“It would be better if he didn’t,” Rapha said. “Perhaps your friend would be kind enough to take a passenger.”
The shadow lord motioned across the wash, to where a grim-faced stone giant with sad gray eyes was kneeling over a ten-foot block of quartzite. He was clinking away with his sculptor’s tools, fashioning a life-sized model of the struggle between Escanor and the phaerimm that had wounded him. Though the work was still rough, it was obvious by the snaking forms and undulating hollows that he had captured not only the details, but the spirit and swiftness of the battle—and from little more than a description of the events.
“I am confident Aris would be pleased to be of some small service to the prince,” Malik said. “While we were watching the camp, he said many times—if once can be considered many—that he wished he were small enough to accompany the rest of the company into the Underdark and do his part to seal the fate of the phaerimm.”
“Good. Will you be kind enough to ask him for me? I’ll have the prince brought over directly.” Rapha waved Malik toward Aris, then turned to Galaeron and Vala. “You can tell which mounts are yours? We’ll be leaving shortly.”
“We’ll be fine,” Vala said. “I banded a leg on each of ours.”
The precaution was not a frivolous one. The Shadovar’s flying mounts—veserabs—were odd, furless creatures that had no faces and uniform midnight-blue skin. With four spindly legs, fan-shaped ears, and a pair of gargoyle-like wings folded alongside their tubular bodies, they looked like an unfortunate cross between bats and earthworms. Once they impressed on a rider, their devotion was absolute—to the point that they would spit noxious fumes into the face of anyone else who tried to mount them.
Galaeron followed her down the draw until they found a trio of veserabs wearing copper bands on their legs. Vala pointed to one with a band on its right foreleg. Galaeron gave the wing joint a tentative squeeze and slipped a foot into the stirrup. The creature did not react until he lowered his full weight into the saddle, when—much to his relief—an undulation of pleasure ran down its long body.
A few moments later, Malik returned and climbed into his saddle, and Rapha signaled the departure. The veserabs charged down the wash until they gathered enough speed, then spread their wings and rose into the air in flawless formation. Many of the shadow lords were tied across their saddles, but only Escanor’s mount was riderless. The company had recovered all of its casualties and carried them through fifty twining Underdark miles back to the surface.
As they climbed out of the wash, a huge dome of darkness rose into view over their shoulders at Anauroch’s western edge. Even from a dozen miles into the desert, the barrier was immense, curving away high into the sky and stretching north and south as far as the eye could see. Through its black translucency, Galaeron could just make out the stacked crests of the foothills of the Desert Border South and, looming behind, the familiar crags of High Sharaedim itself. He could not help thinking of what lay beyond those peaks, the vale and city of Evereska—and his sister, Keya, safe within the city’s protective mythal. He knew better than to think that his warrior father had been lucky enough to survive his duties to return to her side, but Lord Aubric Nihmedu was as resourceful as he was brave, and there was no harm in praying it so.
Once the veserabs had ascended high enough to avoid being surprised by an attack from the ground, Aris rose into the air on an ancient Netherese flying disk. Though the bronze saucer was neither as swift nor as maneuverable as a veserab, it was capable of carrying not only the giant’s weight but also that of the wounded prince, his campaign tent, and Aris’s half-completed statue. Its one drawback was that Aris could not defend himself in an air battle. The disks had been designed as battle platforms for Netherese archwizards, not stone giant clerics.
As the company leveled off and fixed their course on the murky silhouette of Shade Enclave, the formation began to loosen, giving the veserabs room to relax and stretch their wings. The creatures did not fly so much as swim through the atmosphere, reaching forward to grab a piece of air, then pulling themselves past. The turbulence and slipstreams created by tight formations made it more difficult to stay aloft with this strange motion, so they usually divided into smaller groups and flew side by side when traveling long distances. Vala and Malik drew up on opposite sides of Galaeron, spacing themselves about thirty feet apart.
Even had they been close enough to speak comfortably, the pounding veserab wings would have made it impossible to hear. They continued toward the dusk with only their own thoughts for company, leaving it to their mounts to steer a course toward the enclave while they watched their assigned slice of sky. Though most of the phaerimm were trapped inside the shadowshell, their hosts of servants and slaves remained free and apt to attack at any time. Twice, Rapha dispatched fliers to chase down and slay asabi lizardmen lest they were scouting for a larger company, and once they themselves had to swing into the shadows beneath a long line of cliffs when Vala spied the flea-sized spheres of a distant beholder troop bobbing across the moon’s face.
Galaeron spent most of the trip brooding over the bitter words that had passed between him and Rapha. When they reached Shade Enclave, the lord clearly intended to blame him for what had befallen Escanor, and part of Galaeron even wondered if that could be justified. His shadow self was as insidious as it was dark, always working to make him see dishonorable motives in the actions of everyone around him, and for some time he had been growing angry about the hungry look in Escanor’s eyes whenever he addressed Vala. Was it possible that Galaeron had sent the phaerimm to Escanor not because he wanted to be certain of killing it, but because his shadow self wanted to see the prince harmed instead?
The thought sent a shiver down Galaeron’s spine, for it meant that the darkness had begun to invade his actions as well as his perceptions. The idea was driven from his mind as quickly as it had arrived, though. The prince had already killed one phaerimm and was about to slay the second, so it just seemed wisest to send him the third as well. Besides, if he really thought about it, Escanor deserved what had happened. Had he listened to Galaeron in the first place, the company would have been ready for the attack, and—
“No.”
Galaeron spoke the word aloud and, alarmed at how powerful his shadow was growing, shook his head clear. The rationalization had come so smoothly, felt so natural that he had almost accepted the reasoning as his own. He would have to speak with his friends about this as soon as they landed. Aris had suggested that the best way to combat the influence of his shadow self was to be completely open about what he was thinking and feeling and let the opinions of his friends guide him. So far—as long as he didn’t listen to Malik—the stone giant’s strategy had not only worked, it had kept Galaeron more or less in control of himself. It had also brought him closer to Vala than was probably wise, considering the fleeting and intense nature of human lives.
Galaeron’s thoughts came to an end when the veserabs let out a single high-pitched screech and abruptly started to climb. Night had fallen and it was so dark that he could see clearly no more than sixty feet in front of his face, but the light of the stars above was being blocked by Shade Enclave’s looming form. It was not long before a few bats from the growing colony on the enclave’s underside began to flit about their heads. Rapha called the company back into a tight formation, and the shadowy crags of a capsized mountaintop appeared over their heads. They circled the funnel-shaped peak in an ever-growing spiral, exchanging silent salutes with the jewel-eyed sentries watching from hidden nooks and crannies. Finally, they came to the Cave Gate, hidden in the deep shadows beneath a massive overhang and all but invisible even to Galaeron’s dark sight.
The veserabs climbed so close to the roof that the riders had to lean forward and press tight against the creatures’ fleshy backs. Then, one after the other, the veserabs gave short screeches, folded their wings tight against their bodies, and dived through a square of nothingness so dark that Galaeron could not tel
l it from the black gates themselves. He felt his sleeve brush against one edge of the wicket gate, then the air grew muggy and warm and he knew they had entered the vast Wing Court.
His mount spiraled downward into a dimly lit mezzanine area and landed in formation, six places behind Rapha and between Vala and Malik. Galaeron was astonished to see the Princes Rivalen, Brennus, and Lamorak standing at the head of the landing yard with a full company of shadow warriors.
Following the lead of Rapha and the rest of the Shadovar, Galaeron slipped off his veserab and kneeled on the floor, pressing his forehead to the cold stone. He cast an apprehensive glance in Vala’s direction and saw her looking at him just as nervously, but neither dared to speak the question on their minds.
When the rest of the riders had dismounted and assumed similar positions, Galaeron sensed the princes and their guards coming across the floor. There was no sound—no tramping feet or clinking armor, nor even the whisper of boots scuffing cold stone—only a growing sense of stillness and apprehension.
Finally, Prince Rivalen’s deep voice sounded not ten paces ahead. “Who is in command here?”
“I am,” answered Rapha’s quavering voice.
He stood and gasped softly, then described what had occurred at the underground lake, making clear what he had observed with his own eyes and what had been reported to him by others. When Rapha came to the attack on Prince Escanor, he took care to relay only the facts, though his acid tone made clear—at least to Galaeron—where he was trying to lay the blame. The shadow lord finished by reporting the successful completion of the Splicing and venturing the opinion that the phaerimm trapped within the Sharaedim would perish within a few months.
“And what of Escanor?” The voice that asked this was sibilant and pervasive, like a whisper echoing into the chamber from some distant passage. “Where is he now?”
“On the flying disk with the native giant,” Rapha reported.
Like Aris himself, the flying disk was too large for the wicket door that opened into the passage leading down to the Wing Court. The stone giant would have to wait outside the Cave Gate until it was opened, then land on the great Marshaling Plaza itself.
“Most High,” Prince Brennus said, “I’ll summon a healer and see to our brother.”
If there was a response, Galaeron did not hear it. The air grew chill and motionless, and he sensed someone standing above him.
“You are the one who held the phaerimm beside Escanor?” asked the same wispy voice that had spoken before.
Galaeron started to lift his head, then—after a hissed, “Are you mad?” from Malik—thought better of it and pressed his brow back to the floor.
“I am, Most High.”
“And you did this why?” The voice seemed more interested than angry.
“To prevent it from escaping with the secret of the shell.” Galaeron did not enjoy speaking to the floor, and he could not keep his irritation from creeping into his voice. “That was why the phaerimm were there, to learn how to defeat the shell so they could take Shade Enclave unawares later.”
“Truly? And how do you know this?”
“The same way I knew they were there in the first place,” Galaeron replied. “To tell the truth, I don’t understand myself. All I can say is that I knew.”
The voice remained silent.
“It just made sense,” Galaeron said, as confident that the voice desired further explanation as he was of his fate if he failed to provide it. “They had to know what we were doing, and they couldn’t allow that. They had to be planning something.”
“That explains why you held the phaerimm beside Escanor?” the voice said.
Galaeron started to agree, then realized that was not what the voice wanted. There was still a question to be answered.
“The prince had just killed one phaerimm,” Galaeron explained. “I thought it would be easy for him to kill another one, especially when it was teleport dazed.”
Again, the silence.
“The only other place to send it was at Vala,” Galaeron said. “I thought if it did kill someone, better Escanor than her.”
“Stupid elf!” Malik shrieked, forgetting himself and raising his head. “Think what you are saying, before you get—”
The objection ended with the dull thump of a halberd butt striking Malik’s cloth-swaddled head. Galaeron glanced over and found the little man sprawled unconscious but still breathing.
The voice asked, “You are struggling with your shadow, are you not, elf?”
“Losing, I think,” Galaeron said. This time, he needed only the hint of a silence before realizing that he was to continue. “Prince Escanor has been looking at Vala. I didn’t like it.”
“Ah.”
Galaeron felt the weight of Vala’s stare and tried to keep his eyes fixed on the floor, but the voice remained silent, and eventually he felt compelled to peer in her direction. He found her returning his gaze as best as she was able, a look of surprise and triumph in her emerald eyes.
“It is nothing to be concerned about.” The voice sounded amused. “Shadows are by nature unconquerable and unknowable. You can defeat them only by defeating yourself.”
More silence, but this time Galaeron did not feel compelled to speak. The air grew muggy and less still, and Galaeron felt as though he could dare breathe again.
When the voice spoke this time, it was farther away. “Hadhrune will see to it that you and your companions are lodged near the palace. If I am to avoid losing any more of my princes, it seems I must teach you how to live with your shadow.”
Uncertain of whether that was a good thing, but hoping it was, Galaeron started to raise his head—and felt the butt of a halberd on the back of his neck. He touched his head to the floor again.
The voice asked, “That will meet with your approval, will it not, elf?”
“Of course,” Galaeron said. His heart was pounding—whether with joy or fear remained to be seen, but definitely with excitement. “Thank you.”
Silence, heavy and expectant.
“And, of course, I’ll repay you any way I can.”
“Good, Galaeron,” said the voice. “Now we understand each other.”
Though the month of Tarsakh had nearly passed and the Greengrass festival was fast approaching in Waterdeep, a fierce blizzard was roaring in from the east, battering the window panes with its angry winds and dropping more snow on a city already buried to the doorknockers. Nor was this the wet slosh that blew in from the sea early every Greening. This was needle-snow, tiny spears of ice crystals formed over the High Ice and swept across the continent in howling walls of frostbite.
There was no prospect of it melting any time soon. Melting required warm breezes and bright sun, and the closest thing to either that Waterdeep had seen in three months was the steady flow of pearl-colored storm clouds sweeping across the sky. Matters had grown so bad that the city guard had covered the frozen harbor in mountains of excess snow, the woodcutters were finding it impossible to keep smoke in the city’s chimneys, and the area farmers had yet to till their frozen fields. In short, Waterdeep was facing a natural disaster of the worst proportions, which was what made the news Prince Aglarel brought so fortuitous—suspiciously so, at least to anyone who knew how such things worked.
The Shadovar stood before Piergeiron Paladinson and seven of the Masked Lords of Waterdeep, his eyes glowing silver and his ceremonial fangs flashing white as he addressed the imposing assembly in the marble-walled majesty of the palace’s Court Hall. In addition to Piergeiron and the Masked Lords, the gathering included the Silverhand sisters Storm and Laeral, Lord Tereal Dyndaryl from the isle of Evermeet, Lord Gervas Imesfor of Evereska, and the inevitable host of gawkers that could be expected whenever such a group of dignitaries came together.
If Aglarel was aware of the power and influence of those whom he addressed, his easy manner and confident voice betrayed no sign of the knowledge. Huge and dark, with a blocky face and long ebony hair, he wo
re a flowing black cape and purple tabard that almost gave him the appearance of floating as he strode back and forth behind the podium, now and again emphasizing a point by stabbing the air with a black talon that looked more like a shard of obsidian than a human fingernail.
“The Sharaedim has become the prison of the phaerimm,” the prince was saying. “Now that my people have completed the shadowshell, the wisest thing to do is to wait and let it do its work.”
“Wisest for you humans, perhaps,” said Lord Imesfor. Though a powerful, well-respected lord in Evereska, he was a withered and disheartened husk of an elf whose fingers had been so badly mangled by a group of phaerimm captors that he could barely dress himself, much less cast a spell. “What of the elves still trapped in Evereska? What of our lands?”
“The enemy has already ravaged your lands. The shell will do nothing to change that,” Aglarel answered. “As for your elves besieged in Evereska, we can only hope we reach them before the phaerimm do.”
“We will reach no one hiding behind this shadowshell of yours,” Tereal Dyndaryl said. Relatively tall for even a Gold elf, he had a gaunt face that made his already sour countenance seem absolutely bitter. “We don’t have time to starve the phaerimm out. We must carry the fight to them!”
“You know how to do that, Lord Dyndaryl?” Aglarel asked. Considering the accusatory tone Dyndaryl had employed, the prince’s voice remained surprisingly cordial. “If the elves have a faster way to defeat the phaerimm, the Shadovar are eager to help.”
Dyndaryl’s flaxen cheeks darkened to amber. “We are working on a few ideas, but nothing I can share at the moment.”
“When the time comes, then,” Aglarel said, without a trace of disbelief. “For now, the shell remains our best choice. Please advise your commanders to give it a wide berth. Those coming into contact with it will lose whatever touches it, and anyone using Mystra’s magic on it will accomplish nothing and may well regret the results.”
The Siege Page 3