Should I try it? he thought over and over. Sooner or later he would have to know what the Shadow Stone had done to his magical abilities. For better or worse, Aeron was a wizard. He’d wielded magic for years now; it was his life. He did not think he could ever go back to being the simple forester he was once, and that meant that he would have to learn whether or not he could still work magic. And there was only one way to do that.
“I’d better try this with a spell I don’t mind wasting,” he muttered, staring into the fire. He considered the spells that lay ready in his head, eventually settling on mage light. It was useful, but Aeron could see better in the dark than most, and he could always light a torch or lantern if he really needed to see.
He steeled himself with a grimace and whispered the words to the spell. He brought the symbol to his mind and unlocked it, shaping the magic. And he reached for the living energy to power his spell, grasping at the dancing fire in front of him.
He couldn’t feel anything. His rational mind told him that the bright currents of the Weave had to be dancing in the fire, ready for his touch, but he could not perceive the magic with any of his senses. He floundered, grasping desperately.
His outstretched senses brushed against something cold and dark. The campfire guttered, died, and blazed back to life in sick, black flame. Aeron jolted backward, sealing himself from the power he’d found, but it was too late. A streamer of darkness burst from his chest, and he screamed as vile black corruption oozed from his skin, cloaking him in a mantle of shadow. The floating sphere of light took form, but it was pale and sickly, casting a greenish glow through the room. Flailing his arms in disgust, Aeron slashed the spell to pieces.
The darkness retreated, leaving the stone walls slick with black frost. Aeron scrambled to his feet, digging his nails into his flesh as if to drag the ordure from his veins. He tripped over a low stone in the floor and stumbled into the wall. There was a moment of cold, dark pressure as he slid through the old rock, and then Aeron tumbled to the ground outside. He retched weakly on the grass until finally his thought and reason returned. He rose on unsteady feet and wiped his hand across his mouth.
He could see the ground through his arm.
In dull amazement, Aeron held up his hands. His clothes and flesh seemed translucent, indistinct. He could see the umber hillside and the rich red glow of the sunset right through his arms. He whirled, looking around, only to see a second landscape shimmering into view, overlying the world around him. It was a landscape of dead brown grass and leafless trees, roofed by a lightless sky.
To the west, the last sliver of the sun’s orb was vanishing behind the gray hilltops. A cold wind began to blow contrary to the brisk salt breeze from the sea, making his cloak flutter and twist against the wind as bit by bit he discorporated on the border of night. “Help me!” he screamed, his thin voice wailing on the shadow wind. No one answered.
I’m being dragged through the veil, he thought, trying to master his panic. With each moment, his hold on the real world grew more tenuous, and he could feel tendrils of ebon substance reaching out to seize him, to hold him within the darkness. Mustering all his willpower, he concentrated on restoring his tattered frame, anchoring himself to the wet grass and clean rock of the hillside in Turmish.
Somehow it worked. The sky brightened, the winds failed, and he grew heavier and more substantial until he felt his heart lurch into motion again, moving blood that had begun to freeze. The darkness retreated, and with a weary sigh, he collapsed outside the cottage, staring up into the twilight.
Aeron walked from dawn to dusk for the next month or more, turning his footsteps toward home. He traveled south and west along the coast until he reached the bustling port of Hlondeth, but he had no money for passage to Cimbar. He also feared what would happen if the wind between the worlds came upon him while he was dozens or hundreds of miles out to sea. He resigned himself to a long walk and resolved to endure it as best he could.
He followed the shore of the Vilhon Reach west from Hlondeth, passing through the rugged hill lands of the Cloven Mountains and then into the green eaves of the Winterwood. From the old city of Ormpetarr, he followed the river Arran into the mighty Chondalwood, striking southeast through the forests mantling the western flanks of the Akanapeaks. The great greenwood reminded him of the Maerchwood and home, although it was darker and wilder than the golden glades of his youth. On several occasions, he fell in with fellow travelers, pilgrims and merchants who shared his road for a time, but Aeron learned that he could not keep the same company night after night; when the sun set, he began to fade, wraithlike, into the shadows until the bitter winds of the crossing buried their icy talons in his bones and the deathly cold covered him in sparkling frost. Nothing he could do prevented form and substance from slipping away, and more than one erstwhile companion fled, screaming, at Aeron’s unnatural disappearance.
As Ches gave way to Tarsakh, he joined a party of pilgrims braving the old road through the Chondal Gap and climbed into the high vales of the Adder Peaks before winding back down into the sheer foothills in the southwestern corner of Chessenta. In the dense pine forests south of Oslin, he picked up the headwaters of the Winding River and followed it east as it wound through the wild and deserted lands in the southern marches of Chessenta. The land grew gentler and more open as he wandered into the old heartland of Chessenta, checkered with prosperous farmlands and crisscrossed by well-traveled roads.
As the miles passed behind him, Aeron gained a stronger command of his mind and spirit, healing from the foul touch of the Shadow Stone. The chaos and corruption that had nearly driven him mad faded, and he discovered an amazing clarity of thought, a pure and lucid apprehension that illuminated every recess of his mind. But even as his spirit strengthened in the face of the journey, his body weakened. Each night a little less of his substance returned from the shadow crossing. He was slowly starving, not from want of food, but from want of solidity.
Two nights before Midsummer, he crossed completely over, despite every effort to keep a tenuous hold on the world around him. For long hours, he pushed himself along a dark road beneath a barren sky, convinced in his heart that if he gave up and stopped moving, he would never see the dawn again. Finally, near morning, the shadow dissipated, leaving him standing alone on an empty road, hollow as a piece of weathered bone. Somehow he found the strength to continue.
In the rugged hill country of Villon, only six or seven days from his home, Aeron lost the struggle. He had already walked most of the afternoon in the same tireless pace he’d used for weeks, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. He came to an empty crossroads beside a burned-out, abandoned inn, and paused to consider his way. It was raining steadily, and the road was churned into thick black mud. To his left, an old signpost stood, its markings blurred. Aeron stepped closer and brushed his hand over the wood, trying to make it out.
Something struck him low in his back, a handspan left of his spine, driving a red-hot wedge of pain into his torso. He clapped his hand to the source of the pain, twisting about, and felt something hard sticking into his back. Wincing, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the dark fletchings of an arrow quivering in the air. He drew his hand back and was surprised to see bright red blood running through his fingers.
“Damn, Rolf, what’re you waitin’ for? Shoot him again!” a coarse voice hissed in the middle distance, behind him.
“The damned bowstring broke. Besides, I got him. He ain’t going anywhere.” A second voice, deeper and slower.
Aeron felt his legs beginning to give out and leaned against the wooden post for support. In dull shock, he turned to look back at the ruined inn. Several men were rising from the wreckage, tattered ruffians with hollow cheeks and burning, feverish eyes. One of them, a big stoop-shouldered man with long, strong arms, held a longbow in his hand. He scowled at the weapon and then looked at Aeron. “Horse dung. He’s just a small fellow. I didn’t need to break my string for him.”
�
��He’s still standin’, Rolf,” one of the men in the back observed. “You can’t have got him too square.”
“It was the bowstring,” Rolf complained. “If it hadn’t broke, I’d have put the arrow clean through the bastard.” He tossed the bow to the ground and sauntered toward Aeron, drawing a heavy knife from his belt.
Aeron could feel warm, wet blood trickling down his back, and the arrowhead burned with a white-hot fire just under the last rib. He could feel metal scraping on bone when he gasped for breath. He pushed himself away from the signpost and staggered away down the road, one hand holding the arrow in his lower back.
“Hey, don’t you run off with my arrow, you sorry bastard!” Rolf called, to the harsh laughter of his fellows. Aeron ignored them, trying to get away, but when he looked up again, he saw that the highwaymen were easily pacing him, moving up to surround him.
He reeled to a halt, turning to watch them move closer. “I don’t want any trouble,” he gasped. “Just let me go.”
“Doesn’t matter what you want,” the first highwayman said. “Trouble’s what you got.” He leaned closer, scrutinizing Aeron. “Say, what kind of man are you? You don’t look right to me.”
“Those’re elf ears,” Rolf announced. “We’ve found a half-breed, lads. Now, what’ll we do with him?”
“Whatever it is, better make it quick,” the last bandit observed. “This fellow’s bleeding like a stuck pig, Rolf. You might’ve got him after all.”
Aeron felt his knees buckle and he sagged to all fours, fighting to remain conscious. He felt nauseous, and his vision swam drunkenly. I’m going to die, he realized. It made him sick and sad, but he didn’t feel any real fear yet, just surprise.
“Ahh, you’re right, I guess. Besides, the king’s men might come along. No sense wasting time.” Rolf advanced on Aeron, knife held casually in one hand.
Aeron forced himself to look up at the burly brigand. “Stay back,” he warned in a weak voice. “I’m a wizard.”
“Is that so?” Rolf said. “You’d better use any magic you’ve got, boy, ’cause you’re going to be a dead wizard in just a moment.” He leered wickedly at Aeron and seized a handful of Aeron’s hair, jerking his face up to the sky to bare his throat.
One last spark of resistance flared in Aeron’s heart. Closing his eyes, he banished his pain for one moment, long enough to unlock a spell from his mind. He stretched out his senses to work the magic, knowing what would happen. Dark, potent force rushed to fill him, springing out of the quiescent blackness in the marrow of his bones, filling him with remorseless strength. Aeron locked his eyes on the bandit’s and spoke the words for the fire hand spell.
With nothing more than his force of will, he directed the jet of raging flame against the highwayman Rolf, charring his arms and face to brittle cinders. Aeron allowed the searing heat to play against the toppling bandit until he vanished in a pillar of fire, then swept the jet around to scorch Rolf’s companions. With a distant fragment of his mind, he noted that the flames were a shade of black or purple that made his eyes ache.
One of the highwaymen nearly escaped, but Aeron greedily drew power enough to beat the ruffian into the ground and blacken his flesh until it sizzled and smoked. When all four had stopped moving, he allowed the dark flames to gutter and fade, leaving a roaring, buzzing sound in his ears and bitter ice clinging to his bones. The world began to grow ghostly, and he looked down to see his body fading into insubstantiality. But dusk isn’t near, he thought irrationally. The unearthly chill of the crossing blasted him, freezing the flow of blood down his back to a dark trickle. Aeron howled in pain as the shadow claimed him.
He opened his eyes and found himself standing in the phantasmal gloom of the twilight plane, looking at the hills and the burned-out tavern as if through dark, smoked glass. Aeron realized that he felt neither the cold nor the pain of his wound. He reached behind him and set his hand on the arrow shaft. As if he’d done it for years, he willed himself to intangibility and watched the arrow clatter to the ground, passing through the dark wisps of his body. He was part of the shadow plane now. There was no going back.
He turned in a slow circle, his thoughts sluggish and indistinct. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty, he wasn’t cold. There was no pain, no urgency. He remembered that he’d been walking east, but it was hard to recall why he’d chosen that path. Closing his eyes, Aeron tried to decide what to do.
He could dimly sense a brilliant hint of power somewhere to the north. He turned his thoughts that way, trying to discern what it was that he felt, and suddenly in his mind’s eye he saw the Shadow Stone, pulsing in its vaulted chamber beneath the ruined monolith. Its energies were intertwined with his, and it responded to his silent call, flaring into life and reaching out with an inarticulate demand that dragged Aeron ten paces to the north before he opened his eyes and realized that he was marching mindlessly in that direction.
From the cold ashes of his razed soul, the first stirrings of fear arose. “I’m not dead,” he said, willing his feet to stop moving. “I’m not dead. Not yet. I don’t know if I’m alive, but I know what that damned stone will do to me if I let it.”
But that’s the price you paid for your knowledge, Aeron, a voice inside his mind mocked. You wanted power, and you found it. Now you try to flee your fate?
“What fate? Oriseus deceived me. I didn’t choose this.”
You knew exactly what Oriseus offered, and you didn’t shy away. He didn’t deceive you. You deceived yourself.
“How can you say that? Who would want this?” Aeron deliberately turned his back on the insidious pull from the north and willed himself over the road. He hardly felt his feet strike the ground, and with every few steps, the gloom around him seemed to shimmer and he found that he’d covered hundreds of yards with a step. He decided that it didn’t matter and continued to argue with the cynical voice. “He won’t fool me again,” he stated.
He’ll have no need to. You’re a slave of the stone. Where’s your life, your substance? You’re nothing more than a wraith, hollow, empty. The voice seemed to relish this thought. As long as you struggle against the darkness, you are a mere phantom, a ghost caught between the worlds.
Aeron stopped, unwilling to confront the bitter thought. “You’re lying. I’ll leave any time now. Dawn can’t be far off.” He realized that he was speaking to himself, yet the argument seemed to have a fearsome weight to it, as if his very soul depended upon the outcome. The stars danced and burned in frozen glory overhead, but Aeron ignored his surroundings. The internal battle was much more significant; anything that he saw or thought he saw around him was a mere manifestation of the contentious struggle within.
You begin to understand.
Aeron thought carefully for a long time, holding his mind to the task with iron discipline. “I touched the stone with my magic, and so it is my magic that is tainted.”
Had you set your hand on the stone, as the others did, you would have been lost without hope of redemption.
“And it is my magic that keeps me here. I don’t belong in the shadow land; no living man does. And so by daylight I’ve been free to walk the waking world. At night, the Shadow Stone grows strong enough to drag me into its own plane. And each day that passes, each night I walk in the realm of the shadow, my reality fades.”
You are almost spent. You lack the strength now to return to the daylight against the stone’s influence.
“I must expunge any magical power that I have left to me in order to eliminate the stone’s hold.” Aeron mulled that over. He still had a half-dozen spells remaining in his mind, spells he’d managed to preserve throughout his travels. The only way he could imagine to rid himself of magic would be to speak each spell, cast it here in the shadow, and dissipate its energies. When all the spells were gone, he’d have no magic for the stone to retain its hold on him. And he might escape the shadow prison that sought to claim him.
You will be left powerless. Your spellbooks remain in the c
ollege. And there is only one source of magic here for you. Each spell you speak must be powered by the stone, and therefore, with each casting, its influence over you will grow stronger. You will fall completely under its power long before you escape the plane of shadow.
“That,” said Aeron, “will depend on me.”
He weighed the options, thinking it through, but there was really no choice. The plane of shadow was devouring him slowly, dissipating his life in its endless gloom. He was certain to perish if he remained. The stone might or might not overpower him. His only hope lay in the course of madness.
He turned and looked around him. He stood on a long, open ridge, a dark line of woods off to his right, a dim ruined castle a mile or so across untended fields to his left. It was as good a place as any. Deliberately he closed his eyes and forced the knotted symbol for the spell of shielding to the forefront of his mind and set it free.
Streaming up from the barren ground, icy tendrils of blackness poured into Aeron’s body, filling him with something hateful and cold. His mind reeled and his heart ached with revulsion, but he worked through the spell and discarded it uselessly into the night. He immediately selected the charm of blindness and stammered it out while his body convulsed and his blood ran as sluggishly as a filthy, choked sewer. His mind already reeled on the brink of oblivion.
You can’t do it. The stone’s overwhelming you.
“Not until I let it,” Aeron hissed in response. He reached deep into his reserves of will, finding strength even beyond the limits of what he’d thought he possessed, and barked out the next two spells, enduring the cold, black rottenness that surged and seethed in his soul, forcing his mind above the rising tide of insanity. If he failed, his life was the least of the things he would forfeit.
Phantasms of terror and mist swirled around him under the lightless sky, drawn by the sorcery he unleashed. He was burning like a beacon on the hilltop, shrouded in a cold white fire that danced like will-o’-the-wisps in the marshes. He hammered his way through the next, a spell of disenchantment, and botched it badly … but it was spent, and now one last spell remained, a spell of illusion. With the last of his strength and sanity, Aeron gibbered the words, and the raging power of the Shadow Stone gave it form and then destroyed it.
The Shadow Stone Page 20