“You’re an illusion,” Aeron realized. “A programmed spell, designed to appear under the right conditions. But how are you able to converse with us? I always thought that such phantasms could only be crafted at the time of the casting.”
The spectral mage offered a weak smile. “I developed a certain refinement to that spell, young Aeron. Great mages are fond of doing such things, you know. But you are essentially correct. I was to appear when you entered this room in the company of someone named Eriale.”
“Five years ago, you saw that this moment would come to pass?” Aeron asked in disbelief.
“Unless I made a very lucky guess, that would seem to be the case,” the phantasm replied. “Remember, I was an archmage and an accomplished diviner.”
Now that he’d had a chance to study it, Aeron could see that it was indeed a spectral image, shimmering with a faint light and somewhat translucent. No sounds accompanied its movements or gestures, just the tired voice of Telemachon responding to his statements and questions.
“You knew that Oriseus was going to kill you,” Aeron said slowly.
The specter nodded. “That, too, I saw.”
In the corner of his eye, he saw Eriale relax her stance and lower her bow. “Then why didn’t you flee or decline to face him?” she asked. “How could you walk into your own death with your eyes open?”
“I had to,” the image replied. “You see, if I hadn’t confronted Oriseus when I did and in just the fashion I chose, Aeron would have been lost.”
“Lost? What do you mean?” Aeron asked.
“You would have touched the Shadow Stone only to be consumed by it, as were the others,” the specter stated bluntly. “And there would be no one today who might have a chance to undo the evil that Oriseus has wrought.”
“So why didn’t you warn me yourself, before your death? And then avoid the confrontation with Oriseus?” Aeron glanced at Eriale, but she only returned a blank look.
The illusionary wizard shrugged. “It was necessary to keep you in ignorance in order for you to continue your studies under Oriseus’s tutelage. As events developed, you were cautious, suspicious of Oriseus’s intentions. But you were not too cautious. It was necessary for you to stand before the Shadow Stone, and that you would never have done if you feared Oriseus too much.” The specter seemed to sigh and offered a wry smile, an amazingly lifelike expression. “It was a fine line to walk, indeed.”
Aeron sat down heavily on an empty stool, still stunned by the illusion’s revelations. “I cannot believe it,” he said. “You sacrificed your life merely to ensure that I would escape the Shadow Stone’s influence?”
The eyes of the spectral Telemachon hardened. “No. I gave up my life because it was necessary in order to preserve all of Chessenta from a blight, a curse, of unspeakable evil. You, Aeron Morieth, are the only instrument by which that curse may be undone.”
“How? What can I do?” Aeron asked.
“Destroy the stone,” the image replied. “It’s the source of power for Oriseus’s spell. You do not have the strength or the skill to interfere with the great magic that Oriseus has worked—no one does—but the weak link in the chain is the stone. For all its mystical might, it is nothing more than a common rock, altered in appearance by the unthinkable power it contains.”
“I know a few spells that might suffice,” Aeron said. “The lightning-spell might do it. Or a spell of breaking.”
“Neither will be of use to you. Any magic that you cast at the Shadow Stone will be absorbed by it, tainted. You can’t drown a river, Aeron.”
“Then how am I supposed to destroy this thing? With a sledgehammer?”
“Nor can you risk touching it, Aeron. If you come into contact with the Stone, it will absorb and corrupt your very spirit, just as it affected the others who fell to its influence five years ago.”
Eriale spoke. “That doesn’t leave many options.”
“I could contrive some kind of physical blow,” Aeron mused. “Drop a heavy rock on the stone from a great height, something like that, perhaps. It seems like a crude answer to the challenge, though.”
“My time is running short,” the phantasm said. Already it was growing fainter as the magical energy that had been stored for years depleted itself. “Aeron, I suspect that the stone would survive any common attempt to break it through physical force. Put it to the test, but I feel this to be true. Perhaps there is a way to turn its own power against it …”
The phantasm continued to fade. “Wait!” cried Aeron. “How could I do that, if I can’t use my magic against it? What do I do next?”
“I saw that you would have a chance,” the image whispered, now nothing more than a white blur of light.
“Did you see if Aeron succeeds?” Eriale asked. “Or what steps he takes?”
“No,” the voice said. “I could not see the Shadow Stone itself. It defeats divinations …” With a last glimmer of light, the image faded away completely, leaving nothing but an empty chair. The room felt empty and abandoned now, as if some watchful presence had left forever.
Eriale relaxed her guard, looking to Aeron. “He’s gone.”
Aeron nodded, his mind racing with possibilities. “What could he mean by turning its own power against it? How could you do that?” Scowling, he sank down into the dusty chair behind the desk.
They waited until well after dusk before leaving Telemachon’s old chambers. Again, they slipped through the Masters’ Hall without any trouble; Aeron had come to the conclusion that many of the wizards and students were not present in the college halls. Some might have been away on missions similar to the one that had sent Master Crow to Maerchlin, while others might have been on the march with Cimbar’s armies. Aeron didn’t think it wise to attempt to find out, not for the sake of assuaging his curiosity.
They circled back to the wall they’d scaled to get inside the college, where Baillegh was waiting faithfully. After a hurried change into their traveling clothes, Aeron led Eriale to the edge of the grounds, staying away from the buildings. As night fell, the cloying mists and rain grew heavier, precipitated by the cold waters of the harbor and the nearby sea. It made for a cloak of dense fog that restricted visibility to a dozen yards or less and deadened all sound. Aeron could have marched a company of troops around the college without being spotted under the current conditions.
Ahead of them, the dark shape of the new pyramid loomed up through the mists, disappearing into the blank vapors overhead. Aeron circled the site once, picking his way through worksheds and tumbled piles of stones to be shaped and cut. He kept a close eye on Baillegh; the hound’s senses were far keener than his own, and she’d smell danger before he saw anything. The few workmen who’d been here earlier in the day were long gone, and Aeron was surprised by how lonely the place felt even at the same time that it threatened him.
“Something feels wrong here,” Eriale said quietly.
“You’re right,” said Aeron. “The Weave, the magic that exists in all things, is wrong here. Poisoned.”
“Let’s do what we have to and get out of here.”
“I hope it’s that easy,” Aeron said. He paced the ground where the stone slab he’d first entered the shadow-plane through had stood. It was not there anymore, which he did not find too surprising. With the amount of work Oriseus was doing here, the stone marker was only in the way. “I’m going to have to cast a spell to carry us into the shadow-realm. The door we used before isn’t here anymore.”
“Will that be difficult?”
He snorted. “The barrier between the worlds is so thin here you could stumble and fall into the plane of shadow. Ready your bow, and keep those special arrows I gave you close at hand. You may need them.”
Turning away from the tower, Aeron closed his eyes and paced forward, guessing at the best place to work his spell. The next world was very close here, seeming to strain at the shape and substance of the reality around him, a cancer waiting to be unleashed. If he wanted to,
he could blast a rift open that would catapult everything within hundreds of yards into the demiplane of shadow … but that was not likely to do anything more than annoy Oriseus and his cronies. Clearly, they were quite experienced with the twilight world. With a deep breath, he unlocked the spell-symbol that parted the veil between worlds. It was an enchantment that required the strength of shadow-magic, and there was no shortage of that nearby. In fact, it took all of Aeron’s concentration not to allow the spell to slip away from him.
A rippling wave appeared in the mist, much like the heat-shimmer that rose from a hot stone in the summertime, except that it felt cold, wrong. Aeron bared his teeth in revulsion at the chill touch of the shadow-Weave but endured until he’d forced the tear into something the size and shape of a door.
“Follow me,” he said, and he stepped through to the other side.
Physically, the ethereal mists of the shadow-plane were much the same as the last time he’d been here. Everything seems the same, he thought. The pyramid still stands whole and intact, as before, the city isn’t here, the cold and the darkness are what I expected. Above the great jagged silhouette of the obelisk, the stars flickered weakly, dim and faint, with great wide gaps of utter blackness between them.
Magically, things had changed. As Aeron turned slowly to ascertain his exact location, he was conscious of a buzzing in his ears, a crawling sensation in his flesh, a shimmering or rippling in his vision. He blinked his eyes and shivered, wondering if this was some aftereffect of the transition from the real to the unreal world. Then, slowly, the truth dawned on him. The pyramid is the only thing that is real here, he realized. Viewed from the other side, the structure was filled with menace and purpose, a dark potential locked in stone. Here, that menace was conscious and active. Streamers of bright, sparkling magic danced in the air or flowed over the ground, drawn to the tower and spiraling around its black walls like a maelstrom. Everything—not just the dead grass or the rolling landscape, the physical fabric upon which they existed—was bending toward the Shadow Stone. Yet as Aeron staggered under the draw of the nearby locus, he had the curious sensation that something was close to pulling his very soul out by the roots.
Beside him, the ripples intensified as Eriale and Baillegh bounded through. The hound crouched and whined, hiding her head as she splayed her feet, trying to keep her balance. Eriale reeled awkwardly to one knee, her mouth gaping open in horror as she grappled with her surroundings.
“Aeron!” she cried. “What is happening? What is this?”
He staggered over to her and caught her arm. “It’s worse than I thought!” he shouted, barely able to make himself heard. “I shouldn’t have brought you here!”
Eriale looked up into his face, her eyes wide with fear. “Where’s the stone?”
“In the center of the pyramid’s foundation. Come on.” He turned and led her to the dark, gaping arch that marked the only entrance to the structure.
“Surely, Aeron, you can’t be in that much of a hurry to rush to your doom.” Before them, stepping out of the doorway, stood Dalrioc Corynian. Unlike Sarim, he hadn’t changed much. There was a feral gleam in his eyes, but his noble features and proud bearing still marked him as a man of power and influence. He wore the red robes of a Master of Conjuration over the exquisitely tailored finery he’d always preferred. “You should have been more careful in making your entrance to Telemachon’s chambers. I’ve had a mark on that door of my own for years now, just in case someone decided to poke around in there.”
“Dalrioc,” spat Aeron. “I’m surprised you’re still here. I would have thought that your city had need of you.”
“And I’m surprised you came back. Master Sarim was to see to it that you remained in your forest fastness.” Dalrioc stepped out of the doorway, an arrogant smile on his face. “What brings you back to our college, Aeron? Still thirsty for knowledge after all these years?”
“What do we do, Aeron?” Eriale asked quietly. She had an arrow aimed at Dalrioc’s heart. By her side, Baillegh bared her teeth, growling.
“We have to get by him,” he replied softly. To the prince he said, “Dalrioc, stand aside. I mean to bring this to an end. You have no idea what harm you are wreaking.”
“On the contrary, I know exactly what our work entails.” The Soorenaran halted two paces from Aeron and extended an arm toward the pyramid, a gesture of invitation. “Come and see. I’ll not gainsay the Storm Walker.”
Aeron was certain that the prince harbored no good intentions toward him. Everything was wrong—the confidence, the mocking refusal to confront him, the revelation that he’d been watched. Dalrioc Corynian was not this subtle … but Lord Oriseus was. He would have to assume that events were orchestrated to suit the new Sceptanar’s desires.
“Walk ahead of me, then,” Aeron said, scowling. “I don’t trust you at my back. And do not attempt any spell, or we’ll see whether your sarcasm is justified or not.”
Dalrioc laughed. “Fine. Where am I taking you?”
“Where do you think?” Aeron retorted. “To the Shadow Stone.”
Eighteen
All around Aeron, the stones of the pyramid reverberated with power, mere chords responding to the presence of something beyond his knowledge or experience. As he followed Dalrioc Corynian through the labyrinthine corridors of dark, featureless masonry, he realized that in five years the Shadow Stone’s dire potency had been sharpened, honed into a weapon of unearthly capacity, imbued with purpose and malice. At even intervals, the coursing energy caused everything around him to ripple and slide like the coarse fabric of a shirt wrapped around the torso of a giant, stretching and slacking to the titanic heartbeat. It took all of his determination to ignore the sickening sensation and drive himself to follow.
Eriale stayed an arm’s length behind him, watching the blank passageways behind them. Beads of sweat trickled down her face despite the clammy chill in the air; she too had to steel herself against the structure’s influence.
“Aeron,” she said quietly, “What are we doing?”
Ahead of them, Dalrioc strode along, oblivious to the enemies at his back. Either he was supremely foolish, or utterly confident, and Aeron was fairly certain that Dalrioc, while arrogant and overbearing, was not a complete fool. “Let’s see how this plays out,” he decided.
Dalrioc led them down one last corridor and stopped at a large, heavy door. Aeron had the curious impression that he’d burn his hand if he touched the bare iron plating. The Soorenaran prince turned, leaning against the wall, his arms folded. “Well? Here we are,” he said. “What now?”
“Open it,” Aeron instructed.
The prince’s eyes flashed, but he forced a wry grin onto his features. “And so I am reduced to holding doors for peasants.” As if they weren’t there, he caught the latch and pushed the door wide, leading them inside.
The chamber was much as Aeron remembered it, a room of stone with a groined ceiling and gallery surrounding a crucible-like floor. The Shadow Stone stood girdled by its iron frame, a sliver of living darkness that made his eyes ache. Fierce black radiance pulsated in the gem’s gleaming jet facets, illuminating the room with a hellish glow. Instantly Aeron was embroiled in a struggle to maintain his distance as the sinister artifact seemed to focus his energy on him, demanding that he approach and abase himself. His hand stretched forward, almost of its own accord.
Aeron swore silently and wrenched his gaze away from the thing. He’d forgotten the sheer allure of the power, the half-imagined whispering and beckoning, urging him to become a part of it. It was stronger now than it ever had been, but he found the will to resist. He’d tasted its power once, just for an instant, and it had poisoned him. Now it could not possess him, not unless he allowed it to.
He was distracted by a motion at his side. Eriale drifted forward, her face blank. “Don’t look right at it, Eriale,” he snapped, pulling her arm sharply to break her stupor. The archer blinked and shook her head.
Ahead of hi
m, Dalrioc moved forward and stood over the tripod, reaching out to caress the smooth surface like the face of a lover. The stone acknowledged him, a trail of phosphorescence following the path of his hand. “I brought him, as you asked,” he said over his shoulder.
“Excellent.” The flickering shadows of the gallery roiled like silk, and a tall man stepped through. He wore archaic black robes and a drape or chasuble of rune-marked cloth of gold, and he carried a long rod of jet and silver only a foot shorter than his own considerable height. The garments seemed familiar to Aeron, and after a moment he placed them—the ceremonial dress of the ancient Imaskari sorcerers. He shifted his attention to the man’s face, but it was hidden by the ornate cowl he wore. “You may leave us, Dalrioc,” the man said evenly, his voice flat and reasonable.
The Soorenaran prince spread his hands in a shallow bow and withdrew, stepping into the impenetrable shadows that waited in the arched gallery. Again Aeron sensed some rippling motion in the darkness, a disturbance. “You have changed, Aeron,” said the robed man. “When last I saw you, the fire for knowledge burned fiercely in your heart, and nothing could deter you from the pursuit of power.”
“I’ve learned patience, Oriseus,” Aeron said. “That’s a lesson you taught me, whether you meant to or not.”
The sorcerer raised his hands and pushed back his hood. If Aeron had not already known whom he was dealing with, he never would have mistaken him for Oriseus. The trimmed beard and oiled locks were shaved down to gleaming scalp and a bare, angular jaw. Even more startling than Oriseus’s change in grooming was the severity of his bearing, the way he carried himself. The capering, self-deprecating exaggeration was gone, replaced by a regal aura. The old Oriseus had disarmed his foes with insincerity and biting humor; this man radiated confidence and capability.
“Timidity is not wisdom, Aeron. And indolence is not patience. While you have slept in your forest retreat, the world has passed you by.”
The Shadow Stone Page 31
