The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

  “From what I hear, Phoros’s pet mage has been too busy to work this sort of mischief, anyway,” Kestrel said.

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “They say that Phoros Raedel’s not the master of his own castle anymore. Crow is the real lord of Maerchlin these days. I’ve spoken to merchants who have arranged audiences with Phoros, only to find that Master Crow did all the talking. They said the count stared into space, nodding whenever Crow asked him a question.” Kestrel scratched his chin. “Phoros Raedel might be a bastard at times, but at least he’s a bastard you can count on.”

  “Crow told me that he came to Maerchlin to take power here,” Aeron said. “He said that Oriseus—the leader of the college—meant for his followers to hold high places in every land.” The young mage paused, thinking hard. If Crow was telling the truth, Oriseus was not just the master of the college anymore—he was the lord of all Cimbar. “Kestrel, have you heard anything of the Sceptanar?”

  “The king of Cimbar?” Kestrel shrugged. “They say there’s a new one, although it’s hard to be sure of a story from so far away. Cimbar’s broken its old truce with Akanax, and Soorenar has sided with Cimbar. Most travelers are of the opinion that it’s only a matter of time until Akanax falls, and that will leave Cimbar as the only power of consequence left.” The woodsman swallowed some musty ale. “I can’t see the other cities standing by while the Sceptanar crowns himself Overking of Chessenta, but who’s going to stop him?”

  “It seems I don’t hear anything in the Maerchwood.”

  Kestrel chuckled. “It’s just gossip, Aeron.”

  “Have you heard any other tales from abroad?”

  “Oh, the usual tales of blights and plagues, vanishings and hauntings. They say there’s an evil loose in the land, a sickness in the ground. It’s been a bad harvest, with all the rain lately.” The forester smiled and shook his head, his gray whiskers twitching like an otter’s. “People love to tell a tale of woe. There’s no substance to rumors of sorcery and witch-weather.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Aeron shivered by the fire. “Something is wrong in the Maerchwood; that much I know.” He sat back, thinking. “Kestrel, I have to go. This is much worse than I thought it was.”

  “That’s not very reassuring. What can you do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aeron. “But I might know someone who does know. Give Eriale my greetings. And, Kestrel … if things become any worse, get Eriale and come to the Maerchwood. I’ve been able to counter some of this illness, and you’re welcome to stay at the Storm Tower as long as you like.”

  “The old ruins by the gorge of the Winding River?”

  Aeron smiled. “It’s not as ruined as you might think. You might be safer there than you are here.”

  Kestrel studied Aeron for a long moment. “It’s that bad?”

  Aeron simply stood and took his hand. “I’ll let you know if I find any answers.” He drained the last of the ale, shouldered his cloak, and set out into the weak daylight again. It was surprisingly cold and clammy. Aeron wondered if a frost was near, weeks or even months before the season turned. He didn’t like the idea of the land suffering through a long winter under these conditions.

  On his way back to the Storm Tower, Aeron actually became lost for a few hours as the trail he followed petered out in a muddy morass of thickets, briars, and fens. He could not remember any such place in the bounds of the Maerchwood. When he finally picked up his path again he redoubled his speed, Baillegh bounding behind him like a silver streak in the gloom.

  It was late in the night when he reached the tower. He rested, ate a light meal, then set to work rummaging through Fineghal’s storehouse of arcane lore and enchanted devices until he found a small orb of crystal. Aeron carried the orb to a small table before one of the tower’s high windows and sat down, staring into the milky glass.

  In his mind’s eye, he formed a picture of Fineghal’s face and called out with his will. “Fineghal! Where are you?”

  To his surprise, the response was immediate. The orb swirled and cleared, and he gazed upon a forest-city of slender trees and leaping pathways high over the ground. Fineghal stood in the foreground on a wide flet of gleaming wood, glancing up into the sky. “I see you have found my seeing-glass, Aeron,” he replied.

  “Where are you?” Aeron asked, peering at the scene.

  Fineghal gestured at his surroundings. Although Aeron heard his words plainly in his mind, the orb conveyed no sound; Fineghal spoke silently. “I have kinfolk who tarry still in the great forest of the Chondalwood,” he replied. “I’ve passed the last few seasons among them. Tell me, do you know what is going wrong with the magic?”

  “You have sensed it too?” Aeron asked.

  “For the last month or so, my spells have failed for no reason I can determine. And there are other wizards here who have encountered the same result. There seems to be less magic in the world, as if the Weave is dying away.” The elf lord’s fear and concern were evident, even through the magical link of the crystal ball. “Never in my days have I seen something like this.”

  “I think I know what is happening,” Aeron said. “Magic is not fading. It is … changing its character. While the Weave you know is weakening, the shadow-magic is growing stronger.”

  Fineghal grimaced. “I can’t perceive it. I only see the weakening of the magic that I command.”

  “Have you noticed anything else unusual? Strange weather, a failure of the harvest, rumors of hauntings?”

  “We’ve heard many tales of such things from the lands to the north and east of the Chondalwood. In the past few weeks, the tide of sickness has reached us here. The failure of magic is tied to these occurrences?”

  “I believe that everything—the strange weather, the failure of crops, the plagues and the wars—is tied to this. The Weave permeates everything that exists, after all. If it becomes darker, more sinister, the world will grow dark as well.”

  The elf seemed to turn away for a moment, as if he were speaking to someone else whom Aeron could not see. “Your explanation makes sense, Aeron. It would account for the events we’ve witnessed here.”

  “The longer we allow this to continue, the worse it will get,” Aeron said. He described his meeting with Master Crow and related the rumors he’d heard of war in Cimbar.

  “Could this have something to do with the Shadow Stone, Aeron? You once told me that you thought that it acted as a conduit that enabled a mage to bypass the Weave. Master Crow’s appearance on your doorstep can’t be entirely coincidental.”

  “I think you’re right,” Aeron said. “But that still doesn’t give me any idea of how to counter the effects.”

  Fineghal seemed to waver in indecision. “I’ll set out at once for the Storm Tower,” he finally said.

  Aeron smiled, his spirits climbing. “There’s room for two Storm Walkers in this forest, Fineghal. I can really use your help. When will you be here?”

  The elf laughed bitterly. “Before this started, I knew three or four spells that would have whisked me to your side in the blink of an eye. But I cannot wield enough of the Weave to power any of them now. I’ll have to travel by more mundane means. Six or seven days, at a minimum.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you. Go with care—I don’t like the look of this at all.”

  “Nor do I,” Fineghal said. He raised his hand, and the contact faded, leaving the orb empty and colorless again.

  Two more watchful days passed, as Aeron used every divination at his command to study the situation with little success. On the third day, he was roused from his futile efforts by the subtle warning of one of his warding spells. Someone was approaching the Storm Tower. He rose and moved over to one of the windows, peering out into the gloom. On the path leading from the wood, three figures blundered through the mist. He quickly recognized Kestrel and Eriale, both carrying light packs, but the third person wore a large hood. Aeron scrutinized the last one for a long moment, then gave up and trotted dow
nstairs to let them in to the tower.

  “Kestrel, Eriale! What happened? Why are you here so soon?” Aeron ushered them into the tower’s entry hall.

  Kestrel stepped inside, his face blank. “We had to talk to you, Aeron.” He glanced back at the third member of their party—a large, broad-shouldered man—and waved him forward. “I’ve brought Phoros Raedel to see you.”

  Aeron started in surprise as the nobleman took off his dripping hood and fixed an angry glare on him. After a long moment, Aeron managed to say, “I never thought I’d find you on my doorstep.”

  “I would have avoided this if there were any other alternative, Morieth.” Phoros shifted uncomfortably, his face set in an uncompromising scowl.

  “Alternative to what?” Aeron demanded.

  Eriale stepped forward and laid her hand on Aeron’s arm. “Aeron, listen. He’s come to ask your help.”

  The mage snorted in anger. “You’re joking.”

  “It’s true, Aeron,” said Kestrel. “Hear him out.”

  Raedel glowered until his face shone red. He said, “That black-hearted scoundrel Crow has turned me out of my own castle. I want your help in getting rid of him.”

  Aeron folded his arms and turned a flat stare on the nobleman. “You sought his services to put me in my place. If you don’t want Master Crow under your roof anymore, get rid of him yourself.”

  Raedel bridled. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he rasped. He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, fuming.

  Eriale glared at Aeron. “You’re better than that, Aeron,” she snapped. She started after Raedel and caught him as he opened the door. “Wait, my lord. You need his help.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’m going to beg for it!” the count roared, wheeling on her. “If he can’t be bothered with driving a black-hearted necromancer out of the town he grew up in, then so be it! I’ll find a way to do it myself.”

  Kestrel stepped in front of Aeron and pointed out the open door. “Aeron, this is foul sorcery. The land suffers under a curse of some kind. You’re the only person we know with knowledge of these things. You might not care a whit about Phoros Raedel’s troubles, but the count’s woes are the woes of all Maerchlin. The villagers and forest-folk don’t deserve this.” He fixed his keen eyes on Aeron’s face, refusing to allow the mage to look away. Eriale and Phoros paused by the door.

  Aeron glanced at Phoros and back to Kestrel. He sighed and waved his hand to indicate the midday gloom and the filthy, clinging damp. “This isn’t Crow’s doing. They’re both symptoms of the same disease. I don’t have any idea of how to break the spell that’s poisoning the land.”

  Phoros weighed Aeron for a long moment. “You say that Crow’s just a part of this. Fine. But if you don’t have any other place to start, it can’t hurt to treat a symptom. He’s using sorcery to eat the minds of my people, Morieth. My people, the people who look to me to defend them! I’ve never sought to rule by holding a man’s will in my fingers. If you let Crow stay in Maerchlin, he’s going to turn this entire province into a charnel house.”

  Aeron grimaced. “All right. Master Crow is the least of our worries, but there’s no sense in allowing him a free hand to ruin Maerchlin. We’ll see what we can do.” And it might be that I can get some answers from him, he thought to himself. He looked at Kestrel and Eriale. “Do you want to rest here tonight and set out tomorrow morning?”

  Phoros shook his head. “I don’t want to give him any more time to consolidate his position.”

  Kestrel nodded in agreement. “We’ve still got a few hours of daylight. Let’s make use of them.”

  Aeron acquiesced. He took his cloak and satchel from the pegs by the door, and summoned his gleaming staff to his hand from its place in the library. “Baillegh!” he called. The silver hound appeared in the door, tail wagging. Aeron shrugged. “I’m ready,” he said.

  They set out through the mist-shrouded forest. Aeron guided them along a series of hidden tracks that he used whenever he was in a hurry; the paths were enchanted with an old elf spell, ancient when Chessenta was young, arrowing straight through the Maerchwood but ghosting through another realm, winding and twisting in and out of a world of silver mists and dark, silent trees. They camped a few miles south of Maerchlin, enduring a cold meal and the damp chill of the night without the comfort of a fire—no suitable wood could be found. As they ate, Raedel bitterly described how Crow had worked his wiles against the knights and officers of his court, slowly turning them against their rightful lord until every command Raedel issued was referred to Crow before it was carried out.

  “Did you try to make him leave?” Aeron asked.

  Phoros nodded with a savage jerk of his head. “The bastard laughed at me. He laughed! I went after him, of course. I had my hands around his scrawny neck before he could even mutter the first word of a spell. But my own guardsmen pulled me away from him and locked me in my chambers.”

  Aeron watched the count for a long moment. He had little liking for Phoros Raedel, but he still felt a fleeting sympathy for the noble. For a man born and bred to lordship, it must have been humiliating in the extreme. He chewed his lip, thinking. “To break Crow’s influence over your captains and officers, we’ll have to force him to release his spell. Or slay him.”

  Phoros grinned ruthlessly. “I don’t think I’ll bother to ask him if he wants to cooperate.”

  The next morning, they rose early and returned to the trail. The clinging mists lifted somewhat, revealing a motionless gray overcast that brooded with the threat of rain, and the temperature plummeted. At first Aeron thought that the change in the weather might be a sign of improvement, but as the day grew colder and grayer each hour, he realized that they were seeing nothing more than a change in the face of the ubiquitous gloom that had fallen over the land. The seasons were out of order, and he could only perceive the dimmest threads of the Weave flickering dully in the sodden landscape.

  “Where is everyone?” Eriale asked, studying the village and the outlying farms. “At this time of day, there should be people out and about.”

  Phoros Raedel spat and knelt down to seize a handful of water-logged earth. Fat white worms squirmed through his fingers as he straightened up and showed it to the girl. “What’s the point in reaping these fields?” he snarled in disgust. “It’s all like this. Come on.”

  “How are we going to do this?” asked Aeron. “If we’re careful, we can get right up to the castle without being seen, but how are we going to get in? The postern gate?”

  “Don’t you have some magic to whisk us into my hall from right here?” Raedel asked over his shoulder.

  “I’d rather save my magic until I’m certain we need it,” Aeron replied. “The last time I was here, Crow had a warding set around the castle to counter spells of that sort.”

  Raedel snorted. “Wonderful. Well, I’ve got another idea.”

  Aeron nodded, understanding. “You must have had a secret way out. You said Crow had had you locked in your chambers, but you never told us how you got away.”

  The count scowled at Aeron. After a long moment he said, “The tunnel emerges in the underbrush by the mill pond. He’ll know that’s how I got out, though.” Raedel led them through the back streets of the town, staying out of sight of the castle’s gate, until they’d circled around to the pond a hundred yards or so behind the angular keep. A stout wooden hatch was tucked away out of sight, covered with years of dirt and undergrowth that had recently been brushed aside.

  A large rune was drawn over the door with fresh red paint. “What in Tchazzar’s hells is this?” Phoros demanded. He stepped forward to jerk the door out of the way.

  Aeron darted forward and caught his arm. “No! It’s a sign of sealing. You’d better let me deal with it.”

  Raedel pulled his arm away resentfully, but fell back a few steps. Aeron knelt over the hatch, examining the rune carefully. When he’d studied at the college, he’d learned a little of the marking of runes and seals, but as
he examined Master Crow’s handiwork Aeron realized that the sorcerer had derived an entirely new system of magical markings, one designed specifically to channel and contain shadow-magic. The rune matched the ancient cipher he’d found in the Chants of Arcainasyr, the twisted Imaskari invocations Aeron had found hidden in the library years ago.

  “Is it trouble, Aeron?” Eriale asked, watching him study the rune. She’d used their brief pause to string her bow and move her quiver to ride low on her hip.

  Aeron rocked back on his heels. “Crow’s more knowledgeable than I expected,” he said. “I think I can neutralize this rune, though. Stand back.” He carefully wove an enchantment of erasure, deftly drawing the mark from the wood and dissipating the magical energy stored within until nothing remained but a faded outline on the weathered wood. “There, that should do it.”

  Phoros Raedel nodded at the trap door. “You first.”

  Aeron set his hand on the iron ring, waited a moment to catch any signs that the rune was still present while his companions shifted nervously, and then pulled the door open. Stale, musty air gusted out from a narrow earthen tunnel. He reached into his pouch and produced a slim wand of ash-wood that shone with a bright yellow radiance, a simple spell that gave strong light without heat or fuel. The tunnel stretched into the darkness as far as they could see. “I’ll lead if you like, Raedel, but you know the way,” he said.

  “Fine,” the nobleman snapped. He drew his heavy longsword and pushed past Aeron, turning his shoulders to fit into the narrow passage. Aeron dropped in behind him, Baillegh at his heel, and Eriale and Kestrel brought up the rear, pulling the trapdoor closed behind them. Old timbers framed the passageway at intervals of six or seven feet, and the air was surprisingly warm and dry. Raedel wasted no time waiting for them, but set off at once for the castle, trailing one hand on the wall.

  “Where will this emerge?” Aeron asked quietly.

  “In the back of a linen closet adjacent to my chambers.”

  “Do you expect anyone there?”

  Phoros shrugged. “Unless Master Crow’s decided to commandeer my quarters, no one should be there. But you’ll have to douse that light before we open the door.”