All around them, small shadowspawn writhed and spun in the excitements of their birthing, twisting this way and that in the swirling, rainbow surf of shadow-borne energy. This was the place of shadows, where all things were spun of shadowmist—and in the end, spun back into shadowy fading dreams. Their skeletons sank forgotten into the glooms where no creatures went but foolish questing mages, dying shadowbeasts, and lurking prowlers-in-shadow. Belkram and Itharr looked at each other, and their blades hissed out in unison. Looking warily behind them at every second or third step, they went on. It seemed to be taking an awfully long time to cross the chamber.
* * * * *
Shadowdale, Kythorn 20
Storm Silverhand sighed and pulled on a boot. Clothing might be optional for a morning selecting stones on the rock pile, but footwear was not.
The kitchen around her seemed … empty. Lonely. She missed Syluné more than she’d thought she would.
“Well,” she said lightly, “time to start talking to yourself, dearie.”
She grimaced at her own imitation of a trembling dodder-wits and reached for the other boot. As she had done after Maxan’s death, as she had so many times before, she must put this melancholy aside and go on. Chosen of Mystra always had to go on.
Time to sigh again. She thought about that for a moment, then tossed her head and stood up, stamping both boots firmly on. Pirouetting idly across the kitchen, the Bard of Shadowdale took down the long iron pry bar from its hook on the wall.
And then a voice sounded in her head, a voice that held an unaccustomed note of concern.
Storm, the Simbul asked from half a world away, do you know what’s befallen El? I can’t feel him. It’s as if he were gone!
And Storm, standing in her kitchen clad only in boots, armed against the world with an iron bar half as long as herself, felt a swift icy finger run down her spine. She whispered, “No, Sister. I don’t know what’s befallen him. Do you think—?”
Start looking and asking, her sister told her crisply, every inch the Queen of Aglarond, but without raising rumors about his death or disappearance. That, as before, we dare not do. The voice paused, and then resumed with an amused mindtone. Making folk think everything’s fine and you’re just casually asking if they’ve seem Elminster about will no doubt work better if you put some clothes on. I know all you folk are weird up there in Shadowdale, but …
Storm faced west and made a certain gesture with the pry bar that looked almost as impossible as it seemed painful.
Gods above, her distant sister replied, you’ve seen him do that? Perhaps I shouldn’t be worried after all!
“Nethreen,” Storm said, managing to keep her voice steady, “leave me be for now. Unobtrusively searching all of Toril for Elminster isn’t going to be swiftly done.”
It may be unnecessary, the Simbul said hopefully. He may just be off gallivanting in disguise, or hidden in the heart of wild magic somewhere …
“Yes,” Storm replied, putting as much hearty reassurance into that word as she could. But as she hung the pry bar back on its hook and sought the stairs to her wardrobe, her heart was dark and heavy, and foreboding ran lightly beside her. She had a feeling it would be at her elbow for a long time to come.
* * * * *
The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 20
“This must be the Red Chamber,” Belkram announced unnecessarily as he strode into the room in front of them.
Sharantyr stayed where she was, gazing around in amazed wonder at a high-ceilinged room as large as the feasting halls of most proud palaces of Faerûn. Every surface—walls, floor, and ceiling—was entirely covered in what looked like red plush velvet. She’d never seen a room decorated in such poor taste, but it looked grand and impressive when done so completely and on such a large scale. “Gods,” she murmured, “it looks like the inside of some gigantic beast’s stomach.”
Belkram spun around. “Do you mind?” he complained, waving his arms. “After I step well into it, d’you have to say something like that?”
The lady Knight sighed. “Belt up,” she said calmly, “and put that sword away. You might hit someone with it.”
“Well, that is the general idea,” he agreed, “but—”
“Belkram,” she said in silken warning. “Now.”
“Well, as you state your view so eloquently and persuasively,” the handsome Harper said innocently, returning his blade to its scabbard with a gentle flourish, “perhaps there is something in what you say.”
Sharantyr turned dangerous eyes to her other companion. “Well,” she asked mildly, “do you have something inane and clever to unburden yourself of at this time? If so, may we hear it and get it out of the way?”
Itharr dropped his eyes from surveying distant corners of the ceiling and said briefly, “A fascinating room, decorated in—Early Bordello, do you think, Belk?”
“I frequent bordellos only when the hour is late,” his friend replied smoothly, “but—”
“How do you put up with them, gracious lady?”
They all whirled around. The speaker was a tall man with an elegant moustache and rich robes, who seemed to be melting and flowing out of the wall. Sharantyr eyed that movement of matter with a frown, then raised her eyes to meet his own dark and solemn gaze.
“I manage,” she said, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “And you, sir, are—?”
“Charmed to make your acquaintance,” the Malaugrym replied, dropping into a smooth bow. As he straightened up, his mouth crooked and he said in a stage whisper to Itharr, “You see? That’s how to do it.” He waved a dismissive hand at Itharr’s leveled sword and added, “And it’s Late Bordello, definitely.”
“I bow to your superior experience in these matters,” Itharr said urbanely, and did so.
The sword in Sharantyr’s hands hummed then, and all eyes went to it. She waited until the Shadowmaster’s gaze went sideways to her own, and said, “I am Sharantyr of Shadowdale, Knight of Myth Drannor. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“Bheloris,” the shapeshifter replied, “of this castle. One of the elders of my kin.” A half-smile of sadness rose onto his face as the blue blade lifted to menace him. “I am not,” he added mildly, “disposed to offer you violence … now or at any other time.” He eyed the two Harpers, who were watching him tensely with hands on weapons, and added, “That is not a view shared, I’m afraid, by many of the blood of Malaug.” He strode forward, gesturing to indicate his intended passage through them. “May I?”
The three rangers parted to let him pass, and Bheloris walked calmly past them, into the soft red heart of the chamber. “I should warn you,” he added, “that such fangs as you carry will avail you little against the magic most of us could hurl your way here in the castle. Smooth words and an air of gentle menace will carry you farther.”
“Why are y—Are you curious about us, too?” Shar asked him, one eyebrow lifted.
“Of course,” the Shadowmaster replied. “So, if you will, I’ll accompany you about our halls. Amdramnar must be crazed—or more cruel than I thought—not to have escorted you himself.”
“I don’t know if I want an escort,” Sharantyr said carefully.
“You do,” Bheloris told her gravely, “or you will, if you think about it calmly for a moment. Could you handle an attack from an archmage who struck from the other end of this chamber? A being who could melt away into the walls whenever you tried to strike back?”
Shar shrugged.
“So I thought,” the Shadowmaster said mildly. “You’d be carrion in short order.” He spread his hands. “Go where you please. No place is forbidden except the seat of the Shadow Throne itself.”
Shar had a sudden vision of herself hacking at a grand black throne with her blade, a throne that twisted and tried to wriggle away from her blows as she struck showers of sparks from it. Then it was exploding, and she was being hurled helplessly away, whirled to her death against hard, hard walls and pillars …
“I�
��d like to see that throne,” she said firmly, lifting her head.
“Soon enough,” the Shadowmaster replied. His eyes were on Belkram, who was strolling toward him, looking around. Tall-backed chairs were drawn up around a circular table at the heart of the room, as if for solemn conclaves, all dark wood and gleaming, mirror-smooth polish. “What do you think of this room?” he asked the Harper.
“I don’t think I should be impressed,” Belkram answered him honestly, “but I am. It’s so … overblown.”
“Your first key to understanding us,” Bheloris answered him lightly. Sharantyr’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you know why we’re here?” she challenged him quietly.
The Malaugrym spread his hands to indicate bewilderment. “You’ve come a long way, into much danger. Not the act of most idle tourists, nor the achievement of most lost wayfarers. So you must have come for a good purpose, and I’d prefer that whomever you’re reporting to have a clear picture of the power you’re dealing with, here in Shadowhome. It might steady judgments and save much bloodshed.”
“Consider this in turn,” Sharantyr replied. “You may be mistaken as to our presumed status as scouts for some invading force.”
Bheloris bowed. “I hope I am, Lady of Shadowdale. I merely seek to anticipate the worst and deny it any chance at becoming reality.”
Sharantyr stood very still. She’d not told this mild-voiced Malaugrym her Shadowdale title. He knew far more about her—about them all—than he should.
Syluné? Sharantyr asked in her mind, but if the Witch of Shadowdale was still resident in her head, she gave no sign.
“Of course,” she replied, striding forward to stand beside Belkram. Behind her, she could see that Itharr had noted the little circle she’d made with her sword tip, and was closing ranks too.
The Shadowmaster smiled. “I don’t wish to sound menacing,” he remarked, “but standing close together is very poor tactics against anyone wielding magic. One spell can so easily harm all.”
He shrugged and turned to face the table, calmly turning his back on them. “But enough talk of battle and strife. This is where our council met, in the days before … our last Shadowmaster High, Dhalgrave, dissolved it.”
“A council of elders? Were you on the council?” Itharr asked.
The Malaugrym smiled. “You are swift, friend. I was.”
“Who rules now that the Shadowmaster High is dead?” Shar asked.
Bheloris smiled. “No one—yet. The more daring among us have begun to act as they please, and things may end in kinstrife. You have come at a most dangerous time, for there is no authority to appeal to if one is wronged. There are many chances for ambitious Malaugrym to enhance their reputations by outdoing each other in acts of aggression, confidence, and efficient violence … and here you are, strolling our passageways, easy meat.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Belkram told the Shadowmaster, “but—”
And then the floor beneath his feet gave way. “Whoa!” he cried, grabbing at Sharantyr’s arm for support.
Her sword arm. As her elbow was dragged down, a startled Sharantyr thought, I must keep my feet. My sword may be all that is keeping this Malaugrym from striking us down.
As she set herself, determined not to be pulled over, the sword in her hands hummed and drifted firmly upward, straightening her and taking Belkram’s weight.
He got one boot up on the floor again and sprang back. The punishing weight was suddenly gone from Sharantyr’s arm. Together they looked at the octagonal opening in the floor. A trapdoor had fallen to one side, opening into emptiness.
Belkram gestured at it. “And is this a friendly welcome? Or one of those little acts of aggression you spoke of?”
“Neither,” the Shadowmaster replied, striding over to the hole. He raised a hand, murmured something they could not catch, and the trapdoor rose smoothly into place. Bheloris promptly stepped forward onto it and stood calmly facing them. “My apologies for any distress,” he said to Belkram. “You had the misfortune to step on a trap-chute that someone—carelessly or deliberately, I know not which—left active.”
“Trap-chute?” Itharr prompted mildly, waving his blade.
“Swift ways down to dungeon caverns. Long unused by the council, but once part of the ceremonial way in which Malaugrym who’d displeased us began their punishment. Down they’d go upon the instant of their sentencing, an impressive gesture for the benefit of others who might plot defiance of the council.”
“Are there many such traps about the castle?” Belkram asked, looking suspiciously at the red plush around his boots.
Bheloris shook his head. “Only here, but there must be eighty or more in all, one every few paces.”
“Amdramnar didn’t warn us about this,” Belkram said grimly.
Shar shrugged. “He may have forgotten about them, if they’ve been ‘long unused.’ ”
Bheloris arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I hardly think so.” He met their suddenly riveted gazes and said, “The moment they master teleporting—for the journeys back up—all children of the blood of Malaug play here for years before they grow tired of hurtling down stone chutes. Some never do.”
The three rangers exchanged frowning glances.
“I think we’ve seen enough red plush to last us for some time,” Shar said quietly, “and we’d like to see Glyorgh’s Chamber, if you’d be so kind as to conduct us there. Amdramnar says it’s not to be missed.”
The Malaugrym bowed. “Certainly, my lady,” he said. “This way, if you please.” He indicated the door they’d come in by, and glided past them. As he went past, Belkram raised a questioning hand. “There wouldn’t be any dangers awaiting us there that Amdramnar might have … ah, neglected to inform us of, would there?”
The Shadowmaster met his eyes steadily. “No, so long as you stay back of the warning wall of everflame and don’t send any spells over it.”
“We weren’t intending to,” Shar said, “but he gave us no warnings about this.”
Bheloris spread his hands. “In his defense, may I say that it’s something no Malaugrym would think of doing.”
“We seem to have made a career, recently, of doing things no Malaugrym would think of doing,” Itharr mused.
The Shadowmaster turned an expressionless face toward him. “Continue to do so,” he suggested. “It may help to keep you alive.”
* * * * *
Shadowdale, Kythorn 20
“Well met, Storm,” came the smoky, sultry tones of the High Lady of Berdusk out of the speaking stone. “How fare the two Harpers we sent you?”
“Well enough,” Storm said to the polished marble sphere floating in the center of her bedchamber, as she struggled into the clothes she’d chosen, “when I saw them last … a tenday ago, riding into Daggerdale.”
“Good to hear. How can I serve? Pray speak.”
“It’s … becoming increasingly urgent that I speak with Elminster,” Storm told her, “and he’s off racing around the Realms, as usual. If his path should happen to cross that of any of your Harpers, have them tell him to call on me, will you?”
“Of course. Tell us when to call off our hounds, though. I’d hate to have a few good Harpers turned into frogs because the Old Mage has grown tired of hearing the same message.”
“I shall, Cylyria,” Storm promised. “Thank you.”
“You are always welcome, Storm,” the speaking stone replied. “Call on me more often. I grow weary of hearing about the daring exploits of Harpers out east only in minstrels’ ballads and tavern gossip!”
Storm winced. “You know I hate using this thing,” she said softly. “Yet you’re right, Cyl. Expect to hear from me soon.”
“Please do. And, Storm—?”
“Yes?”
“If you’re lonely, call me and we can sing ballads back and forth to each other.”
“Thank you,” Storm said huskily, sudden tears threatening to burst up from her throat. “Fair fortune, High Lady.”
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br /> “Fair fortune, Chosen of Mystra,” the stone said, sinking swiftly toward the soft pelts on the floor. Storm caught it deftly and tossed it onto the bed, sighing loudly before she turned away.
* * * * *
Berdusk, Twilight Hall, Kythorn 20
The deep emerald eyes of High Lady Cylyria Dragonbreast were troubled as she turned away from her own stone. Storm did hate to use the speaking stone. Something must be very much amiss.
With gods walking Faerûn, magic going wild everywhere, and every petty brigand and marauding orc chieftain on the march from here to the Moonshaes, the Harpers—nay, the good folk of all Faerûn—couldn’t afford to lose Elminster.
Her fine features were grim as she struck the little gong built into the head of her bed, took the speaking stone into her hands to keep it from rolling to the floor and shattering, and got up off the bed. Then she smiled at the sound of pounding feet growing swiftly louder down the passage outside. My, but Harper boys were enthusiastic.
* * * * *
The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 20
“It’s … impressive,” Shar said softly, and meant it. They stared down together from the circular balcony that ringed the dome. In the open space below, amid endlessly roiling, glowing blue shadows, a circle of black magical flames—blazing away consuming nothing and never burning out—encircled a shrouded, floating human form.
“Forgive me,” Itharr said to the Malaugrym, “but who was Glyorgh?”
“The closest friend of Malaug, a sorcerer of Faerûn who was the first to embrace the way of shadows,” Bheloris replied. “He has rested here, in magical stasis, for longer than men have dwelt in any of the Dragonreach lands.”
“Where is Malaug’s tomb?” Belkram asked quietly.
“No one knows,” the Shadowmaster replied. “There are even legends among us that he never died but lives on still, on other planes or in hidden guise somewhere nearby, watching us.”
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