The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

  Holding Dalrioc’s scepter at the ready, Aeron stepped through. His stomach dropped away alarmingly, and he found himself standing in a stone shrine much like the one he’d just left. At first he thought that he’d made a mistake and returned to the place where he’d been imprisoned, but this one was subtly different; there was a reddish hue to the rock, and as he glanced above the walls at the horizon beyond, Aeron thought he could see dark treetops.

  “Same arrangement, different place,” Melisanda observed. “Should we try to help the mages caught here?”

  Aeron hesitated. “Time may be crucial, but it wouldn’t hurt to have an ally. Let’s see if anyone here is able to help us.” They circled the seven-sided structure, but all the mages there were trapped in the stone.

  “Maybe we’ll have better luck on the next one.” Aeron plunged into the darkness again, and found himself back in the chamber of the Shadow Stone. The sinister light hurt his eyes, and he could almost hear a high-pitched whining or vibration that seemed to resonate in his bones. Gritting his teeth against the sound, he marked that door too and moved on to the next. “Let’s try it again,” he said, pushing into the dense web of gloom.

  This time, Aeron found himself standing on a windswept hilltop by a vast white-frothed lake. The waves thundered and crashed below him, and he could taste rain in the air. “Where in Faerûn—?” he began, quickly turning about to see what else was near.

  The hill overlooked a great city about a mile away, barely visible through the fog and murk. Fires burned here and there within its walls, and a powerful fortress watched over the city like a brooding giant. They weren’t in the Shadow any longer; the unnatural chill and sense of wrongness that pervaded the other plane were absent.

  Melisanda stepped out of thin air behind him, followed by Baillegh. A large slab of stone marked with a string of Madryoch’s old runes served as the base for the portal, and Aeron recognized it as the same stone through which he’d first entered the plane of shadow. Apparently, Oriseus had moved it and modified it to create its portal as needed.

  “What is this place, Aeron?” Melisanda asked.

  “I’m not sure.” As he studied his surroundings, he realized that the city below them was under siege by a huge army. Angled trenches encircled its walls in ring after ring, and crude war engines sat in revetments beyond the siege lines. The army’s camp lay in between the hilltop and the city, a sprawling sea of dirty tents and muddy lanes. One large pavilion caught Aeron’s eye; it was marked by a crimson dragon standard, the banner of House Corynian. “Wait, I think I know. This is where Soorenar’s army must be. That’s the standard of Dalrioc’s father.”

  “I’ve seen the city,” Melisanda added. “That’s Akanax itself.”

  “So Oriseus has a way to keep an eye on his ally’s war.” Aeron glanced around in concern. “We’d better not linger here. Some of Oriseus’s followers must be nearby, using their magical talents to help Soorenar with this siege.”

  He started to turn away, leading Melisanda back to the rune-marked slab, but Baillegh suddenly whined and tugged at his tunic. “What? What is it, Baillegh?” Aeron said, kneeling by the hound. The dog turned and looked down toward the camp, prancing anxiously.

  “What’s troubling the hound?” Melisanda asked.

  “I think she’s found Eriale’s scent,” Aeron said, standing slowly. “She’s the archer I told you about, my foster-sister. When Oriseus and his servants overwhelmed us, they took her away.”

  “Do we go after her?”

  “We have to return to the college,” Aeron said. “Damn! I don’t want to leave her in their hands, but we have to deal with the Shadow Stone first.”

  “Agreed,” said Melisanda. She put her hand on Aeron’s arm. “Come on. The best way to help your sister is to kick Oriseus’s legs out from under him.” She offered her hand to Aeron, who joined her on the stone slab. Together they braved the dark veil again, returning to the chamber of the Shadow Stone.

  They found two more shrine sites after that, each with seven wizards trapped beyond hope of release. The sixth door they tried was different. Aeron stepped through and found himself standing in the center of the Council Room, the great chamber within the Masters’ Hall where the ruling masters had once met. It served as the seat of authority within the college walls; Aeron was not surprised that Oriseus had chosen to forge a portal between the Shadow Stone’s chamber and the Council Room. The only thing that marked the portal from this side was a circle of magical symbols on the floor, painted with faded red-brown pigment.

  “We’re back in the college,” Melisanda breathed as she appeared. “Where to—Aeron, look out!”

  Aeron started to turn, just as a crackling sphere of magical energy slammed into his side and detonated. He doubled over in pain and surprise, catching a glimpse of someone in a gray tunic rising from the row of oaken seats and bolting for the door. Melisanda barked out a spell that slammed the chamber door shut before the novice reached it, while Aeron clapped one hand over his injured side and raised the iron scepter. He barked the weapon’s command word; the freezing ray caught the mage in mid-stride and crumpled him to the floor.

  “Aeron! Are you hurt?” Melisanda knelt by his side and pried his fingers away from the injury.

  “It’s not that bad,” he grimaced. “It was a novice’s spell. Thank Assuran he wasn’t a more skilled mage, or he could have surprised me with much worse.”

  Melisanda looked up at him. “You’re bleeding, but not badly, and you’re burned, too. Let me see if I can bind it.” She tore a long strip from her ruined cloak and wrapped it around his side. Aeron tried not to wince.

  When she finished, they checked on the novice who’d attacked them. He was a swarthy Untheri. The ray from Dalrioc’s scepter had frozen him to death in a single sweep. “Do you recognize him?” Melisanda asked.

  “No. Oriseus must have posted him here to watch this portal.” Aeron shook his head. “We’d better assume that the novices and students serve Oriseus without question. Come on—we need to get to the library. I’ve got to check some references.”

  Aeron dragged the fallen novice out of sight and carefully tried the door, peering into the corridor beyond. He retreated immediately. The Council Room was at the center of the Masters’ Hall, and several students hurried past in the spartan hallway beyond the chamber. “We’re going to have a hard time reaching the library undetected,” he whispered. “I dressed as a servant to slip in before, but I’m sure that Oriseus will have told his people to watch for that now. Any other ideas?”

  “Invisibility seems like a practical alternative,” Melisanda suggested. “As long as they’re not expecting us, it should work just fine.”

  “All right. Let’s—” Aeron stopped as he detected a slow, deliberate ripple in the weave of magic. He glanced back toward the portal, where a black vapor had appeared above the rune circle. “Someone’s coming through!” he said. “Quickly, Melisanda!”

  The Vilhonese mage started her spell. Aeron blocked her from his mind and forced himself to relax, working the charm of invisibility. He reached down and pulled Baillegh close by him to cover her as well. It was becoming more difficult to control the spells he cast; in the heat of his battle with Dalrioc, desperation had lent him strength, but now casting a spell he knew as well as this one required far too much of his energy. Melisanda struggled even more before she faded from view.

  They vanished just in time. From the darkness stepped Oriseus, with two other wizards in tow. Aeron held himself still, scarcely daring to breathe; magical invisibility was very useful, but a competent mage could easily dispel it if he thought to search for such a simple illusion. He felt Melisanda’s unseen hand tighten on his arm in panic as she, too, tried not to make any suspicious movement.

  “Assemble the masters and the students on the point at sundown, Helrios,” Oriseus said to one sorcerer. He was the slender Mulhorandi abjurer Aeron had encountered in the chamber of the Shadow Stone. “Unless I miss
my guess, we should be able to proceed by midnight at the latest.”

  “What of the novices?” Helrios asked.

  “We’ll need them to complete the ritual. They may not be much in the way of sorcerers, but where else can we find seven more on short notice? Keep the rest close at hand, in case we need to repeat the last step more than once.”

  The Mulhorandi nodded. “It shall be as you command.”

  “Good. I trust you to see to the details.” Oriseus turned and faced the other wizard, a tall Chessentan woman in the tabard of a student. “Locate Dalrioc for me. I need him back here by an hour before sundown, at the latest.”

  “My lord, do you know where—”

  “No, I do not. That’s why I’m sending you,” Oriseus snapped irritably. “Check the seventh platform. He may be there. Or try Akanax. Dalrioc fancies himself a warlord.”

  The student bowed without another word and stepped back into the dark curtain, while Oriseus and Helrios strode to the door. Aeron sighed in relief—they’d marched past without a look to the side. But abruptly Oriseus halted, turning to look at the last seat on the oaken table. White frost gleamed on the back of the chair, and danced in a sparkling pattern against the stone wall.

  “What’s this?” Oriseus muttered. He peered about, his dark eyes flickering out to search each corner of the room. “Where’s Brennan? He’s supposed to be here.”

  Helrios followed the trail of frost. Very quietly, Aeron guided Melisanda away, circling toward the chamber door. The Mulhorandi master suddenly grunted. “He’s here, my lord. Dead.”

  Oriseus stormed over to the dark corner where Aeron had hidden the novice’s body, his face darkening. “It seems we have a mystery on our hands,” he said. “Here is Brennan, frozen to death with a spell or enchantment not unlike the scepter favored by Dalrioc Corynian, who happens to be missing at the moment. What do you make of it, Helrios?”

  The Mulhorandi put his hand to his chin, thinking. “Dalrioc returned before he was supposed to and slew Brennan? Dalrioc’s temper is quick, but what offense did Brennan offer to merit this response?”

  Oriseus scowled. “One novice more or less is no loss, but I don’t care for improvisation. I will look into this myself, I think.” He wheeled and stalked out of the chamber, leaving Helrios to consider the frozen corpse.

  Aeron did not hesitate. He reached down with one hand to take Baillegh by her collar and caught Melisanda by the arm with the other. As the door swung shut, he pulled them through and into the hallway beyond. Oriseus turned right to speak to the students and masters who awaited him; Aeron turned left and pulled Melisanda toward the servants’ passages. Hoping that no one would notice a single door opening by itself, he slipped into the narrow hallway paralleling the main corridor and made his way to the servants’ exit. He and Melisanda stumbled together as they blundered down the steps and out into the courtyard, unable to see their own feet.

  “Aeron, look.” Melisanda’s voice whispered in his ear. Her voice was sick with fear. “The sky, it’s all wrong.”

  He glanced up. Faint streamers of purple light twisted through the sky, each meeting over the tower. There were seven of them, arrowing toward the center from distant points spaced equally on the horizon. It’s the magic trapped by the outlying shrines, Aeron realized. All the magic of Chessenta, channeled to this one point! But now it’s visible in the real world. Beside him, Baillegh whimpered softly. Aeron watched for a long moment, his breath caught in his throat. “The flow of magic wasn’t visible before.”

  “Do you remember what Oriseus said in the Council Chamber? About assembling the students and novices at dusk? Oriseus must be close to finishing his spell.”

  “I think you’re right,” Aeron said. “We’re running out of time.”

  They found each of the library’s doors locked and sealed with heavy chains. Aeron circled the building again, double-checking each entrance, but all had been secured against intrusion.

  “Great.” Aeron returned to the side door they’d first tried. “I have a spell that might disarm any magical traps here and open the door, but I’ll lose my spell of invisibility if I cast it.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll keep watch,” Melisanda said. “At least we don’t have to worry about anyone inside if Oriseus has decided to keep the other wizards out of here.”

  Casting a nervous glance around the quadrangle, Aeron waited to make sure that no one was in sight before muttering the spell of opening under his breath. He quickly slipped inside, holding the door until Melisanda and Baillegh brushed past, and quietly shut it. As far as he could tell, no one had spotted them.

  He locked the door behind them, and turned to survey the vast stacks of books that towered in the gloomy chamber. The library’s great windows were shuttered and secured, and it took a long moment for Aeron’s eyes to adjust. Everything was covered with a fine layer of dust, indicating months, perhaps years, of disuse. But the rows of heavy tomes, scroll racks, atlases, and grimoires all seemed intact.

  “What are we looking for?” Melisanda asked.

  “The scrolls of Madryoch,” Aeron said. “If they’re here, they’ll be hidden in an unmarked tube, with a scroll describing alchemical processes covering them.”

  “Wouldn’t Oriseus have them, if they’re that important?”

  “Maybe, if he found them.” Aeron allowed himself a small smile. “Five years ago, I hid them before I left my room. I’m hoping that Oriseus, or whoever it was who searched through my belongings, simply returned my books and scrolls to the library.”

  Deliberately, Aeron moved over to a scroll rack, pulled out the first unmarked case he found, and checked its contents. It was a text on Rashemite genealogy. He started to cap and replace it, then decided that time was more important than neatness. He dropped the case to the floor with a soft clatter and pulled out the next one, moving faster. At least I’ll be able to see where I’ve been already, he thought, discarding the case. Melisanda gave him a startled look, but with a snort she copied his more direct approach, until the air seemed heavy with dust kicked up by scrolls clattering on the floor. Baillegh prowled around the library, her hackles stiff; Aeron guessed that the hound sensed the wrongness in the air and interpreted it as a threat.

  It took half an hour before Aeron found the scroll he sought. “Melisanda!” he called. “I think this is it.” Licking his lips, he carried it over to a nearby table and emptied out the scroll. Impatiently he brushed away the dry old alchemical treatise.

  Underneath, a musty scroll of papyrus pages stitched side-to-side waited, covered with sinister whorls and runes. Brushing her hands against her skirt, the Chondathan sorceress moved closer and peered down at the ancient text.

  “It’s the same writing as the inscription on the Shadow Stone,” she breathed. “You can make sense of this?”

  “I think so.” He drew the scrap of parchment from his belt pouch and laid it beside Madryoch’s text. Carefully, he transcribed the Shadow Stone inscription from the meaningless marks of Madryoch’s cipher into ancient Rauric, using the key he’d hidden in the Chants. It was not a long passage, and after a moment he straightened up, examining his work.

  “What does it mean?” Melisanda asked, breaking the silence. “I know ancient Untheric and Thorass, but that doesn’t seem familiar. Something about the powers of shadow, bound in stone?”

  “That’s pretty close,” Aeron admitted. He leaned back from the table, looking up at Melisanda. Absently he noted that dusk was near; the gray daylight was fading outside the library’s shuttered windows, and it was quite dim inside. “The old Imaskari sorcerers used knowledge they’d learned from creatures of immortal evil to record their spells. They weren’t priests, really—they didn’t draw their magic directly from the dark powers they served. They only used what they’d been taught to work their own sorcery. As best as I can tell, this inscription is a magical seal or bond, the keystone of an enchantment that focuses or channels the Shadow Stone’s power.”

&nbs
p; “Just as we might seal a door or strengthen a tower by inscribing it with words of power,” Melisanda observed.

  “Exactly. The ancient sorcerers couched their invocations in different terms, but the principle is the same.” Aeron stood and paced away from the table, rubbing his hands together. “So how can we use this to undo Oriseus’s spell?”

  “Magical writings can be erased,” Melisanda pointed out. “I know several counterspells and abjurations to neutralize or destroy signs, wards, and glyphs—”

  “But if you forged your counterspell from the Weave, the Shadow Stone would merely absorb it,” Aeron broke in. “I’d have to craft the counterspell from shadow-magic. It may be that the stone wouldn’t cancel a spell made from its own substance.”

  “Do you know a spell of erasure?”

  “No, I don’t have one prepared.” Aeron swore viciously. “And Dalrioc took my spellbook when he chained me in the shadow shrine. Damn!”

  Melisanda slumped against the wall, tears in her eyes. “My spellbook was taken as well. So close—”

  Aeron slumped to the floor, grimacing in defeat. He leaned back against the crooked bookshelves, trying to think of a way to get at some student or master’s spellbook in order to borrow the spell he needed. Wizards guarded their spellbooks well. It would be dangerous, but what choice did they have? Time was short. Baillegh pressed her nose against his face as if to console him. He scratched her neck and looked down into his lap, considering the best choice for his desperate effort.

  His eye fell on the smooth blue silk of Fineghal’s pouch of spell-tokens, hanging from his belt. “Of course,” he muttered. He undid the drawstring and poured the smooth stones into his hand. Fineghal usually traveled with several dozen of them, water-worn pebbles and rocks marked with old elven glyphs. Aeron had learned to cast his first spell from the elf lord’s tokens. He sifted through them until he found a striated stone of green and gray, marked with a double-loop and curving symbol engraved in its cool surface. “Cuilla dheneis,” he said, a smile beginning to play across his face. “The striker of marks.”