One overcast summer day, almost a year since his last encounter with Phoros, Aeron approached the castle and sensed something wrong. He circled it carefully, searching for the source of his unease, but everything appeared normal. He drifted in toward the courtyard and suddenly felt an invisible hand shoving him aside, forcing him to flare his wings and wheel awkwardly to one side. What in Faerûn was that? he thought.
He circled outward, gliding past the castle. He concentrated on the emanations of the Weave that surrounded the castle and discovered a subtle weave of light and dark doming the entire fortress. At each cardinal point, an intricate rune had been drawn on the battlements, scrawled in rough circles of red paint the size of a small shield. Wards against magic, he realized. But who made them? Since Aeron kept his falcon shape by means of a spell, the wards were sufficient to bar his physical passage. If he released the spell, he could walk right past them … but he’d lose his disguise in the process. He orbited the gray tower, thinking.
As he wheeled over the keep itself, he spied a dark figure standing in an open window. It was a thin man, his features obscured by a loose cowl over his head. Aeron slipped a little closer, drawn to the man by an intangible mantle of power that streamed around him. This was the maker of the runes, an adept of no small skill. Aeron peered at him with first one eye and then the other, trying to discern the robed man’s features.
Without warning, the dark hood swung his way. He caught a glimpse of a dark, bone-thin face with long teeth bared in a snarl of challenge. At the same time, an electric jolt arrested his heart, seizing him in a fierce contest of will. Aeron reeled and fluttered, trying to break free, the wind howling in his ears as the ground and sky tumbled crazily. He sensed the man below him knotting his fists in the stuff of the castle, gathering magical strength for a fearsome onslaught.
Screeching shrilly, Aeron broke free of the sorcerer’s will and arrowed away, regaining his strength and determination as he widened the distance between them. But he could still feel the hateful eyes of the wizard on his back, waiting for him to resume his presumptuous reconnaissance of the castle. Aeron declined the fight, although he didn’t feel that the encounter was done until long after the gray towers of Castle Raedel had slipped beneath the horizon behind him.
When he returned to the Storm Tower, Aeron resumed his own shape, stretching his arms and legs. He turned to let himself into the tower’s door, but suddenly an odd wind shifted and blew at his back, clutching his cloak. Aeron tensed and whirled, scenting sorcery in the air, a manifestation of the shadow weave that deadened the breeze with a cold, clammy odor. He searched the dark forests nearby for any sign of a foe, but nothing appeared until a small yellow slip of paper blew into sight, scuttling across the ground until it came to a rest right at his feet. With that, the eerie breeze failed.
Aeron stooped down and carefully looked over the paper without touching it. Many deadly spells could be triggered by the simple act of reading the cursed signs. After a moment, he decided that he sensed no magic on the parchment, so he cautiously picked it up and broke the seal. It was a letter, written in a thin and spidery hand:
To my esteemed colleague, the Storm Walker:
Greetings. I have been retained by Lord Phoros Raedel, Count of Maerchlin, to advise him on matters magical and to defend him against the assault or scrutiny of any hostile sorcerers. I should greatly like to meet with you in person and discuss affairs of mutual interest. In the meantime, I must ask you to desist in your surveillance over my lord’s lands. He feels that they are adequately looked after.
Your humble servant,
Edias Crow
Aeron shuddered. The parchment felt cold and somehow sinister, as if it had been written with ink made of blood. He destroyed it with a simple cantrip of fire and let the breeze carry the ashes from his fingers. “ ‘Affairs of mutual interest’?” he muttered, thinking. What was that supposed to mean? This Master Crow had already secured Castle Raedel quite thoroughly against his intrusions. Well, I can’t be surprised if I’ve taught Phoros Raedel to fear wizards, he thought. Of course he’d take steps to defend himself against me.
Absently he let himself into the tower, still considering the day’s events. He’d only held his watch over the forest for a little more than a year, but already he sensed that he was falling into the same routine, the same patterns, that had held Fineghal for a thousand years. He was a sentry on a long watch, unconsciously choosing a predictable path. Now something had happened that finally broke the routine, demanding his attention, and he didn’t know what to make of it. He started a small fire and settled down in an old wooden chair, listening to the distant roar of the Winding River’s rock-strewn rapids and the wind rattling the windowpanes.
Aeron didn’t like the feel of Crow’s sorcery. Like his own, it was woven of both bright and dark strands, but it seemed out of balance, misproportioned. He wondered if this were normal for a human sorcerer, or if Master Crow had been tainted in some manner similar to Aeron’s own battle against the Shadow Stone. “Fineghal, I could use your counsel now,” Aeron muttered. The empty tower did not respond.
Aeron weighed Master Crow’s request for over a week before responding with a message of his own, naming a time and a place for a meeting more than sixty miles east of Maerchlin. Aeron didn’t think Phoros Raedel could lay an ambush capable of snaring him so far from his own lands, and it gave him a chance to prepare the site.
The weather had become still and sweltering in the hot doldrums that fell over the Maerchwood late in the summer. It had never bothered Aeron before, but as he labored to scribe runes and circles around the barren clearing he’d chosen, he became light-headed and queasy, as if a faint odor of death had risen with the heat. The magic he wove felt muddy, indistinct, the Weave of the air, the earth, the living forest slipping through his fingers as if he were a clumsy apprentice all over again. At the same time, the shadow magic that he summoned and shaped seemed almost eager to meet his command, coiling and surging like a restless serpent that tested the bonds of his will.
Through sheer determination, Aeron finally finished the tasks he’d set for himself and he settled down to wait. The heat of the day faded rapidly as dusk fell over the stony hilltop, and Aeron found himself shivering with cold within an hour of sunset. Something isn’t right here, he thought. He stood and circled the hilltop, testing the wind with all of his senses, but as far as he could tell, the hill was just another part of the forest. “I’m jumping at phantoms,” he muttered aloud, trying to reassure himself.
He waited several more hours. He’d invited Master Crow to meet him on this night, deciding that it would be difficult for any of Raedel’s men to approach under the cover of darkness without revealing themselves, but Aeron began to doubt the wisdom of this request. The gibbous moon rose, casting an unhealthy yellow glow over the forest. In the shadows beneath the trees, faint fox fire flickered, dancing in the corner of Aeron’s vision but vanishing when he looked right at it. The air was cool and clammy, without a breath of wind; the forest was unnaturally still. Aeron found himself straining to hear the faintest of sounds.
A black-winged shape flitted in front of the pale moon. It dropped toward him, gliding silently on leathery wings. Aeron picked up the staff Fineghal had left him and waited, watching. Just outside his circle of defenses the thing settled to the ground, croaking. It seemed to shimmer for a moment, and Aeron sensed the unbinding of magic. From the pool of darkness a tall man rose, stretching and settling his robes into place. He grinned widely at Aeron. “Greetings, brother. May I enter your circle?”
Aeron nodded once. “I see you know the spell of shape-taking too, Master Crow.”
“You seemed fond of it. It was … appropriate.” Now that they stood facing each other, Aeron realized that Master Crow was tall but startlingly thin, an emaciated rail of a man shrouded in a tattered black robe. All he could see of the wizard were his bony hands, twisting together in front of his chest, and the gleaming teeth in
his open-mouthed grin. The sorcerer bowed and spread his hands, advancing into the rune-marked circle Aeron had laid out during the day. He glanced at the diagram and shook his head. “You needn’t have bothered.”
“Why take chances?” Aeron replied.
“Why, indeed?” The man seemed to lean forward and rasped heavily. It took Aeron a moment to realize that he was laughing. “Why indeed? It surprises me to see that you have become a man of caution, Aeron.”
Aeron peered at the dark hood. “We have met before?”
“Oh, yes, though it’s been five years or more. Don’t you remember me, Aeron?” The gaunt sorcerer straightened and raised his hands, drawing back his hood. Aeron recoiled involuntarily, suddenly terrified of what he might see. The sorcerer looked up again to meet Aeron’s eyes. His face was lean and sharp, and his hair was slashed back to a brutal stubble, but his eyes danced with animation.
“Master Sarim!” Aeron was astonished at the transformation of the Calishite mage. When he’d known Sarim at the college, the Master Invoker had been a wide-shouldered, athletic man with a handsome face and a calm, collected manner. Now Sarim’s clean frame, his serenity, and his alert intelligence were all gone, replaced by endless nervous motion and a fanatic’s brilliant imbalance. The sight of Sarim shrieking as the Shadow Stone devoured him in the cold stone vault under the ruined obelisk flashed before Aeron’s eyes.
“I am flattered that you remember me, Aeron. We parted under trying circumstances, you and I.” The sorcerer laughed again at his little jest. “I had thought that you might have chosen to forget about the college. After all, you are the great Storm Walker now. Why mire yourself in the difficulties of the past?”
“That was a long time ago,” Aeron said flatly. “You requested this meeting. What business do you have with me?”
“It is not too late for you to stand with us, Aeron. We have not forgotten you. So much has happened, and yet you hide here in the Maerchwood, your head in the sand. A mage of your potential is wasted in this backwater.” Sarim reached out and pawed at Aeron’s sleeve. “Come back to the college. Finish the studies that you started.”
Aeron pulled his arm back. “I saw enough of that road. It doesn’t seem to have done you much good, Sarim. Or should I call you Crow?”
For a moment the tall sorcerer’s grin faded, and his eyes sparked with cold fire. But slowly he forced the smile back to his face, and bobbed his head. “They know me as Master Crow here. That will suffice. A new name for a new man, you might say.”
“What are you doing here?”
“An interrogation! Excellent, Aeron. You’re not the peasant you used to be, to challenge me with such a tone.” The Master turned his back on Aeron, pacing away to measure the bounds of the circle, making a show of gazing out over the forest. Aeron waited, keeping his eyes on him. With a sigh, the sorcerer continued. “Well, someone had to answer Phoros Raedel’s most generous offer of employment. Lord Oriseus thought that the post would suit me. After all, the count is in need of some supervision, wouldn’t you say? If we keep young Phoros on the path, well, then, Oslin’s southern lands are as good as ours.”
Aeron didn’t like the sound of that. “Whose?”
“Ours, Aeron. Yours and mine. We are to be Lord Oriseus’s satraps over this land. He has become the Sceptanar, you know, lord over Cimbar and soon all of Chessenta. The new Emperor will need viceroys, loyal men of great ability to oversee his lands and ensure a proper order to things.” Master Crow suddenly wheeled on Aeron and marched up to clutch at Aeron’s tunic. “We’ll let the petty lordlings, the Phoros Raedels, play at their games, Aeron. But you and I both know what the real power in this world is. With a word, we slay. With a gesture, we rule. None will dare to gainsay us, and Chessenta will be united under our command.”
Aeron maintained a stony and suspicious expression, but his heart fluttered. Oriseus as Sceptanar! The Master Conjuror’s ambitions had extended as far as Aeron had thought, and then some. It made sense; what wizard of Cimbar would have dared to stand against him? Aeron thought of the rumors he’d heard in the last year or so, war and fire in the great cities of the north, and wondered how much Oriseus had had to do with these dire events. He frowned and returned his attention to Master Crow. “Oriseus sent you to find me for this?”
“That, and to see to Raedel.”
Aeron studied the sorcerer for a long moment. He could sense the dark taint of the Shadow Stone in Crow’s heart, a black font of corruption where the bright spark of his life should have been. “I want no part of it,” he said firmly.
Crow recoiled a pace, anger twisting his features. “You’ll just mind the borders of your forest, then? That is all the ambition you hold in your heart, Aeron? I cannot believe that.”
“Believe what you will. I want nothing to do with you, or Oriseus, or Dalrioc, or any of them. Don’t set foot in this forest again, Master Crow. There is nothing for you here.”
“If we did not stand inside your circles of protection, Aeron, I might teach you not to threaten me so lightly,” Crow hissed. “You forget that I had the strength to tame the power that you were afraid to attempt.”
Aeron spread his hands in invitation. “I’m willing to match my strength against yours. And I will, if you don’t leave this place.”
Crow wheeled and stormed away, black cloak fluttering like the threadbare wings of some great, dark moth. Outside the protective runes, he stopped and turned to face Aeron again. “Oriseus said you would not cooperate. But I know something you don’t, O mighty Storm Walker. You’ll be forced to serve us sooner or later. Oriseus means to set wizards to rule over the blundering brutes who are the lords of this land. And the Shadow Stone will set Oriseus to rule over the wizards. You defy us at your peril. With every spell you cast, you’ll only make us stronger.”
Aeron stepped forward, raising his staff to strike, but Crow whirled in place and vanished in a dark pyre of smoke. Aeron waited a long moment to see if he’d really gone and then sat down heavily on a rock, laying his staff across his knees. “Sarim,” he said bleakly into the night. “What has Oriseus done to you?”
Fifteen
Aeron returned to Caerhuan and prepared for a magical siege. He attempted several powerful defensive spells, but each enchantment he worked seemed to go awry; the Weave seemed to slip through his fingers, while the burgeoning strength of the shadow-magic, the power of death and darkness, refused to obey his command, writhing in his grasp like a venomous serpent seeking something to poison. It took all of Aeron’s effort to keep the seething magic under his control and form it into the shapes he desired.
Finally, he was satisfied with his defenses, although a task that should have taken days had consumed several weeks. Despite the fact that the Maerchwood had been vulnerable during the time it took Aeron to weave the spell of watchfulness, Master Crow had not struck at Aeron, nor had any more of his former associates from the college appeared on his doorstep. Their absence only served to reinforce Aeron’s fears.
The summer failed quickly, giving way to an unusually cold and damp autumn. Day after day, the forest was cloaked in dense, still mists that left the ground-carpet black and soggy, damp with a sweet, sick odor of rot. Aeron shivered in revulsion as he went abroad; the air beaded his cloak and tunic with heavy drops of cold water, and any time he brushed past a leaf or tree it left a dark, foul smear across his skin or clothes. The animals of the forest cowered in their lairs, reluctant to go abroad in the unnatural mists.
Aeron searched for some sign that the Maerchwood was under attack, but he found nothing to indicate that the weather was anything other than natural. No spell held the gloom over the forest. Every time Aeron wielded magic, he was conscious of the growing difficulty of commanding even a glimmer of the Weave. Nothing could relieve the bleak and dismal gloom.
He set out to survey the forest, hoping to find some indication of a place where the foulness originated, but from one eave of the forest to the other, everything was the
same. A month into autumn, he found himself near the western edge of the forest, and with hopeless resignation he turned his steps toward Saden and home.
Kestrel greeted him warmly, but his eyes showed fatigue. “Aeron! It’s been months, lad. Where have you been?”
“I’ve been walking the forest, Kestrel,” Aeron replied. He undid his cloak and hung it by the fire, grimacing as oily water ran over his hands. “Have you any ale?”
“Of course,” Kestrel said. “But you’ll want last winter’s brew. The stuff they made this year isn’t fit for a goblin.” The old forester ventured back to the tap he kept in his cellar and returned with two leather jacks. He drew up a chair by the fire and handed one to Aeron. “So what is new in the Maerchwood?”
“I wish I knew,” Aeron said with a scowl. “Phoros Raedel’s retained the services of a dangerous sorcerer. I believe he’s responsible for some insidious blight over the forest, but I can’t fathom the magic that’s at work.” He described the evil change in the wind that had fallen over the forest in the weeks since he’d met Sarim in his incarnation as Master Crow. Would he have fallen if I hadn’t set him against Oriseus? he wondered briefly. He sighed and stared into the dark ale in his mug.
Kestrel frowned. “I’ve heard tales of Raedel’s mage, too, but I don’t think he is responsible for this weather. It’s not just the Maerchwood, Aeron. It’s everywhere. You don’t talk to many people, but travelers pass through Saden every now and then—herdsmen from the Akanul, teamsters carrying cargo to Mordulkin, and boatmen on the Adder River. They say it’s like this all across Chessenta, maybe even all of Faerûn. People are frightened.”
Aeron was stunned. “I have a hard time believing that Master Crow could work such a dire enchantment.”
The Shadow Stone Page 25
