The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

“I used magic.”

  “Magic! But … That’s right. Eriale said you’d taken up with the Storm Walker. She’s here, too. About three cells up, on this side.”

  The two quickly found Eriale’s cell and quietly set her free. Aeron didn’t like the way she looked at all; she was pale and shivered constantly, ill from her stay in the prison cell. She’d been so deeply asleep that she hadn’t heard him enter the cell row. As the two men helped her up the stairs to the guardroom, Aeron quickly recounted his visits to Maerchlin and something of the past twelve months.

  “Astounding,” Kestrel muttered. “I’d never have imagined that you could wield magic, Aeron. That’s for the mages and lords of the great cities, not the kind of folk who live around here.”

  “I’ve only scratched the surface of what Fineghal knows.” Aeron smiled ruefully. “I don’t expect he’ll take me in again after this. He didn’t want to defy the rightful lord of the land, even a black-hearted snake like Phoros Raedel. He wanted no part of this.”

  “I’m sorry, Aeron.” Kestrel put his hand on his shoulder. “I wish this had turned out differently.”

  Aeron nodded. In the guardroom, they paused for a moment to plan their next move. Kestrel was in good shape, considering his incarceration, but Eriale was so exhausted that she could barely support herself against the wall. “Well, Aeron?” she said weakly. “You managed to get in here. What’s next?”

  “First, get out of the castle without getting caught. Then … I don’t know. We’ll have to leave Maerchlin. After this, Phoros will be looking for all three of us.”

  “I had figured that much already,” Kestrel said. He scowled. “We’ll have to go far and fast. Probably safest to seek refuge in the lands of some city such as Soorenar or Mordulkin. I don’t care to have Oslin’s constables on my trail.” He glanced around the room. Both guardsmen still slept, although Aeron had tied them up to make sure they wouldn’t be going anywhere. “Here, Aeron. You and I can borrow these mail coats and helmets. Eriale … well, she’s obviously not looking too good. It’s not unreasonable that a couple of guards might be taking her to the village to have old Meara look at her, right?”

  Aeron agreed and knelt by the smaller of the two men, removing his mail hauberk. The fellow woke up, but tied and gagged as he was, he couldn’t do anything more than glare at Aeron. Kestrel helped himself to the other guard’s gear, and within a few minutes the two foresters could pass for Raedel’s swordsmen at a distance.

  Supporting Eriale between them, Aeron and Kestrel cautiously left the guardroom and turned back to the keep’s gate. At this hour, the hallways were deserted, and they did not encounter anyone until they reached the sentry post. The drowsy watchman was now awake and alert, pacing back and forth across the stone doorway. His attention was on the courtyard, not the hall behind him. “What do we do?” Eriale whispered.

  Aeron grimaced. “I’d hoped that he would still be sleeping. I can work a spell.”

  “No need,” Kestrel interrupted. “I remember a trick or two from my younger days.” He eased his borrowed dagger from his belt and crept up behind the sentry. Reversing his grip on the weapon, he quickly knocked the sentry’s helmet off his head with his left hand and brought the heavy pommel down on the crown of the fellow’s head. With a groan, the sentry went limp. Aeron caught his helmet before it clattered on the stone steps, while Kestrel lowered the unconscious guard to the floor. They waited, listening for a moment, but they didn’t hear anything to indicate that they had been noticed.

  “The lower gatehouse is guarded by four men,” Aeron whispered. “I may be able to deceive them.”

  “What about the postern?” Kestrel asked.

  “This castle has a postern gate?”

  “Most do, Aeron. It’s right over there, on the other side of the courtyard. Didn’t you scout it out?”

  Aeron shook his head. “I didn’t even think of it.”

  Kestrel grinned in the starlight. “A year of learning, and it never even crossed your mind? If I were Fineghal, I’d be wondering whether you had rocks in your head.”

  “Won’t the postern be locked?” Eriale asked.

  “I can do something about that,” Aeron answered.

  “Then it sounds better than trying to talk our way out of here,” Eriale muttered weakly.

  The three of them started down the keep’s wide steps and veered left. Yellow light burned in the barrack rooms that ringed the lower bailey, and Aeron could hear soldiers laughing and thumping tables in the castle’s taproom. Kestrel led them straight toward the lantern light, but they went past the building to a small, shadowed alcove in the curtain wall. Aeron’s eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. A small, heavy door sheathed in iron plate was embedded in the wall. “The postern?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” Kestrel said. “Thirteen years ago, I—”

  “Thirteen years ago you should have been strung up as a rebel, old man,” a harsh voice grated behind them. Whirling to face the threat, Aeron gasped in shock. Phoros Raedel himself stood behind them, sword bared, with a stocky soldier in the uniform of a guard sergeant a pace behind them. “My thanks for leaving the sentry with a knot on his head, Morieth. If I hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t at his post, I never would have caught you here.”

  “Phoros,” Aeron spat. He was terrified, but at the same time, an incandescent rage boiled in his heart. For years the mercenary lord’s son and his friends had bullied him, finally driving him to strike back. And when he had dared to raise his hand in his own defense, Phoros had seen to it that everyone Aeron loved suffered for his defiance. “Let us go, and well never trouble you again. You win. I’ll leave Maerchlin with Kestrel and Eriale, and you’ll never have to see any of us again.”

  “I can make certain that you never trouble me again by having you drawn and quartered.” Phoros grinned ruthlessly. “Or perhaps burned at the stake. That would only be fitting, considering what you did to Miroch.”

  “Aeron,” Kestrel said, “can you open the gate?”

  “Don’t bother. It’s locked.” Phoros sneered. “Kestrel, if you lay down your sword this very instant, you and Eriale will live. Otherwise I’ll burn you along with Aeron.”

  Aeron licked his lips and risked a quick glance at the postern behind them before turning to keep Raedel in his vision. They were within the postern’s alcove, with Raedel and the sergeant blocking their escape to the courtyard, and stone surrounding them on all sides. There were dozens of guards only a few feet away in the taproom, but Phoros hadn’t called for reinforcements yet. Carefully he said, “Yes, I can open it.”

  “Good.” With a lightning-fast motion, Kestrel’s hand dipped to his belt. Steel glinted in the darkness as his dagger, thrown underhand, sank into the throat of the guard sergeant. Raedel blinked in astonishment but recovered quickly. With an angry roar, he leapt forward and stabbed at Kestrel. The wily old forester barely freed his sword from the scabbard in time to parry the nobleman’s attack. “Get started!” Kestrel grunted.

  Aeron watched, mesmerized, as Phoros attacked Kestrel with a furious rain of blows, slashing and hacking with all his might. The young lord was a good swordsman, blessed with a powerful build and quick hands. Kestrel stood a foot shorter and weighed at least fifty pounds less than Raedel, and he had spent the last three months in a filthy dungeon cell. But Aeron was surprised to see that he was holding his own for a moment, displaying a surprising amount of skill and reactions even faster than Raedel’s. “Time’s on my side, old man,” Raedel said. “Guards! Guards!”

  “Aeron! The gate, before more soldiers come!” cried Eriale. She dragged at his arm, pulling him away.

  “Right,” he muttered. He turned his back on the duel and faced the postern gate again. Closing his eyes, he set his hand on the door and uttered a simple phrase, summoning a spell of opening to his mind. Beneath his fingertips, he felt the old, rusty lock slide and click. He set his shoulder to the door and pushed it open, a breath of cool air slipping through th
e widening crack. “I’ve got it!” he cried.

  “Then get Eriale out of here,” Kestrel snarled. “I can hold him a little longer.” He stumbled with fatigue and bled from several small cuts, but somehow he still held Phoros Raedel at bay. The young lord tried to circle past him, only to be halted by the gleaming point of Kestrel’s sword. Behind Raedel, several guardsmen had already appeared, and more were coming at a run.

  “I don’t think so,” Raedel said. He feinted, drawing Kestrel’s guard out, and smashed the forester’s blade against the stone wall. On the backswing, he struck Kestrel across the scalp, sending him reeling to the ground, stunned. Phoros raised his sword, poised to run him through while his defenses were down.

  “Father!” shrieked Eriale.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Aeron reached out to seize the taut fabric of the Weave that surrounded him. He drew his hand over his face while pointing at Raedel, and breathed the words to a spell.

  Phoros straightened with a startled cry. He reeled, stretching out to steady himself on the wall. “Curse you, Morieth! What have you done to me? I can’t see!”

  “Be glad I only blinded you,” Aeron snapped. He reached down and helped Kestrel regain his feet. Roaring in frustration, Raedel slashed out uselessly. Even as the castle’s guards pushed their way past their ranting lord, Aeron pushed Eriale through the postern, then helped Kestrel. The older man was bleeding freely from a long, shallow wound across his forehead, but he seized Eriale’s arm and dragged her out into the night. Aeron slammed the postern shut and released his passage spell. Inside the heavy door, the lock clicked and reset itself. The castle’s soldiers hammered on the other side, but to no avail. The postern was designed to handle any amount of pounding.

  “Where now?” Kestrel asked.

  “The forest,” Aeron said. “They’ll be on our trail in moments. We can lose them in the Maerchwood.”

  “Good enough for now,” Kestrel replied. Helping Eriale along, they hurried away from the forbidding walls of Raedel Keep and vanished into the night.

  Fleeing Maerchlin, Aeron led Kestrel and Eriale to the stream-riven gorge near the ruins where he had first met Fineghal. Aeron remembered what the elven mage had told him about the safety of the hidden vale, and it seemed as good a place as any to conceal themselves. By the time they reached the gorge, Kestrel was exhausted and Eriale was deathly ill from the sickness to which she’d fallen prey during her imprisonment.

  Aeron hoped fervently that Fineghal would be waiting for them there, but the only sign he found of his teacher was a leather satchel left by their old campsite. Inside, there was a small sack of coins, a wax-sealed vial, and two letters—one addressed to him, and one to someone by the name of Telemachon of Cimbar. While Kestrel built a small fire and looked after Eriale, Aeron broke the seal on the letter with his name on it. In Espruar, it read:

  Aeron,

  The gold is for Kestrel to build a new home. I recommend the town of Saden, at the head of the Adder River. King Gearax of Oslin calls himself Saden’s lord, but the folk there are free men who show Oslin’s soldiers and constables no courtesy. They’ll take Kestrel’s gold with no questions asked. The potion is for Eriale; she is quite ill and should drink the entire vial immediately. Make sure she rests for two or three days before you move on.

  The letter is for Telemachon, a Master of the College of Mages at the university in Cimbar. If you wish to continue your studies, go there and present the letter to him. He knows me of old and will allow you to study there. I fear that I have nothing more to teach you; perhaps you will find what you seek there.

  —Fineghal

  Aeron read Fineghal’s letter over and over again. He knew he had defied Fineghal by returning to Maerchlin, but in his heart, he had never believed that the elven mage would end their association over the issue. Humans made mistakes and knew how to forgive the mistakes of others, but in the final test, Fineghal was inhuman and unfathomable, driven by emotions and memories that Aeron could only guess at. His journey into the ancient wisdom of the Tel’Quessir was over. Elven blood or not, Aeron’s path lay somewhere else.

  In the days that followed, Eriale recovered completely from her illness, and Kestrel regained his strength and quick smile in the sunlit glades of the forest. While his adopted father and sister hunted, fished, and made themselves comfortable in Fineghal’s refuge, Aeron attempted several journeys to the places that Fineghal and he had visited. There was no sign of the elven lord, and even Caerhuan was deserted and empty. He returned to the vale of the waterfall after the last trek, weary and bitter.

  Eriale tended a small fire by the rushing stream, a pair of dressed rabbits at her side, while Kestrel sat across from her, carefully straightening and paring an arrow shaft. Both looked up as Aeron splashed across the cold stream and joined them. “Any luck?” asked Kestrel, watching Aeron shrug off his pack.

  “Not a sign of him,” Aeron replied. “When Fineghal doesn’t wish to be found, he won’t be found.”

  Father and daughter exchanged a look. Eriale turned to face Aeron. “We’ve decided that it’s time to move on,” she said. “Fall’s coming on, and we’ll want to raise a house while the weather’s still warm.”

  “Saden’s a good town,” added Kestrel. “I passed near there when I was a soldier in the Overking’s army, maybe twenty years ago. Lots of good timber and land.” Aeron nodded absently, not really paying attention. The old forester studied his face for a long moment. “You’re coming?”

  Aeron glanced up at him. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I don’t know,” he said. Over the past two weeks, he’d lost himself in his wanderings through the forest. He knew that Fineghal could not teach him anymore, but he’d hoped to at least see him face-to-face again, to justify his actions, to persuade the elf to allow him one more chance to continue his studies. He didn’t think he could go back to the simpler life he’d known before the day he’d met the elven wizard. “It would have been better if I’d never met Fineghal,” he said aloud. “I’d never have known what I stood to lose.”

  “What have you lost, Aeron?” Eriale asked softly.

  He threw his hands in the air. “You couldn’t understand.”

  The girl’s face hardened. “Try me.”

  Aeron bit back a sharp retort. Kestrel and Eriale did not deserve his anger … nor did Fineghal, to be honest. He’d made his own decisions. He’d pursued Fineghal that first day, begging the elf to show him how to work the magic. And the wizard had warned him from the beginning that Aeron lacked the patience, the temperament, to follow the Tel’Quessir path.

  “Imagine that you discovered one day that you lived near the sea, and that it was your heart’s desire to become a sailor. You find someone who can teach you what you need to know, and you learn enough to sail within a mile or so of the shore. You don’t have the skills yet to voyage wherever your heart would take you, but you can smell the strange far lands on the wind, you can feel the waves telling you of the places they might take you, and before you is the great wide sea, with nothing but your own inexperience and limitations to keep you from great voyages. Then you find that you will not be permitted to learn the last of what you need to know. So there you sit, at the shore, the sea always in your sight to taunt you with the thoughts of what might have been.”

  Eriale fell silent. She weighed Aeron’s words, her eyes dark with reflection.

  Kestrel stopped his work and turned a long, thoughtful gaze on Aeron. “Some would say that it would be better to get up and leave the seashore, in that case,” he said. “Return to wherever it was you first came from and content yourself with being the person you were born to be.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “I’ve told you before of my days in the Overking’s army, before Morieth’s Revolt. They were good days, with stout comrades and a battle or two I fought in and survived. But the time came for me to lay down my arms and go home, and I did. Yet I knew many soldiers who never really went ho
me. Oh, they returned to their farms and towns and took up their trades again. But in their hearts, they still lived in the days of their youth. And they were sadder for it, Aeron, because they couldn’t find the spirit for life they’d had before, and they spent their days trying to recall it.” Kestrel returned to his knife work. “We could use your help, Aeron. I’ll have land to clear, timber to cut, a house to raise. In my experience, good hard work is the cure for a lot of ailments.”

  Because he loved Kestrel as his father, Aeron made himself think about the forester’s words, but he couldn’t bring the image into focus; every cell in his body seemed to shrink away from the prospect. He reached into the pouch at his waist and removed the wax-sealed letter marked “Telemachon,” weighing it in his hand.

  I’ve got to try it, he realized. “I’m sorry, Kestrel, Eriale. My road doesn’t lead to Saden.”

  Six

  A cold, gusty wind blew across the bright waters of the Inner Sea as Aeron disembarked in the crowded dock district of the city of Cimbar. The great city was a marvel beyond Aeron’s comprehension. Everywhere he looked, myriads of people seethed and swarmed, engaged in a thousand activities. The docks were cluttered with the ships of many lands, and the broad roadstead within the city’s seawalls was crowded with more riding at anchor, a floating forest of masts and spars. Drifting along with the press of people, Aeron shouldered his pack and headed into the city.

  Dodging through the crowd, Aeron climbed up a steep hillside. Cimbar sprawled across several low hills that met the Inner Sea between two high, proud headlands about a mile apart. Aeron soon discovered that he’d landed in the part of town known as New Cimbar, which clustered around the western headland and its apron of hills. This was the commercial district, covering almost twice the territory of Old Cimbar around the eastern headland.

  From Aeron’s vantage high on the flanks of the hills of the new city, he could make out several majestic monoliths rising over the Old City, great pyramids of crumbling stone that towered over the white palaces and forums of the city’s center. “What are those?” he asked one passerby, a merchant’s tout carrying a thick ledger crammed full of cryptic notes.