Burlen had barely turned to pass the order along before the Company of the Cold Hand began to melt into the woods. Keya took Galaeron by the hand and, motioning for the others to follow, started through the forest toward the back side of Dawnsglory Pond.
“Glad homeagain, brother—such as home is these days.” Keya threw a disgusted scowl in the direction of the Chosen, then quietly asked, “Why the phaerimm costumes? We almost killed you.”
“My idea,” Galaeron said. “I expected the phaerimm to be at each others’ throats by now. We were going to fan the flames, make it look like they were killing one another and stealing each other’s plunder. We’d hoped to start an all-out battle between them.”
They reached the near bank of Dawnsglory Pond. Keya paused to send Takari to scout ahead with Kuhl and Burlen, and Vala decided to go along. As they had vanished into the undergrowth, Keya looked back to Galaeron.
“What made you think they’d fall for something like that?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Khelben said, speaking over their shoulders. He and the Silverhand sisters remained disguised as phaerimm. “Clearly, Galaeron’s source was mistaken.”
“No. The information was correct. That’s why Telamont wanted me back.”
“It would not be the first time the Shadovar have fooled you—or me,” Laeral said, laying a pair of spindly phaerimm hands on his shoulders. “They are never playing the game we think. That’s what makes them so hard to defeat.”
“Or maybe something’s changed,” Storm added. “Whatever. But these disguises have served their purpose. If the phaerimm are coordinating their efforts, I doubt we’re going to fool them again—and, to tell the truth, I’m tired of dressing like an overgrown slug.”
“As am I,” Laeral agreed. “The next time I’m attacked, I’d rather it not be by elves.”
Galaeron dispelled the disguise magic but remained convinced that the information Melegaunt had worked so hard to gather would not simply grow outdated. There was something about the situation he did not yet understand.
They started through the forest after Takari and the other scouts, and Galaeron said, “Keya, hunting the Company of the Cold Hand can’t be the only thing the phaerimm are doing in Evereska. What else are they doing?”
“That we know about?” Keya replied. “For one, they’re keeping Lord Duirsar and Kiinyon Colbathin trapped in the palace on Cloudcrown.”
“Alone?”
Keya shook her head. “Lord Duirsar has a circle of high mages from Evermeet, and Zharilee is there with what remains of the Long Watch.”
“How do you know all this?” Khelben asked, walking along on Keya’s far side. “I’ve tried to reach both Lord Duirsar and Kiinyon with magic and heard nothing back.”
“The phaerimm have besieged the palace with an antimagic shell,” Keya reported, “but Manynests comes and goes as he pleases.”
“They’re holding Lord Duirsar prisoner?” Galaeron asked.
“Isolating him,” Keya corrected. “They couldn’t breach the palace wards, so they prevented him from leaving.”
“More likely the High Mages,” Laeral observed. “If the Company of the Cold Hand is giving them trouble—”
“That’s it!” Galaeron burst. “The high mages!”
“What about them?” Khelben asked.
Instead of answering, Galaeron stopped and took his sister by the shoulders.
“You said ‘for one thing,’ the phaerimm were keeping Lord Duirsar trapped,” he said. “What are the other things?”
“Aside from the fighting you’d expect in any battle, there’s really only one other thing,” Keya said. “About ten of them have gathered at Hanali Celanil’s statue. We haven’t tried to penetrate their security perimeter, but Manynests says they’re using a lot of magic.”
“I’ll bet they are,” Khelben said.
Keya appeared perplexed by this remark, but Galaeron had a feeling he knew exactly what Khelben meant.
“That’s where the mythal was cast?” Galaeron gasped. This was a secret so closely guarded that, aside from Lord Duirsar and the city’s high mages, only Evereska’s most loyal friend among the Chosen would be privy to it. “At the statue of Hanali Celanil?”
“I doubt there was a statue there when it was cast,” Khelben said. “And I wasn’t there, you understand.”
“But that’s what you’ve been given to understand,” Galaeron concluded. Conviction and excitement began to well up inside him as half-formed thoughts raced through this mind, fitting all the pieces of the puzzle into place. “That would explain why they haven’t fallen into quarreling yet.”
“It does?” This from Aris, who had been creeping along behind them. “They’re feeding off the mythal?”
“Not feeding,” Galaeron said. “Feeding would cause fights.”
“Dismantling, then,” Khelben said, following the line of Galaeron’s reasoning. “They’re taking it apart spell by spell.”
“So the magic will return to the Weave?” Keya asked. “Why would they do that?”
“Because the magic won’t return to the Weave,” Storm said. “It’s not raw anymore. It can’t.”
“The magic will stay here, inside the boundaries of the old mythal,” Laeral explained. “It’ll infuse the whole area.”
They came to the path that led from Dawnsglory Pond up to Starmeadow Tower. Hearing Takari’s all-clear warble, they crossed to Goldmorn Knoll and traversed the slope, the woods more open and therefore more dangerous.
Once the entire group was safely across, Khelben looked down over Keya’s head and said to Galaeron, “It seems the phaerimm have learned to share. That hardly sounds like the creatures you claimed you could have warring with themselves inside a day.”
“It doesn’t,” Galaeron agreed, “but if they have learned to share, it’s only because a leader has emerged who is strong enough to dictate terms.”
“If a strong leader has emerged among the phaerimm,” Laeral said, “we dare not let them have Evereska.”
Storm nodded and made a fist, which she touched lightly to Galaeron’s shoulder.
“Not if we value the rest of Faerûn, we don’t.”
The snowfinch was up in the tree again, peering down through the bluetop boughs at the ring of phaerimm hovering around the statue of the elf goddess. It did not peep either in alarm or complaint and in fact seemed to be spying on their progress, but Arr did not dare blast the feathered nuisance. The SpellGather had finally found a thread of loose magic and was about to pull the first spell from the mythal, and the last thing she wished to do was disrupt their concentration.
Even with Zay and Yao, and eight more of the finest spell artists of her race—or any other—working nonstop since they entered the city, her plan had yet to yield a breath of magic. Already, two young softthorns had violated the WarGather’s edict against plunder-taking, and she had been forced to promise Tuuh a service gift to hunt them down and pin their skins to the GatherStone as a warning to others. And now there was talk of four longbarbs at the Cave-that-Taunts attacking their own kind shortly before the killblast.
The members of the WarGather were beginning to doubt her plan, especially her ability to prevent loot-taking. She could sense that much in their frequent inquiries about the SpellGather’s progress and in the gusts with which they warned one another away from the great armory at the Academy of Magic. Her plan had to start freeing the mythal’s magic soon, or the WarGather would dissolve around her. Arr had no illusions about what would befall her then. She had promised too many gifts, and forgiveness was not a virtue of the phaerimm.
Ryry emerged from the forest behind Arr and floated to her side.
“How goes it?” Ryry asked.
“You shall have your spell crown,” Arr gusted. “What news from the Cave-that-Taunts?”
“After the killblast, now it is calling us flatworms,” Ryry reported. “It claims the spell was its doing.”
Arr found herself cu
rling her tail. She forced it straight again, then decided that had to be a lie. Who had ever heard of a cave that could cast spells?
“Then I am certain,” Arr began, “that you asked why it killed so many elves along with our dozen and a half.”
“Of course.”
Several of the SpellGather phaerimm began to work their four arms over each other as though pulling a long rope. Arr put a hand out to silence Ryry and went still as stone, praying that they finally had a thread, even a small one, to demonstrate the progress she had promised the WarGather.
The finch peeped.
The arms of the spell artists fell motionless one after the other, and they returned to pluck at the strand they had found. Arr gnashed her pointed teeth and checked again to see if there was any magic on the bird, but it seemed as null as a rock. Another peep like that, she vowed, and it would be a rock, and she didn’t care how many days of concentration the spellcasting shattered.
Calming herself, Arr turned her attention back to Ryry and asked, “What was the cave’s reply?”
“It had none,” Ryry answered smoothly. “Its claim was a lie, I am sure.”
“No doubt,” Arr answered. It was almost certainly Ryry who was lying—to cover for her oversight—but Arr would only alienate a fellow member of the WarGather by making the accusation. “It is an insult that a hole in the ground speaks our language.”
“Indeed.”
“What of the four betrayers?” Arr asked.
“They are not betrayers.”
Ryry’s thorns bristled with pride. Arr waited in stillness, for she had learned the value of allowing allies their moment.
“They are impostors,” Ryry said at last. “Impostors who escaped the killblast and fought with the blackswords at the Starmeadow.”
“There was a fight at the Starmeadow?”
“Only just completed,” Ryry said. “I have sent a killtroop, but you know how quickly the blackswords vanish after they attack.”
Arr was still thinking about the betrayers.
“Impostors?” she asked, openly skeptical. “And no one saw through their magic?”
Ryry grew less proud of herself. “They may be shadow pullers,” she said. “One of the softhorns who survived saw dark bolts.”
“Dark bolts?” Arr repeated. “Did our spies not say Shade had fallen?”
“Nearly fallen,” Ryry corrected. “The Chosen have somehow anchored the city over the north end of the lake, but Shade is now stable. It isn’t going to fall, not until we bring it down ourselves.”
Arr was so shocked she nearly let herself sink to the ground. Tricking the Chosen into destroying Shade for them had been a cornerstone of her plan, but somehow the Shadovar had prevailed. Could it be true? Could the Shadow Weave be stronger than the Weave?
“Arr?”
Arr did not realize she had let herself sink again until she found herself looking up at Ryry. She used her tail to push herself back into the air.
“Why was I not told of this earlier?”
Ryry angled her thorns back in anger and replied, “If Xayn fails to abide by his promise, I am not to blame.”
“Xayn?” Arr repeated, finally getting hold of herself. “The blackswords killed Xayn this morning. It is nothing to concern ourselves about.”
Ryry’s stillness was an accusation.
Arr gestured at the statue of the elf goddess.
“The SpellGather has loosened a strand,” she said. “It would take all the princes of Shade to stop us now, and they sent only four.”
Ryry brought her four hands together over her dished head and quoted Arr’s oft-repeated refrain, “Together, all things are possible.” She steepled her sixteen fingers into a single pyramid, causing the finch overhead to take wing and flee. “Is there a way I can be of service?”
“Yes.” Though it would mean the promise of another service gift, Arr pointed after the bird and said, “Kill that finch.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
2 Eleasias, the Year of Wild Magic
“You’re sure this plan will work?” Takari asked. “I don’t think anyone was all that impressed with the last one.”
“There are no sure things,” Galaeron said, “but it has a chance.”
“A good chance?” Vala asked.
They were hiding among the musty-smelling roots dangling beneath the Floating Gardens of Aerdrie Faenya, waiting in the mucky water of a knee-deep nourishment pond. Aris and the Chosen had already left for Cloudcrown Hill to rescue—fetch was more accurate—Lord Duirsar and the high mages. Galaeron had once again assumed the likeness of a phaerimm, and the entire Company of the Cold Hand had vowed they were ready to lose fingers—or even entire hands—to the cold of their borrowed darkswords.
Galaeron turned his head-disk toward Vala and held her gaze.
“A better chance than you had in Myth Drannor. That turned out well enough.”
Vala rolled her eyes. “I only had to kill six phaerimm,” she said. “We’re talking ten here—all at once.”
Manynests, just returned from his spying mission and perched on Keya’s shoulder, chirped an urgent correction.
“Twelve,” Keya translated for those who did not understand peeptalk, then frowned at Galaeron. “I don’t see how you can do it.”
“I don’t have to,” Galaeron explained. “I only have to kill the leader. After that, the WarGather will fall apart.”
“That we understand,” Vala said, taking Galaeron’s four-fingered hand. “It’s the part where you don’t live I’m having trouble with.”
“That we’re having trouble with,” Takari added.
She came around to Galaeron’s other side and slipped her hand through the crook of one of his spindly arms. The Vaasans scowled—Vala at Takari, and Kuhl at Galaeron—and Kuhl rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. Their jealousy meant nothing to Galaeron. He loved Takari as much as he did Vala, and if that angered someone, it was no concern of his. He covered Takari’s hand with his own.
“I’ll be all right,” Galaeron said. “You’ll be right behind me.”
“We have to fight through a ring of beholders and illithids,” Vala reminded him.
“That’s going to take time,” Keya added. “Why don’t you shadow walk a dozen of us in there—”
“Because we’d be lucky to last a breath,” Burlen said, cutting her off. “We won’t look like a phaerimm, remember?”
Though Galaeron knew Burlen was more concerned with protecting the mother of Dexon’s child than assuring their success, he mouthed a silent thanks to the Vaasan. His plan depended on timing. The Company of the Cold Hand had to clear the defenses around the SpellGather before Aris arrived with the Chosen and the high mages. It would take time to do what Galaeron intended, and Keya and the others would need to set a defensive ring of their own before the phaerimm pulled themselves together to counterattack.
Khelben’s voice sounded inside Galaeron’s head, We’re in position, with a clear view of the statue hill.
Good—we’ll leave now, Galaeron replied.
He looked up at Manynests and sent the little snowfinch ahead with a tweet, then used his two free arms to wave the others forward.
They followed Manynests to the shore and left the dangling roots behind, stepping out from beneath the overhead gardens into a thick hedge of duskblossom. The snowfinch took his leave with a merry chirp and climbed above the hedge toward Cloudcrown Hill—then wheeled around and came diving back, squealing in alarm.
Thinking an owl or a hawk was after their courier, Galaeron flung a strand of shadowsilk into the air behind Manynests and spoke a two-syllable incantation. He realized his mistake when a silver lightning bolt cracked through the hedge crest and snaked its way out across the nourishment pond, leaving a mile-long tunnel of scorched root ends in its wake.
In the next instant, the phaerimm that had cast the spell came streaking over the hedge into the shadow net. The strands could not be broken, but Galaeron was not prep
ared for the shock—and was probably not strong enough to hold it even had he been—and the net slipped free.
The astonished thornback tried to swing around to see what had caught it, but lost control of its flight and rolled sideways into the mass of roots beneath the floating gardens. It tangled quickly and hung there in the air, howling gusts of frustration and stirring the water below into a froth. The three Vaasans reacted first, Vala and Burlen charging through the hedge to meet the oncoming attack, and Kuhl splashing into the pond to finish off the trapped phaerimm.
Keya sprang into action almost as quickly, ordering half her company southward in a flanking action and sending the other half through the hedge to support Vala and Burlen. As surprised as he was impressed by the commander his little sister had become, Galaeron prepared a dark bolt and turned to hurl it before the phaerimm teleported out of its predicament.
But this one had no intention of leaving. It thrust two hands through the shadow net, and a shimmering mirror of magic appeared before it and sent the black dart sailing back at Galaeron. He pivoted out of the way and heard a muffled crackle as the missile slammed into the ground behind him. A third hand waved in Kuhl’s direction, and the Vaasan went tumbling across the pond. He slammed headlong into Takari, who had been trying to sneak around for a clean flank shot, and they both splashed into the water and did not rise again.
Galaeron was already flicking an obsidian sliver into the air. He yelled a word of command, and the sliver grew as long as his arm and began to spin, blurring into a large black disk. It shattered the phaerimm’s mirror and severed one of the arms that had been holding the shield. Slicing a tunnel through the root tangle, it vanished.
When the injury did not cause the phaerimm to teleport away, a cold lump formed in Galaeron’s stomach. He began to fear that the WarGather had somehow learned of their plans and was already mounting an assault to stop them, but if so, why send only one assailant over the hedge?
Galaeron rolled a thread of shadowsilk into a wad. Before he could speak the mystic word that would expand the tiny orb into a shadow ball, the phaerimm was pelting him with golden darts of Weave magic. When the bolts dissipated harmlessly against the spell-guard Laeral had placed on him, the thornback switched instantly to dispelling magic. The spell-guard began to flicker and flash.
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