“He was a battle wizard,” Akhlaur said with satisfaction. “The best of his generation.”
Kiva forbore from observing that Vishna was among the wizards who had vanquished and exiled Akhlaur. “His plans seem sound enough. The battle will create a diversion. But the crimson star—”
“Enough!” snapped the necromancer. “The star aids Zalathorm and me in equal measure. It will not change the battle one way or another.”
“Can Zalathorm be destroyed?” she persisted.
“Could Vishna?” he retorted. His mood suddenly brightened. “As a lich, Vishna will be a brilliant and loyal general. It will give me great pleasure to use Zalathorm’s oldest friend to bring down his realm.”
As the elf woman bit back a shriek of frustration, a golden light filled the clearing. Zalathorm’s voice, magnified by powerful magic, repeated the challenge he issued to every magic-user in the realm.
Akhlaur’s black eyes burned with unholy fire, and his gaze darted to his undead battlemaster. “All is in readiness?”
“It is,” Vishna replied in a hollow voice.
“Gather our forces and weapons,” he announced. “Quiet your doubts, little Kiva. The three will be reunited, and the crimson star will once again be mine to command!”
The crowd dispersed after the mage duel. Andris, who had been seated near Matteo behind the king’s throne, walked silently toward the palace with Matteo and Tzigone, his crystalline face deeply troubled.
“Three of us,” the jordain said at last. “We three are descendants of the original creators of the Cabal.
Tzigone elbowed Matteo. “Destiny,” she repeated. “Maybe there’s a reason we were all drawn together. Sometimes one person’s task falls to another—or to three.”
“What are we to do?” Matteo demanded.
“What I have intended all along,” Andris said urgently. “We need to destroy the Cabal—the crimson star.”
“Now, just as Zalathorm issued a challenge to any and all wizards who desire to take it?”
“Ask him,” the jordain persisted. “If Zalathorm is truly a good and honorable king, he won’t consider his life, even his throne, as a higher good than this.”
Matteo was silent for a moment, then nodded abruptly. He made his way through the guards, Tzigone and Andris on his heels.
The king looked at him quizzically. Matteo leaned in close and softly said, “Andris is descended from Akhlaur.”
Zalathorm’s eyes widened. His gaze slid from his counselor to his daughter, then to the ghostly shadow of Andris. “I’ll take you to it,” he said simply.
Early the next morning, the four of them stood in a circular chamber far below the king’s palace. The crimson star bobbed gently in the center of the room, casting soft light over them all. Andris’s translucent body seemed carved from rosy crystal, and his eyes burned with fire that came from some hidden place within.
“I have tried to destroy this many times,” Zalathorm said, “but one of its creators is not sufficient Mystra grant the three of you success.”
Andris pulled out a sword, lofted it with both hands, and threw himself into a spin. With all his strength, he brought the heavy weapon around and smashed it into the shining crystal. The next instant, his sword went flying in one direction and Andris in another. The sword, once released from his grasp, lost its glassy appearance and clattered heavily to the stone floor.
The jordain picked himself up. “Perhaps if we all strike at once,” he ventured.
Matteo and Tzigone joined him and took up positions around the gem.
“From above,” Andris cautioned, “so no one is struck on the backswing.”
On Matteo’s count, they all brought weapons down hard. Before they neared the artifact, the swords flew from their hands and clanged together, forming a tripod that hung in the air over the globe.
“So much for togetherness,” Tzigone muttered, eyeing the enjoined weapons.
Andris paced around the artifact, his face furrowed in thought. “Let the princess try alone.”
She made a rude noise, but she approached the gem slowly and touched tentative fingers to one of the starlike spires. For many long moments she stood silent, her deeply abstracted look changing to pain.
“So many,” she said in a subdued voice. “I was a prisoner in the Unseelie court for a few days. These elves have been in captivity for more than two hundred years.”
She eased her hand away and turned to the king, her eyes wide with understanding. “Keturah knows how it could be done! That’s why Kiva wanted her all along—why she brought her here to the palace!”
She looked to Zalathorm for confirmation. “It is possible,” he admitted.
Tzigone was already sprinting through the halls toward the queen.
The throng that gathered on the dueling field was far from the unified, disciplined host of Zalathorm’s vision. Wizardlords and their retainers stood in separate ranks, eyeing their rivals. Each faction boasted wizards, clerics, and mercenaries. The spell battle against Zalathorm would be only the start. Anyone who successfully challenged the king would need all these supporters in order to defend his newly won crown against other contenders.
Procopio Septus, as lord mayor of the city, had at his beck the entire militia of the king’s city. He strode along confidently, reviewing the ranks. Seriously depleted by war and confused by the turmoil among the wizards, the fighters looked uncertain of their purpose. The wizard at his side looked even less certain. Malchior Belajoon, would-be challenger to the king, measured the opposing ranks with worried eyes.
“Perhaps this is not the time to make my bid for the throne,” Malchior ventured.
“The king welcomed all challengers. Your lineage is as good as his, and recent events have made painfully obvious that the king’s powers are failing. What better time to press your claim?”
“I did not cast the necromancy spell!”
“It hardly matters. Zalathorm has issued a challenge, and he will be honor-bound to answer any who respond.”
Again Malchior’s gaze swept the gathering throng. “What of the king’s plea for unity until the hidden wizard is unmasked?”
Procopio shook off this concern. Before he could speak, an enormous oval of shimmering black opened against the backdrop of forest, like a rift into a dark plain.
Warriors poured through, hideous undead creatures that reeked of decay and stagnant waters. The militia—as well-trained as any fighting force in the southern lands, veterans and survivors of the recent invasion—shrank back in horror.
The undead army swiftly formed into disciplined ranks. Their leader, a tall, gaunt wizard with livid bluish skin and a still-glossy mane of chestnut, strode from the gate and took up position.
As strange as this sight was, it did not prepare the stunned observers for what was to come. A small elf woman with long braids of jade-green hair emerged. Her cool, amber stare swept the wizards and seemed to linger briefly on Procopio’s face. Then she stepped aside to yield way for an even more daunting apparition. A tall, thin man, robed in the necromancer’s scarlet and black, stepped into the silence. In the bright morning sun, his pale greenish skin and faintly iridescent scales shone with a sickly glow—like some luminescent creature emerged from the sea depths.
Not a wizard there had ever set eyes upon the strange figure, yet all knew him for who he was. One of the most infamous wizards of Halruaa, whose name had been lent to a deadly swamp and scores of terrible necromantic spells, was not forgotten in a mere two centuries.
“Akhlaur.”
The whispers seemed to coalesce into a single tremulous breeze. The necromancer inclined his head, an archaic courtly bow once performed by great wizards to acknowledge their lessers.
The gathered wizards exchanged panicked glances, no longer so certain that ridding the realm of Zalathorm was such a good and desirable goal.
Akhlaur had no doubts on that matter. “Zalathorm has issued challenge,” he said in a deep voice that ro
lled across the field like summer thunder. “I have answered. Fetch him, and let it begin.”
Kiva and Akhlaur retired to the rear of their ranks to await the king’s response. The elf woman paced furiously.
“Troubled, little Kiva?” the necromancer asked.
She whirled toward him, flung a hand toward the dueling grounds. “Did you see all those wizards gathered to challenge the king? We should have let them! You know Halruaa’s history as well as I. Her wizards might squabble, but they will unite against a single threat Had you allowed Zalathorm to destroy these challengers one by one, your task would have been easier and its outcome assured! Now we will face them all.”
Her vehemence and fury raised the necromancer’s brows. “You fear for your safety,” he said condescendingly, “and with reason. The death-bond ensures that if I die, so do you. I assure you, between the crimson star and my not-inconsiderable magic, we are quite safe.
“Yes,” the necromancer continued, “all will go as planned. Nothing—least of all you—will interfere with this long-desired confrontation.”
The elf stood silent for a long moment. “With your permission, I will watch your victory from the forest”
“As you will,” Akhlaur said. Suddenly his black eyes bored into her. “Remember, you cannot betray me and live.”
“I assure you, my lord,” Kiva said with as much sincerity as she had ever brought to anything, “that this is never far from my thoughts.”
Matteo and Tzigone paused at the door to the queen’s chamber.
“What do you propose to do?”
“I’m making this up as I go along,” Tzigone admitted. She walked softly into the chamber and dipped a bow before the too-still queen.
On impulse, she began to sing. The queen’s gaze remained fixed and blank, but her head tipped a bit to one side as if she were listening. When Tzigone fell silent, Beatrix softly began to repeat the last song in a flat, almost toneless voice. Her voice strengthened as she sang. It was ragged from disuse and long-ago hurts, but in it was the echo of beauty.
Tzigone shot a dazzling smile at Matteo. She sang another song, and again the queen repeated it. Then Tzigone spoke of starsnakes, and the queen sang the little spell song that Tzigone had used to summon the winged beasts. On and on they went, with Beatrix responding with songs appropriate to various situations Tzigone presented.
“Well?” she said triumphantly.
“It makes sense,” Matteo agreed. “Music and reason do not always follow the same pathways in the mind. A person who suffers a mind storm might not remember how to speak but often can still sing the songs learned before the illness. However, Keturah’s voice no longer holds the power to cast magic.”
“All she has to do is remember the song. I’ll cast it.”
After a few moments Matteo nodded. He left the room and spoke with the guards, who released the queen into his keeping. The three of them made their way down the winding stairs to the dungeon.
Matteo and Tzigone went first. He had committed to memory each of the spell words Zalathorm used during their descent and whispered each one to Tzigone—only a wizard’s voice could undo the wards. She repeated each spell word as they moved together from step to step. It was a long descent, and by the time they reached the bottom both were limp with tension.
“For once that jordaini memory training came in handy,” she murmured as she took off into the room.
A sudden bolt of energy sent her hurtling back into Matteo’s arms. He sent her an exasperated look.
“Memory training,” he reminded her. “There’s no sense in having a jordain around if you don’t make good use of him!”
Tzigone recovered quickly and sent him a teasing leer. “I’ll remind you of those words at a more convenient time.”
With a sigh, Matteo pushed her away and gave her a shove. “Three paces, then turn left.”
They traversed the maze without further mishaps. Finally the three of them stood before the crimson globe. Andris and Zalathorm were still there. The jordain stood off to one side, watching intently as the king knelt before the shining artifact. Zalathorm rose and faced the newcomers.
“Akhlaur has returned. He awaits me on the field of battle.”
Matteo looked uncertainly from the king to his oldest friend. “Much of Zalathorm’s power comes from the artifact,” he ventured.
“You told me it is impossible to fight evil with evil means,” Andris reminded him. “What could be more wicked than leaving these spirits in captivity, when we might be able to free them?”
Zalathorm clapped a hand on the jordain’s transparent shoulder. “That is the sort of advice a king needs to hear. Do what you must, and when the task is done, join me in battle.” He glanced at Matteo. “When battle is through, I trust you will not mind sharing the honor of king’s counselor with another?”
A wide grin split Matteo’s face. The king smiled faintly. He stepped forward and gently touched his queen’s face in silent farewell, then disappeared.
Andris looked to Tzigone. “What now?”
A whispered tune drifted through the room. Tzigone motioned for silence and listened intently to her mother’s voice. The song was ragged, the notes falling short of true and the tone dull and breathy, but Tzigone listened with all the force of her being, absorbing the shape and structure of it.
Enchantment flowed through the song, revealing a subtle web around the glowing gem. Matteo stared at the gathering magic and recognized its source.
There was a defensive shield about the gem that no wizard could perceive or dispel. Someone, somehow, had crafted it from the Shadow Weave.
Matteo’s nimble mind raced as he considered the meaning and implications of this. Kiva had studied the crimson star for over two hundred years. She had been Akhlaur’s captive and most likely knew the secrets that kept the artifact inviolate against attack. Where had Akhlaur learned these secrets, some two hundred years ago? Knowledge of the Shadow Weave was only now creeping into Halruaa!
The answer struck him like a firebolt. Akhlaur had learned as Matteo had—in the shadowy antechamber of the Unseelie court. In doing so, he had become what he truly was. Vishna had wondered about his old friend’s transformation from an ambitious wizard to a villain who saw no evil as beyond his right and his grasp. Here was the answer.
But why Kiva’s interest in Keturah? Why the partnership with Dhamari?
Keturah could evoke creatures with a song. Spellsong was a powerful magic, one common to the elven people. Perhaps this was needed to form a bond with the elven spirits within. Then there was Dhamari, with his determination to summon and command the denizens of the Unseelie realm. He was an ambitious wizard but not a talented one. Perhaps Kiva had seen in him a fledgling Shadow Adept and encouraged him along this path.
Perhaps it was not three descendants who were needed, so much as three talents unlikely to occur in one person.
Matteo quickly took stock of his friends and their combined arsenals. “Tzigone, touch the gem. See if you can find some sense of Andris within it”
She shot him a puzzled look but did as he bade. Her face grew tense and troubled. “I can see the battle in Akhlaur’s Swamp,” she said. “Damn! I’d forgotten how ugly that laraken was!”
“Andris,” prompted Matteo.
“He’s here. Or more accurately, a part of him is.” She withdrew from the gem and her gaze shifted from the ghostly jordain to Matteo. “What’s this about?”
“Making contact with the spirits captured within. Andris is uniquely suited to doing this. The first step involved in multiwizard magic is attunement. That is his task. The casting of magic is all about focus and energy—the spell song you sing will no doubt be echoed by the elven spirits within.”
Her gaze sharpened with understanding. “What about you?”
Matteo held her gaze. “Akhlaur cast a defensive web around the crimson star, made of the Shadow Weave. I can see it. Perhaps I can dispel it.”
Andris’s pale
hazel eyes bulged. “You’re a Shadow Adept?”
“I suspect that’s overstating the matter,” Matteo said shortly, “but it’s close enough for our purposes. Let’s get on with it.”
“Those who used the Shadow Weave too often and too long can gain great power of magic, but over time they lose clarity of mind,” Andris reminded him. “Whatever else you might be, you’re still a jordain. You stand to lose the thing that most defines you!”
“Then let’s do this quickly.”
Tzigone extended both hands to the jordaini. Each took one. For a moment they stood together. Color began to return to Andris, flowing slowly back into the translucent form. Matteo nodded to Tzigone, and she began to sing the melody her mother had taught her.
The song seemed to splinter like light caught in a prism. It darted throughout the room, echoed and colored by a hundred different voices. The light in the crimson gem intensified with the power of the gathering magic.
Matteo brought his focus to bear upon the shadowy web. He reached out with his thoughts and plucked at one of the knots. It gave way, and two threads sprang apart. He reached for another and slowly, laboriously began to untie Akhlaur’s dark magic.
The effort was draining, more exhausting than any battle he had known. Matteo’s breath came in labored gasps, and the room reeled around him. Even worse was the loss of clarity. More than once he slipped away, only to be brought back by the stern force of his will. Each time, he felt like a man awakened from a dream, uncertain for a moment of where he was or his purpose for being here. Yet he pressed on. One more knot, he told himself. Only one. Now another, and so on, until the task is done.
Suddenly the web gave way. Light flared like an exploding star, and the artifact shattered.
Matteo instinctively dived at Tzigone, who in turn leaped to protect the queen. They went down together, and Matteo shielded them both from the bits of crystal hurtling through the room.
To his surprised, he felt no sting from the flying shards. Cautiously he lifted his head.
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