The Siege

by Denning, Troy

  “And why would that be?” demanded Storm Silverhand.

  A striking, silver-tressed woman who stood more than six feet tall, Storm was garbed in form-fitting leather armor and armed for battle. Though she lived half a continent away and had arrived at the meeting uninvited, Piergeiron had nevertheless welcomed her attendance. When dealing with one of Mystra’s Chosen, it was usually the wise thing to do.

  “No one here cares for your Shadovar threats,” added Storm.

  “You misunderstand, Lady Silverhand,” Aglarel said. He probably meant his smile to seem forbearing, but the line of fang tips hanging down behind his black lip made it look rather more sinister. “The Shadovar are not threatening anyone. I am merely informing Lords Piergeiron and Dyndaryl of the shell’s dangers.”

  What are those dangers? whispered Deliah the White, one of the Masked Lords of Waterdeep. Like the other masked lords, her identity was concealed beneath a magic cloak, helm, and mask, and her words could be heard only by Piergeiron and her fellows on the council. Knowing of these dangers does us little good unless we also know what they are.

  “What, exactly, is the nature of these dangers?” Piergeiron asked. As the Open Lord, it was his duty to serve as the council’s common face and speak for the others in public. “It does us little good to know of them without knowing what they are.”

  Aglarel cast a meaningful glance over his shoulder at the gawkers in the public gallery. “It wouldn’t be wise to reveal the shadowshell’s nature at present,” he said. “Suffice it to say that we all know what happened when a mere Tomb Guard’s magic hit a shadow spell.”

  Along with Deliah the White and several others, Piergeiron found himself nodding. This whole mess had started when a patrol of Evereskan Tomb Guards interrupted a rendezvous between a powerful Shadovar wizard and what the elves took to be a company of human tomb robbers. A phaerimm had been drawn to the sound of the resulting turmoil, and during the terrible battle that followed, the patrol leader’s Weave-based magic had clashed with the Shadovar’s shadow-based magic. Nobody really understood what had happened next, except that the result had torn a hole in the mystic barrier that had kept the phaerimm imprisoned beneath Anauroch for over fifteen hundred years.

  After allowing his audience a moment to contemplate his words, Aglarel continued, “Can you imagine the consequences if that spell had been loosed by one of Waterdeep’s battle wizards?” He glanced at Gervas Imesfor. “Or perhaps a high mage from Evereska?”

  “There is no need to imagine,” Storm said darkly. “We all know what happened at Shadowdale—which is why I am finding your concern for our welfare so difficult to believe now.”

  “What happened at Shadowdale was a misunderstanding,” Aglarel countered, “and it was your attack that opened the Hell breach. We lost one of our own to it as well.”

  “A small price to be rid of Elminster,” Storm spat.

  “That was never our intention,” Aglarel said. “Rivalen and the others were there to talk—”

  “Perhaps you forget that I was there, Prince,” Storm warned. “I saw what your brothers did.”

  Before the lightning that flashed in her eyes became bolts flying from her fingers, Piergeiron raised a hand and said, “As concerned as we all are about Elminster’s fate, that is not the matter before this council.”

  He could not allow Storm to turn this discussion into a quarrel over who had caused Elminster’s disappearance. The argument was a sore one, and growing more so since the Simbul had turned up missing as well. There were some who suggested she had already recovered Elminster and spirited him off to some other dimension to recuperate. But Storm insisted on holding the Shadovar responsible for Elminster’s continued absence, and she never missed an opportunity to rebuke them over the matter.

  Piergeiron did not know what to believe—he had heard convincing evidence that supported both sides—and it really didn’t matter to him. His only goal was to keep the matter from erupting into a full-blown magic duel anywhere within a hundred leagues of Waterdeep—much less within the walls of his own palace.

  He locked gazes with Storm and said, “Whatever happened that day in Shadowdale, the last thing Evereska—or Faerûn itself—needs is war with the Shadovar, too.”

  “Whatever happened?” Storm fumed. “I have told you what happened! The Shadovar are as bad as the—”

  “Come now, Sister,” Laeral said. Almost as tall as Storm, she had the same silver hair but emerald eyes instead of blue. “Exaggeration serves no one, and I have seen for myself what the Shadovar can do against the phaerimm. We need all the help they can provide.”

  “Help from a nest of vipers will prove poison in the end,” Storm retorted.

  “We are asking for no more than was Netheril’s in the days of our fathers,” Aglarel said. “Leave us to Anauroch, and no one on Faerûn need fear Shade Enclave.”

  “Anauroch is not Waterdeep’s to grant or deny,” Piergeiron said, trying to guide the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Just as Evereska is not the Shadovar’s to quarantine.”

  “I could not agree with you more, Lord Piergeiron,” Aglarel replied. “Which is only one of the reasons we should establish a coordinating council. I’m sure we can all agree that it would be in Evereska’s best interest if our nations shared in the responsibility of making these sorts of decisions.”

  “A magnanimous gesture, Prince Aglarel, considering that the Shadovar have dealt the phaerimm the few losses they have suffered in this war,” Laeral said warmly. She knew whereof she spoke; her beloved Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun had vanished during a battle early in the war, and she was spending much of her time at the front trying to determine what had become of him. “I am certain Lord Imesfor would welcome such a council.”

  Before the elf could voice his approval or disapproval, Storm asked, “Who would lead this council? The Shadovar?”

  Aglarel nodded without hesitation. “For now,” he said, “it appears we are best equipped to assume that duty.”

  When dragons kneel before halflings! scoffed Brian the Swordmaster. As one of the Masked Lords of Waterdeep, his words came to Piergeiron as a barely audible whisper. They’re trying to take control of the war zone.

  Aglarel cast a brief glance in Brian’s direction, then looked back to Piergeiron and said, “If the Lords of Waterdeep find our leadership uncomfortable, we would not be adverse to naming Lord Imesfor master of the council. It is, after all, his home that is in peril.”

  Piergeiron was almost too astonished to reply. The discussions between the masked lords were shielded by the same magic that protected their identities, yet Aglarel had plainly heard what Brian had said.

  “The lords will discuss the council you propose later—in private,” Piergeiron said, “but we do appreciate your suggestion.”

  Many of the spectators in the hall would be mystified as to why he did not immediately agree to name Lord Imesfor the council leader, but they had not seen how the elf trembled at the slightest sound or heard the screams that echoed through the palace halls whenever he retired to his room to attempt the Reverie. Gervas Imesfor was in no condition to lead a horse, much less a political and military alliance of this magnitude. Piergeiron felt quite certain that Aglarel had known that when he proposed it.

  I’m sure our deliberations would be more meaningful if we knew more about the nature of the shadowshell, Deliah said, still pressing for details. Like nearly every respectable wizard on Faerûn, she seemed more alarmed by the Shadovar’s mysterious magic than by the evil of the phaerimm. If the prince is concerned about spies, perhaps we could meet later—

  “I am at liberty to reveal the nature of the shell only to our declared allies,” Aglarel said, drawing an audible gasp from three of the lords who had not previously realized he was listening in on their private conversations. “However, it is difficult to predict how the phaerimm will respond. It really would be better to establish the coordinating council at once.”

  �
�You have doubts that the shell will hold?” Lord Dyndaryl asked.

  “Not at all. The shell will hold.” Aglarel deliberately looked at Imesfor and said, “It is Evereska we are concerned about. We do not understand the mythal well enough to know how long it can withstand a sustained assault.”

  “It’s still up?” The relief in Imesfor’s voice was obvious. “You know that?”

  The phaerimm had enclosed the entire Sharaedim within a magic deadwall that prevented any sort of travel to or communication with Evereska, and he was not the only one in the room who had been wondering if the city was still in elf hands.

  Aglarel hesitated a moment, then gave a nod so slight it was barely perceptible.

  “Thank Corellon!” Imesfor gasped.

  “Then you are in contact with the city?” It was Laeral Silverhand who asked this. “Do you know if Khelben is there?”

  Aglarel looked away. “Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to answer your questions, Lady Silverhand.” He managed to sound genuinely apologetic. “That information would be available only to our allies.”

  “To your allies!” Laeral fumed. “Who do you think has been fighting at your side—”

  “Were the choice mine, Lady Silverhand, I would tell you,” he said. “Your contributions have not gone unnoticed by our Most High, but your allegiance is obviously to Waterdeep, and Waterdeep has not declared itself our ally.”

  Nor are we like to, said Brian. Waterdeep won’t yield to strong-arm tactics. Never!

  Aglarel looked directly at Brian. “This isn’t strong-arming. How many of its secrets would Waterdeep reveal to a city that refuses to call itself an ally?”

  “We are not asking for any of your secrets,” Laeral said, straining to sound patient. “Only the simple courtesy of—”

  “The Shadovar are showing you every courtesy, Lady Silverhand,” Aglarel said. “That is what I’m doing here. It is Waterdeep that is being discourteous, that receives information given in good faith with suspicion, that rebukes our offer of friendship with high-handed accusations of coercion, that allows a visitor under its palace roof to call Shade Enclave a den of liars and vipers.”

  Aglarel allowed his gaze to linger on Storm Silverhand for a moment, then looked back to Piergeiron. “You have been advised of the shadowshell’s danger. It is not our intent to interfere with any of your own missions. Should any of your forces wish to pass through, we will be happy to send an escort along to make that possible.”

  The arrogant devils! Brian ranted, either forgetting or ignoring the fact that the prince could obviously hear every word. They’re claiming control of the war zone whether we like it or not!

  Aglarel shot a glance in Brian’s direction but chose to ignore the outburst. “While we regret that it will not be possible to coordinate our efforts, Shade Enclave does thank you for this audience.”

  The Shadovar bowed deeply, then turned toward the door to leave. Though Piergeiron could feel the gazes of the elves and the Silverhand sisters burning into his brow, it was what he knew his fellow lords were leaving unsaid that weighed most heavily on his mind. As usual, Brian the Swordmaster had cut straight to the heart of the matter. Whether Waterdeep and the elves liked it or not, the Shadovar had taken control of the war zone. What Piergeiron didn’t understand was why they had bothered to send an envoy to announce an already obvious fact. Were they really hoping to establish an alliance, or was there something more, something broader and more nefarious?

  There was only one way to find out. Piergeiron drew himself up to his full height, then called, “Prince Aglarel!”

  To his credit, Aglarel looked properly shocked as he stopped and turned. “Yes, Lord Paladinson?”

  “I did not dismiss you.”

  The prince looked as though he were biting a smile back. “Of course.” He inclined his head. “I apologize.”

  Piergeiron resisted the temptation to let the Shadovar remain in the deferential position. The point had been made.

  “Prince Aglarel, Waterdeep has not rejected your offer.”

  This seemed to catch the prince by surprise. “Then you have accepted it?”

  “As I said earlier, the lords will discuss the matter later.”

  “That is the same as rejecting it,” Aglarel said. “As I said earlier, the council needs to be established at once.”

  “Then you must be expecting something to happen soon,” Piergeiron said. “Perhaps Waterdeep and Evereska should withdraw our armies.”

  Finally, Aglarel’s silver eyes flashed in surprise. “Withdraw?”

  “At once,” Piergeiron confirmed. “We certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with your city’s plans.”

  Aglarel considered this for a moment, then lowered his gaze. “It is not our intention to drive you from the field,” he said. “Let me consult with the enclave.”

  Piergeiron smiled. “Of course.” He dismissed the prince with a gracious wave. “Take all the time you need. We will.”

  “Yes,” Aglarel said, “I am quite sure you will.”

  The prince returned the Open Lord’s smile, then bowed again and, with a courteous flourish of his dark cape, turned to leave.

  CHAPTER THREE

  9 Mirtul, the Year of Wild Magic

  As with so much of Shade Enclave, Villa Dusari struck Galaeron as a monument to the allure of darkness and beauty half-glimpsed. The gates opened into a round courtyard paved in gray pearl—not stone exactly, but not quite glass either. In the center, a small fountain stood bubbling water into a black pool. The colonnade ringing the enclosure was deep and shadowed, with nine arched doorways opening like cave mouths into the house interior. In front of each pillar lay one of the precious urns wealthy Shadovar used for decoration, a hole knocked in one side to let the magic shadow spray gurgle out in a formless knob.

  “A pity,” rumbled Aris. The gate had no lintel, so the stone giant had no need to stoop as he stepped into the court. He kneeled and gingerly pinched one of the urns between his thumb and forefinger. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “A sign of mourning,” explained their guide, Hadrhune. A slender man dressed in a flowing black robe, he was swaddled in so much shadow magic that at times he seemed to vanish into his own umbral aura. He used the black staff in his hand to point at the half-completed statue beneath Aris’s arm and said, “Your work is of suitable quality that no one would object if you replaced them with your own sculptures.”

  The giant nodded. “It would be my privilege.”

  “Indeed, it is always a guest’s privilege to increase the wealth of his host with treasures of art,” Malik said. He sat on the rim of the central basin and drew a disapproving frown from Hadrhune by using his hands to scoop water into his mouth. “May it please you to stay at my house sometime … when the One allows me the funds to purchase one.”

  “Until then, it is the hope of the Most High that you will find this one adequate,” Hadrhune said. He took the dipper from its hook and pointedly offered it to Malik. “Consider it your home.”

  “Indeed?” Ignoring the dipper, Malik wiped his hands on his tunic and studied the courtyard with an appraising eye. “This is a little cramped for Kelda, but—”

  “I am afraid your horse must remain in the stables,” Hadrhune sniffed. He turned to Aris and waved his staff around the courtyard. “This is to be Aris’s quarters. Will it do? We can have a roof erected, but space so near the palace is at a premium. Outside of the Grand Hall itself, no building in the area is large enough for you.”

  “I have no need for a roof, thank you.” Aris studied the area with a growing look of discomfort, then tried to hide his disappointment and said, “There is room enough for me to sleep.”

  “Do not fear, my large friend,” Hadrhune said. “Sleep is all you need do here. The Most High has declared that you may keep your workshop in the goodshouse where you have been staying. He was quite taken with your depiction of Escanor’s fight.”

  This actually drew a smile from the
grim giant. “Then he shall have it when I finish.”

  “Aris will fill the city with his work, if you let him,” Galaeron said, stepping to Hadrhune’s side. “When am I to begin my lessons with the Most High?”

  Hadrhune ran a black thumbnail along a deeply worn groove near the head of his staff. “I thought you would first wish to make yourself comfortable in your new home.”

  “It took you a tenday to find this place,” Galaeron said. “I have no time to waste.”

  “The Most High has been occupied with the war.” Hadrhune’s amber eyes were burning. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “What I understand is that he said he would teach me to control my shadow,” Galaeron said, “and that you turn me away every time I present myself.”

  Hadrhune’s staff rose as though he might strike Galaeron, who felt Vala’s hand clamped around his forearm.

  “Galaeron, get a hold of yourself!” She dug her fingers into the underside of his wrist and twisted, forcing him to open his hand and release the hilt he had not realized he was grasping. “If he doesn’t want you seeing the Most High, drawing your sword would be just the excuse he needs to see you never do.”

  Hadrhune gave Vala a thin smile. “I do want him to learn from the Most High,” he said. “We all do.”

  Moving more slowly, he waved his staff over their heads and aimed the tip at the gate, where a dark-haired woman dressed in the robe and veil of the Bedine desert people was attempting to sneak into the courtyard. Judging by her kohl-rimmed eyes—all Galaeron could see of her—she was a little older than Vala and not quite as swarthy as the Shadovar.

  “You there,” Hadrhune said. “Do you know what we do with thieves in this city?”

  The hint of a cringe flashed across the woman’s eyes, then she drew herself up straight. “From all I can tell, you harbor them.” She spoke Common without a trace of Bedine accent. She locked gazes with Hadrhune and crossed the courtyard, a silver harp-and-moon pinned to her collar growing visible as she drew near. “I am searching for one rumored to keep company with these people.”