by Dragonlance
“Answer,” Essana said. “Will you let them do what they say?”
For a moment, Azar’s eyes brimmed, and Shedara was certain he was going to cry. Instead, though, he drew a deep breath, let it out, and shook loose his mother’s grasp. She stepped back.
For a full minute and more, no one spoke. They all stared at Azar, waiting. He looked back, and Shedara saw something new in his eyes—something dark and terrible, like the shape of a sea monster swimming through the hazy depths. Essana clasped her hands, looking suddenly afraid. Then it was gone, and Azar was himself again. He sighed and lowered his eyes.
“Do what you will,” he said. “I will not stop you.”
Essana bowed her head and turned away, putting a hand over her face.
“All right, then,” Shedara said. “Roshambur?”
The stars shone down on Akh-tazi, and the black moon as well, bathing the temple with its foul unlight. The Brethren stood before the Hooded One, Azar in their midst. The Master drew his blade, brought it up, set it to Azar’s throat … and cut.
Shedara watched the blood flow, the bright red arc spilling upon statue and altar alike. She watched Azar’s knees buckle, the light begin to drain from his eyes. The Master caught him, held him up, the curved knife glistening scarlet in his hand. It made her feel ill, watching the boy die, but she held her focus, willing herself to continue the spell. She would not let it fail, not again.
Beside her, Roshambur stirred. The dwarf was working the spell as well, lending his power to her, eldritch light shining all around him. He raised his hand, and the blood stopped—in fact, everything did. The Brethren’s cloaks froze in midbillow. A red wasp that had strayed close to the ceremony hung in midair, its wings still. The air throbbed with wind that wanted to blow but could not. Shedara glanced at the dwarf, her eyebrows raised. He was powerful. She hadn’t been able to do that with the spells she knew.
“So this is the moment it begins to come apart,” Roshambur said, stroking his beard. “Look. Things are beginning to fray.”
Shedara looked, and indeed, Azar’s memories were failing as death claimed him. In the distance, the jungle had become a blur, and she could see through the roof of the ziggurat, just a little. Threads of black mist rose from the wasp.
“What now?” she asked.
The dwarf didn’t answer, just walked closer to the bloody tableau and eyed the Brethren and Azar. Shedara followed. The stream of the boy’s blood was a glistening rope that stretched from the ugly wound in his throat to the Hooded One.
“Another few moments and he’ll be dead,” Roshambur said, eyeing Azar. “We’ll have to be quick about this, when it starts again.”
“Quick about what?” Shedara asked. “I don’t understand.”
Roshambur looked up at her with a sly smile. “Seizing the vision,” he said. “Holding on. We can’t control all of it, or even much, so we have to decide what we want to retain and what we can unravel. So … we lose everything but what’s on the rooftop, and maybe even a lot of that as well. We’ll need Azar, obviously, and this one here. What is he called?”
“The Master. But what—?”
“The Master, yes,” Roshambur went on, ignoring her. “Last of all the statue. The rest of this lot”—he waved his hand at the Brethren—“we can keep as long as we have the strength, but when the time comes, we’ll let go. We’ll get enough from Azar and the Master and the Hooded One.”
He raised his hand, one finger slightly arched, but Shedara grabbed it before he could release the spell again. “Wait!” she asked. “How do we do this?”
“By mending the magic,” Roshambur said. “It’s like weaving. Just follow my lead; you’re clever enough to pick it up.”
Shedara wasn’t sure about that—it was something none of her magic tutors had ever even mentioned—but the dwarf seemed sure of himself. She considered telling him she’d never woven anything in her life but decided against it. He probably hadn’t either, outside of his spells. She let go of his hand.
His finger moved in a quick, tight circle. Time began again.
The vision dissolved fast, the jungle disappearing first, then the temple. It was like some terrible darkness was devouring the world. The stars winked out, one by one. Nuvis vanished. She glanced around as the nothingness drew closer, but Roshambur shook his head, pointing instead at Azar. The boy took a last, shuddering breath, let it out …
Then everything began to collapse at once. Azar’s body hung limp in the Master’s arms, and both of them became translucent, turning to smoke. Misty strands coiled upward from their dissipating bodies. Roshambur spoke a word and held out his hand. The filaments stopped then changed direction, wafting toward him. He caught them between his fingertips and began to spool them together, his hands working with surprising nimbleness. As he did, Azar and the Master grew more solid, more real, while the other Brethren faded away.
“The statue!” the dwarf bellowed. “Quick, before it goes too!”
The Hooded One was as transparent as crystal, great hanks of shadow-stuff rising away from it. Shedara reached out and spoke the same word the dwarf had said, feeling the magic surge within her. The dark threads came to her; they were cold to the touch, like strings of ice. She started winding them, following Roshambur’s example. Gradually, the Hooded One regained its substance.
A thrill ran through her, one she hadn’t felt in quite a while. A long time had passed since she’d learned anything new about sorcery. Another secret was revealed, and she remembered how much she’d loved uncovering those mysteries. She laughed out loud.
“Concentrate,” Roshambur said. “You lose your grip, the statue will disappear. And if you’re unlucky, it might take you with it.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, shivering suddenly.
The dwarf shook his head and didn’t reply.
It was hard: every time she secured one strand, two more seemed to loosen. She moved quicker and quicker, fighting to hold Azar’s memories together. The other Faceless were gone, and the altar and even the ground beneath them: just the boy and the statue and the Master remained. The blood’s flow slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. He was dead, and for an instant she saw—or imagined—a shimmering gray mist flow out of him. His soul? She wasn’t sure. It happened too quickly.
The Master held Azar a moment longer, then finally pushed him forward. He slumped over the altar—or rather, the space where the altar had been—and lay still. Roshambur’s hands kept catching the strands as they pulled away from his body.
The Master raised his arms, the dagger flashing with starlight even though no stars remained. “Blood for the Sleeper!” he declared. His voice sounded as if it came from somewhere far away, some cave deep below the earth. The air, warm and muggy only a few moments ago, turned freezing. “Awaken, Maladar! Awake, and claim your prize!”
Claim it? Shedara thought.
Then Maladar stepped out of the statue.
He was a ghost, a pale shadow of a man; he began to dissolve even as he emerged from the stone. Instinctively, Shedara caught the threads and began to weave them as well. They were cold enough to burn her hands. She ground her teeth and kept it up.
“Let … the statue … go,” Roshambur grunted, his hands flying. “Keep the … ghost.”
She did as he bade, releasing the tightly wound threads from the Hooded One, and it tore apart in a heartbeat. Shedara smiled; she’d sworn to destroy the accursed thing but never had the chance until now. She refocused on Maladar’s spirit, gathering the fibers of his being as he approached the others.
The ghost stood before Azar, looking him up and down. His ruined face was incapable of smiling, but Shedara could tell he was pleased. His lidless eyes turned in the Master’s direction.
“A fine vessel,” he said. “You have done well, Brother.”
The Master bowed his head. “My only thought is to serve you, Majesty.”
Already the Master was beginning to fade, and nothing Roshambu
r did could stop it. Shedara willed the loose threads to come to her, and she helped keep him together. The dwarf grunted thanks, sweat streaming down his face. They had another minute before they lost control, maybe less. Shedara wondered what would happen then. She thought of what Roshambur had said and imagined the both of them being pulled into some void, some nether space beyond the reach of the gods. Terror stirred inside her, screaming for her to let go.
She kept weaving, her lips skinning back from her teeth. She glared at Maladar. Hurry up, damn you, she thought. Whatever you’re going to do, do it quick.
The ghost studied Azar. “When?” he asked.
“Soon,” the Master replied. “His father is two days away. We will kill the woman in front of him.”
“Good,” Maladar said and laughed. “Good. His rage will make me strong. But now … I will have a taste of this flesh, so I know it better when the blood is spilled. When I am done, you can restore his soul.”
“As you will, my lord,” the Master said and stepped back. Roshambur let him go, and he blew away like dust, his strands ripping from Shedara’s grasp as well.
Both elf and dwarf were weaving madly, Azar and Maladar slowly dissolving before their eyes. Their hands became blurs, plucking and gathering, coiling and twisting. Come on, Shedara thought as Maladar gazed down on the dead boy.
The ghost reached out a hand, then hesitated. His head turned toward Shedara and Roshambur, his eyes blazing with malevolent glee. He nodded to them once. Then, laughing, he turned away and plunged his fist into Azar’s heart. Azar’s eyes opened. He screamed.
“Let go!” Roshambur shouted. “Now!”
She did. The image blew away. Everything grew dark …
… and faded back into the guildhall. Nakhil and the other kings reappeared, and Hult and Essana too. So did Azar. He gaped at Roshambur, then at her.
“It’s true, then,” he said. “I’m him.”
Shedara shivered and took a step back from him. “Yes,” she said. “Part of you.”
Just slightly, the kings edged away from them—afraid.
“Remove him, then,” Nakhil ordered. “Get that villain’s soul out of him.”
Roshambur pursed his lips. “About that,” he said. “I don’t think it will be possible. Maladar saw us in the vision, but it didn’t seem to trouble him. He’s in too deep for either of us to reach.”
“Khot,” Essana swore.
“Then I have no choice,” Azar said, and all at once his eyes were a child’s again, afraid and alone. “He will always be a part of me.”
“So it seems,” Shedara said. “But I don’t think any of us knows for sure.”
“So what do we do about it?” Nakhil asked.
Shedara looked at Roshambur, who shook his head. She blew a long, slow breath out through her lips.
“We go on with what we were going to do,” Hult said. “We find out where that blast came from and try to pick up Maladar’s trail. Are you all still with me?”
Shedara nodded immediately; so did Nakhil. After a moment, Roshambur did as well, though he looked troubled. “I can’t see what else we can do,” the dwarf said.
They all turned to Azar again. He glanced at his mother. “We will go as well,” he said.
But Essana held up her hand. “Not me, son. My road ends here.”
Azar started. “What?”
“Think about it,” she replied. “What good would I be on this journey? I’m no wizard, and I’m hardly a warrior. I will only be a burden to you. Everyone knows it. Don’t you, Shedara?”
Shedara nodded. “I wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to come, though.”
“But you would regret it. You would worry about my safety.”
“Yes.”
Essana turned back to her son. “You see? As much as I want to see … to see Barreth again …” She hesitated, a tear dropping from her eye, then shook her head and went on. “I refuse to be a distraction or a liability. Your thoughts must turn to defeating Maladar now, and nothing else.”
Azar clasped his hands and began to twist them. “What will you do, then? Where will you go?”
“Thumar, I think,” Essana said and glanced at King Calex, who inclined his bearded head. “It will be as safe there as anyplace in Taladas. I will wait there for your return.”
“But—” Azar said, his hands writhing together.
Essana stepped forward, putting her hands upon his, and forced them apart. Then she leaned forward and kissed Azar on each cheek and a third time on his forehead. He threw his arms around her. When they parted again, both their faces were damp.
“Farewell, child,” she said and walked away. Azar watched her go, looking as though he’d just been stabbed in the gut.
Essana stepped down from the dais and walked up to Shedara. “If you recognize any of Barreth left in his body when you find him,” she said, “tell him I love him. Then … do what you must.”
“Yes, milady,” Shedara said, her stomach twisting. “The gods walk with you.”
“If they walk with any of us,” Essana said.
Three days later, the companions made their way through the broken and smoldering remains of the Sulukanti Forest, thirty leagues west of the city. They were five now: Shedara, Hult, Nakhil, Roshambur, and Azar. They clambered up slopes littered with the shattered trunks of trees and slid down gravel-strewn embankments into valleys where fallen pines and alders choked once-foaming streams, already turning them into marshes. The hills there were a wasteland, and though some undergrowth and saplings had survived the blast, it would be many long years before the woods thrived again—if they ever did.
As terrible as the devastation was, though, Shedara barely thought about it. All her thoughts bent toward Azar and the vision she and Roshambur had shared. The group’s hushed whispering by the fireside at night turned to him as well. Though Maladar couldn’t enter the boy completely without the proper sacrifice, he had placed part of his spirit within him, to prepare the way. Shedara believed they were lucky about that, that if all of Maladar were in Forlo, he would be unstoppable. With their enemy divided between two bodies, though, he might be vulnerable. Maybe they could defeat him still. If so, Azar was the key to it all.
On the other hand, bringing him with them was a kind of madness. It could seal their doom, once Azar and Forlo were reunited.
They stopped to rest in a clearing not far from the mountains, where tumbling fir trees had dug deep furrows in the turf. Nakhil glanced around, sorrow creasing his face. “I remember this place,” he said. “I used to go hunting here. Remember, Roshambur? I shot a stag in this very glade, just this past spring.”
The dwarf nodded, expressionless. “Yes, Majesty.”
“I don’t suppose there will ever be any stags here again.”
“It is … doubtful, Majesty.”
“What do you think?” Hult asked Shedara, who was taking a pull from a skin of watered wine. “Are we close to what we’re looking for?”
She lowered the flask from her lips and handed it to the Uigan, then looked around. The air was thick with buzzing flies that bit deep when they landed on bare flesh. There was something else in it too—a sense of power, so thick it was almost a haze.
“We’re close,” she said. “I can feel it. Nakhil, what’s over that razorback there?”
She pointed at a sharp, sawtooth ridge. The power was strongest on the other side. The centaur glanced that way, his hands tight around the haft of his halberd.
“The mountains,” he said. “The Blue Giant, Icefinger, Clovenmont … dark places. Cursed lands. We Rainwarders don’t go that far, if we can help it. That’s where the blast came from, isn’t it?”
“It seems likely,” Shedara said.
Azar stared at the ridge. “What will we find?” he asked. “Will … will my father be there?”
Shedara looked at Hult, who shook his head. So did Roshambur. “No, lad,” she said. “He’ll have moved on by now. But hopefully we’ll find a way to find hi
m.”
The afternoon wore on as they struggled up the ridge. It was hard going, all loose stones and great chunks of splintered wood. The sun was low, shining red in their faces when they finally reached the top, where they stopped, stunned to silence by what they saw.
The mountains loomed before them, as Nakhil had promised—some broad and dark, others tall and snow-capped. Among them, however, something had gone terribly wrong.
“The Clovenmont,” Roshambur murmured, his voice little more than a breath. “It’s … gone.”
Indeed it was. Where a mountain must have stood, not long ago, there was a deep, black hole, ringed with enormous, jagged chunks of stone. More rocks were scattered on the surrounding slopes in great, broken heaps. Wisps of smoke drifted up from the chasm where the Clovenmont had stood. The forests all around it had all blown down, facing outward, like the petals of some unholy bloom. And leading south, away from it, was a trail made by the prints of many feet—thousands of them. The sun’s dying light seemed to bathe the whole scene in blood.
“Yagrut,” Hult swore. “In the ancestors’ name, what happened here?”
It was hard for Shedara to tear her eyes away from the ruins of the mountain, but after a while she managed to look south. The tracks led over the hills, straight toward the distant, shining arc of the straits of Grayveil … and Old Aurim beyond.
And after that, the Cauldron.
“I think,” she said, “that Maladar has a new army now.”
Chapter
20
THE GRAYVEIL SHORE, AURIM-THAT-WAS
Maladar stood upon the rocky strand, staring out at the waves. The mists had not returned to the Grayveil—with Suluk in ashes, there was no more reason for the Rainwarders to conjure their protective fog—and he could see all the way to the far shores. There, the dark lines of the isles stood silent, their mountains silhouetted against the darkling sky. One of the peaks was missing, a conspicuous gap on the horizon, like a lost tooth or a breach in a keep’s battlements. Even now, in the dark, a reddish glow hung over it, though Lunis was young and not yet risen.
