The Sorcerer (8 page)

“Lost the day the shadowshell fell.” Storm’s manner grew soft, and for the first time since Galaeron had known her he saw some of the softness portrayed in Aris’s sculpture. “She

eliminated a phaerimm that was delaying Lord Ramealaerub’s advance.”

Galaeron fell back in his chair, his heart aching as though someone had punched him in it He had not seen Takari since shortly after their journey into Karse, when he had returned her, battered and bloody, to Rheitheillaethor and left her there to recover. They had never been lovers, but he had finally come to accept—too late, after leaving her behind—that they were spirit-deep mates, linked on a level more profound than love. The choice to leave with Vala— another woman whom circumstances had forced him to abandon to a cruel fate—had been his own, but one made infinitely less complicated by Takari’s harshness as she told him she hoped never to see him again. The thought that those words should be the last he ever heard from her filled him with a raw anguish—and with a bitter fury he knew to be not entirely his own that whispered to him that Storm was lying and demanded that he strike out at her.

Instead, Galaeron lowered his chin and whispered a prayer, asking Takari to forgive his folly and begging the Leaflord to watch over her spirit.

Storm laid a hand on Galaeron’s arm—then took it away when his shadow recoiled from her touch and made him flinch.

“You know, Galaeron, you could be very useful to Lord Ramealaerub,” she said. “I doubt anyone in the elven army would be foolish enough to turn away your help.”

But there was always the question, Galaeron—or perhaps it was his shadow—thought. He was the one who had breached the Sharn Wall in the first place, then invited the Shadovar into the world to undo the damage. He was the cause of all this trouble, and even if they were wise enough not to say it to his face, he knew what his fellow elves would be whispering every time he turned his back.

“Now that is a plan that makes sense,” Aris said. “Why not return to the Shaeradim, where we can do some good fighting phaerimm?”

Galaeron raised his chin and said, “Because we can’t win the war by fighting phaerimm. Nor can we save Evereska that way.”

“This is the part that makes no sense,” Aris said. “The phaerimm want the Shadovar killed, and the Shadovar want the phaerimm killed. Destroying Shade—even if you could— does not help Evereska.”

“But it does, Aris,” Storm said. “The elves have little hope—I would say none—of defeating the phaerimm alone. The rest of Faerűn has been too weakened by the Melting to send help, and the few troops they do have must stay home to defend against the Shadovar. The Shadovar are in the same situation—they dare not engage the phaerimm for fear that the rest of the world will attack them and stop the Melting.”

It was a great relief to Galaeron that Storm was the one explaining this. Perhaps one of the Chosen could change the stubborn giant’s mind.

Aris burst that dream with a firm shake of his head.

“It won’t work.”

“Perhaps not at once,” Ruha said, “but as the realms recover, they will be able to send troops to join the elves. Not even the phaerimm can stand against the combined might of all Faerűn.”

Aris crossed his arms in front of his chest.

To Galaeron’s surprise, Storm ignored the giant and turned to face him and Ruha.

“Your plan works only if Shade’s destruction is a swift one,” she said.

“Without its mythallar, the city will fall,” Galaeron said. “The destruction will be instantaneous.”

Storm nodded.

“That’s what I thought you had planned for us. But how are we to enter the city? Shade’s magic is proof against even us.”

Galaeron smiled and told her his plan.

When he finished, Storm poured herself more wine, sat back, and thought it over. It took only a few moments before she drank the contents of the goblet and nodded.

“It could work.”

“Wonderful!” Galaeron filled goblets for himself and Ruha. “We can be ready—”

“I said could.” Storm raised her hand to stop him, then looked to Aris and said, “Before deciding, I want to hear Aris’s argument”

The giant cast a guilty look in Galaeron’s direction, then said, “Because Galaeron can’t do it.”

Storm furrowed her brow.

“What is there to do? All he need do is appear headstrong and careless.” She glanced over at him, then added, “That is not out of character for him.”

“Afterward,” the giant clarified. “Once he’s in the city, his shadow will grow too strong. We’ll lose him… and this time, I fear it will be for good.”

“That is a risk,” Ruha agreed. “He’s not strong enough to fight Telamont.”

Galaeron shrugged and said, “There is cost to every plan. I can resist long enough to make this one work. After that… well, I doubt the Chosen will find it difficult to eliminate the problem before it can grow out of hand.”

Storm studied him for a long time then said, “You would make that sacrifice?”

Galaeron answered without hesitation, “I have lost more already.”

“And that is another wrong thing.” Aris planted a big finger in the center of the table and nearly collapsed it. “When he is not talking of Evereska and what it is suffering, he is talking of Vala and what she is enduring. I say he is doing this to save her.”

Storm raised a cool gaze to the giant’s face and asked, “Why would that be wrong?”

Aris scowled and spent a moment trying to think of an

argument, then gave up and looked away without answering.

Storm looked back to Galaeron and remained just as silent

Finally, he could bear her scrutiny no longer.

“So you’ll do it?” he asked.

Instead of answering his question, Storm asked one of her own, “I want to be clear on this. If your shadow takes you, you’re asking me to kill you?”

Galaeron nodded.

Storm shook her head. “No, Galaeron. If you want this, you must say it.”

“When…” Galaeron’s throat went dry, and he had to stop and start again. “When, not if—because I am losing the battle even here—but when my shadow takes me, I want you to kill me. More than that, I want you to promise me now that you will. I’ve brought enough evil into this world through folly and accident. I have no wish to cause it directly.”

“If that is what you want, I promise,” Storm replied. She stood and turned to Aris. “What about you, my large friend? Will you go with Galaeron?”

“Him?” Galaeron asked, also standing. “This doesn’t involve Aris. There’s no need for him to return to Shade.”

Storm did not look away from the giant.

“Aris goes everywhere with you, Galaeron,” she said, “and he has vowed to avenge Thousand Faces. If he suddenly remains behind when you set off to fight the phaerimm, what will the Shadovar think?”

“She’s right,” Ruha said. “They would grow suspicious, and that suspicion would spoil your plan. This must be done right… or not at all.”

Galaeron dropped his head. He had nearly killed Aris once already, during their escape from Shade when he had succumbed to his shadow self and used the giant to lure a blue dragon into an ambush. Had Storm not answered Ruha’s call for help, Aris would have died, and this time there would be no one to call for help. If matters went wrong—

even if they went right—it might well be the death of them both.

Galaeron shook his head.

“Then we won’t do it” He raised his gaze, met Aris’s eyes, and said, This is not something I would ask of you. You have already done more than I could expect even of an elf friend, and I will not see you killed.”

“You think that is why I don’t like your plan? Because I fear for my life? That is an insult worse than any your shadow has ever spit out.”

Aris’s big fist crashed down on the table, smashing it to pieces and sending splinters and shards of goblet flying in every direction.

“You saved my life at Thousand Faces,” the giant continued. “It is yours to spend.”

A tense silence settled over the courtyard. Galaeron was so shocked by the giant’s s uncharacteristic show of anger that he did not dare look up to apologize.

Finally, Storm rose.

“I guess that settles it, then,” she said. She used her hands to brush the wine off her leather armor. “Well look for you tomorrow, after dawn.”

___________CHAPTER FIVE

lo Malik’s astonishment, Escanor was still glowing when he dared enter the presence of the Most High. The prince could be seen from fifty paces away, first as a dim, pearly ball floating beneath the copper flicker of his distinctive eyes, then as a luminous cage of ribs encasing a kernel of pulsing light. A wave of stunned whispers followed him across the throne room, and as he drew closer Malik could see that Escanor was actually staggering. The mantle of shadow that usually served him as a body was bleeding away in wisps, bestowing on him a rather gauzy and serpentine appearance. Escanor stopped at the foot of the dais, his glow illuminating half a dozen younger princes who were coming up behind him. Though none were in as sorry a condition as Escanor, they had gone with

him to attack the Chosen on the High Ice, and three were bleeding shadow from lesser wounds.

Escanor bowed and would have fallen over, had one of his brothers not braved the ghostly light to lend him a hand.

“I apologize for appearing before the Most High in this condition,” he said.

“As well you should,” Hadrhune said. “It is an insult”

“Indeed,” Malik agreed, standing in his customary place just above Hadrhune. Having grown tired of the seneschal’s jealousy over his position as Telamont’s most trusted advisor— and weary of the constant assassination attempts—Malik had decided to try a strategy of alliance to placate the man. “If the Most High wanted us to see his face, he would show it to us himself… though I must admit I am curious to see it myself.”

He did not even cringe at this last part of his statement Much of the reason the Most High valued Malik’s advice so highly was the curse placed on him by the harlot Mystra, which always compelled him to tell the truth when he spoke. Telamont Tanthul rarely chastised him for the embarrassing slips that this caused him—and sometimes even seemed to find them amusing.

But not today. A set of icy talons sank into his shoulder, and a cold voice whispered into his ear.

“Your curiosity on that count would kill you, my behorned friend, and slight a prince of mine again and you shall have it satisfied.”

Malik’s mouth grew as dry as dust “I meant no offense, Most High …” He struggled to end there, but the truth welled up inside him and spilled from his mouth of its own accord. “At least to you, for I have always felt secure in your protection and completely free to insult whomever else I desired.”

The Most High removed his icy talons, patted Malik’s shoulder, and said, “And now you don’t”

Telamont slipped past and descended the stairs toward his

son. Knowing it would be suicide to stand higher than the Most High, Malik followed him down the stairs. The Most High stopped on the bottom step, leaving Malik, Hadrhune, and the rest of the throne room attendants to scramble for places on the floor. In the glow of Escanor’s wounds, the sycophants looked ghoulish and wrinkled, with hollow cheeks and sunken red eyes. Only Telamont himself seemed immune to the light and remained hidden in the shadows beneath his cowl.

Taking advantage of the light—he always tried to make the best of every situation—Malik risked a surreptitious glance at his wounds. Though cold spears of anguish still pierced his shoulder where the Most High had grasped him, there were no holes in his flesh, nor any blood on his robe.

Telamont asked, “You engaged the Chosen, my son? They did this to you?”

Keeping his head bowed, Escanor nodded and said, “That is so, Most High.”

Telamont’s platinum eyes shone brighter in the darkness that was his face.

“Good.” He lifted a murky sleeve, motioning Escanor to his feet, and continued, “Rise and tell me how many you killed.”

Escanor’s shadows seemed to grow even thinner as he stood.

“I fear the answer is none, Most High,” he said, his coppery gaze remaining fixed on the floor. “We were defeated.”

“Defeated?” It was Hadrhune who asked this. “Seven princes of Shade?”

Escanor’s eyes swung toward the seneschal. “The Chosen are formidable enemies.”

“Which is why I advised the Most High to send seven of you,” Hadrhune countered, “and an entire company of the Gate Guard.”

Though the effort of defending himself drained Escanor, none of his brothers seemed eager to leap to his defense.

“Your plan did not take into account… the quickness of the Chosen. They fling magic as easily as you do aspersions.”

Hadrhune responded with a smile—the predatory smile of a hunter in pursuit of crippled prey.

They are only human,” he said. “How could their spell-craft be quicker than that of a shadow lord?”

“That is a mystery to me,” Escanor replied, sounding more sincere than sarcastic. “Next time, perhaps you should lead the assault and tell us.”

“There will not be a next time,” Telamont said in that low even tone that Malik had learned to associate with cold rage. “We cannot afford one.”

“Unfortunately, I doubt the choice is yours,” Malik said. He had long ago discovered that times like these were when he stood to gain the most with the Most High, since everyone else was too busy cowering in fear to curry favor. “Now that the Chosen have seen how powerless you are to stop them, they will certainly return to roll up the shadow blankets faster than you can lay them.”

Telamont whirled on Malik, his platinum eyes shining brightly enough to see by.

“We are not powerless!”

“N-n-no, of course n-not,” Malik stammered. “Only, after the losses Shade suffered in Tilverton, you will be if you lose a company of warriors each time you try to stop the Chosen from stealing one of your shadow blankets.”

One of Telamont’s murk-filled sleeves reached out, and a tendril of shadow knotted itself into Malik’s robe and picked him up by the lapels.

“Why must you always be right, little man?”

Malik shrugged and thought it might be wiser to say nothing, but that was never an option when Telamont Tanthul wished an answer. He lasted only a breath before the Most High’s will forced him to speak.