The Shadow Stone

Fourteen

For the rest of the summer, Aeron tried to convince himself that Fineghal was not really gone, that the elf had simply entrusted him with the guardianship of the wood for a short time. But his preternatural perception of the forest and its countless webs of living and elemental energy did not fade, and in fact grew stronger as the weeks passed. By closing his eyes and conjuring the image of a place he knew within the forest, Aeron could see what transpired there, hear the sounds, smell the air, taste the waters.

Fineghal's gift immersed him in a world that had existed beyond his senses, and for the first time, Aeron began to understand what had kept the elven mage at his watch for years beyond number. He understood that he saw the forest differently than Fineghal had; the undercurrents of shadow and horror existed here, too, and he could not open himself to the forest's life without seeing also its rot and decay. But the Maerchwood was a beautiful place, and the dark threads only served to remind Aeron of his responsibility to it.

As the first cool winds of autumn shifted and began to sigh out of the north, Aeron returned to the Storm Tower and found that only a few of Fineghal's personal effects were gone. The elf had left a great storehouse of lore and magic to Aeron, including a slender staff marked with the liquid writing of the elves. Around the lustrous wood was wound a small sliver of paper that read: Aeron-I enchanted this staff long ago to serve the next Storm Walker. May you never have need of its powers.

Aeron lifted the weapon. It hummed in his hands, seeming to recognize him. He glanced at the runes marked along its length; a dozen potent spells were woven into the staff, ready to respond to his demand. "I'll wield it well," he promised the empty tower. Then, setting it aside for the time, he continued his examination of the Caerhuan. He discovered that Fineghal had even set the tower's magical defenses to recognize Aeron as its master.

One morning, soon after Aeron and Baillegh had finished exploring the last recesses of the Caerhuan, Aeron woke from his sleep with a strong sense of something amiss. He couldn't put his finger on it, not at first, and worked through the morning, Baillegh drowsing at his feet, while his sense of unease grew stronger.

Finally Aeron was jarred from his work by Baillegh's nose battering his knee. He looked down and saw the silver hound gazing up at him expectantly. "So you feel it, too?" he asked.

The hound barked once in reply. "I know," Aeron replied. He shut the book in front of him, trotted down the circling stairs and out into the warm autumn afternoon. The trees were arrayed in a thousand shades of red and gold, and he grimaced at the thought that he'd wasted the day indoors. He turned in a slow circle, letting his mind scroll through the countless trails, clearings, and glens of the forest.

There! Along the forest's northern borders, Aeron sensed fear in the forest. He could taste the scent of iron-shod men, horses hobbled in a clearing, smoking meat over campfires. Fineghal had never felt it necessary to drive off all human incursions into the Maerchwood; hunters, trappers, even loggers were welcome so long as they reaped the forest's bounty with respect and moderation. Aeron was inclined to agree. But there were a number of humans in the Maerchwood this day, and whether they meant to or not, they were hunting a large region into desolation.

"What am I supposed to do?" he wondered aloud. Fineghal had said that he wouldn't go wrong to follow his heart, but Aeron didn't know exactly what that meant.

Baillegh barked from the tower's gate. She had carried Aeron's pack to the door and held it in her mouth, watching him. He shook his head. "You're right. I won't do anything standing here. Let's go."

They set off toward the north and east, following Aeron's uncanny intuition. By nightfall, they had covered more than thirty miles. Aeron and Baillegh both rested for a few hours in the darkest hours of the night. They could have pressed on, since neither needed much light to see by, but it seemed wise to make sure he didn't show up on the intruders' doorstep staggering with fatigue. Aeron ate a light breakfast of waybread and dried apples, and resumed his journey an hour before first light. Two hours after noon, Aeron slowed his pace to a walk and kept his eyes open for signs of the intrusion he'd sensed.

He found the camp within an hour. A dozen pavilions were spread out in a wide forest glade, with servants moving about, engaged in a variety of chores. On one side, a crude timber frame held the carcasses of dozens of deer, five or six bears, and hundreds of smaller creatures. A hunting party, Aeron realized. He halted in the shadows of the trees, considering his options. He begrudged no man the right to hunt in the forest, but the nobles of King Gereax claimed the Maerchwood as their own, from the northernmost edge of the forest all the way to the borderlands of Unther. From time to time, Raedel or one of his peers would invite his fellows to visit for a few weeks and hunt to their heart's content. It was the waste that angered Aeron; they'd eat only one out of ten animals they cut down. "What would Fineghal do now?" he asked Baillegh in a whisper.

The hound growled softly, showing her teeth.

"I know. They've been here too long. We need to make them shift their camp and reduce their take. Now, how can I do that?" Aeron thought for a time. As he thought about it, he realized that he wanted the people nearby to know that the forest was watched, that someone would hold them accountable for their actions. The myth of the Storm Walker needed reinforcement from time to time, and today was as good a day as any.

A little before sunset, the noble hunting party returned. Phoros Raedel led the way, beaming with pride, Regos following behind. Six or seven high lords whom Aeron did not recognize laughed and jested coarsely as they rode back into camp, guests of the Count of Maerchlin. Nearly two dozen drivers, trackers, and porters followed, burdened with the day's game. Aeron waited for more than an hour, judging his moment; when the nobles were deep into their cups, he wove the charm of invisibility around himself and crossed the camp, slipping unseen into their pavilion.

Phoros Raedel sat at the head of a stout table, a flagon of wine in his hand as he recounted the day's hunting to a pretty blonde-haired girl. Aeron quietly sealed the door to ensure that he would not be disturbed, leaving a single servant inside with the nobles and their ladies. He briefly considered using a minor glamour to change his appearance into something truly impressive, but decided against it. He hoped to reason with these people, and if they were frightened, they might react violently. The Storm Walker deserves a name and a face, Aeron thought. And I've spent enough of my life running from Phoros Raedel.

When he was ready, he allowed the spell of invisibility to fade and appeared at the foot of the table. "Good evening, my lords," he stated in a clear voice. "I am Aeron Morieth, the Storm Walker. I wish to have a word with you."

The nobles blinked in astonishment. They'd seen Aeron materialize out of nowhere. Others who hadn't been looking in his direction simply spluttered in outrage or scowled in annoyance at the intrusion. Phoros Raedel paled in astonishment, dropping his flagon from nerveless fingers. "I hanged you four years ago!" he gasped. "Guards! Guards!"

Aeron held up his hand. "They will not hear you," he said. "We will not be interrupted."

Regos was sitting with his back to Aeron. He rose suddenly, spinning as he reached for his sword. Three other noblemen near him followed suit. Aeron spoke a brief word and plucked at the bright threads within each man. Before Regos even cleared his seat, he collapsed back into the chair, dropping into a sorcerous sleep. The other swordsmen sank down and clattered to the floor, unconscious. Raedel's eyes flashed in anger. "You half-breed bastard!" he grated. "What have you done?"

"They only sleep," Aeron said. "Phoros, I have no desire to resume our feud by killing your guests."

"Raedel! Who is this man?" barked one of the other nobles, a short, stocky man wearing the emblem of a golden stag on his tunic. It took Aeron a moment to place the heraldry. The man was the lord of Villon, the southwestern county of Chessenta. Phoros Raedel was entertaining some high-ranking nobles indeed. Aeron glanced to Phoros to see how his old enemy would answer.

"This is Aeron Morieth, the last of a long line of rebels who have plagued this land for years," Phoros snarled. "I thought I'd seen the last of him on my gallows, but it seems he's used his sorcerer's tricks to cheat death."

"A sorcerer?" Villon flicked his gaze at Aeron and back to Raedel. "The spell he just spoke was nothing more than an apprentice's trick, one of the simplest of enchantments."

"That does not mean that I am not capable of more powerful spells, Lord Villon," Aeron said. "It simply means that I do not kill lightly."

"I see," said the nobleman. He straightened up and fixed his eyes on Aeron. A mocking smile settled over his face. "Well, you seem to have us in your power for the moment. Perhaps you should speak your piece."

"You have hunted in this place long enough," Aeron said. "Move your camp at least ten miles tomorrow, and reduce your take to no more than one bear, two boars, or five stags in a day. Your slaughter's done harm enough, and I will intervene if I must." He paused and then added, "You should see the sense in moderation. If you kill everything in the forest this season, what will you hunt next year?"

Phoros spluttered in rage. "By what right do you tell me how I may hunt in my own forest?"

"The Maerchwood belongs to no man, commoner or king," Aeron answered. "I am the Storm Walker. It is my task to preserve this forest against any who would do it harm-brigands, settlers, loggers, or hunters. You would raise your hand to defend the lives and the homes of the people of Maerchlin. I will do the same for the Maerchwood."

"Are you calling yourself the lord of the forest?" Raedel demanded. "King Aeron, whom we shall all fear and obey?"

Aeron took a half step forward, angered by the lord's mocking manner. Why did I even bother trying to reason with Raedel? he thought. He's still the same boorish robber lord he always was, nothing but a thug whose father seized these lands at the head of a war band. He started to consider the spells at his disposal, seeking an enchantment that might erase Raedel's confident swagger and, perhaps, finally teach the count to respect him.

Or to fear him.

While the nobles watched scornfully, waiting for his answer, Aeron frowned and lowered his staff. I won't make myself any better a man by proving to these wolves what I already know, he thought. I'll do what I have to do in order to make them understand my point, and no more. I don't care if he hates me, fears me, or thinks I'm Assuran descended from the higher planes. I only want him to stay his hand against the Maerchwood. Choosing his words carefully, Aeron forced himself to ignore Raedel's provocation and continued. "I require no man's fealty. I won't bar anyone from entering the wood or tell him what to do while he's here. But I will be watching, and when someone harms the Maerchwood, I will act."

"And what is your definition of harm?" asked Villon. "It hardly seems fair to hold us to your standard without telling us what it is."

"I ask you not take more game than you can eat. You may cut one acre in twenty within five miles of the forest's edge, and you can take dead or dying trees anywhere you find them. If someone wishes to settle more of the forest, don't clear more than one mile in ten of woodland."

"I refuse to listen to this rubbish!" Phoros said. He advanced on Aeron, drawing his blade. "You cheated me once, Morieth, but this time I'll make sure you are dead."

Aeron stared him in the eye, raising one hand. "Is this what you want, Raedel?"

Phoros halted in midstride, caution momentarily gaining the upper hand over anger. He'd seen what Aeron was capable of and remembered the last time Aeron had put a spell on him. "Strike me down with your sorcery and you won't live a week," he said.

"Then agree to abide by my conditions. Honor my requests within the bounds of the Maerchwood. In turn, I will render you the honor that you deserve as the lord of Maerchlin when I pass through your lands."

"Don't even set foot outside your forest," Raedel growled. "In my land, you're marked for death."

Aeron shrugged. "So be it."

The count of Villon stood slowly. "What if we refuse to heed your warning? I've only seen you work two minor magics. Why should I fear your wrath?" He gestured oddly with his hand, and Aeron suddenly felt the ripple in the Weave as the count wove a spell. From his fingertips, a brilliant arc of light snapped forward, striking Aeron full in the chest with a thunderous crack! "I, too, know something of the wizard's art," Villon gloated.

Aeron staggered back two steps in blank surprise before he managed to blink the glare from his eyes. Unconsciously, he clasped his chest, and he slowly smiled as he realized he was unhurt. In his hand, Fineghal's staff hummed brightly with the power of the trapped lightning; Aeron silently thanked the elven mage for the day he'd enchanted the staff. Count Villon's face fell open in shock as he realized his spell had failed.

Aeron regained his composure first. "It's not for nothing that I call myself the Storm Walker," he said. He gestured and worked a powerful spell, one of the most formidable he knew, that immobilized Raedel, Villon, and the other remaining noblemen. Clasped in an invisible grip of iron, they watched him with terror in their eyes. "I will return tomorrow. I expect your camp to be gone. I have the means to compel you if you do not care to listen to reason. Now I bid you good night. You should regain the ability to move in an hour or two."

Mustering all the dignity he could, Aeron turned his back on Raedel and strode to the door. Over his shoulder, he added, "Remember, I had you all in my power and chose not to harm any of you. Don't make me regret that decision." With that, he sketched a shallow bow and left.

The following day Aeron took the shape of a small falcon and soared over the campsite, expecting the noblemen to resist his directions. To his surprise, the camp was gone. He easily found their trail and followed it north. They'd left the forest by the most direct route possible. He arrowed out over the terraced hills and green fields of Maerchlin, reveling in the rush of the wind past his face and the intoxicating freedom of flight, and even circled the gray towers of Castle Raedel three times before heading back to the forest. None of Phoros's guests remained.

Aeron returned to the small campsite he'd made for himself, resumed his own shape, and greeted Baillegh with a good scratch behind the ears. "I suppose Lord Raedel's guests didn't care for my hospitality," he said. He exulted in the first successful defense of his domain.

Baillegh turned a heavy, measuring gaze on him, as if the hound were asking if he'd really done the right thing. "Of course I did," Aeron answered. "I protected the forest without harming even a single soul." But a small, dark seed of doubt grew in his heart. But for the lightning ward Fineghal had placed in the staff, Aeron would have been killed by Villon's spell, and if the count had happened to strike with other deadly spells, Aeron would have been defeated in his first confrontation. And he'd enjoyed the sensation of bending others to his will with the strength of his magic, and that disturbed him greatly.

I used my power to defend the Maerchwood, a noble purpose, so my shielding against the corruption of shadow magic held that time. But what happens if I lash out in anger or work a spell for a less altruistic purpose? he wondered. The taint of the shadow in his magic might have already twisted his judgment, giving him pleasure in the fear of others. "Perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to compel their cooperation," he said after a time.

Baillegh barked once in affirmation. Aeron looked up, frowning. "Did Fineghal leave you in my care, or the other way around?" he asked. The hound poked her nose into his stomach and bounded away down the path, yipping impatiently. Aeron sighed and followed.

Autumn passed, then winter, ending the Year of the Shield and marking the arrival of the Year of the Banner. From time to time, Aeron detected intrusions against the Maerchwood, and he responded to the forest's call. Several times he had to rein in timber seekers or miners who were pushing too far into the wooded hills. Some were amenable to his suggestions and curtailed their efforts voluntarily; others refused to heed him, and he compelled them to listen to his words. On other occasions, Aeron found bands of brigands or raiders lairing in the recesses of the woods, preying on the honest folk who lived along the forest's verge. Fineghal had never moved against these vermin, preferring to leave human affairs to human law, but Aeron saw no reason to allow the Maerchwood to serve as their refuge. He drove them out when he encountered them, or quietly helped the constables or rangers of the neighboring towns to locate the bandits' dens.

As the seasons passed, Aeron maintained his watch on Maerchlin, taking the form of a falcon by day, or an owl by night, and flying over the castle. Aeron had no intention of interfering with Phoros Raedel's rule of Maerchlin, but it seemed wise to make sure he'd know beforehand if the count ever meant to raise his hand against him. Perching on the battlements, he noted who entered and who departed, and sometimes he even listened in on a conversation by clinging to a window ledge.

One overcast summer day, almost a year since his last encounter with Phoros, Aeron approached the castle and sensed something wrong. He circled it carefully, searching for the source of his unease, but everything appeared normal. He drifted in toward the courtyard and suddenly felt an invisible hand shoving him aside, forcing him to flare his wings and wheel awkwardly to one side. What in Faerun was that? he thought.

He circled outward, gliding past the castle. He concentrated on the emanations of the Weave that surrounded the castle and discovered a subtle weave of light and dark doming the entire fortress. At each cardinal point, an intricate rune had been drawn on the battlements, scrawled in rough circles of red paint the size of a small shield. Wards against magic, he realized. But who made them? Since Aeron kept his falcon shape by means of a spell, the wards were sufficient to bar his physical passage. If he released the spell, he could walk right past them. . but he'd lose his disguise in the process. He orbited the gray tower, thinking.

As he wheeled over the keep itself, he spied a dark figure standing in an open window. It was a thin man, his features obscured by a loose cowl over his head. Aeron slipped a little closer, drawn to the man by an intangible mantle of power that streamed around him. This was the maker of the runes, an adept of no small skill. Aeron peered at him with first one eye and then the other, trying to discern the robed man's features.

Without warning, the dark hood swung his way. He caught a glimpse of a dark, bone-thin face with long teeth bared in a snarl of challenge. At the same time, an electric jolt arrested his heart, seizing him in a fierce contest of will. Aeron reeled and fluttered, trying to break free, the wind howling in his ears as the ground and sky tumbled crazily. He sensed the man below him knotting his fists in the stuff of the castle, gathering magical strength for a fearsome onslaught.

Screeching shrilly, Aeron broke free of the sorcerer's will and arrowed away, regaining his strength and determination as he widened the distance between them. But he could still feel the hateful eyes of the wizard on his back, waiting for him to resume his presumptuous reconnaissance of the castle. Aeron declined the fight, although he didn't feel that the encounter was done until long after the gray towers of Castle Raedel had slipped beneath the horizon behind him.

When he returned to the Storm Tower, Aeron resumed his own shape, stretching his arms and legs. He turned to let himself into the tower's door, but suddenly an odd wind shifted and blew at his back, clutching his cloak. Aeron tensed and whirled, scenting sorcery in the air, a manifestation of the shadow weave that deadened the breeze with a cold, clammy odor. He searched the dark forests nearby for any sign of a foe, but nothing appeared until a small yellow slip of paper blew into sight, scuttling across the ground until it came to a rest right at his feet. With that, the eerie breeze failed.

Aeron stooped down and carefully looked over the paper without touching it. Many deadly spells could be triggered by the simple act of reading the cursed signs. After a moment, he decided that he sensed no magic on the parchment, so he cautiously picked it up and broke the seal. It was a letter, written in a thin and spidery hand:

To my esteemed colleague, the Storm Walker:

Greetings. I have been retained by Lord Phoros Raedel, Count of Maerchlin, to advise him on matters magical and to defend him against the assault or scrutiny of any hostile sorcerers. I should greatly like to meet with you in person and discuss affairs of mutual interest. In the meantime, I must ask you to desist in your surveillance over my lord's lands. He feels that they are adequately looked after.

Your humble servant,

Edias Crow

Aeron shuddered. The parchment felt cold and somehow sinister, as if it had been written with ink made of blood. He destroyed it with a simple cantrip of fire and let the breeze carry the ashes from his fingers. " 'Affairs of mutual interest'?" he muttered, thinking. What was that supposed to mean? This Master Crow had already secured Castle Raedel quite thoroughly against his intrusions. Well, I can't be surprised if I've taught Phoros Raedel to fear wizards, he thought. Of course he'd take steps to defend himself against me.

Absently he let himself into the tower, still considering the day's events. He'd only held his watch over the forest for a little more than a year, but already he sensed that he was falling into the same routine, the same patterns, that had held Fineghal for a thousand years. He was a sentry on a long watch, unconsciously choosing a predictable path. Now something had happened that finally broke the routine, demanding his attention, and he didn't know what to make of it. He started a small fire and settled down in an old wooden chair, listening to the distant roar of the Winding River's rock-strewn rapids and the wind rattling the windowpanes.

Aeron didn't like the feel of Crow's sorcery. Like his own, it was woven of both bright and dark strands, but it seemed out of balance, misproportioned. He wondered if this were normal for a human sorcerer, or if Master Crow had been tainted in some manner similar to Aeron's own battle against the Shadow Stone. "Fineghal, I could use your counsel now," Aeron muttered. The empty tower did not respond.

Aeron weighed Master Crow's request for over a week before responding with a message of his own, naming a time and a place for a meeting more than sixty miles east of Maerchlin. Aeron didn't think Phoros Raedel could lay an ambush capable of snaring him so far from his own lands, and it gave him a chance to prepare the site.

The weather had become still and sweltering in the hot doldrums that fell over the Maerchwood late in the summer. It had never bothered Aeron before, but as he labored to scribe runes and circles around the barren clearing he'd chosen, he became light-headed and queasy, as if a faint odor of death had risen with the heat. The magic he wove felt muddy, indistinct, the Weave of the air, the earth, the living forest slipping through his fingers as if he were a clumsy apprentice all over again. At the same time, the shadow magic that he summoned and shaped seemed almost eager to meet his command, coiling and surging like a restless serpent that tested the bonds of his will.

Through sheer determination, Aeron finally finished the tasks he'd set for himself and he settled down to wait. The heat of the day faded rapidly as dusk fell over the stony hilltop, and Aeron found himself shivering with cold within an hour of sunset. Something isn't right here, he thought. He stood and circled the hilltop, testing the wind with all of his senses, but as far as he could tell, the hill was just another part of the forest. "I'm jumping at phantoms," he muttered aloud, trying to reassure himself.

He waited several more hours. He'd invited Master Crow to meet him on this night, deciding that it would be difficult for any of Raedel's men to approach under the cover of darkness without revealing themselves, but Aeron began to doubt the wisdom of this request. The gibbous moon rose, casting an unhealthy yellow glow over the forest. In the shadows beneath the trees, faint fox fire flickered, dancing in the corner of Aeron's vision but vanishing when he looked right at it. The air was cool and clammy, without a breath of wind; the forest was unnaturally still. Aeron found himself straining to hear the faintest of sounds.

A black-winged shape flitted in front of the pale moon. It dropped toward him, gliding silently on leathery wings. Aeron picked up the staff Fineghal had left him and waited, watching. Just outside his circle of defenses the thing settled to the ground, croaking. It seemed to shimmer for a moment, and Aeron sensed the unbinding of magic. From the pool of darkness a tall man rose, stretching and settling his robes into place. He grinned widely at Aeron. "Greetings, brother. May I enter your circle?"

Aeron nodded once. "I see you know the spell of shape-taking too, Master Crow."

"You seemed fond of it. It was … appropriate." Now that they stood facing each other, Aeron realized that Master Crow was tall but startlingly thin, an emaciated rail of a man shrouded in a tattered black robe. All he could see of the wizard were his bony hands, twisting together in front of his chest, and the gleaming teeth in his open-mouthed grin. The sorcerer bowed and spread his hands, advancing into the rune-marked circle Aeron had laid out during the day. He glanced at the diagram and shook his head. "You needn't have bothered."

"Why take chances?" Aeron replied.

"Why, indeed?" The man seemed to lean forward and rasped heavily. It took Aeron a moment to realize that he was laughing. "Why indeed? It surprises me to see that you have become a man of caution, Aeron."

Aeron peered at the dark hood. "We have met before?"

"Oh, yes, though it's been five years or more. Don't you remember me, Aeron?" The gaunt sorcerer straightened and raised his hands, drawing back his hood. Aeron recoiled involuntarily, suddenly terrified of what he might see. The sorcerer looked up again to meet Aeron's eyes. His face was lean and sharp, and his hair was slashed back to a brutal stubble, but his eyes danced with animation.

"Master Sarim!" Aeron was astonished at the transformation of the Calishite mage. When he'd known Sarim at the college, the Master Invoker had been a wide-shouldered, athletic man with a handsome face and a calm, collected manner. Now Sarim's clean frame, his serenity, and his alert intelligence were all gone, replaced by endless nervous motion and a fanatic's brilliant imbalance. The sight of Sarim shrieking as the Shadow Stone devoured him in the cold stone vault under the ruined obelisk flashed before Aeron's eyes.

"I am flattered that you remember me, Aeron. We parted under trying circumstances, you and I." The sorcerer laughed again at his little jest. "I had thought that you might have chosen to forget about the college. After all, you are the great Storm Walker now. Why mire yourself in the difficulties of the past?"

"That was a long time ago," Aeron said flatly. "You requested this meeting. What business do you have with me?"

"It is not too late for you to stand with us, Aeron. We have not forgotten you. So much has happened, and yet you hide here in the Maerchwood, your head in the sand. A mage of your potential is wasted in this backwater." Sarim reached out and pawed at Aeron's sleeve. "Come back to the college. Finish the studies that you started."

Aeron pulled his arm back. "I saw enough of that road. It doesn't seem to have done you much good, Sarim. Or should I call you Crow?"

For a moment the tall sorcerer's grin faded, and his eyes sparked with cold fire. But slowly he forced the smile back to his face, and bobbed his head. "They know me as Master Crow here. That will suffice. A new name for a new man, you might say."

"What are you doing here?"

"An interrogation! Excellent, Aeron. You're not the peasant you used to be, to challenge me with such a tone." The Master turned his back on Aeron, pacing away to measure the bounds of the circle, making a show of gazing out over the forest. Aeron waited, keeping his eyes on him. With a sigh, the sorcerer continued. "Well, someone had to answer Phoros Raedel's most generous offer of employment. Lord Oriseus thought that the post would suit me. After all, the count is in need of some supervision, wouldn't you say? If we keep young Phoros on the path, well, then, Oslin's southern lands are as good as ours."

Aeron didn't like the sound of that. "Whose?"

"Ours, Aeron. Yours and mine. We are to be Lord Oriseus's satraps over this land. He has become the Sceptanar, you know, lord over Cimbar and soon all of Chessenta. The new Emperor will need viceroys, loyal men of great ability to oversee his lands and ensure a proper order to things." Master Crow suddenly wheeled on Aeron and marched up to clutch at Aeron's tunic. "We'll let the petty lordlings, the Phoros Raedels, play at their games, Aeron. But you and I both know what the real power in this world is. With a word, we slay. With a gesture, we rule. None will dare to gainsay us, and Chessenta will be united under our command."

Aeron maintained a stony and suspicious expression, but his heart fluttered. Oriseus as Sceptanar! The Master Conjuror's ambitions had extended as far as Aeron had thought, and then some. It made sense; what wizard of Cimbar would have dared to stand against him? Aeron thought of the rumors he'd heard in the last year or so, war and fire in the great cities of the north, and wondered how much Oriseus had had to do with these dire events. He frowned and returned his attention to Master Crow. "Oriseus sent you to find me for this?"

"That, and to see to Raedel."

Aeron studied the sorcerer for a long moment. He could sense the dark taint of the Shadow Stone in Crow's heart, a black font of corruption where the bright spark of his life should have been. "I want no part of it," he said firmly.

Crow recoiled a pace, anger twisting his features. "You'll just mind the borders of your forest, then? That is all the ambition you hold in your heart, Aeron? I cannot believe that."

"Believe what you will. I want nothing to do with you, or Oriseus, or Dalrioc, or any of them. Don't set foot in this forest again, Master Crow. There is nothing for you here."

"If we did not stand inside your circles of protection, Aeron, I might teach you not to threaten me so lightly," Crow hissed. "You forget that I had the strength to tame the power that you were afraid to attempt."

Aeron spread his hands in invitation. "I'm willing to match my strength against yours. And I will, if you don't leave this place."

Crow wheeled and stormed away, black cloak fluttering like the threadbare wings of some great, dark moth. Outside the protective runes, he stopped and turned to face Aeron again. "Oriseus said you would not cooperate. But I know something you don't, O mighty Storm Walker. You'll be forced to serve us sooner or later. Oriseus means to set wizards to rule over the blundering brutes who are the lords of this land. And the Shadow Stone will set Oriseus to rule over the wizards. You defy us at your peril. With every spell you cast, you'll only make us stronger."

Aeron stepped forward, raising his staff to strike, but Crow whirled in place and vanished in a dark pyre of smoke. Aeron waited a long moment to see if he'd really gone and then sat down heavily on a rock, laying his staff across his knees. "Sarim," he said bleakly into the night. "What has Oriseus done to you?"