Curse of the Shadowmage

Four

The autumn moon rose full and bright in the dark sky, casting its golden light over the little village of Corm Orp. Tam Acorn threw open the blue wooden door of his burrow and hurried outside. Tonight was the annual Harvest Festival, and he didn’t want to be late for the dancing, the merrymaking, and—most important—the sugarberry pies. Hastily, he locked the door to his tidy underground home with a brass key and scurried down the winding path that led toward the center of the village.

Tam arrived red cheeked and breathless at the village commons just in time to see Pel Baker pull his first batch of bubbling sugarberry pies out of a brick oven. Moments later, Tam was two silver coins poorer and two steaming pies richer. Slipping one pie into a pocket, he began happily munching the other. He burned his tongue, and dark syrup ran down his chin, dribbling onto his green jacket and yellow waistcoat. Tam did not care. Sugarberry pies were his favorite part of the Harvest Festival.

Villagers were streaming into the open greensward now. While most of Corm Orp’s residents were halflings like Tam, there were a few big folk as well. They lived in the stone houses that surrounded the village commons, while the diminutive halflings preferred to dwell in snug underground burrows. A bonfire flared to life in the center of the commons, chasing away the night. Laughter rang out, along with the clinking of cider-filled mugs. Tiny halfling children scurried about in an ongoing game of hide-and-seek. The rich scents of hot sausages, honey bread, and baked apples filled the air.

A call went up for the dancing to begin. “Somebody fetch old Quince Piper!” called out a plump, middle-aged halfling named Rin Miller.

Shouts of happy agreement rang out, but one voice rose above the others.

“I’m afraid my grandfather is ill,” Ali Bramble said sadly to the faces turned toward her. “He won’t be able to play for you tonight.”

A collective groan of despair came from the throng. Tam sighed in disappointment. True, sugarberry pies were the best part of the Harvest Festival, but things wouldn’t be complete without dancing to the music of Quince Piper’s flute.

Rin Miller frowned gloomily. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone else who can play music as well as old Quince?” he asked without much hope.

“I can,” a voice replied.

The crowd gasped with surprise, and the crowd hastily parted.

The stranger was a striking fellow. He was dressed all in black, except for his cloak of midnight blue, and he rode a horse as pale as a ghost. Dismounting, the stranger approached the bonfire. Tam thought there was something odd about the man. He seemed pale and haggard, though perhaps it was simply a trick of the flickering shadows. The man drew something from a pouch at his belt. It was a set of polished bone pipes.

“Well, now, I don’t know,” Rin said suspiciously. “This is all highly irregular, and—”

Rin stopped short as the stranger lifted the pipes to his lips and began to play. The most beautiful music Tam had ever heard drifted on the air. The villagers listened in rapt silence as the stranger’s haunting melody filled the night. When at last he lowered his pipes, tears shone in more than one set of eyes. Someone called out for another song, and the crowd echoed the request.

“Make it something we can dance to, piper!” Rin shouted, now enthusiastic.

The stranger seemed to hesitate, then lifted the pipes once more. This time the music was fast and rollicking, almost wild. Whoops of joy rang out as the crowd leapt into a brisk dance. In moments, Tam found himself being breathlessly spun from one partner to another as the villagers danced merrily around the blazing bonfire.

That was when Tam noticed something peculiar. He blinked, wondering if it was simply his imagination.

The shadows around the bonfire seemed to be moving quite independently of the flow of the dancers. Even as he watched, they stretched out, forming themselves into shapeless blobs that began to whirl slowly around the bonfire. Then, impossibly, the shadows separated themselves from the ground and rose into the air. Tam untangled himself from his dancing partner and stared up in horror. Before he could shout a warning, Ali Bramble’s scream shattered the air.

“The shadows! Look at the shadows!”

In shock, the villagers looked upward, other screams echoing Ali’s. Now the stranger’s music was fey and dissonant. It seemed to pierce Tam’s ears and numb his brain. The shadows began to whirl faster and faster above the bonfire. One of them spun away from the whirling ring of darkness. It stretched outward, engulfing a stone house close to the commons.

When the shadow rose once more into the air, the house had changed. Now the stone walls were hideously warped and distorted, as though they had melted partway under some fierce heat, only to resolidify into something more grotesque. More screams rang out. The dance descended into panic as humans and halflings alike fled in all directions.

Still the stranger continued to play, his eyes staring blankly as if he did not notice the mayhem all around. More shadows spun away from the bonfire. Everything they touched became horribly disfigured. Cottages, sheds, fences, wells, and signposts—all were reshaped by the dark embrace of the shadows.

A cry of animal pain rent the night, and Tam turned to see a hideous form stumble toward him. In horror, he realized it had once been a milk cow. One of the shadows had brushed it in passing, and somehow the beast had been turned inside out. White bones and glistening muscles clung to the outside of its body. Its still-beating heart dangled from its chest. A moment later, the tortured beast collapsed and died, its agony blessedly ended. Tam stared in horror. If one of those shadows were to touch a villager …

In desperation, he wondered what he should do. Suddenly, an idea struck him.

“The bonfire!” he shouted above the din. “We have to put out the bonfire!”

At first, he thought no one had heard his words amid the tumult. Moments later, Ali Bramble and a pair of humans pushed their way to his side. They had had the same idea. Dodging fleeing villagers and the horrible shadow creatures, they grabbed buckets of water and heaved their contents onto the bonfire. There was a terrible hissing noise as clouds of steam rose into the air. The flames flickered and died out. Night closed about the commons like a dark hand. With it came a deep silence.

The music had stopped.

Tam held his breath. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight. The shadows were gone. So too was the stranger.

Exhausted, Tam sank to the ground, only to feel something damp and sticky beneath him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the remains of a sugarberry pie, smashed but still edible. As he gazed at the destruction that had minutes ago been a happy and prosperous village, Tam found he no longer had much of an appetite for sugarberry pie.

The sun was dying on the western horizon when Mari crested a rise and caught her first glimpse of Iriaebor shining in the distance. The big chestnut gelding beneath her nickered excitedly, sensing a stable and a meal of oats were near, and quickened into a canter.

Mari laughed aloud. “Oh, come now, Farenth. Must you risk our necks just because you can’t wait to have a feed bag strapped to your nose?” As was his custom, Farenth pointedly ignored her. There was nothing for Mari to do but grip a handful of dark mane and hold on as he raced across the gray-green moor. Not that she really minded. She too was ready for this journey to end.

It had begun a tenday ago, in the small but lively trading town of Easting. Here the dwarven smiths that dwelt in the southern Sunset Mountains came to sell the exquisite metalwork they fashioned in their subterranean forges. However, over the last several months, fewer and fewer dwarves had journeyed to Easting. Without the trade, Easting was failing. The Harpers had sent Mari to investigate.

At first she had been frustrated. No one in Easting knew what had happened to the dwarven smiths, so she undertook a journey into the mountains to scout the dwarven clanlands themselves. As it turned out, she didn’t need to go that far. While traveling a road that wound deep into the rocky crags, she espied a hapless dwarf being ambushed by a band of orcs. As she watched, the hairy, pig-faced creatures knocked the dwarf on the skull and hauled him into the mouth of a cave. Keeping a safe distance behind, Mari followed and soon discovered the fate of the missing dwarven smiths.

They were being held prisoner by the orcs. An orc prince named Gtharn was behind the kidnappings. Gtharn was forcing the dwarves to forge weapons—swords, axes, and arrowheads—for an all-out assault on the dwarven clans. Mari prowled unseen through the orc warrens—the brutes always made bad sentries—and discovered that over fifty dwarves were being held captive. However, each was imprisoned in isolation, without realizing so many other dwarves were nearby, and so believed escape was impossible.

Mari took it upon herself to rectify this. She stole a set of keys from a guard and freed the dwarves. When the dwarven smiths saw the number of their kinsmen, they banded together and attacked their captors. The cowardly orcs were no match for fifty furious dwarves all swinging bright, newly forged weapons. It was a rout. Mari herself slew Gtharn as he tried to flee. Freed from the filthy orc warrens, the joyous dwarves had tried to reward her with gold and silver. She had refused, telling them instead to return to Easting and renew their trading there. This they did, and so both dwarves and town were saved.

As ever when she completed one of her missions successfully, Mari had ridden away with a warm sense of accomplishment and pride. However, the three-day ride from the mountains across the plains grew tedious, and she soon found her thoughts turning to other, less cheerful matters. Even now, as Iriaebor rose higher on the horizon with each passing moment, Mari found herself wondering if Caledan’s mission was going equally well, and whether she had been right to bid him such a definite farewell. She was resolved to stay true to her decision, but she thought she might come back to Iriaebor in a year or two. Perhaps Caledan would have sorted out his problems by then. But for now, wasn’t it best that she make her good-byes and leave?

She was jolted from her reverie as Farenth skidded to a snorting halt, bridle jingling and leather creaking. Mari had long ago learned to trust the horse’s instincts. Her hand strayed to the knife at her hip. “What is it, friend?” she whispered. They had stopped in a low hollow at the base of a round hill. Atop the hill was a circle of wind-worn standing stones, raised by some forgotten folk. A soft mist was slowly rising from the ground, and Mari’s spine tingled with a preternatural chill.

“All right, show yourself!” she called out sharply, suddenly certain she was not alone. The mist swirled, and seemed to take on human form.

The first things Mari noticed about the woman were that she was very beautiful and very pale. Her skin, her hair, her clothes—all were as gray as the rising fog. The second thing—and this Mari noticed with surprise—was that the woman was not standing on the ground. Rather, she drifted atop the mist as if she were no more solid than the vapor itself. Mari’s arms broke out in gooseflesh. This was no living person, but an apparition. Farenth pranced skittishly, and Mari tightened her grip on the reins.

“Who are you?” she dared to ask in a quavering voice.

The ghostly woman’s words floated eerily on the wind. “Do you not know me by this?” She lifted a hand to her breast. There Mari caught a glint of light and a silvery shape: a harp surrounded by a crescent moon. Mari’s breath caught in her throat. Finally she managed to whisper the word, her voice trembling with awe.

“Kera?”

The spectral woman smiled wistfully. “I was certain you would know me, Mari Al’maren. Though we have never met, it is as if we were sisters.”

Mari shook her head, choking back a sob. Once, long before Mari had ever met Caledan, he and Kera had been lovers. They had worked together as Harpers and were betrothed. All their plans were shattered when Ravendas murdered Kera, an act made all the more loathsome by the fact that the two women were sisters. All these years, Mari had felt a sort of kinship with the Harper woman she had never known. Now she found herself face-to-face with her. It was wondrous, and bitterly sad as well.

“Weep not, Mari,” the ghost intoned. “I have never begrudged you Caledan’s love. I am joyous he found one to make his heart whole once more. And do not be sad that you have parted ways, for you came to each other wounded, and now you each leave with those old wounds healed.”

Mari bowed her head.

“I have but one thing to ask of you, Mari.”

She looked up, her cheeks damp with tears. “Anything,” Mari said fiercely, and meant it. “I will do anything you ask, Kera.”

The ghostly woman smiled fondly. Then her smile vanished, and there was an urgency in her colorless eyes. “Though you have parted with Caledan, do not turn your back on him. He needs your help, Mari, now more than ever.”

Mari shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand. Is Caledan in some sort of danger?”

“All of Toril is in danger.” The spirit was fading, her edges blurring with the mist. Her voice echoed faintly on the wind. “Beware the king, Mari. He must not ascend the throne …” The tendrils of fog swirled, the ghostly woman faded.

“No, Kera, don’t go!” Mari reached out a hand. “What do you mean?”

It was too late. An evening zephyr stirred the mist. When it cleared, the ghost of the beautiful Harper was gone. Mari gazed for a time into the gloaming, hardly able to believe what she had just witnessed. Finally she nudged Farenth’s flanks, and the big horse started into a trot, his hoofbeats muffled by the moist grass. Mari huddled inside her cloak, but all the rest of the way to Iriaebor she could not stop shivering.

It was full dark when she reached the Sign of the Dreaming Dragon, where a missive from the Harpers was waiting for her.

“It arrived earlier this evening,” Estah explained. “I told the messenger I wasn’t certain when you’d return.”

Shaken by her encounter with the ghost of Kera, Mari was glad to have something mundane to concentrate on. She sat by the fire in the common room and let Estah bring her a cup of chamomile tea. She drank down the hot tea and finally managed to control her shivering.

Breaking the wax seal on the scroll, she unrolled the parchment and began to read. In moments, it was clear that this was no routine directive. By the time she finished reading, her shivering had commenced anew.

Estah returned and noticed Mari’s pallid face. “Dear one, you look as if you’d seen a ghost!”

Mari smiled ironically. “I’m afraid that’s only half of it, Estah.”

Estah drew up a chair and listened raptly as Mari spoke of her encounter with Kera’s shade. At some point, Mari looked up and noticed Kellen was there, sitting on the floor and watching her intently. For a moment, the Harper realized how much he looked like his aunt Kera—far more so than he resembled his mother, Ravendas.

“First Talek Talembar, now Kera,” Estah said in soft amazement. “What can these appearances mean, Mari?”

“I’m not sure. But I don’t think this is a mere coincidence.” She gestured to the parchment before her. In it, she explained, were two disturbing pieces of news. The first concerned a strange occurrence in the village of Corm Orp. Apparently, some local harvest festival had descended into a riot in which several people were hurt. The details were unknown, but the villagers whispered of how shadows had come to life and attacked them. “Sound familiar?” Mari asked.

“It sounds like the creatures you and Caledan saw in the Zhentarim hideout,” Estah agreed. She frowned in puzzlement. “But you said the creatures were dispelled. And there hasn’t been another murder in Iriaebor since you and Caledan left.”

Mari took a deep breath. “I know. That brings me to the second report. Caledan was supposed to meet with a Harper operative in Corm Orp on the same day as the festival, to receive his orders. But Caledan never showed up at the appointed meeting place.”

Estah clutched her apron worriedly. “What are you saying?”

Mari gazed directly at the halfling innkeeper, her expression grim. “Caledan is missing.”

It took a moment for the implication of this to register on the halfling. Then she gasped. “But you don’t … you don’t think the strange happenings in Corm Orp have anything to do with Caledan?”

“I’m not sure what to think, Estah.” Mari squared her shoulders. She recalled Kera’s urgent words. Do not turn your back on him, Mari. “It’s time I paid a visit to someone I should have spoken to a long time ago. There’s only one person in Iriaebor who ever witnessed one of the murders and lived to tell about. I’m going to find out what he saw.” She pulled her cloak about her shoulders. “If he hasn’t been executed yet, that is.”

An hour later, Mari picked her way down the slimy stone steps that led to the gaol beneath Iriaebor’s High Tower. Behind her came Morhion; she had fetched the mage on her way to the tower and filled him in on all she knew. Leading the way down the steps to the dungeon was another draftee—a big, bespectacled man with dark, coppery skin.

“I hope you know I’m doing you an enormous favor, Mari,” the big man grumbled. He was as powerfully muscled as a warrior—in fact, he had been a warrior once—but now he wore the plain brown robe of a monk. Or, to be more exact, a Loremaster of Oghma. “It would be decidedly awkward if City Lord Bron’s chief advisor were to be caught sneaking around the dungeon at night to talk with murderers on death row.” He turned to glare at Mari. “In fact, I have half a mind to go back right now.”

“Shall I cast that charm spell so he’ll be forced to do our bidding, Mari?” Morhion asked with a musing smile.

She blinked at the taciturn mage’s rare display of humor, then laughed. Reaching up, she patted Tyveris’s cheek affectionately. Despite his dusky skin, the big man’s blush was clear to see. “No, thank you, Morhion,” she replied lightly. “I think I have our good monk suitably charmed already.”

Tyveris scowled darkly, though his brown eyes glowed with devotion. “You never did play fair, Mari.”

Of all the old members of the Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon, Tyveris was the biggest and strongest, but he also had the softest heart. Years ago, the big Chultan gave up the sword he had never enjoyed wielding and became a man of learning—though, when necessity required, he could still bring down a running horse with his bare fists. Mari was awfully fond of him.

The stairs ended, and the trio made their way down a dank, torchlit corridor. “Why do you want to talk to this thief, Mari?” Tyveris asked quietly. “I thought you and Caledan solved the mystery of the murders. It was the Zhentarim, right? You yourself told me the one we caught in the act was probably just a madman killing in imitation.”

“I thought so, too,” Mari said grimly, then filled Tyveris in on what she had learned concerning the strange happenings in Corm Orp and Caledan’s disappearance.

When she finished, Tyveris swore a rather colorful oath.

Morhion raised a single eyebrow. “That didn’t sound like any prayer to Oghma I’m familiar with,” he noted dryly.

Tyveris shot the mage a black look. “It’s a new one. I just made it up.” His expression became somber. “So Caledan’s in trouble again. The sages aren’t kidding when they say old habits die hard. Come on, then.”

Moments later they came to an iron-barred cell at the end of the corridor. “Wake up, Kadian!” Tyveris called out in a booming voice.

A haggard voice spoke out of the darkness. “I am awake.”

Tyveris took a torch from a bracket and held it aloft. Flickering light spilled through the bars to illuminate the cell. A man sitting on a bed of clean straw rose stiffly to his feet. The thief Kadian was a large man—taller than Tyveris, though not so broad—but his pale hair and round face gave him a boyish look.

“Is it time for the hanging?” Kadian asked. There was no fear in his colorless eyes, only grim resignation.

“No,” Tyveris said huskily. “The next hanging will be in three days’ time, on the Feast of the Moon.”

Mari stepped forward. “We’ve come to ask you some questions, Kadian.”

At this, the thief let out a mirthless snort. “Questions? Now that’s a novelty. No one’s bothered to ask me any questions before.”

She cast a scathing look at Tyveris, who shrugged sheepishly. Well, better too late than not at all, Mari thought. “Tell me, Kadian, did you kill that nobleman?”

Kadian laughed ruefully. “That foppish sot? He wouldn’t have been worth the trouble it would take to stick a knife in and pull it back out.”

“Just answer the question,” Mari instructed caustically.

Kadian locked eyes with her. “No,” he said flatly. “I did not kill the petty lord. I wanted to steal his gold, and that was all. I was probably doing him a favor. No doubt he would have lost it all gambling at dice the next night, and those who can’t pay their gambling debts have a habit of taking long midnight swims at the bottom of the Chionthar. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to die.”

Mari kept her voice cool and emotionless. “If you didn’t kill the petty lord, then who did?”

While there had been no fear in the thief’s eyes at the talk of his own hanging, suddenly they were filled with a stark terror so strong Mari was taken aback. Kadian gripped the rusting iron bars; he was shaking visibly.

“What did you see, Kadian?” she asked intently. “Who killed the nobleman that night?”

He opened his mouth, but it took a long moment for the words to finally come out. “The shadows,” he choked. “It was the shadows …”

Mari exchanged a startled glance with Morhion, then leaned closer to the thief. “Tell me, Kadian …”

In halting words, the thief told what had happened that night. When he finished, the three friends gazed silently at each other. None of them doubted the truth of the thief’s story. The finest Cormyrean actor could not have feigned so genuine a terror.

“I don’t understand, Mari,” an obviously shaken Tyveris said softly. “Does this have something to do with the weird shadows in Corm Orp?”

Mari ran a hand nervously through her thick auburn hair. “I’m not sure, Tyveris. I’m afraid it does.” She added grimly, “I trust that you will let Kadian go—”

“Wait!”

It was Kadian. Mari regarded the thief in surprise. The fear had not left his gaze. “I haven’t told about the man,” he said hoarsely.

“The man?” Mari asked.

Kadian nodded. “I saw him as the guards were dragging me away. He was standing in a dark corner, but the torchlight fell on him for a moment.”

Morhion moved forward. “Describe this man,” he demanded.

“He was tall, I think, with dark hair. His face reminded me of a wolf’s, and he was wearing a cloak”—Kadian’s brow furrowed in concentration—“a dark blue cloak, the color of a midnight sky.”

Mari gazed at Morhion in shock. As ever, the mage’s expression was emotionless, but a strange light glittered in his cold eyes. He turned to her and asked, “Mari, have you anything with you that belonged to Caledan?”

The mage’s question caught her off guard. “Yes,” she answered after a moment. “I have this.” She showed him the braided copper bracelet she wore on her left wrist. Years ago, Kera had given it to Caledan, and later he had given it to Mari as a symbol of their love.

“May I borrow it?”

Mari nodded, hastily slipping off the bracelet and handing it to the mage. He set the bracelet on the stone floor, and within the circle of metal he placed a small bit of white fleece drawn from one of the myriad pouches at his belt. Standing, he held out his arms and chanted in a guttural tongue. The bracelet flared brightly, and the fleece vanished in a puff of smoke.

Mari gasped. Before her stood Caledan. Had the mage summoned him with his magic? After a moment, she realized it was not Caledan at all. The figure did not move in the slightest, and if she concentrated she found she could see right through his body. An illusion.

“It is he!” Kadian hissed, reaching through the bars to point at the phantasmal Caledan.

Mari stared at the thief in shock. “This is the man you saw in the darkened corner? Are you certain?”

Kadian nodded frantically. “I will never forget his face as long as I live. It’s him, all right. Except the eyes aren’t right. They were deeper, and ancient … so terribly ancient, I thought they would drive me mad.”

Morhion said nothing, but banished the illusion with a wave of his hand. He retrieved the bracelet and handed it to Mari. The metal felt nauseatingly warm as she slipped it on her wrist once more. “I think we have what we came here for,” she said huskily. “Tyveris, call the gaoler. Tell him to release Kadian.”

“No!” the thief cried desperately. “Ask him to wait until the dawn. I beg you. Let me stay here tonight, where it’s safe.” He shuddered, gripping the iron bars with white-knuckled hands. “Don’t you see? The shadows come out at night …”

Mari nodded in sad understanding. Kadian would never be a thief again. She led the way out of the dungeon, finding that she herself was not so eager to face the night.

Midnight found Mari and Morhion sitting by the fire in the Dreaming Dragon’s deserted common room, piecing together what they knew. Though the Zhentarim beneath the Barbed Hook had indeed been plotting to take over the city, they had not masterminded the brutal murders. The Zhents had simply been victims like all the others. And Mari was beginning to suspect that she knew who their killer was, though it was a conclusion so terrible she could not bring herself to consciously consider it.

Morhion regarded her with piercing eyes. “You are thinking the same thing that I am, aren’t you, Mari? There is only one answer to our mystery.”

She shook her head fiercely. “It can’t be,” she said hoarsely.

“Can’t it?” Morhion’s quiet words pierced her like knives. He reached beneath his shirt and drew out something hanging on the end of a silver chain. It was a small ruby. A faint light flickered erratically in the center of the gem.

“What is it?” Mari asked in fascination.

“I fashioned this pendant with a drop of the dark substance I discovered in the Zhentarim hideout,” he explained. “Its enchantment is such that it will glow if it comes near to the source of magic that conjured the shadow creatures.”

“But it’s glowing now!” Mari protested.

“It has been glowing ever since I entered the inn,” Morhion replied, “though only weakly. However, the meaning is clear. The source of the magic that conjured the shadow creatures was here in this inn, but now it has gone.” His eyes bored into her. “There are only two who have ever dwelt in this place who have power over shadows, Mari. One is still here, but the other is not. There is only one conclusion. The person responsible for the murders is …”

At last, Mari whispered the word she had feared.

“Caledan.”

Morhion nodded gravely. “He had ample opportunity. And consider the victims. Each was despicable in some way. Perhaps, unaware that he was even doing it, Caledan was passing judgment and sentencing them to death with his shadow magic.”

Mari gripped the arms of her chair. She felt ill. “But what does it mean, Morhion? What is happening to Caledan?”

“I think that the ghosts know,” a voice said quietly.

Both Mari and Morhion turned in surprise to see a slight form standing on the edge of the firelight. “Kellen,” Mari said after a moment. “You should be in bed.”

“I know,” he replied. “But this is more important.”

Mari studied his serious face. Kellen had a way of listening to conversations without being noticed. She wondered how much he had heard.

As if he had somehow intercepted her unspoken question, he said, “I heard enough, Mari. I know that my father’s shadow magic is … changing.”

Morhion peered intently at the boy. “What did you mean about the ghosts, Kellen?”

“I think Talek Talembar and Kera knew what was happening to my father and were trying to warn us.”

Mari tried to swallow the cold lump of dread in her throat. “Warn us? Warn us of what?”

Kellen gazed at her with his calm, intelligent eyes.

“My father is becoming a shadowking.”