The Shadow Stone

by Richard Baker

  With all his effort, Aeron managed to blink and shiver. He tried to speak but only groaned instead.

  “Will he be all right?” Eriale asked anxiously.

  “Give him a moment,” Fineghal replied. “The spell that feigns death wears off slowly, but he should be with us soon.” He leaned forward and set his hand on Aeron’s brow. “Come back, Aeron. You are not as dead as you think.”

  This time, Aeron managed a word. “How …?”

  The elf lord grinned. “I made certain that the rope would not support your weight, but of course they would have found another and hanged you a second time. So, while you lay stunned on the ground, I worked a spell for which I’d never had a use before today—the death glamour.”

  Aeron licked his lips and found that he had strength enough to prop himself up on his elbows. “They … they thought I was dead?”

  Kestrel snorted. “Aeron, I knew what to expect, and I thought you were dead. Raedel and his henchmen are celebrating even as we speak, certain that they’ve rid the world of the last of the Morieths.”

  Aeron heaved a sigh of relief and fell back against the ground. He recognized the place now; it was the same elven tower where he and Eriale had first encountered Fineghal. “I take it you managed to reach Fineghal, then?”

  Eriale smiled. “We found him here, in fact. Or I should say he found us. It seems he was expecting your return.” She reached out for his hands and dragged him to his feet.

  Aeron embraced her, and then Kestrel as well. Finally he turned and took Fineghal’s hand in the elven welcome. “Thank you. I’d be dead if you hadn’t helped.”

  “We may have parted in anger, Aeron, but I have no desire to see harm befall you.” The elven mage nodded to Kestrel and Eriale. “Thank your kinfolk, too. If they hadn’t sought me out, I might not have arrived in time to help.”

  Aeron stretched and rubbed his shoulders. “I wish you could have let me know what to expect. I was certain that I was dead.”

  “There wasn’t much time, Aeron, and I could not risk revealing my presence. They’d have cut you down in your cell if they’d suspected that I might show up.”

  “Where did you hide?” Kestrel asked the elf. “I saw no sign of you, none at all.”

  Fineghal smiled. “I stood right beside you the whole time. I was the miller.”

  Kestrel gaped. “That fat old miser?”

  The elf shrugged. “Any stranger in the courtyard would have been watched closely.”

  Aeron was silent a long time, registering the tide of events in his mind, coming to grips with where he stood and what had happened. “Listen,” he said slowly, “I’ve made some grave mistakes, some very bad decisions. I was caught up in dangerous intrigues in the college. And when I left, I was stranded in dark and strange planes for a long time. I was nearly killed, several times. I … I don’t know whether or not I’ve really escaped from what waited for me there.”

  Eriale paled in horror, and Kestrel grunted and shifted nervously. Fineghal simply gazed at Aeron, his face inscrutable.

  Aeron continued. “I touched a stone of darkness, something strong and evil beyond belief. It left its mark in the part of me that once wielded magic. In order to escape, I had to expunge what power I had. I … I can’t wield magic anymore.” As he spoke the words, his voice broke.

  “If that was the price you paid for your life, count yourself lucky,” Kestrel said at length. “You’re here and alive. That’s something to be thankful for.”

  “What will you do now, Aeron?” Eriale asked. “Will you go back to the college?”

  Aeron shuddered. “No. I don’t know if I can learn to wield magic again, and even if I was certain that I could, I don’t want to go back there.” He thought of Oriseus and his followers, standing in the black glare of the Shadow Stone. The city of Cimbar was too close to the shard. “No, I don’t want to go back. What’s done is done.” He looked over to Kestrel. “Can you use another set of hands in Saden?”

  “You’re welcome to come with us, Aeron,” Kestrel said. “There’s always a place under my roof for Stiche Morieth’s son. We’ve land to clear and trapping to look to.”

  “Kestrel’s suggestion bears merit, Aeron,” Fineghal said. Aeron had almost forgotten that the elven lord stood watching until he spoke. “However, I must remind you of the deception we enacted for Phoros Raedel’s benefit. Saden is not so far from Maerchlin that he wouldn’t hear of your return sooner or later. And I doubt that he would be glad to learn how he was fooled.”

  Aeron’s heart fell. “So I can’t go home.”

  Fineghal shook his head. “Not yet, I think. Give it a few months, perhaps a year or two. That’s enough time for those who knew you in Saden to forget about you. Your appearance has changed since you left Maerchlin, and if I remember anything about growing up, it seems to me that a couple of years more should help you to vanish altogether.

  “What do you suggest? That he sets out on his own again for years?” Eriale asked, an edge in her voice. “Where would he go? What would he do?”

  “He could come with me.” The elven mage shrugged and looked at Aeron. “I walk the Maerchwood still, and few humans mark my path. You are welcome to remain here, Aeron. You know the forest well, and I would enjoy your company.”

  “But my magic’s gone,” Aeron protested.

  “The time of your apprenticeship’s long past, I think. I ask you as a friend, not as your master.” Fineghal swept his arm out to indicate the green and golden wood, alive with the early spring. “And if your heart is heavy, I know no better cure than the Maerchwood in spring.”

  Aeron glanced from Kestrel and Eriale to Fineghal, and back again. “If you’ll stand my company, I’ll come with you,” he said. “I’ll be able to visit my family?”

  “Of course. Just take pains to avoid being seen in Kestrel’s house for a while.”

  He weighed the elf’s words for a short time and then agreed with a nod. “Thank you, Fineghal.”

  The elf lord rose and summoned Baillegh with a gesture. “Then let us be on our way. We’re still too close to Maerchlin for my taste, and we have an empty grave to dig before we leave.”

  Thirteen

  For the rest of the summer, Fineghal and Aeron returned to their old life of walking the forest from one end to the other, sleeping under the stars in a different place every night. At first Aeron had a hard time keeping up; his long months at Cimbar’s university hadn’t involved daily marches with the fleet-footed elf, and his ordeal in the plane of shadow had not improved his constitution. But as the weeks passed, he regained and then surpassed his old conditioning; he was now in his twentieth year, a wiry and athletic man, not a rail-thin boy.

  Aeron did not speak of what had passed at the college or during the months of his trek through the western lands and the shadow realm, and Fineghal did not press him. Nor did Aeron attempt to wield magic. He was unwilling to face the consequences of attempting to shape the Weave into the form of a spell; the Shadow Stone’s influence might still be present, and he did not want to risk allowing its malign power into his heart and mind again. He had survived it once, just barely, but he did not believe he would be so lucky again.

  If Fineghal was puzzled by Aeron’s new reluctance to pursue the magical power he had craved before they parted, he did not speak of it. Aeron was content to let matters stand. Sensing Aeron’s reluctance to discuss his experiences in the college, Fineghal turned to an exhaustive study of the beautiful woodlands and glades of the Maerchwood, filling Aeron’s mind with the elven knowledge of the forest and all that lived and grew within it. Aeron sated his insatiable hunger for knowledge with the mundane lore of the woodlands, avoiding his old studies and interests.

  As Fineghal had promised, they visited Saden frequently, guesting with Kestrel and Eriale for the night before slipping away under the cover of the predawn mists. Kestrel had done well for himself in the freehold, and Eriale was the belle of the village. She was now eighteen, tall enough
to look Aeron level in the eye and blessed with the wide, brown eyes of her mother and long, flowing chestnut hair she wore in a braid. At first Aeron was a little amused to watch the young men of Saden competing for Eriale’s affections, since she was thoroughly independent and had no real desire to find a husband. She was the best archer in Saden, with the possible exception of her father. Aeron realized his foster sister could marry any time she wanted to, and it made him very conscious of his own solitude. Other than Fineghal and his family, he had no one to speak to and no friends of his own.

  One day, when he and Fineghal hiked along a steep trail that looked toward the Smoking Mountains east of the woods, Aeron found himself thinking of Melisanda again. He tried to imagine where she was and what she was doing, and he couldn’t seem to get her face out of his mind. After a time, he asked, “Fineghal, do you ever become lonely?”

  The elf halted and turned to face him. “I’ve become quite comfortable with my own company.” He shrugged. “I have friends. You, Baillegh, even Kestrel and Eriale, though I do not know them as well.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  The elf looked out over the distant peaks. It was a warm day, and the faint sounds of the forest rose lazily over the sunny hillsides. “I miss my people,” he said slowly. “Once the Maerchwood was filled with the Tel’Quessir. The wood itself was much greater then, of course, reaching to the Chondalwood in the west and the Methwood in the east. The great court moved every day to a new place, and the fair ladies and gallant princes were countless as the stars in the summer sky. Everywhere I turn, I see their ghosts and I hear the echoes of their laughter. But they are gone.”

  Aeron looked down, a little embarrassed. Besides Fineghal’s loss, his own loneliness seemed trivial. “You’ve told me before that many still live today, in other lands.”

  Fineghal nodded. “I visited with my kinfolk in the distant forest of Evereska for a time while you were away at the college. It reminded me of times long gone.” He paused, thinking. “I believe I will join them someday.”

  Aeron glanced up at him. “And leave the Maerchwood?”

  “Perhaps, although that day is not yet here.” He turned Aeron’s question back on him. “I take it that you wish for more company?”

  “I had several good friends at the college. One was a beautiful girl called Melisanda. She came from Arrabar, in Chondath. I fell in love with her, although she didn’t feel the same way about me.” Aeron smiled ruefully. “She’s back in Arrabar, I guess.” He went on to relate the story of his infatuation with Melisanda, and after a long time, he realized that his tale was growing to encompass the sum of his experiences in the college. Fineghal was a patient listener, and from time to time he prompted Aeron into explaining things that Aeron would rather have omitted. Before he knew it, the sun was low on the horizon, and he had finished by telling how he returned to Castle Raedel. He felt better than he had in a long time, at peace with himself. Telling his story had lifted a heavy weight from his spirit.

  “Your loneliness is very understandable,” Fineghal said after a time. “You walk between two worlds, Aeron. I’ve taught you the Tel’Quessir ways, but I am the only elf you have ever spoken with. And in Chessenta, the blood of your elven ancestors marks you as different, unusual.”

  “I don’t know if this is what I truly wanted.”

  The elf lord reached out to grasp Aeron’s shoulder. “Home, hearth, family, and friends are not to be your lot in life, Aeron. Your human side will never be satisfied with the lonely road you will follow. And if you denied the elven magic in your blood, you would be just as unhappy.”

  “So I must accept the fact that I will be alone for the rest of my life? That I won’t fit in anywhere?”

  “That is the price of wisdom, Aeron. And you are quickly becoming wise beyond your years.” Fineghal stood, gazing up into the night sky. The first stars were beginning to flicker into view. “The stars, the waters, and the wind will be your friends in years to come. And the wood is your home. There is comfort in that, if not the comfort you yearned for.”

  Aeron considered the wizard’s words for a long time. “You think I should resume the study of magic?”

  “It’s in your nature, Aeron. Almost anyone can learn a cantrip or two of the magician’s art if they put their mind to it, but only a handful in a generation can become mages, and you have the potential to be a great mage. Magic comes naturally to you. Resist the call if you want to, but I don’t think you will ever be truly happy if you do.”

  “I’m content now, and I haven’t cast a spell in months.”

  “Are you? Are you truly content? Or do you feel lonely, out of place?” Fineghal smiled sadly.

  “Even if you are right, you know that I cannot risk casting a spell. I told you about the Shadow Stone and its effect on me. Anything I touch, I might destroy.”

  Fineghal returned his gaze to Aeron. “Let’s consider that for a moment. Tell me, what is ‘elven’ magic?”

  Aeron looked up. “The Weave,” he answered automatically. “The forces of nature. The power of the elements—wind, earth, fire, and water—and also the intangible spark or spirit that lies within every living thing.”

  “This is the essence of our magic, although many humans can also touch the Weave. But the Weave is not the only source of power in the world.” Fineghal frowned and pressed his hands together, considering his words. “The Weave is a positive force, an energy that is creative and necessary to the order of things. Even events we view in a negative light—death, for instance, or the elements raging out of control in a forest fire or a great storm—are natural. The magic of the Tel’Quessir is bound by the circles of the world around us.

  “Yet there are forces from beyond the circles of the world, forces that seek to insinuate themselves into our own world and poison it. The Shadow Stone, I suspect, is a manifestation of one of these forces.”

  Aeron shook his head. “I don’t see what that has to do with me, other than to reaffirm my fears of trying to use magic. If the shadow magic is all I can reach, then it would be better if I did not cast spells at all.”

  “Listen to me, Aeron. When I was young, long before the fall of Calmaercor, my instructors told me of creatures their own masters had fought in the very beginning of things. Many of the old elves possessed the gift of mage sight, as you do, and they reported that the fiends and sendings they battled used no magic that we could perceive or comprehend. We often wondered where these forgotten sorcerers and monsters had found their magical power. This is how I know that the Weave is not the only way in which a spell may be crafted.”

  “I wonder if they knew the Imaskari,” Aeron said quietly. “I learned that a few of the ancient human wizards gained the power to shape shadow magic by binding themselves to powers from the planes beyond their own. They sold their souls to master a sorcery no other beings of this world dared to touch.”

  “I believe it could be so,” Fineghal replied. “You have touched this, Aeron, but I cannot perceive it. It is beyond me. You, however, with your human blood and your human determination, may be capable of wielding this magic.”

  “The shadow magic is evil,” Aeron said emphatically. “Believe me, Fineghal, I know.”

  The elven wizard fell silent for a long time. They listened to thunder booming in the distance as a storm gathered about the mountain peaks miles away and began to descend toward the Maerchwood.

  “Here is my thought,” Fineghal said at last. “Magic is not ‘good’ or ‘evil,’ although some forms of magic clearly lend themselves more easily to noble purposes or sinister ones. As an elven mage, I can only perceive the Weave, the natural energy of the world around me. And since this is natural to me, it is hard to pervert into something innately evil. Similarly, magic derived from a darker source, such as the Shadow Stone, lends itself to fell purposes, and if that were the only magic one knew how to use, then eventually it would corrupt. But what if the truth lies somewhere in between?”

>   “You believe that I may be able to find some balance between the two?” Aeron said. “I think you’re mistaken. I don’t have the strength to resist the taint of magic drawn from darkness.”

  “Very few things are wholly good or wholly evil, Aeron. The dark Weave does not even exist for me. I cannot sense it or shape it to my hand. But you might be able to. And if this is the price you must pay for your magic, then so be it.”

  “What if I fail? What if it masters me instead?” Aeron whispered. “I saw what the Shadow Stone did to those who set their hands on it.”

  “You must decide if you are willing to take the risk.” Fineghal sat down on a boulder across the path from Aeron and drew out his pouch of spellstones. “I see that you have lost your glyphwoods,” he observed. “If you wish to, you may borrow my spell tokens again and begin to rebuild your collection of enchantments. I suspect there are few spells in my repertoire that would be beyond your skill now.”

  Aeron wavered. He could sense that Fineghal’s words had an elemental truth to them. The elven magics were not enough for him, but he feared the black, seething malice of the Shadow Stone. The road to wisdom and power lay somewhere in between. With a grimace, he reached out for a spell token. “We’ll see how it goes,” he said. He looked down at the pebble. It was marked with the sign for the charm of invisibility. It took only a few moments to commit the symbol to his mind, locking its potential like a line of poetry held ready behind his tongue.

  “You have the spell memorized?” Fineghal asked.

  “I’d forgotten what it feels like,” Aeron replied. He hadn’t had a spell readied in months. “Now what do I do?”

  Fineghal shrugged. “Cast it,” he said. “With this spell, you normally weave from the spirit and the air. I do not know what other sources you may be able to tap.”