The Siege (32 page)

“This is your doing, ungrateful Vaasan!”

Vala spun the ring to its concealed position and found the Most High’s murk-filled cowl turned in her direction,

his empty sleeve raised and pointing down the stairs at her.

Praying that Telamont had not sensed her magic ring, Vala raised her chin and forced herself to meet his angry glare. “Mine, Most High? I have not been anywhere near Cormyr.”

“You knew of his plans before he left, did you not?”

The last thing Vala wanted to do was admit her complicity in Galaeron’s escape, but Malik had almost certainly revealed her role already, and she knew better than to think the Most High would be swayed by any lie she could tell.

“I did,” she said.

The Most High remained silent, and she felt the weight of his next question as tangibly as that of a fallen comrade’s body.

“I wanted him to leave,” she said. “You were giving him over to his shadow, not teaching him to control it.”

“Yet you went to Myth Drannor with Escanor.”

“So you wouldn’t grow suspicious and stop him from leaving,” Vala said.

Again, the silence, heavy and demanding.

“He didn’t want to leave without me,” Vala admitted. “I had to convince him that he had vexed me and that I was enamored of Escanor. He left swearing vengeance on you, Escanor, and Shade in general.”

Telamont finally looked away and, shaking his head in disbelief, descended the dais to stand in front of Escanor.

“The blame in this lies in part with me,” the Most High said. “I had not thought his shadow so much in control, but you were blinded by a woman’s cajolery and allowed her to use you against the enclave—and for that, you should be executed as well.”

Vala’s knees grew instantly weak at the pronouncement, but Escanor only inclined his head. “If that—”

“Execute?” Malik interrupted, stepping to the Most High’s side. “You cannot execute Vala!”

Telamont’s platinum eyes grew as cold as winter hail. “You object, cuckold?”

“Of course not… only Vala is my friend, and it would break my wretched heart—whatever the One may still let me have of it—to see her killed.” Malik frowned at the curse that compelled him to keep speaking when it would have been so much wiser to let the matter drop after the first few words, then apparently saw that he had nothing to lose and plunged ahead. “And even more importantly, it would break Galaeron’s heart.”

“Why should the One care about that, little man?” asked Hadrhune, descending the dais to stare down over Telamont’s shoulder. “The elf is an ingrate and a traitor to all the enclave has given.”

“True,” Malik said, “but he is an ingrate and a traitor that Shade Enclave needs. If you slay Vala, you will make him an implacable enemy who will no doubt die in some foolish manner seeking vengeance against you.”

Telamont rolled an empty sleeve, gesturing for Malik to continue.

“On the other hand,” the little man said. “If you keep Vala here, holding her in some terrible manner certain to cause her great pain, letting it be known that she truly does love Galaeron and only went to Myth Drannor so he would leave and save himself, Galaeron is certainly the type of noble fool to return and try to rescue her.”

“The fault in your thinking is that his shadow has almost certainly taken him already,” Hadrhune pointed out. “If that is so, he will see through your plan and avoid us all the more.”

“He seemed well in control of himself in Arabel,” Rivalen said. “In point of fact, he seemed to be avoiding shadow magic altogether, even when he might have

used it to free himself and escape us.”

“If that is so, then perhaps our plan will work,” Hadrhune said, as much the idea thief as ever. He stepped around to bring himself in line with Telamont’s gaze. “May I suggest the drop pits? Surely, no torture can be worse than keeping those clean and clear—at least no survivable torture.”

Vala had an unpleasant feeling that she knew what the drop pits were, but it hardly mattered. Any torture that kept her alive to return to her son was one she could endure.

Telamont considered Hadrhune’s proposal for a moment, then gave a thoughtful half-nod. “It would certainly give the elf cause to come for her quickly.” He turned his platinum eyes upon Malik and added, “What do you think, my short friend?”

Malik’s brow rose. “Me?”

“The plan is yours,” Telamont said. “Do you think the drop pits the worst we can do?”

“Milord, I really do not know Shade Enclave well enough to name the worst torture it has to offer.”

Malik fell silent for a moment, then his face twisted itself into a familiar expression of distress, and Vala had a sinking feeling.

“Only, it occurs to me that the torture most likely to draw Galaeron back in a rush is to make Vala a scullery maid in Escanor’s palace and to let it be known that he is using her horribly at night.”

Vala swallowed. As terrible as was Malik’s suggestion, it was still something she could survive. To return to Sheldon, she could endure anything.

“And, of course, you must put her darksword away someplace where she cannot call it,” Malik added. “For Vala, the worst torture of all will be not looking in on her son at night.”

Until then, Vala had felt a debt of gratitude to the little man for saving her life. For telling them to take her visits, she could have killed him—in fact, she might have, had Escanor’s powerful hand not closed around her wrist and prevented her from drawing her sword.

“If you please,” Escanor said, “leave it in the scabbard when you pass it over.”

Telamont’s eyes sparkled with delight “I think Malik is correct.” He turned his gaze on the little man. “You are proving yourself a surprisingly capable advisor.”

Malik beamed. “I am glad you are pleased with my humble services.”

“Yes, I would never have thought one of Mystra’s curses would be of such benefit to Shade Enclave.” Telamont left the dais and started across the throne room. “Come to the world-window with me, my friend. We must make an example of Cormyr and show Faerűn what it is to betray the generosity of Shade Enclave—and you will tell me how we are going to do it.”

25 Mirtul, the Year of Wild Magic

Through the magic of the scrying ball, Galaeron felt as though he were an eagle on high, circling the walled city of Tilverton in search of some garbage-loving raccoon to feed the nestlings in its aerie. He had a view of the entire town and the four roads leading into it, yet he could still make out details as fine as shield insignia carried by the growing number of warriors encamped among the mansions and temples of the Knoll District. There were plenty of Cormyr’s Purple Dragons, of course, but also the Twisted Tower of Shadowdale, the White Horse of Mistledale, even the Raven and Silver of Sembia and dozens of other symbols Galaeron did not recognize.

According to Vangerdahast, Cormyr’s neighbors had sent more than a hundred companies to help persuade Shade Enclave to rethink its melting of the High Ice, some as small as twenty well-mounted riders, but several numbering in the thousands—and with a generous mix of clerics and battle mages. To Alusair’s dismay, the most enthusiastic response had come from the merchant princes of Sembia, some of whom stood to lose their entire fortunes if the weather disturbances continued. Always suspicious of Sembian designs on Cormyrean lands, the Steel Regent had not even informed the merchant princes of the alliance she was forming. They had sent large forces anyway, threatening to form their own alliance if she failed to accept their troops.

What Galaeron did not see were any companies on the roads outside the city. Though warriors were pouring into the Knoll District by the hundreds, trampling the grounds of the great estates in search of bivouacs, they were not entering through Tilverton’s gates. The companies seemed to be sprouting from the city itself, marching out of shadowy cul-de-sacs or emerging from some ancient tower or keep to form up in the street.

Galaeron raised his gaze and looked over the scrying ball to Vangerdahast’s bushy-browed eyes.

“It won’t work,” the elf said. “If you can scry this, so can the Shadovar.”

“Not so.” Vangerdahast raised his head, revealing a confident smirk not quite hidden beneath his beard. “This is what they will see.”

He waved his hand over the scrying ball. When Galaeron looked back, the soldiers were gone, and the residents seemed to be having some sort of festival in the Knoll District.

“You can annul shadow magic?” Galaeron gasped. The

implications for Evereska were distressing. If Vangerdahast could find a way to negate the Shadovar’s spells, so could the phaerimm. “How?”

“I am a wizard of some power, elf.”

“It’s not a question of power.” Galaeron gestured at the ball. “May I?”

“If you don’t think it will draw out your shadow.” Vangerdahast’s voice was mocking. He had been trying to persuade Galaeron to demonstrate his shadow spells since Rivalen’s departure and could not seem to understand why Galaeron refused. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for unleashing such a demon.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Galaeron envisioned the world-window in the Palace Most High and waved his hand over the scrying ball. The crystal filled with dark clouds, then a circle of light opened in the center and several murky Shadovar figures grew visible along the edges. The image in the middle was that of a great lake ringed by desert mountains.

“This is Telamont Tanthul’s ‘scrying window,” Galaeron said, disappointed that he had not caught the Shadovar looking in on Tilverton. “If shadow magic and regular magic were capable of annulling each other, don’t you think this room would be warded?”

Vangerdahast studied the image for a moment, then said, “Of course the room can’t be warded. The Weave is mightier than the Shadow Weave.”

“Mightier, perhaps,” Galaeron said, “but also different. They can spy on you as easily as you spy on them.”

Vangerdahast’s face appeared inside the crystal ball. “I am experienced in such matters, you know.”

Realizing he would never win this argument, Galaeron decided to try another approach. “Even if you’re right, the

Shadovar do use spies—thousands of them, I am sure.”

“Not in Tilverton—or any other Cormyrean city.” Vangerdahast displayed a tile with a magic ward etched onto the surface. “My war wizards have been busy.”

Galaeron took the tile and ran his fingers over the symbol. It was a variation on an ancient Cormanthorian sigil he had studied in Evereska’s academy of magic, used to keep spirits of darkness and cold at bay. The workmanship was exquisite and the magic so powerful that the presence of his shadow self caused it to burn his hand. When he returned the tile to Vangerdahast, he was surprised to discover the symbol burned into his palm. Finding that even this copy of the ward made his eyes burn, Galaeron closed his hand.

“Impressive, but useless,” he said. “All a Shadovar need do is enter the fringe, and your ward will have almost no power over him.”

Vangerdahast’s eyes flickered with alarm. “Really?” He turned the ward toward Galaeron. “Show me.”

Galaeron had to look away. “I can’t. You know that.”

“I certainly do,” Vangerdahast snorted.

“I’ve explained how it can be defeated,” Galaeron said, raising a hand to block his sight of the symbol. “There is no need for me to prove it. The cost of satisfying your curiosity is too dear.”

“Very well.” Vangerdahast lowered the tile and set it aside—facedown, thankfully. “By the way, the last time I spoke to Storm Silverhand, she asked me to pass along a message from Khelben.”

“From Khelben?” Galaeron’s heart was immediately beating faster. “About Keya?”

“I believe that was the name mentioned, yes.”

Galaeron waited for the wizard to continue—then, when he did not, asked, “What is it?”

Vangerdahast’s eyes slid toward the ward.

Galaeron rose in disgust. “You’re no different than the Shadovar!”

“There you are mistaken, elf,” Vangerdahast said, peering at Galaeron over the shadow ball. “I am very different. What I do, I do for the good of Cormyr.”

“Then you would do well to stay clear of the Shadow Weave,” Galaeron started for the door. “You are already half shade yourself.”

“Probably.” Vangerdahast’s tone was thoughtful. He remained silent until Galaeron reached for the latch, then said, “You’re going to be an uncle.”

Galaeron stopped, then turned. “What?”

“According to Khelben.” Vangerdahast shrugged. “Your sister is getting married.”

“Married?” Galaeron gasped. “She’s only eighty!”

“And fighting the phaerimm on the front lines of the siege, from what I hear.” Vangerdahast steepled his gnarled fingers. “People mature quickly in the face of death.”

Galaeron studied the old wizard, trying to figure out what the human hoped to gain by making up such an outrageous story.

Finally, he gave up and said simply, “It won’t work, old man. It takes years for elves to fall in love. An engagement can last a decade.”

“I have found that war tends to speed matters of the heart,” Vangerdahast said, eyes twinkling. “And humans are not so reticent. Especially Vaasans.”

“Vaasans?” Galaeron released the door latch and stumbled into a nearby chair. “One of the Vaasans did .this?”

“Someone named Dexon, as I understand it.”

“The ice-hatched bastard!” Galaeron hissed. “I’ll slit him from groin to gullet!”

“Really?” Vangerdahast chuckled. “I thought you were trying to control your ‘shadow self.’”

A deep barbarian bellow, muffled by distance and the thick walls of the tent, sounded down in the camps. Always concerned about friction between the disparate companies of her motley army, Laeral cocked an ear toward the sound. The voice was angry and a little bit puzzled, as though demanding an explanation. Probably just one of Chief Claw’s warriors still trying to figure out the magic latrines the clerics insisted on whenever the army was encamped.

Khelben, lying on the camp rug beside Laeral, took her chin in hand and gently turned her face back toward his so he could resume kissing her. Though it had been several days since they had trapped the phaerimm in the Vine Vale, they had been so busy securing Evereska’s defenses and hunting down survivors that this was the first night they’d found for each other. Khelben, who had after all nearly died at the Rocnest and been the one trapped by the thornbacks for all those months, seemed to feel the need to shut out the war even more keenly than did Laeral. With the dexterous fingers of a magician, he used one hand to undo the knot holding her jerkin closed and began to unlace her.