The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

  And a silence as final as death fell on the sere hillside.

  Aeron lay on the cold road, exhausted, starving, his gut aching with violent nausea. But he did not feel the stone’s touch in him anymore.

  He looked down at his hands and noticed that an odd rose-and-orange glow was staining his flesh, his robes. It puzzled him for a moment, and then he realized that he was seeing the first light of morning shining on him, although it touched nothing else yet in the gloom of the shadow land. He glanced to the east, watching as the sunrise dispelled the preternatural darkness.

  The sunlight touched him, but it brought no warmth. Weakness assailed him, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, every last reserve of his strength suddenly depleted beyond hope of restoration.

  He found himself kneeling in a broad farm field sown with young corn. A long line of dark trees sketched the horizon, rising and falling in gentle hills and deep dells that Aeron knew like the back of his hand—Maerchlin. With the last of his strength, he snorted in amazement. “I’m home,” he whispered. Then he collapsed into the rich, wet earth.

  Raedel’s soldiers found Aeron before the sun had risen an hour into the sky.

  Twelve

  Aeron was dragged through the village and into the castle’s gaping mouth by a squad of mailed soldiers. They spared him no discomfort, manhandling him with angry shoves and cuffs to his head as if he’d been a struggling berserker. At first Aeron almost welcomed their attention; each blow confirmed his escape from the plane of shadow and reminded him of his reality.

  The guards wasted no time in bringing him before Phoros Raedel, in the musty, oak-paneled great hall. The room was crowded with the men-at-arms and retainers of the Raedels and a handful of village leaders who had business with the count this morning. The conversation died away as Aeron was led into the room.

  Phoros Raedel rose from the high seat, openly amazed. “Morieth!” he stated, his face slack. The young lord had filled out in the two years since Aeron had last seen him; some of his hard-won muscle was settling around his waist, and his face, once chiseled and clean, seemed more florid now. But the strength of his arms and the cruelty in his eyes remained, and a wide smile of satisfaction spread across his features as he slowly approached. “Oh, how I’ve dreamed of this moment. My sight was gone for a month before my father found a priest who could undo your spell.”

  Aeron drew himself up and met the count’s glare with a calm gaze. “I did what I had to do. You’d have killed Kestrel if I hadn’t acted.” He hesitated, then added, “I didn’t want you for an enemy, Phoros.”

  “You didn’t want me for an enemy?” Raedel brayed harsh laughter. “Regos still carries the scar you left when you laid open his arm. Miroch you burned alive. You bewitched my guardsmen, and you blinded me! And now you’re sorry for it?”

  Aeron waited until Raedel had stopped laughing. Familiar or not, Phoros still meant him no good. He bit back an angry retort, the old scar across the top of his left ear aching as if to remind him of how his feud with the young lord had begun. “I only sought to protect myself and those I love. I don’t regret saving Eriale from Miroch’s attentions or helping Kestrel to escape from your dungeons, but I wish it had never been necessary.”

  Raedel blinked. He studied Aeron for a long moment, eyes narrowed. “You’ve changed,” he said at last.

  “I’ve little fight left in me,” Aeron replied.

  The young count held his gaze for a long time before looking away to the guards. “Take him away,” he said. “He’s guilty of raising his hand against a lord, sedition, sorcery, and a dozen other charges. He’ll hang tomorrow morning.”

  “One favor, Raedel?” Aeron said.

  Phoros wheeled on him, astonished. “You want to ask a favor of me? Are you insane?”

  “Pardon Kestrel and Eriale. You only arrested them to catch me.”

  “Pardon them? Why? They’re rebels and traitors, fugitives from my dungeons!”

  “Now that you have me, let them go,” Aeron said.

  Phoros scowled. “What does it matter if I pardon them or not? They fled Maerchlin two years ago.”

  “They never did anything wrong, Phoros. It’s not right for them to be outlaws on my account.”

  The count weighed Aeron’s words and abruptly agreed. “Very well. Kestrel and Eriale are pardoned, for what it’s worth.” He waved his hand at Aeron’s guards, dismissing them. “Be careful with Morieth. He is a skillful sorcerer. Keep his hands bound, and keep a hood over his head. And I want him guarded around the clock by two swordsmen in his cell. He will not walk out of my dungeons again.”

  The guards dragged him away to the castle’s cells. They grudgingly spared him some food, so before the hood went over his head, Aeron gnawed at a piece of tough black bread and washed it down with cold water. He felt much better for it, and by the time he finished, he felt simply tired instead of exhausted beyond his limits.

  Aeron didn’t even consider escape. With all of his magic expended, he did not stand a chance against the guards whom Raedel had posted over him. And even if he still had some magic left, he wasn’t sure that he would have been able to wield the Weave without drawing on the power of the Shadow Stone; even to save his own life, he was unwilling to do that. So Aeron closed his eyes and slept dreamlessly, still trying to rest from his ordeal.

  He was awakened late in the day by a guard poking his foot into his ribs. “You’ve got visitors,” he said.

  Aeron shook his head, wondering why he couldn’t see, and then he remembered the hood. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Aeron? Is it really you?” Eriale knelt down beside him and held him tight, her voice cracking with emotion. “We feared we’d never see you again!”

  “Aye, lad. Where have you been? We’ve sent a dozen letters to the college, but they knew nothing of your whereabouts.” Kestrel’s strong hands clasped his shoulders.

  “Step away from the prisoner,” said one of the guards. “The count ordered no contact.” Steel rasped on leather as the fellow drew his blade to emphasize his point.

  Reluctantly Eriale released him, and Kestrel’s hands fell away. Aeron sensed them shuffling back a few steps. He shook his head again, trying to clear the cobwebs. “What time of day is it? I’ve been asleep.”

  “It’s about an hour before midnight. We came as quickly as we could,” Kestrel said.

  Aeron thought for a moment. “It’s a half-day’s ride from your new home. How did you know I was here?”

  “You remember Toric and Shiela Goldsheaf,” Eriale said. “When Toric heard of your return, and the count’s pardon for Father and me, he borrowed the fastest horse in the village and set out for my homestead. I’ve never ridden so fast in my life.”

  “I didn’t think you’d risk setting foot in Maerchlin again,” Aeron said quietly. “The count might revoke his pardon.” He heard a soft, choked sob. “Eriale? Are you all right?”

  There was a long pause before she answered, and her voice was taut. “Yes, I’m fine. It just doesn’t seem fair that we’ve finally seen you again, but you’re to hang tomorrow.”

  For the first time, the weight of Phoros’s sentence crashed down on Aeron. It might have been a mundane death compared to what would have happened to him in the shadow, but it was still death, now only a few hours away. Aeron had forgotten what it was like to be powerless and blind. With his magic, he could have escaped from his bonds in a dozen different ways. “It’s better than what might have happened to me,” he said softly.

  “What do you mean, Aeron?” asked Kestrel.

  Aeron sighed. “It doesn’t matter now, I guess.” He wanted to tell them something about his experiences in the college, to explain how he’d come to be in Raedel’s dungeons, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak of it. “I learned a lot at the college, and I threw myself into my studies. But patience was never my strong suit, and I became involved in dangerous lore. One of my spells went wrong, and here I am. I’m lucky to have survived the
experience, I think.”

  “Lucky enough to land in the dungeons of your worst enemy,” Kestrel remarked wryly. “Aeron, what do—”

  “All right, that’s enough,” barked the guard. “Ten minutes was all I was supposed to allow you, and you’ve had a fair piece more. Now, let’s go. You might be allowed to say your farewells tomorrow morning.”

  Aeron heard scuffling footsteps as the guard escorted Kestrel and Eriale to the door. Suddenly he felt very small and alone.

  “Aeron, is there anything we can do?” Eriale called from the door of the cell. “Someone we can talk to, a way to delay the execution?” She sobbed. “We’ve got to do something!”

  “I said that’s enough!” the guard snarled.

  Aeron thought quickly. There was only one hope that came to his mind. “Tell Fineghal!” he called.

  “Where can we find him?” Kestrel asked.

  “Eriale can show you. Try the ruined tower, or the vale with the waterfall—” Something heavy crashed into the side of his head and spun him to the floor. Even with his eyes covered, he saw twisting shapes of colored light, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He realized that the guard had hit him.

  “That’s all from you!” the guard snapped. “Keep running your mouth and we’ll hold your friends here just to make sure they don’t cause any mischief. So go ahead, keep talking if you want to. Got anything more to say?”

  Aeron held his tongue. He could hear clanging doors, Eriale’s voice as she argued with the guardsmen escorting her away, harsh replies from the other jailers. He hoped that the soldiers would let them leave. Of course, they could walk the Maerchwood for weeks and see no sign of Fineghal, he thought. The elf lord might be anywhere. Or he might not want to be found. And even if they did find him, he might not be willing to help, not if it meant interfering in human affairs. Aeron tried to stifle the rising ache of despair in his heart and failed. He let himself fall back against the ground, bowing his head in silence.

  “Good. I thought you might hold your tongue, wizard.” The guardsman laughed, and he fell to trading colorful tales with the other fellow on watch.

  “Get up, you piece of filth. You’re not going to be late to your hanging on my watch.” Two or three men dragged Aeron to his feet, shaking him awake with a start. He coughed and groaned. “By Assuran, I fell asleep again!” he muttered. He’d worked furiously against his bonds for an hour or more after Kestrel and Eriale left, only to find his hands too well secured. He remembered giving up in frustration, thinking of what to try next … and then nothing. He’d missed his chance.

  “Wait,” he said, trying to dig his feet into the ground. “Don’t I get a last meal? An appeal? A chance to speak to my friends?”

  “Count’s orders. You’re to swing at sunrise, no visitors, no discussion. Now stop wriggling. The count will have my hide if you’re not swinging by the neck at first light.” The guard snorted. “Your day’s not looking too good, but there’s no reason that my day should be miserable, too.”

  Aeron kicked and stomped, wrenching himself from side to side, but the guards only laughed and tightened their grip. He managed to get one arm free, but someone behind him struck him in the back of the skull with a weighted truncheon. He found himself lying on the ground, his foot tapping the wall, with hot agony burning in his head. He didn’t struggle anymore when the guards dragged him to his feet and through the castle’s halls.

  They hauled him out into the courtyard and removed the leather hood. Aeron shook his head and looked around; the early morning air was cool and damp, and it felt clean on his face after wearing the hood for nearly a day. The light was dim and rose-hued, long shadows slanting across the open bailey. A small crowd had gathered to watch; in a quick glance, Aeron saw a score of faces he recognized. The guards hustled him across the yard to a wooden platform with a bowed crossbeam and a single noose. Stunned by the swiftness of events, he offered no resistance as they pulled him up the short flight of steps and positioned him beneath the noose, standing on a simple board over a square hole in the wooden decking. A black-hooded executioner stood by with a large mattock to knock the board from under his feet.

  While the guards worked on his bindings, retying them for the hanging, Aeron glanced around the courtyard. Most of the people watching were Raedel’s housemen and soldiers, but a few villagers shifted nervously, watching the preparations. “No tricks now,” growled one of the men beside him as he positioned the noose around Aeron’s neck.

  Aeron grimaced but did not resist. The rope scraped at his neck. He glanced around the courtyard again, hoping for some miraculous reprieve, and his eyes fell on Kestrel and Eriale, watching from the back. Eriale’s face was streaked with tears, and Kestrel glowered as if he could burn Aeron’s guards with nothing more than the heat of his anger. Two guardsmen stood right behind them, detailed to watch over his kinfolk and make sure that they did not interfere.

  The men readying the gallows finished their work and stepped back, waiting. The brief pause stretched into a maddening wait for Aeron as he shifted and tested his bonds. A disturbance in the crowd caught his attention, and he looked up to see Phoros Raedel and his closest retainers sauntering into the courtyard. The young count stopped a few feet in front of the gallows, looking up at Aeron. “If he starts to speak a spell, silence him,” he said to the guards nearby. To Aeron, he said, “Any last words?”

  Aeron considered an impassioned plea, but one look into Phoros’s eyes told him all that he needed to know. Raedel would not be moved. “No,” he answered.

  “Very well, then.” Phoros started to gesture to the sledge man, when a piercing shriek shattered the morning stillness.

  Eriale screamed and clawed her way through the small crowd. “No, my lord! I beg you, don’t kill him! He never meant to do you any harm.” Two of Raedel’s guards caught her five paces before she reached the count and restrained her, although she struggled with the fury of a wildcat. “No!”

  Phoros jerked his head at the guards, and they dragged her back. “Do it,” he ordered.

  In the corner of his eye, Aeron saw the sledge wielder raise the heavy maul and bring it down. The impact jolted his feet, and the board beneath him flew away, spinning.

  He managed nothing more than a grunt of surprise before the rope snapped tight, cutting off his air. Something popped in his neck, and then he landed heavily on the ground, stunned and breathless. He was lying on his side on the cold ground, his arms still bound behind him, and in his sideways view of the courtyard, Raedel’s guardsmen suddenly appeared, shouting at each other. “You damn fool! The rope parted!”

  “I checked it twice. It was fine!”

  “Well, get another rope and do it right this time.”

  Aeron wanted to roll back and look behind him, but he seemed to have forgotten how. His eyes smarted from staring, but he could not close them, and he couldn’t work the dirt out of his mouth. With a cold, sick shock, he realized that he wasn’t breathing. No need to do it again, he thought. The rope must have snapped my neck clean.

  Two guards seized him by the arms and dragged him upright, but he was left staring down at the ground. The voices in the courtyard were growing fainter, and it seemed that a cloud had passed before the sun, since it was growing very dark.

  “… think he’s dead.”

  “… here, look. He’s dead.”

  “… guess the fall broke his neck.”

  “Here’s the physician. Is he …”

  “… no doubt. Take him away.”

  A heavy white wrap of linen was laid over his face, and he was distantly aware that he was being shrouded where he lay. He wanted to protest, but he had no voice and could not move at all. He mustered every ounce of willpower remaining and tried to move, but he couldn’t tell if he succeeded or not.

  “… Assuran’s eyes! His hand moved!”

  “… seen a corpse, you idiot? They do that.”

  He was lifted and dumped against creaking wood, his limbs straighten
ed and arranged, and then another blanket was thrown over him. In his mind, he ripped the cloth away from his face, hammered his way free of the cart, shouted for help. Despite his panic, his body refused to move. A new voice nearby caught his attention—Eriale. He could hear the grief in her words. “Can we take him home now?”

  “We’ll bury him in the castle’s graveyard if you want.”

  Kestrel now: “No. We’ll lay him beside his parents.”

  “Get him out of here, then. It’s your business now.”

  The cart moved and creaked, trundling along a rutted road. Aeron gave up on trying to escape his condition and waited in blank hopelessness. Was this death, then? Consciousness trapped in an inert shell? How long would thought remain, how long would it take before whatever dim spark that still burned inside was mad beyond all reason? He prayed for oblivion before that happened.

  “… far enough yet?”

  “Keep going. They may follow just to be certain.”

  He was moved again, strapped to a narrow board, and then dragged for quite some distance. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he was in the forest, for he felt roots and twigs catching at the sledge, and it seemed cooler and darker here. Careful hands stretched him on a cold stone surface, and he felt the shrouds and wraps being removed from his body. Finally the band of cloth over his eyes was peeled away.

  He was looking up at the forest canopy. It was still early morning, for the treetops were gold and orange with the light. Eriale and Kestrel knelt over him, rubbing his limbs, their faces tight with concern. A silver wolfhound began to lick his face, whining softly. A voice of inhuman perfection laughed, and the hound drew away. Fineghal knelt over Aeron, smiled, and spoke a brief word that Aeron once knew. “Rise, my friend. The paralysis should be fading from your body.”