by Monte Cook
“All right, Tyveris,” she said sternly, “I defy you to finish off a third platter.”
The bespectacled monk looked up from his pewter plate and grinned. Tyveris had managed to steal away from his duties in the High Tower for the evening. “Well now, that’s a challenge I really can’t refuse,” the big Chultan said with a laugh. He picked up a sticky honey roll in each hand and promptly began to devour the entire platter as Estah watched with a mixture of chagrin and amazement. The battle between Estah’s cooking ability and Tyveris’s appetite had been going on for a decade now, with little indication of a truce in sight.
Booming laughter rang out. The others turned in surprise. It was Caledan.
As always these days, he had sat quietly at the end of the table nearest the fire, neatly clad in his slate blue tunic with a fine wool blanket around his shoulders. Now he was laughing. The others stared in amazement. Since they had returned from their journey over a month ago, Caledan had smiled often enough, but he had not laughed once. Now he was laughing so hard his shoulders shook.
Abruptly, his laughter turned into coughing that racked his body. As one, the others leapt from their chairs. Mari and Ferret were first to Caledan’s side. They eased him back in his chair, and Estah hurriedly brought a steaming cup of herb tea. Caledan managed to gulp some down, and his coughing ceased. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth, and it came away with a smear of blood. The others looked on in concern.
“I’ve spoiled the fun,” he said huskily. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Mari said fiercely.
He gave her a grateful look, then testily waved her and the others away. “I’m all right. Really. Now, don’t we have a celebration to get ready for?” After that, the merriment continued, though more subdued than before.
At last it grew late. Estah and Jolle went upstairs to put Pog and Nog to bed. Tyveris bid his farewell, followed by Ferret, Jewel, and Cormik. All of them promised to return tomorrow for the Midwinter feast, then departed into the snowy night. Mari, Morhion, and Caledan remained at the table, bathed in the glow of the fire.
“So what will you two do, now that you are no longer Harpers?” Morhion asked after a while.
Caledan shrugged. “I suppose, when I’m well enough, I’ll think of something. After all, I had seven years to practice not being a Harper. It won’t be that big a switch … for me.” His eyes flickered toward Mari.
Mari took a deep breath. “Ever since I was a child, I wanted to be a Harper like my guardian, Master Andros. When I finally donned the moon-and-harp badge, it was like a dream come true.” She shook her head sadly. “But that’s what it was. A dream. I thought I loved the Harpers. I didn’t. It was an ideal I loved. Still, after all we’ve been through, I don’t hate the Harpers. How can I? They are simply men, mortal and fallible. Just like the rest of us.” She gave a wry smile. “Besides, they’ve kindly decided to leave us alone.”
“So what will you do?” Morhion repeated intently.
She tossed her auburn hair, winking at the mage. “Oh, like Caledan, I’ll think of something. The ideal remains. And the Harpers hardly have a monopoly on fighting evil in the world.”
After that, they sat together in silence. Finally Mari stood. “I’m going to turn in.” She moved to the staircase, then paused to cast a glance over her shoulder. With a start, Morhion realized that her gaze fell, not on Caledan, but on himself. The shadow of a smile curled about her lips. Then Mari disappeared upstairs.
“You love her, don’t you, mage?”
Morhion stared at Caledan in shock.
“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” Caledan growled. “I’m an invalid, not an idiot. I’m right, aren’t I?”
At last, Morhion’s cool expression melted. He nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” He shook his head. “But what does it matter? It is a mage’s lot to—”
“—to dwell in solitude,” Caledan finished in annoyance. “Yes, yes. I’ve heard you spout that foolishness a hundred times.” He sighed in exasperation. “You know, for all your knowledge, you mages can be pretty bone-headed sometimes.” A gentle note crept into his gruff voice. “She cares for you Morhion. Even if you can’t see it, I can.”
Morhion opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.
“And she’s afraid,” Caledan went on sadly. “She’s put a brave face on it, but it’s true. Mari has just given up everything that was ever important to her. She’s afraid—and she’s lonely.” He reached out to grip Morhion’s hand. “Don’t you think you should go talk to her, my friend?”
At last Morhion nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For everything.” With that, the mage stood and disappeared up the stairs.
For a time, Caledan sat by himself in the light of the dying fire, a bemused expression on face. Suddenly a shudder passed through his body, and he doubled over in his chair. He clutched his chest, stifling a moan of pain. Despite all Estah’s efforts, the wound on Caledan’s chest had not healed. Nor would it ever.
Kellen rose from his corner and moved into the firelight. Caledan looked up in surprise. “Kellen,” he gasped hoarsely, trying valiantly to mask his pain. “I didn’t know you were still there.”
“We should go to bed,” Kellen said simply.
Caledan nodded. Weakly, he tried to rise from his chair but slumped back down. Kellen gripped Caledan’s arm and draped it around his shoulder.
“You can lean on me, Father.”
“Thank you, Kellen,” Caledan whispered gratefully. “You’re a good son.”
Later, Kellen sat on the bed in his attic chamber, bathed in the light of a single candle. Before him was a small iron box. Morhion said that iron blocked magic, which made it useful for storing enchanted objects, Carefully, Kellen opened the box. Inside were two things. The first was the set of obsidian pipes. The second was the Shadowstar.
Lightly, he ran a finger over the star-shaped medallion. The Shadowstar itself was not evil. It had been forged by the god Gond for Azuth, the High One, as a weapon against evil. Still, when he touched the medallion, Kellen could feel a distant, menacing presence. The shadevari.
If Kellen listened, he could hear the ancient beings, shrilly demanding that he release them from their bondage. However, he did not have to listen if he did not want to. All he had to do was concentrate, and the shrieking voices of the shadevari fell silent in his mind, though they did make the symbol of magic on his left palm itch fiercely.
Kellen knew this was what made him different from all the others who had come before him—all the others with shadow magic. They hadn’t been able to silence the voices of the shadevari when they touched the Shadowstar. That was why both Verraketh and Caledan had become shadowkings. Now Kellen was the last person in the world with shadow magic, and he could shut out the shadevari whenever he wanted. There would never be another shadowking. Still, Kellen sensed a great potential within the Shadowstar. Something told him its work was not done. Not yet.
Kellen shut the box and placed it in the wooden trunk where he kept his treasures. From the trunk he drew out the bone flute his father had carved for him. He raised the instrument to his lips and played a quiet song. On the wall, the shadows cast by the flickering candle swirled and danced. Kellen concentrated. Though he could easily summon shadows of the past, no matter how hard he tried, he could never seem to conjure shadows of the future. At last, Kellen gave up and lowered the flute. It was time for sleep. He gave the shadows on the wall one last curious glance.
Then he blew out the candle.
About the Author
Mark Anthony likes to think of himself as one of TSR’s more versatile authors. He’s ventured into the forests of Krynn (with Ellen Porath in Kindred Spirits), explored the underworld of Toril (in Crypt of the Shadowking), and found himself lost in the mists of RAVENLOFT® (in Tower of Doom). Curse of the Shadowmage marks his return journey to the FORGOTTEN REALMS® world, which is fortunate since he left some things behind last time he was there.
Mark lives in Colorado.
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