Cloak of Shadows

by Greenwood, Ed

  This Shadowmaster spread his other hands in an “I mean no harm” gesture and came up a step.

  “Keep your distance,” Sharantyr told him, breathing heavily, her eyes afire. The sword in her hand pulsed once, warningly.

  “Of course,” the Shadowmaster said. “But please believe me, all of you. I mean you no harm. I see that you’re mortals and may be unaware of our ways here in the Castle of Shadows. Be advised: This kin you slew—Phenanjar by name, if you’re interested—was long a foe of mine. You have done me great good by his removal, and I regard you as friends.” He advanced another step. “I would be pleased if you looked upon me as a friend, too.”

  Shar moved her blade menacingly, and the Malaugrym sighed. “Lady, please! Have I threatened you? Do you look upon every man you meet on a stair, here or in fair Waterdeep or in any inn of the Dalelands, as a foe to be cut down rather than spoken to? This place”—he waved at the mists around—“is, after all, my home. May I not walk its halls freely? I was, in fact, returning to my own chambers, and I’d be happy if you’d accompany me there as honored guests.”

  “Guests?” Itharr asked quietly, his voice neutral.

  The young man smiled pleasantly. “Guests. Here in the castle, that means you are free to come and go as you please, but are under my protection and not to be mistreated by”—his gaze fell to the still-burning Phenanjar at his feet—“those of us with, ah, careless tempers.”

  “Are you adept in magic?” Belkram asked.

  The Malaugrym smiled. “Hardly. That has been my undoing, thus far. Yes, I work at magic and can hold my own in most company, but not here in the castle. You three need not fear my spells. They are not suited for smiting enemies low or hurling stones about in battle. Come. Be my guests. Learn what one of the blood of Malaug is truly like.”

  He met Sharantyr’s hard gaze and shrugged. “You are suspicious of me, of course. Well, then, accompany me for as long as you like, and we’ll part when you choose. Of course, thereafter I cannot speak for your presence and purposes in the castle, and some of my kin will seek to slay you on sight.”

  “We shall accompany you, sir,” Sharantyr said with a smile that touched her lips but not her eyes. “Walk ahead of me, if you will, but my blade will stay in my hand.”

  “I would not have it put anywhere else, good lady!” he joked, and stepped smoothly past her, inviting the wary Harpers to fall in beside him with a gesture. “I am Amdramnar, son of Chasra, by the way. And you are—?”

  “Hungry,” Itharr said with a beatific smile. “And he’s”—he indicated Belkram, striding along on the Shadowmaster’s other flank—“very hungry.”

  The Malaugrym chuckled. “I … see.” He looked over his shoulder at Sharantyr, who was walking warily just behind him. “Are they always like this, good lady?”

  “No,” she replied calmly, a twinkle deep in her watchful eyes, “they’re on their best behavior just now.”

  * * * * *

  “Alja! Did you hear?”

  “Something about Phenanjar being killed, aye? So who finally got tired of him?”

  “Mortals did it, they’re saying. Folk from Faerûn!”

  “What? How did they get into the castle?”

  “Talk is it’s some plot of Amdramnar’s. He’s parading around the halls with them now, three of them, and the wench has a blade that burns when it cuts. That’s what killed Phenanjar … he couldn’t heal.”

  “Really? I’ll bet there’s more than a few kin Amdramnar would like to see her put that sword through. He gathers enemies the way you and I collect good gossip!”

  “Aye, that’s for—whaaaa?”

  A startled, wordless exclamation followed, and then all that could be heard in that lonely hallway was the hissing of burnt flesh and a chuckle as Old Elminster’s head passed over two blazing bodies and flew on, deeper into the shadows.

  16

  The Unbidden Guest Knows Not Where to Sit

  The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 19

  The Malaugrym led them a long and winding way through the castle, through rooms that swam with shadows and rooms where the air was as clear—and as dank—as any they’d seen in a Faerûnian keep. After a time, their route led down and down again, into a many-galleried chamber thick with shadows. As they walked its muffled gloom, Belkram ventured to ask, “What room is this?”

  “Some call it the Well of Shadows,” the Malaugrym told him without hesitation, “but to most of us—I don’t know why—it’s Deep-pool. There’s no actual pool of water here, just shadows, always as thick as you see. Some elders call this the heart of all Shadowhome.”

  The three rangers could well believe it. They moved in close around Amdramnar to ensure they wouldn’t get separated. It would be a terrible thing to wander here, lost and alone.

  It was an eerie place. Night dark and tinged with purple, the tattered shadows slid past, shaping eyeless faces, prancing unicorns, and trees whose whispering leaves were human hands, all grasping and grabbing.

  Sharantyr shuddered, shifted the saddlebag on her shoulder, and hefted the comforting weight of the blade Mystra had given her. Its glow was dull here, and moisture clouded its steely length. More than once she turned it sharply behind her to menace the unseen source of some half-heard sound—a slithering or the thuds of monstrous footfalls—but there was never anything visible through the endlessly boiling mists.

  Shadows. Just what were they, anyway?

  “Amdramnar,” she said carefully, almost stumbling over the unfamiliar name, “what are these shadows? You speak of them almost with reverence.”

  “Not here,” the Shadowmaster replied quickly. “We’ll talk of this in my chambers. It’s no secret that some of my kin believe that only two sorts of beings should know the ways of shadow—those of the blood of Malaug … and the dead.”

  An old and ornate stair post of black stone loomed up out of the mists, and beyond it a flight of steps climbed an unseen wall. They ascended, Shar grimacing at the carvings on the post as she passed. It was ringed with chained human maidens, bodies bare and mouths open in endless silent wails of despair. The stair itself seemed to moan as they trod its worn, mist-shrouded steps. From time to time, a step would glow with awakened magical light as they stepped on it. Uneasily the three companions went on, wondering just when their guide’s treachery would come, and what fatal form it would take.

  “What’s that?” Itharr snapped, at a sudden movement on the stair ahead. Beads of light swam out of the shadows like a string of little lanterns, slid across their path, and plunged over the stair rail into the shadows of the Well. They watched the glimmering radiances plunge into the falling darkness where the dreamshadows spun—and then burst, one by one.

  “Just shadow at play,” Amdramnar said with a shrug. “There are a lot of things around here that even our elders can’t explain. The shadows are alive, you see.”

  * * * * *

  Blackstaff Tower, Waterdeep, Kythorn 19

  “Alustriel’s back chambers first, my tower next. It certainly seems as if the Malaugrym are visiting Chosen.”

  Elminster frowned at the Lord Mage of Waterdeep, and they stroked their beards in unison. Laeral stifled a giggle at the sight.

  “Aye, so much is obvious,” the Old Mage agreed slowly, “but why have they sent such young dolts? Zhentarim may test their younglings in order to kill them off, but not everyone is that stupid. Why plan for almost inescapable failure?”

  “Perhaps they’re not testing the Malaugrym, but something else,” Laeral offered. “Something they mistrust, so they’ll risk only the young—and enthusiastic—to try it. That would square with what befell me.”

  Khelben and Elminster turned their heads and lifted an eyebrow each, in perfect unison. Laeral managed not even to smile this time.

  “Befell you?” Khelben prompted, which was unusual impatience for him. Beneath that calm gravity, he must be excited.

  “I could not see who attacked us, until the wild magic broke
over them,” Laeral reminded him gently. “The spell attack, yes, but it seemed to be born from empty air, not a foe. What I could see of the bedchamber beyond the doorway seemed empty, and the body of the Malaugrym should have blocked all view of the bedchamber from me.”

  “A cloaking magic, then,” Elminster said, nodding. “They’re testing something that hides them from us.”

  “And only us,” Laeral added. “The ’prentices could see the Malaugrym normally. Poor Ushard may just have been distracted.”

  “His attention was permanently elsewhere,” Khelben said darkly.

  “It certainly is now,” Elminster agreed, his lips twisting into a mirthless smile. “Servants and guards readily saw the Malaugrym who got into the palace in Silverymoon, too. So this cloak is set against as—the Chosen. The ‘how’ we can wonder about later, and the answer to ‘why now’ is almost certainly to take advantage of chaos across the Realms, so guards won’t be guarding and watchers not watching—”

  “And great power walks the land for those who can devise some way of taking it,” Laeral reminded them.

  Khelben looked at her. “I doubt I’m archmage enough to tear divine powers from an avatar, master them, and hold on to them—and most of the Malaugrym aren’t half the wizards we are.”

  “Ah, but we’re not half the arrogant dancing idiots they are,” Elminster told him, a bleak smile growing on his face. “That’s what they’ll be after, all right, the ambitious ones. The older, craftier ones will probably settle for sliding into Faerûn and taking over a kingdom here and a region there, by slaying kings and envoys and taking their shapes, using this cloak to hide themselves from our prying eyes.”

  “They might have picked a quieter time in the Realms,” Khelben said grimly.

  “But they did not, love, and ’twas ever thus,” Laeral replied quietly, “and you know it.”

  “Yes,” Khelben growled, getting to his feet. Floating in the air across the chamber, the nearest of his blackstaves moaned in sympathy. He glanced at its pattern of winking lights to be sure that nothing was amiss and then looked down at Elminster. “If that cloak works,” he growled, “they’ll be able to hide from us with impunity. They’ll come after us to slay us, one by one and time after time, until Tymora smiles upon them. We’ve got to find out just who knows how to raise the cloak, and destroy them and all their work so that no clever Malaugrym or other foe coming along later can craft other cloaks.”

  “It’s not the best season for touring the Castle of Shadows,” Elminster murmured with the beginnings of a smile on his face, “but I may already have eyes and ears—if not much else—there.”

  Laeral gave him a look. “I’d not call those Harpers and the lady Knight of yours little more than eyes and ears,” she said reprovingly.

  “Nor would I,” Elminster agreed. “I meant something else.”

  Khelben gave him a look of failing patience and asked, “What, O grand and mysterious one?”

  “Well, ’tis often said ye must get a head in this world …” Elminster began innocently. Laeral, who knew what was coming, nudged his ribs with one shapely boot and groaned.

  * * * * *

  The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 19

  “Wine?” Amdramnar held out the slim, fluted bottle, but three heads were shaking firmly.

  “No, thank you,” Shar said calmly, her fingers laced about the hilt of her still-drawn sword as she sat with its point grounded on her boot. “We’re not thirsty.”

  The Malaugrym half-smiled. “Inform me when that situation changes, please,” he said smoothly, as a velvet-shrouded seat glided up out of the floor behind him. “I can assure you that whatever I offer will be safe to consume.”

  He poured himself a glass and sat, adding, “Hard as you may find it to believe, trust is something that can grow between us.”

  “Well, then,” Belkram said, a trifle less smoothly, leaning forward in his seat, “perhaps we can begin by trading information.”

  “An excellent idea,” the Malaugrym said, growing another hand. As they watched, fascinated—for it looked identical to his other limbs and to their own—it deftly took his wineglass, leaving his other hands free to gesture. “Pray state what it is you’d like to know, and what you offer in trade for it.”

  “Who and what the Malaugrym are,” Itharr said calmly, “and what your folk intend to do in the—in Faerûn.”

  Amdramnar nodded. “An inquiry bound to touch on sensitive areas before it is done. And for such lore you will give me—?”

  “Tongue-fencing is not a sport all of us here favor,” Sharantyr told him bluntly. “What do you want to know?”

  The Shadowmaster raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You show mastery of it, though. As to my desires, they approximate yours. I want to know who you are, and why you’re here. What are your intentions in Shadowhome?”

  “Clear and civil enough,” Itharr said. “Who begins?”

  “As host,” Amdramnar said smoothly, “I feel under some obligation. A little, then, you shall have. My name you know. I am a male of the blood of Malaug, a family who can shapeshift, descended from the sorcerer of that name.”

  “Who was this Malaug?”

  Amdramnar shrugged. “I’m not a historian, and we tend to speak the same few admiring phrases about the family founder, without really knowing overmuch. He’s been dead a long time.” He sipped wine. “All I really know is that Malaug was a human mage, the first in Toril to find his way here and master the use of shadow in magic.”

  “What is shadow, anyway?”

  “It is the formless, ever-changing stuff of this demiplane. Sages—even among our kin—argue a lot about what shadow really is, but most of us consider the matter something like this. Shadow is the mobile, mutable essence of Shadowhome, a fog that is everywhere, as air is everywhere in Faerûn. It absorbs energies and traces of whatever it flows past, and uses these energies to move about. Shadow can easily be harnessed—as a power source and as a raw material—to make things, or used to change things or do things. Its unevenly stored energy gives it lighter and darker areas, although it usually looks sort of gray, like sea mist or moon shadows in Faerûn.”

  “You can make things out of it—solid, permanent things?”

  “Well, nothing is permanent. The shadows are ever changing by nature. But yes, some of us can craft items, tools, furnishings, even weapons from it. Much of this castle is made of shadows, and it changes, most of it, only slowly. Learn to fear shadow here, for those who do not learn may die, killed by creatures out of shadow or by their own foolhardy actions.”

  “Some of you use magic, too,” Shar said slowly.

  “As with other humans,” the shapeshifter said with a smile. “A few of us are mages; most are not.”

  “Forgive the manner of my asking,” Itharr said quietly, “but you are … human?”

  “Of course. We can take other shapes—as you yourselves have found, shadow tugs at everyone who enters Shadowhome—but we are humans underneath the shapes we take.”

  “I was wondering about that,” Belkram said, looking at his own hands.

  Amdramnar spread his hands. “Here in my chambers, as in most inhabited rooms of the castle, the wild effects of shadow are lessened by enchantments and habit and … the force of our wills. Out in the passages, shadows play, though Malaugrym learn to counter unwanted effects until it becomes a habit. Your shifting marked you as mortal. Only the young of my family care to indulge in uncontrolled shifting as they go about the castle.”

  “I see,” Belkram said. “Can we learn to control our own bodies?”

  The Shadowmaster’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps not. Some have come to join our ranks and mastered shadow readily. Others never do.”

  “Some have come to join you?” Sharantyr asked. “From Faerûn?”

  “From many places,” their host replied, raising his glass.

  “Well then, why haven’t we heard of you, across the Realms?” Itharr ask
ed, frowning.

  “Realms-wide recognition of us, and knowledge of our natures, is not something we welcome,” Amdramnar said, his smile dimming a trifle. “So many folk in your world fear and hate others who have power they do not, or seek to seize such powers for their own purposes. The sorcerers of Thay and Zhentil Keep, in particular, have hunted us. Common folk from the Sea of Swords to the Celestial Sea think we’re dopplegangers come to eat them, when our paths cross. We’ve grown rather tired of always finding swords thrust through our innards.”

  “But you do come to the Realms,” Belkram said slowly, as if listening to some inner voice, “and take away women. Several sages have told us this.”

  Amdramnar raised his eyebrows. “Oh? It’s not an amusement I’m personally aware of. Were they sure Malaugrym were taking maidens? This sounds like one of those ‘dark dragon’ tales old nurses scare young brats with.”

  “You need them for breeding,” Belkram said inexorably, “because female Malaugrym are barren.”

  Their host shrugged. “Forgive me. I must reveal ignorance of this because, as you may have gathered, I am not a woman.” He sipped at his wine and added, “I should warn you, however, that from what I do know—and know well—of the temperament of the ladies of my family, this is not a wise topic of conversation when you’re in their hearing.” He smiled faintly. “Ah, we do have a family tradition of duels—on the spot—to answer what are regarded as insults.”

  He set down his glass and added, “It seems you’ve made a good beginning at getting to know my kin, and I’d like to learn as much, if I may, about yourselves. It’s not every day I meet visitors from Faerûn upon the stairs.”

  Amdramnar leaned forward. “This much I can tell. You are friends, companions-at-arms, and know each other. You are adventurers, or at least more comfortable on forays into the unknown than say, a potter or cowherd might be. There my useful information ends. Tell me more, if you would, such as your names and where you hail from and whatever led you from there to Shadowhome.”