest under a different tree every night for my spirit’s ease, but I roam the Maerchwood to watch over it as well,” he said as they rested by the stream that evening. “I have a feeling that trouble’s brewing near Oslin, and I’d better go look into it.”

  “Can I come?” Aeron asked hopefully.

  Fineghal shook his head. “No. I mean to travel fast and return within a day or two. And to be honest, I want to strike a little fear into the hearts of those bandit lords who are cutting into the forest, and it’s better if I don’t have to watch out for you as well. You’ll be fine here.”

  “Hmmmph. I guess so.” Aeron’s heart skipped as he realized that this was the opportunity he’d waited for. Calming himself, he asked, “May I study the spider’s climb while you’re away? I’d like to carve another glyphwood.”

  Fineghal glanced up absently. “Of course. I should have no need of it. Help yourself.”

  Aeron stood, dusted off the seat of his breeches, and moved over to the pouch that held Fineghal’s spells. The wizard had set it down near his bedroll. Deliberately suppressing the urge to steal a guilty look over his shoulder, Aeron spoke the word of passage necessary to open the pouch and reached within, feeling for the desired stone. His fingers brushed over the cool blue slate that held the spell of spider’s climb … and moved on to grasp the stone called the fire hand. He removed both stones, concealing the fire stone in his sleeve.

  From his left sleeve, he removed a red, egg-shaped rock that was a perfect duplicate for fire hand. He’d used his spell of seeming to create the fake earlier that day. Unless Fineghal actually examined that particular stone, he’d never detect Aeron’s theft. Shaking like a leaf, he closed the pouch and straightened.

  “Find it?”

  Aeron gave Fineghal a nervous smile and showed him the blue stone marked with the climbing spell. The second spellstone was hidden in his sleeve. “Right here. I think red maple would suit it well.”

  “For your glyphwood? Yes, that should work.” If Fineghal suspected anything, he sho
wed no outward sign of it, and with no further words, he returned his attention to the smooth stones of the spell he readied. Aeron quickly retreated to his place by the fire, his heart pounding. He was horrified by his own audacity, but now that he had taken this step, he’d have to work fast to copy both spells before Fineghal returned.

  At length, Fineghal dropped the stones he held back into his pouch, picked up his few belongings, and whistled to Baillegh. The white wolfhound shook herself and stood, tail wagging. “No time like the present, as humans are wont to say,” Fineghal said. “Be careful not to stray too far from the vale, Aeron. You’re near Maerchlin, and you never know when one of the lord’s men might be about. I should be back in a day or two.” He touched his hand to his brow in the silent farewell of the elves and vanished into the starlit night.

  Aeron waited an hour, to make certain that Fineghal was well on his way. When he was sure that he wouldn’t be caught, he slipped fire hand from his sleeve. The stone seemed a hot accusation in his hand. With a scowl, he silenced his reservations and began his work. If he finished the fire spell but didn’t master the spider climb, he could tell Fineghal that he’d had trouble with the translation, gaining an extra few days to finish his study of the spell sigils. “I’ll need a wood that burns clean and hot,” he murmured, considering the spellstone. “A dry old bit of deadwood, maybe hickory. And I’ll need to find a way to keep it away from the rest of my glyphwoods.” He couldn’t ever let Fineghal see the duarran he’d make from the stolen stone.

  Of course, there was also the question of how he would smuggle fire hand back into Fineghal’s pouch without alerting the wizard. Cold apprehension gripped Aeron’s heart as he realized the depth of his duplicity. It might have been a petty theft, one that would do Fineghal no harm at all, but the elven lord trusted him. Stilling the protests of his conscience, Aeron stood and began to search for a suitable length of wood.

  Four

  A long week passed, and Fineghal did not return to the thunder and mist of the cascade’s glen. Aeron mastered both spells with ease and then devised a hidden pouch in his bundle of glyphwoods to conceal the intricate shapes and markings of the fire spell.

  On the morning of the twelfth day of Fineghal’s absence, Aeron awoke to another hot, hazy day typical of high summer in the Maerchwood. It was the ninth day of Eleasias, one year to the day since he’d fled Maerchlin. A full year, he wondered. It didn’t seem possible, yet his breeches and sleeves were a little too short, and his shirt felt tight across the chest. He washed in the cold, clear waters of the stream, shaking his golden mane dry and relishing the cool, damp air of the glen.

  Climbing out of the swift-moving stream, he searched the green, wet walls of Fineghal’s dell for some sign of the mage’s return. Nothing but cool mists, water-shaped boulders, and the lowering trees above met his gaze. Aeron was usually comfortable being alone, but today the silence and solitude weighed on his spirit. On a sudden impulse, he dressed, packed his bow and pouch of glyphwoods, and set out toward Maerchlin. He wanted to see with his own eyes how the town fared.

  He covered the twelve-odd miles to Maerchlin in the long, still hours of morning, trotting effortlessly. As he approached the village, Aeron slowed his pace and used all of his woodcraft to circle toward Kestrel’s house without setting foot on the villagers’ runs and lanes. He emerged from the forest in the broad cleared lands behind Kestrel’s homestead, pausing in the warm shadows of the tree line to gaze out at the cottage and farmyard. It was silent; the barn was open and dark. Abandoning caution, he broke out of the forest’s cover and trotted forward, his face taut with worry.

  The house was empty.

  He circled it three times to make sure, searching each room. Broken crockery was scattered by the hearth, and every chest or cupboard in the place had been ripped open and its contents dumped on the floor. As far as Aeron could tell, nothing was missing except for Kestrel and Eriale. It was clear that the place had been searched, and there might have been a struggle, but there was nothing that could tell him what had happened.

  Aeron swore and kicked angrily at the wreckage. He stepped out the front door, looking across the brown rooftops of the village at the walls of Castle Raedel. Could he risk approaching one of the neighbors to ask after Kestrel and Eriale? Finally he turned away and retreated to the safety of the forest. He didn’t dare enter Maerchlin, not without a chance to plan and prepare. Raedel would have no mercy on him if he were caught, and whatever had happened to Kestrel’s household had happened weeks or months ago.

  By the time he returned to the cascade’s glen, it was late in the afternoon, and the small dell was shadowed by the sheer tree-crowned bluffs on all sides. Aeron was tired and hot; a tight knot of concern was clenched under his breastbone, and it dragged at his steps like a physical burden. He collapsed on his bedroll unceremoniously, staring out over the darkening forest.

  “Greetings, Aeron. If I’d been a goblin, I could have run you through.” Fineghal stood from the shadows, a glimmer of moonlight rising from a dark, still pond. The elven lord seemed nearly ethereal in substance, as if he lacked the strength to tether himself to the world around him. Fineghal rarely showed fatigue, but Aeron could see at a glance that he was exhausted.

  “Fineghal! I—I was worried about you!” Aeron scrambled to his feet. “What happened?”

  The wizard sighed and moved closer, taking his customary place across from Aeron. With a brief word and a gesture, he caused a small dancing flame to appear in the stone circle they used for their campfire, when they needed one. Aeron noticed that the glen was unnaturally cool, despite the warmth and stillness of the air in the forest. Fineghal shivered visibly, chilled in some way that Aeron could not perceive. “As I feared, trouble was indeed on my doorstep,” he began. “All of southern Chessenta is in chaos these days. For years now, the land’s been ruled by brigands, rebel noblemen, and mercenary kings who spend their time bickering over their meager holdings like starving dogs fighting for a scrap of food. More than a few have decided to win a fortune from the Maerchwood by pillaging the ruins of Calmaercor, so every now and then I must … discourage them. It is usually not too difficult to do so.”

  “What was different this time?”

  “I discovered that Baerskos of Villon had hired a wizard of his own, fearing the reputation of the Storm Walker. He set a trap for me.”

  “You fought Baerskos? Are you hurt?”

  Fineghal shook his head. “I survived. I was forced to employ many powerful spells. Baerskos and his armsmen are no more, although I don’t doubt that some other ruthless outlaw will take his place in a decade or two, with the same dream of carving out a kingdom for himself.”

  “What of the wizard?”

  Fineghal warmed his hands by the flame, staring into the flickering light. “I was forced to deal with him as well. A dangerous conjurer, skilled in the raising of fiends and horrors from the darkest depths of the netherworld. I couldn’t allow such a creature to set evils of that sort loose on the world. He was nearly a match for me.”

  Aeron was stunned. “I thought you were the greatest mage of them all! You know spells that I could never dream of mastering.”

  “I am far from the greatest of mages, Aeron. And even if I claimed that title, I should be far from the wisest. My strength is in knowledge and skill. But there are those who take an easier road to power—like the conjurer I faced in Villon—and if power is all a wizard cares to master, he can be a dangerous enemy indeed.” Fineghal rubbed his hands together and sighed again. “It was a dreadful contest, one that I nearly lost. He drew me into the planes of darkness and shadow that lie alongside our own, where he was strong and I was weak. There was something wrong with his sorcery, a taint or corruption that fed on the darkness.”

  Otherworlds and fiends … Aeron shuddered at the references. He’d heard the tales, and a few of Fineghal’s tomes attempted to explain the mysterious spheres and planes that lay beyond Faerûn, but he’d never thought that
he might speak to someone who had been there. It unnerved him to think that a world of invisible peril surrounded him, a world that might reach out to claim him should he misspeak a spell or set foot in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Fineghal unclasped his pouch of spellstones, dropping it to the ground. “How did matters stand in Maerchlin?”

  “Maerchlin?” Aeron glanced up in guilty surprise.

  “You went back there while I was in Villon, did you not? I thought that was where you’d gone when I returned here and found you missing.” Fineghal’s eyes fastened on Aeron. “It was not a wise thing to do, Aeron. You know that Raedel’s men consider you a criminal.”

  “If I’d known that I was going to be driven from my home, I might’ve done something to earn it,” Aeron growled. “I could have shot Phoros dead instead of stabbing him in the shoulder.” He sighed and looked up at Fineghal. “It’s been a year since I’ve seen my home. When you vanished for days and days, I started to get restless. I knew Maerchlin was close by, and I wanted to see how Kestrel and Eriale fare.”

  “A year? It didn’t seem so long,” Fineghal mused. “But I forget that a year means so much more to one of your age than it does to me. I scarcely noticed.” He returned his attention to Aeron, his piercing gaze holding the young forester’s eyes. Imperceptibly the elf’s detachment relaxed. “Not all was well?”

  “No. Kestrel’s house was empty. They weren’t there.”

  “Ah. You fear they’ve come to grief?”

  “I can’t see why they would leave. Kestrel’s not wealthy, but he’s got everything he needs on his lands. Raedel must have imprisoned him or driven him away, and Eriale, too.” Aeron sighed. “Probably to get back at me.”

  “They don’t have kinfolk somewhere else?”

  “No,” Aeron replied. “Kestrel was the last of his family. He lost his brothers in the rebellion of thirteen years ago. And Eriale, of course, has no one but her father.” The more Aeron thought about it, the more concerned he was. “There’s something wrong here. I’ve got to find out if they’re all right or not.”