Shadowbred

CHAPTER THREE

30 Eleint, the Year of Lightning Storms

The sight of the oak brought a smile to Magadon's face. He had passed the soaring old tree many times in his journeys to and from Starmantle, though it had been almost a year since he had seen it last. It looked almost exactly as he remembered it-a lone soldier standing sentry over an expanse of knee-high whip grass. Other trees dotted the plain here and there, but none were as large as the oak. He was their general.

Magadon ignored the chatter from the camp behind him and ran his fingertips over the tree's bole. The deep ridges of the bark and the size of the bole put the tree's age somewhere between seventy and eighty winters-a grand old man. A few tumors bulged here and there from the trunk, and the crotch showed a ragged scar from a recent lightning strike, but Magadon thought the tree hale. The world had thrown another year at it, and there it stood.

Magadon figured there was a lesson in that. Too bad he had not learned it sooner. Magadon had not had the oak's strength. The last year had broken him.

"Or bent me, at least," he murmured.

The oak's leaves were changing from green to autumn red. They looked beautiful even at night, especially at night, framed against the starry sky and glinting in the silver moonlight of the newly risen crescent of Selune and her Tears.

Magadon flattened his palm against the oak. He had missed the tree, or he had missed… the part of his life it represented.

But he was reclaiming that part of his life, reclaiming himself.

Droppings at the base of the tree caught his eye. He knelt to examine them, and recognized raccoon pellets. He stood, smiling. Things were coming back to him. He had not forgotten his woodlore.

A soft skitter sounded up in the tree. Magadon looked up and found two pairs of masked eyes peeking down at him-a mother raccoon and one of her young. He would not have seen the creatures but for the nightvision granted him by his fiendish blood.

"You've picked a good home, mother," he said to the larger raccoon.

Mother and baby cocked their heads to the side, chittered, and ducked back into their hidden den.

Magadon patted the tree's trunk.

"Can you bear some more company, old man? I promise you will find me an easy guest."

The oak kept its own counsel, so Magadon unslung his pack- stuffed full with gear, as always-and sat with his back against the trunk, facing the camp. The campfire was going strong, and merchants and men-at-arms sat around it on barrels, crates, and logs, talking, drinking, laughing.

Magadon stretched out his legs, interlaced his fingers behind his neck, and blew out a sigh. The oak felt good at his back. His friend Nestor had once said, "There's naught steadier than an old oak." Magadon knew it to be true. And he knew there was much to be said for steadiness.

He hoisted his waterskin in remembrance of Nestor and took a long drink. Thinking of Nestor and his death brought back a wash of memories, some good-of Erevis, Riven, and Jak-and some bad-of the Sojourner, the slaads, the Weave Tap, and… the Source.

Recalling the Source made him squirm. He cleared his throat and tried to forget what it had shown him, what he had known, what he had been, for those few moments of contact. But memories were stubborn things.

He unclenched his hands from behind his neck and held them before his face. A tremor shook them, softly at first, but growing stronger. He knew what was coming. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited. He had seen the same shaking in minddust addicts who had gone too long without their snuff.

The need came on him, the hunger. A tic caused his right eye to twitch.

The Source had given him so much knowledge, so much power. He could have done such good with it…

He should find it, go to it, and bond with it once more.

"No," he said, and shook his head. Even if he had surrendered to his need, he could not have gone to it. The Source lay at the bottom of the Inner Sea, sticking out of the head of a creature as large as a city.

Magadon recognized what was happening and fought, as he did every day, to keep hold of himself. His mental addiction to the Source had caused him to lose himself once. An entire year of his life had vanished into a haze. He would not allow it to happen again.

He took a deep, shaky breath, felt the oak at his back, the breeze on his face, and the clean air in his lungs, and heard the laughter of the caravaneers, and rode out the pull.

After a time, it passed, more quickly than the day before. He was beating it. The realization strengthened him further.

Another chitter came from above. He looked up to find not two, but a row of six raccoon faces staring down at him, presumably the mother and all of her young. He could not help but smile at their wide-eyed, curious expressions. One of the young climbed over another and the mother chittered at them.

"Very well," he said. "I will be on my way, but only after I eat."

The raccoons continued to stare at him with bright eyes through their masks.

Magadon pulled a half-wheel of cheese and two mostly-brown apples from a leather bag in his backpack. He habitually ate alone, separating himself from the caravaneers. He did not quite feel up to companionship. He thought the men of the caravan decent fellows, but he needed meditation more than company. Or so he told himself.

The raccoons chittered at him in irritation.

He took another bite of apple. "You don't frighten me," he said to them with a smile. "I have seen angry eyes behind a mask before."

He took another bite of apple and noticed the black, clawed nails that had once been his normal fingernails. He sank them into the apple to hide them.

Inexplicably, his contact with the Source had changed not only his mind but also his body, somehow stirring the blood of the archdevil father that polluted his veins. As his mental powers had expanded, his body had come to more closely resemble that of his diabolical sire. As had his proclivities.

Soon after his separation from the Source, the nightmares had begun. The Nine Hells haunted his dreams. When he slept, he saw souls burning, writhing, screaming in pits of fire while leering devils looked on. The visions had grown worse over time. He felt as if they were moving toward some climax that would drive him mad. For months, he had feared sleep.

He had grown desperate, had sublimated his desire for the Source and his need to escape the dreams by turning first to drink, and when that did not stupefy him adequately, to drugs. He had lost himself for months. The dreams had not stopped, his need for the Source had not stopped, but he had been so dulled that they had bothered him less.

He scarcely remembered those days. He did remember that during the all-too-rare moments of clear-headedness, he had considered reaching out with his mind to Erevis or Riven, his friends, but had lacked the courage. His stupor had not dulled his shame over what he had become. He had not wanted his friends to know of it.

Besides, each of them had their own burdens to carry.

The visions of the Hells had eventually left his dreams and invaded his waking hours. He'd hallucinated immolations on the city streets at midday, heard his father's voice in the call of street vendors, seen devils in the darkness of every alley. He was falling into madness, but could not stop the descent.

Blood of my blood, his father assured him in a voice smoother than Calishite velvet. I can end all this and give you what you want, what you need.

Magadon had never been sure if the voice had been real or imagined, but he had been tempted. He awoke one night in a dust den, his shirt stained with blood-someone else's. He'd known then that he had to do something to save himself or he would die, in spirit if not in body.

Ironically, the Source, by expanding his mental powers, had given him the tool he needed. He used it, performing a kind of psychic chirurgery on his own mind, walling off most of the dark, addicted portions of his consciousness from the rest. He likened it to cutting off a gangrenous limb, but this was more like splintering himself. He'd had to divide himself to save the whole. He could not cut off all of the addiction or all of the dark impulses, but he had severed most of them from his core.

And it worked. Mostly.

He still dreamed of the Hells. His body told him that he had not slept well in months, but his conscious mind did not remember. That was the important thing. He worried what kind of rot was occurring within him, unnoticed behind the mental wall, but he figured a man half-saved was better than a man wholly-damned.

A loud round of laughter from the merchants shook Magadon from his ponderings. One of the merchants, a brown-haired man with a pot belly and receding hairline, stood up and called over to him. Magadon thought he remembered his name was Grathan.

"Woodsman! We've a wager here. We all know that you never doff that hat."

"Even when you sleep," one of the men-at-arms shouted.

Grathan nodded. "Even when you sleep. I say you've something even more peculiar than your eyes under it."

Magadon's eyes-colorless but for the pupils-often drew comment. He had explained them to the merchants as a defect of birth, and he supposed it was, coming as it did from his fiendish blood. Most called them "asp eyes" because they looked like single pips on the dice: an unlucky roll.

"A scar or somesuch, perhaps," Grathan said.

"Or maybe a balder head than Grathan's," shouted another of the merchants, bringing the rest to hoarse laughter.

"That'd be bald, indeed! A scar'd be better."

Grathan waited for the laughter to die down, then gestured at a young merchant who sat near him. "Tark here says you wear it out of superstition, for luck or somesuch. Which is it? There are twenty silver falcons to the man with the right of it."

Magadon pushed his floppy, wide-brimmed hat back on his head, though he took care to keep it over his horns.

"This hat?"

"None other," said the merchant.

Magadon decided to amuse himself by telling them the truth. "I wear it to hide the devil horns sticking from my brow. Or somesuch. And that makes you both as wrong as an orc in a dwarfhold, so you can add the twenty falcons to my fee."

The merchants and men-at-arms loosed raucous guffaws.

"Has you by the danglies there, Grathan!"

Grathan laughed along with the rest, even toasted Magadon with his tankard. When the group quieted, he said, "Done, sir. Such sum to you… or somesuch."

Magadon appreciated the turn of phrase. He tipped his hat in a salute.

"But the added fee only if you share a drink with us," called Tark, who had a much more commanding voice than his willowy frame suggested. "You abstain with such fortitude that Noss here," he jerked a thumb at a burly man-at-arms near him, "claims you're an ascetic Ilmaterite monk in disguise."

Noss's face wrinkled with puzzlement and he slurred through his beard. "Huh? Ascetic? What is that, a drunkard?"

More laughter.

"A drink, sir," seconded Grathan, and the others around the fire nodded and murmured agreement. "Come, join us. Our journey is almost done and custom demands we share a drink with our guide while still on the road."

Noss filled a tankard with ale and held it up for Magadon.

Magadon rehearsed an excuse in his head, prepared to offer it, but surprised himself by changing his mind. It was custom around the southern shores of the Inner Sea to drink with a guide while on the road; and more than that, he suddenly wanted company more than privacy.

He adjusted his hat, collected his bow and pack, and rose to his feet.

To the raccoons, he said, "I'm away, Mother." To the merchants, he said, "I can put your minds at ease that I am no ascetic, goodsirs, not by a wide margin. I've had everything from homebrewed swill in Starmantle to firewine in Westgate. But these days, I have sworn off spirits."

The merchants booed and hissed, but all held their smiles.

"You still must shed the hat," someone called.

"Yes! The hat!"

"Yes!"

Magadon realized that his hat had become the focus of too much attention, albeit intended as jest. He had to do something to diffuse the matter or one of the men would grab it off his head as a fireside prank. And if the caravaneers learned that he was fiendspawn, the smiles and camaraderie would vanish as quickly as they had appeared. He had seen it happen before when someone discovered his horns, or the birthmark that marred his biceps.

As he approached the fire, he summoned some of his mental energy, used it to extend his consciousness, and lightly reached into the minds of the dozen caravaneers around the fire. None showed any sign of noticing.

He took a subtle hold of their visual perception, pulled off his hat, and modified what they all witnessed. Instead of horns, he caused each of them to see only a smooth brow and his long dark hair.

"Not even bald!" one of them shouted.

"You see?" he said, and fixed the hat back on his head. He released his hold on the caravaneers' senses and offered a lie. "Neither scar nor bald head. I wear the hat because it belonged to a close comrade who fell to gnolls while we were on the road together. So when I am on the road, I rarely take it off. Well enough?"

The men understood that. "Well enough," most said in more subdued tones, and all nodded. Two even raised a drink in a salute. Others cursed the gnolls.

Magadon drew tight the drawstring on the hat and took a seat by the fire. As the jests, tales, and insults flew, he held his conversational ground as well as any. For the first time in almost a year, he truly felt like his old self. He was pleased to see that his hands remained steady throughout the evening, even when his thoughts returned to the Source, as they continually did. The pull was weakening, albeit slowly.

As Grathan and another merchant debated the intricacies of Sembian contract law, Magadon's mind drifted back to a night long ago, on the Plane of Shadows, when he and Erevis had shared a conversation across a campfire. Not banter or debate, but honest words between men. Magadon had admitted his lineage to Erevis and Erevis had admitted his fears to Magadon. Neither had judged the other. They'd become friends that night. Later events had only strengthened the bond.

Magadon missed Erevis and Riven, missed them both more than he missed the Source, more than he had missed the oak.

He realized all of a sudden that he had been foolish to isolate himself. His friends had not judged him for being born of a devil and they would not have judged him for his addiction to the Source. He had lost himself all the more easily for not having his friends around him. He resolved to find them as soon as the caravan reached Starmantle.

His mind made up, he allowed himself to enjoy the camaraderie around the campfire. After a few hours, the drink took its toll on the caravaneers. By the time Selune passed her zenith, the merchants and men-at-arms had begun to wander to their wagons for sleep. A few, including Tark, nodded off where they sat.

Grathan stood. "I'm off to sleep."

"Goodeve to you," Magadon said. "We'll reach Starmantle in a few days."

Grathan nodded and started off, but turned back to Magadon. He came close and said in a low tone, "Woodsman… I've seen worse than your horns."

Magadon was too shocked even to stammer a denial. He felt himself flush. His mind raced. Before he could frame a reply, Grathan went on, "If a man keeps his word and cares for his own, I don't care what his appearance may be, or his bloodline. There are some here you could have trusted. And we could have managed the rest."

Magadon looked quickly around to see if any of the few remaining caravaneers were watching or listening. All were sleeping, or nearly so. Magadon looked up at Grathan.

"I hear your words," he said softly, studying the merchant's jowly face, "and appreciate them. But how…?"

The merchant smiled and touched his silver cloak clasp. "This shields me from whatever trick you used on the rest. A valuable gewgaw for a merchant, no? I picked it up from a Red Wizard in Daerlun." Grathan sat down beside him.

Magadon stared at him and asked, "What now?"

"Now, nothing. You've naught to fear from me. If you wish the horns and whatever else a secret, a secret it shall remain. And I'll ask no more questions. I meet all sorts in my travels and here's what I know: All men keep a coffer full of secrets in their souls. It's what makes us men. You are no exception to that. But I will tell you this. You must open up that coffer and show the contents to another sometimes, or it rots in you."

Magadon heard wisdom in his words. He extended his hand and said, "You have my gratitude, Grathan."

"And you have my respect," the merchant answered, clasping Magadon's hand. "That cannot be an easy load to cart."

"Easier some times than others."

"Or somesuch?" Grathan said with a grin.

"Or somesuch," Magadon answered with a nod and smile.

"Goodeve to you, woodsman," Grathan said, and patted Magadon's shoulder. "Remember to take off your hat sometimes."

He rose and walked toward the wagons.

Magadon stared into the dying fire, thoughtful, playing with the drawstring of his hat. He reminded himself that he should not always assume the worst of men. He had grown so accustomed to thinking so little of himself that he automatically thought little of others.

The realization lightened his mood. He resolved again to contact Erevis and Riven-

Sudden motion near the oak drew his eye. The mother raccoon and her young scrambled up the tree. The young climbed awkwardly but fear lent them speed.

Frowning, Magadon scanned the area near the tree for a predator, but saw nothing unusual out to the limits of his nightvision.

A cloud bank swallowed the crescent of Selune and the drone of insects immediately went quiet. The horses and train mules, tied to the wagons, snorted and pawed at the ground. The temperature dropped noticeably. A tingle tickled Magadon's exposed flesh. He felt magic in the air. The few snoring men around the fire stirred restlessly and waved a hand in the air, as if fending off nightmares.

Magadon's heart began to thump. For a moment, he feared that he had fallen asleep, that Grathan's words had been a dream, that the walls he had built in his mind had crumbled and that he would soon hear his father, see the men around the fire burst into flame. His hands started to tremble but he steeled himself, told himself that it was no dream.

He took up his bow, rose to his feet, and with difficulty, nocked an arrow. The familiar movement steadied him. He turned in a circle and looked out on the plain but saw nothing to alarm him-just rolling grass, the old oak, and few other scattered trees. He stepped around the fire and nudged Tark, who was sleeping.

"Up," he ordered. "And the rest. Be quick and quiet. Something comes."

Tark did not move. Neither did anyone else.

"Up!" Magadon said, and kneed him hard.

Tark fell off his barrel, but neither he nor any of the other caravaneers around the fire stirred.

Magadon cursed. Tark and the other men had been enspelled. He weighed whether to raise the alarm and tip off the attackers that he knew of their presence. He decided there was no other way.

"Is anyone awake?" he shouted at the wagons. "Grathan!"

His shouts agitated the pack animals further, but no one in the caravan answered his call.

He was alone. Perhaps his mental abilities had spared him the effect of whatever spell had rendered the rest of the men unconscious. He licked his lips, swallowed, and focused his mind on his arrow tip, charging it with mental energy. Power filled it and it shone red. It would pierce plate armor.

Magadon scoured the terrain with his eyes. He controlled his breathing, steadied his hands, and held his calm. He drew on his mental power, transformed energy into a physical force, and surrounded himself in a translucent barrier that would deflect incoming projectiles. Wrapped in the power of his own mind, he turned a slow circle and sought a target.

"Father?" he shouted, nervous as the word left his mouth. "Show yourself!"

A sound like rushing wind filled his ears, though there was no wind. He scanned the night for the source but saw nothing. The sound grew, louder, louder, until-

At the limits of his darkvision, a mass of squirming tendrils seeped into view. As thick around as the oak, as black as ink, they wormed sickeningly over the terrain. Their motion reminded him of the kraken's tentacles, of the grotesque limbs of the darkweaver that he had faced on the Plane of Shadows.

The tentacles brought a fog of darkness in their wake.

Two pinpoint pairs of light formed in the darkness above the tentacles, one pair the cold gray of old iron, the other pair a dull gold.

Eyes.

The rushing sound grew still louder, as loud as a cyclone. Magadon thought his eardrums would burst. The horses and mules panicked. Two snapped their lines and sped off into the night.

"Who are you?" Magadon shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar.

The tendrils drew closer; so did the eyes.

"Show yourselves!"

No response, so Magadon loosed an arrow at one pair of eyes. The missile streaked from his bow, leaving a red trail of energy in its wake. When it hit the darkness, it vanished with no visible effect.

Screaming, Magadon fired another arrow, another. The rushing sound ate his battle cries; the darkness ate his arrows.

The rush reached a crescendo, so loud Magadon felt his head would explode. How could the caravaneers sleep through it? It was like a pair of knives driven into his eardrums. He dropped his bow and clamped his hands over his ears. He screamed in pain but the roar swallowed the sound.

Without warning, the roar ceased.

But for his gasps, silence ruled the night.

Magadon's ears rang; his temples throbbed. He looked up and saw that the tendrils were gone, the eyes were gone. He was alone. He looked at his palms to see if there was any blood, saw none.

He almost collapsed with relief.

"Tark," he nudged the young merchant. "Tark!"

Still no response.

A rustle from above drew his gaze. He looked up and what he saw stole both strength and breath. His hands fell to his sides.

"Gods," he mouthed.

The night took him.

Elyril wore a false face-that of a solicitous young niece and trusted political advisor to Lady Mirabeta Selkirk-and stood beside her aunt next to the bed of the dead overmaster. They had traveled by common coach rather than carriage across the streets of Ordulin, and both wore heavy, plain, hooded cloaks. After hearing what the messenger had to say, they had not wanted their passage noted. The city was in enough turmoil. All of Sembia was in turmoil.

Kendrick Selkirk the Tall lay cold, pale, and very dead between his sheets. The overmaster's balding, gray-haired chamberlain, Minnen, stood in the doorway behind Elyril and her aunt, wringing his age-spotted hands. Beside him stood the bearded house mage, Saken, arms crossed over his ample belly, chapped lips pressed hard together. The circles under his eyes looked as if they had been drawn with charcoal.

Seeing the dead overmaster for herself, Elyril felt an uncontrollable urge to smile. She masked her mirth with a hand before her mouth and a feigned cough.

"I have sent for priests of Tyr, Countess," Minnen said to Mirabeta. "To certify the death and prepare the body."

Mirabeta nodded. "Well done, Minnen. You have sent word to Selkirk's family?"

Kendrick Selkirk's immediate family consisted of only his two sons, Miklos and Kavil. His wife had been dead almost a year.

Minnen fiddled with the flare at the end of his shirt sleeve. "I have dispatched messengers, but contacting Miklos or Kavil is always difficult. As is their wont, they are away from Ordulin. No one seems to know their current location. That is why I hurried a messenger to your estate, Countess. You are the overmaster's cousin, his only family in Ordulin. Despite your…" he cleared his throat and looked embarrassed, "… political differences, you must speak for the overmaster's needs until his sons arrive."

Mirabeta and Elyril shared a glance and Elyril could read her aunt's mind: If the overmaster's sons arrive.

No doubt it amused Mirabeta that Kendrick Selkirk's body and estate were in her charge, if only temporarily. Most of Ordulin saw Mirabeta as a respectful rival of Kendrick. Elyril knew better. Mirabeta had thought her cousin little more than a weakling and dolt whose incompetence had led Sembia in the direction of disaster. Probably Mirabeta would have had him killed herself if she had thought she could have avoided suspicion.

The countess ambled around the chamber, eyeing the rugs, the sideboard, the swords and shield over the large fireplace. "That was well conceived, Minnen. Kendrick and I disagreed on political matters, but he was ever my beloved cousin."

Minnen wisely held his tongue.

"Should we examine the body, aunt?" Elyril suggested, an idea born of a desire to provide political cover for her aunt, and a desire to touch something dead.

The old chamberlain looked appalled. "Why, Mistress?"

Before Elyril could answer, Saken unfolded his arms and said to Mirabeta, "There is no sign of violence, Countess. The wards on the room were intact and my preliminary divinations have detected nothing untoward." The mage looked pointedly at Elyril. "There is no reason to examine the overmaster's body."

"A skilled assassin would leave no sign," Elyril said to the room.

Minnen frowned. "The mistress seems to know much of the quiet arts."

Elyril smiled politely to hide her hatred.

Minnen looked to Mirabeta. "None passed his door last night, Countess. Of that I am certain."

Mirabeta looked from Elyril to Minnen. "And I am certain of no such thing. As my niece observed, a skilled assassin would leave no sign, magical or otherwise."

Elyril was pleased. Mirabeta's political instincts, honed through years of maneuvering in Sembia's capital, were as sharp as ever. The countess did not know that Selkirk had been murdered. But she did know that she had not been involved in the murder, if murder it was. She therefore realized that she would be best served politically by insisting on a zealous and thorough investigation. She could only gain from it, whether she found a murderer or determined that Overmaster Selkirk had died of natural causes.

Elyril knew the truth, of course, and the secret she held made her smile.

"My cousin was as healthy as a cart ox," Mirabeta said. "I saw him just two days ago. He showed no signs of illness, yet we are to believe that he just died in his sleep?"

"Men die," said Saken with shrug.

"And men are murdered," Mirabeta said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I will determine which occurred here."

Without waiting for permission, Elyril bent over the overmaster's corpse, pried open his mouth, and examined his gums. Finding nothing-as she knew she would not, for the Nightseer would not use poison-she peeled back his eyelids and studied the eyes. Then she lifted his arms and looked in his armpits.

"Mistress!" the chamberlain said, appalled.

Elyril let the overmaster's arms drop to the bed and spoke a lie. "I have heard of poisons that discolor the skin for only a short time before all signs vanish. I do not want evidence to go unnoticed."

"Poison!" Minnen exclaimed.

Saken nodded thoughtfully. "I, too, have heard of such poisons."

"As have I," Mirabeta said.

Overruled, the chamberlain quieted.

Elyril went through the motions of thoroughly examining the body. Touching the cold, dry flesh of the corpse aroused her, but she kept her face expressionless. Attuned as she was to the Shadow Weave and Shar, she felt the squirming, dark thing hidden within the corpse.

"I can find nothing," she said to her aunt. "But that means nothing."

"Who else knows of this, Minnen?" Mirabeta asked.

Minnen answered. "The messengers I dispatched, but they are all trusted men. The priests of Tyr, by now. No others."

"Keep it so for now," Mirabeta ordered. "Do not let the household staff leave the grounds. All are to be questioned under spell by the priests. Including both of you."

Both reddened, but both nodded.

"Perhaps he did die in his sleep," Mirabeta said, and Elyril could see in her aunt's expression that she hoped it was otherwise. "We will know soon enough. A resurrection should be attempted, I will pay for it, of course."

Elyril could tell from the marked lack of enthusiasm in her aunt's tone that she begrudged the idea; she made it only to maintain appearances. No doubt she hoped the resurrection would fail, as they sometimes did. Elyril, of course, knew a resurrection would fail. Rivalen had assured her of as much.

Minnen said, "That is most gracious, Countess. But…"

"Speak, Minnen," Mirabeta ordered.

Minnen nodded. "I am aware of the contents of Lord Selkirk's testament, Countess. He specifically forbids any attempt to resurrect him after his death. As you know, he was a faithful follower of Tyr. He regarded his end as his end."

For a moment, Mirabeta said nothing. She looked at Elyril and Elyril felt certain that her aunt would not be able to contain a smile. But she did, somehow, and returned her gaze to Minnen.

"I understand, Minnen. Thank you. Then I shall pay all costs of the investigation into his death. That is the least I can do for my cousin."

"Countess, I am certain the High Council would appropriate-"

"He was my cousin and I will pay," Mirabeta said, cutting off discussion.

More positioning, Elyril knew.

"Of course, Countess," Minnen said.

Mirabeta turned to Elyril and Elyril saw the pleasure in her aunt's expression. The wrinkles around the countess's eyes looked less pronounced than usual.

"I will await the arrival of the priests with Minnen and Saken," Mirabeta said to Elyril. "Return to our estate. Send out messengers under seal. The High Council is to meet in emergency session as soon as possible. A successor must be chosen."

Elyril started to go, but turned and said, "May I offer a suggestion, Aunt?"

Mirabeta nodded and Elyril spoke the Nightseer's wishes. "A ruler is dead. The stability of the state during the transition is paramount. All suspicions must be laid to rest. My cousin cannot be resurrected, true, but would it not be prudent to put questions to his body about the circumstances surrounding his death, and to do so before the High Council?"

"Necromancy," Minnen murmured.

Saken raised his eyebrows thoughtfully and nodded. "There is precedent. Four hundred years ago, Overmaster Gelarbis was murdered by a mob. The questioning of his body by priests, in the presence of the members of the High Council, helped locate the murderer."

Elyril could have hugged the fat house mage, though his words were probably unnecessary. Mirabeta would have seen the political benefit of a magical inquiry before the council. It would publicly exonerate her of any involvement and solidify her guise as a concerned cousin. Her aunt wore false faces almost as well as a Sharran.

"Your idea has merit," Mirabeta said. "I will think about this. My cousin's wishes must be considered. Does his testament speak of such matters, Minnen?"

Minnen did not look her in the eye. "It does not, Countess."

Again, Mirabeta managed not to smile. "Off now, Elyril," she said.

As she walked to the door, Elyril noticed Saken's ragged shadow on the floor. She could tell from looking at it that the mage would be dead within a year.

"I have a secret," she whispered to him, grinning, and exited the chamber.

Sometime later-perhaps days, Magadon could not tell-he opened his eyes to darkness. He did not feel a blindfold against his face. Ordinarily, the fiend's blood in his veins allowed him to see through darkness, but not this time. A magical shroud, then. The moist air slicked his skin.

He was seated, and bindings as cold as ice held him at his wrists, ankles, and waist. He could hardly move. He remembered little. His mind felt sluggish. He tried to summon a small amount of mental energy and transform it into light, but the attempt fizzled. Something was suppressing his abilities as a mind mage.

"He is awake," said a voice. "The suppression cloud is working."

"Then we go," said another.

Before Magadon could ponder what the words meant, he felt the sudden rush of motion and the dizziness that often accompanied magical travel. It reminded him of the times Erevis had moved them between worlds by drawing shadows about them.

When all stopped, he was still in darkness. A smell reached through the ink: salt-sea salt. He heard the telltale creak of a ship at sea, felt the slow roll of the waves.

A twinge of nervousness ran through him. The smell of the sea reminded him of things he would have rather forgotten.

"Show yourself," he demanded, and tried not to betray his nervousness. His dry throat made his voice croak.

The second voice answered, calm and cold. "Soon, mind mage. The magical shroud is a necessary precaution to prevent the use of your mental powers. Be assured, however, that we can see you."

Magadon struggled against the bindings at his wrists and ankles, to no avail.

"We? Who are you?" Magadon asked. "Where are we?"

"My name is Rivalen Tanthul," the voice said from Magadon's right.

The name meant nothing to Magadon. Rivalen went on, and this time his voice was behind Magadon. He must have been circling him.

"Your name is Magadon Kest and you hail from Starmantle. You are fiendspawn and a mind mage. A year ago, you had contact with something that belongs to my people."

Magadon did not understand. "Your people? I do not know what you mean-"

Then he understood. A knot formed in his throat. Rivalen drew the knot tighter.

"We are Netherese, Magadon Fiendspawn," he said.

Fear took root in Magadon's stomach. The Source was Netherese.

"Where are we?" Magadon said, but he had already begun to suspect.

"We are on a ship on the Inner Sea," Rivalen said. "Above Sakkors. Above the Source."

Magadon was sweating. "Why have you brought me here? I will not do anything for you."

"You will," Rivalen answered calmly. "Because I will make you. I am sorry, but I must." He paused, then said, "The Source… it hurt you?"

Magadon shook his head. The Source had not hurt him. It had given him everything he could have wanted, or at least made him think that he had everything he wanted. And that was the problem. Once that feeling was gone, he had nearly killed himself trying to find a substitute for it.

Another voice asked, "How did you come to speak our language, mind mage?"

The question surprised Magadon. He did not realize that he had been speaking Loross. He had learned it from-

"Did the Source teach you our tongue?" the voice asked. "How intriguing. What else did you learn from it?"

Magadon reminded himself of Ssessimyth, the kraken, and how it had been snared in the Source, made content to spend its life in useless indolence, reliving a history that was not its own. Magadon wanted no part of it. He struggled against the bonds, grunting, but they did not budge.

"The bonds are composed of shadowstuff, Magadon," Rivalen said. "You cannot break them. You will only exhaust yourself."

Magadon ignored Rivalen and struggled nevertheless. He had worked so long to regain himself. He would not lose himself again. He would not.

As Rivalen had promised, he soon exhausted himself. The magic in the bonds sapped his energy. Gasping, he slouched in his chair. He prayed that the kraken would surface from Sakkors and destroy the ship, kill them all.

"I cannot help you," he said. "I will not."

Rivalen said, "The Source is torporous, Magadon. How did that happen?"

"Did you do something to it?" asked the second voice.

Magadon almost laughed, as if he could do something to the Source.

The second voice said, "It was attacked. You were here when it happened. I have determined that much. Answer my question. If you lie to me, I will know."

Magadon closed his eyes, tried to convince himself he was dreaming, lost in a drug haze in some smoky basement den in Starmantle.

"Speak," commanded Rivalen.

He was not dreaming.

"Not attacked," he said. "Tapped. An artifact tapped it, drew on its power to serve the wizard who created the Rain of Fire."

"A wizard created the Rain of Fire?" the second voice said, astonishment in his tone.

Magadon nodded. "Yes. He was from… somewhere else. He used the power in the Source to empower his spell."

"Remarkable," the second voice said.

Magadon realized that he had said too much. He did not want his captors to know of the tower on the Wayrock. Riven might still be there.

"The wizard is dead," he added. "I saw his body, broken and burned to ash by the sun. The artifact he used to tap the Source is also destroyed."

"He is speaking truth," the second voice said, presumably to Rivalen.

Silence followed for a time, as if his two captors were silently conferring. Finally, Rivalen said, "We need you to awaken the Source, Magadon. Only a mind mage can do it. Only you can do it."

Magadon closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I am sorry, then," Rivalen said, and incanted the words to a spell.

Magadon gripped the arms of the chair, braced himself to resist whatever spell Rivalen would cast.

"Help us, Magadon," Rivalen said.

There was magic in Rivalen's voice, power. Magadon could feel it pulling at his will. He fought it.

"No."

"You must. Awaken it for us, Magadon."

Magadon gritted his teeth while Rivalen's bidding wormed its way into his mind. He strained against his bonds, felt them give slightly. His heart pounded hard in his chest.

"It… will… kill… me!" he shouted.

"Careful, brother," cautioned the second voice.

"You must do it, nevertheless," commanded Rivalen. "Awaken it for us, Magadon."

Magadon flailed like a mad thing against his bonds. Rivalen's spell reverberated through his mind, the words like hammer blows. Rivalen's voice soaked his will.

Magadon was weakening.

The words rang in his ears, sank under his skin. He felt himself losing, thinking of how much easier it would be if he simply submitted.

"No! No!"

"Almost," said the second voice.

"You wish to do it," said Rivalen. "I can see it in your eyes. Surrender to it, Magadon. End the pain."

Rivalen's words sounded so much like those spoken by Magadon's archdevil father in his dreams that they shook Magadon to his core. He gritted his teeth so hard he bit his tongue. The sharp flash of pain and the taste of blood brought him an instant of clarity, of freedom. A sliver of mental energy slipped through the power-dampening shroud and made itself available to him. Magadon grabbed onto it like a lifeline and did the only thing he could think of to save himself.

Vermilion light haloed his head, penetrating even the ink of the shroud. His captors shouted. He felt hands upon him.

Magadon grinned even as the pain came. He felt as if he were breaking apart. He screamed as he splintered.