Curse of the Shadowmage (28 page)

Mari dashed to the edge, but by the time she looked down, the remains of the bridge were already out of sight

in the vast depths below. Footsteps sounded behind her.

“Your plan worked, Mari,” Morhion said softly.

She nodded slowly but did not answer. Instead she bowed her head, whispering a brief prayer for the dead. After a moment she turned and faced the others. “Let’s get going,” she said hoarsely.

The four mounted their horses and rode between the stone colossi into the kingdom of Ebenfar.

While the High Moor had been desolate, it had still displayed small signs of life as well as a kind of raw-edged beauty. In contrast, the realm they passed through now was utterly barren. The broken landscape was a tortuous labyrinth littered with piles of dark slag and pits half-filled with foul water. Except for the steady hoofbeats of the four horses, all was preternaturally silent. There were no birds, nor any other living creature. Even the wind had stopped. The air hung perfectly still under the dour sky, cold and breathless as a winter tomb. If ever there was a land that was truly dead, Ebenfar was one.

“Cheery place,” Ferret noted dryly. “I’ll be sure to come here for my next vacation.” The thief’s words seemed uncomfortably loud against the brittle silence. He shivered in his cloak and refrained from making any further comments.

The cold was a hungry, maleficent thing. Mari moved to warm her hands under her jacket, but she could hardly unclench her fingers from the reins. It felt as if the chill had turned her flesh to pale ice. She turned to make certain Kellen was warm enough and saw that the boy rode with Morhion now. He sat in the saddle before the mage, wrapped in a blanket in addition to his cloak. Morhion had tied Flash’s reins to Tenebrous’s saddle, and the pony followed behind.

Such was the tomblike nature of this land that Mari was only somewhat surprised when they rounded a large

slag heap and found themselves facing a ghost.

At first she thought it must be Serafi, but a moment later she knew it was not so. The spectral knight was a dark being with eyes like flames. This ghost was as gray as the leaden sky, so pale his outlines blurred into the surrounding landscape. He was clad in misty, flowing robes, like those of a wizard … or perhaps a king. His visage was proud and noble, and with a start Mari realized that she recognized the man’s face. She had seen it once before, carved into the lid of an onyx sarcophagus far below the city of Iriaebor. In the crypt of the Shadowking. She opened her mouth, but Morhion beat her to the words.

“Verraketh Talembar …”

Floating several feet above the ground, the ghostly man bowed his regal head. “Yea, wizard, thou doth know me well.” His colorless eyes flickered down to Kellen. “Greetings, scion of Talembar, child of my blood.”

Kellen regarded the ghost with calm, curious eyes. “Hello, Grandfather,” he said simply.

Mari drew in a sharp breath. “Grandfather” was hardly the proper term to describe Kellen’s relationship to Verraketh. With thirty “greats” in front of the word, perhaps. Despite her fear and wonder, a thought occurred to her.

“I don’t understand,” she said, shivering. “How is it that you appear to us as a man, Verraketh, and not as the Shadowking you were when we … when you … perished beneath Iriaebor?” She swallowed hard, realizing this might seem a rude question to someone she’d had a hand in killing. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she added hastily.

The ghost shrugged. “Forsooth, why should I care, Mari Al’maren? The concerns of the dead are not those of the living. Yet I will tell thee, this form doth mean nothing.

Once, I was a child as Kellen stands now. I couldst as easily have chosen that form over this. It matters not. In death, I shall forever be all that I was in life—babe and child, minstrel and mage, and yea, Shadowking as well. Still, I choose to appear to thee in this manner. Is it well with thee, Mari Al’maren?”

Mari nodded dumbly. Who was she to argue with a ghost about what form he should take?

Ferret cleared his throat nervously. “Excuse me, Verraketh, your … er, ghostliness. My friends seem to be a little more accustomed to dealing with spirits than I am. You see, most of the dead people I’m familiar with aren’t nearly so active as yourself. Anyway, I was just wondering …” The thief screwed up his weasely face. “Let’s see. How can I put this tactfully? Are you going to be killing us anytime soon?”

The ghost’s mirthful laughter echoed from all directions, an eerie but not altogether unpleasant sound. “Fear not, gentle thief. I bear thee no grudge for thy actions in my tomb beneath Iriaebor. Thou and thy companions did free me from the dark thrall of the Shadowstar, and let me at last find peace in death. For that, I thank thee.”

Ferret bowed in his saddle. “Don’t mention it.”

“Then why have you come to us?” Mari asked, emboldened by the spirit’s words.

“To help thee,” the ghost replied. “So that the metamorphosis that made me into the Shadowking shall not be worked once again upon my scion, Caledan Caldorien. For only thou doth have the power to save him.” I “How would you help us?” Morhion asked, his blue eyes gleaming.

“Listen,” Verraketh intoned. “On the other side of yon dark ridge doth lie the vale in which I discovered the Shadowstar after it fell from the sky. There also lieth the

heart of Ebenfar—the throne from which I once did rule as Shadowking. There is a secret to the vale, a secret unbeknownst even to the shadevari. A secret that, were it known, doth have the power to defeat the Shadowstar.”

“A secret?” Mari repeated. “What do you mean?”

Verraketh explained. “Long ago, there did echo in the vale a strange and wondrous music. Some claimed that it was an echo of the song the gods sang at the time of the forging of the world. If this is so, it is beyond my ken. Yet one thing I do know. When the Shadowstar fell into the vale, it was hot and molten, and before it could cool and grow solid, the music that echoed in the vale did infuse the Shadowstar, becoming a part of its being. Ever after, the music of the vale has had the power to quell the medallion. Thus the song is the key to defeating the Shadowstar. It was a fragment of that music that my son, Talek Talembar, wove into the shadow song with which he did defeat me once.”

“Then when Caledan enters the vale, the echo of the song will nullify the Shadowstar. We’ll be able to get it away from him!”

Verraketh shook his head. “It shall not be so easy as that, Mari Al’maren. Thou seest, when I was Shadowking, I feared the music of the vale. I sought to mar it, and alas I succeeded. By mine own hand, the ancient song of the vale is flawed, and as long as it is flawed, it is powerless against the Shadowstar. Therefore, thou must seeketh to restore the song.”

“But how—” Mari began. Her words were interrupted by a shriek from above. She gave Morhion a startled glance. He nodded, confirming her fear.

“The shadevari have found us,” the mage said grimly.

“Go,” the ghost of Verraketh ordered. “I shall find a way to delay the Eyeless Ones.”

“But what about the song in the vale?” Mari protested.

“How are we to restore it?”

“There is not time for me to explain the way,” Verraketh said curtly. “If indeed, after all these centuries, I would even remember how. It is up to thee to find a way to restore the Valesong.” His voice rose thunderously. “Now go!”

Another bloodcurdling cry rent the air. This time, the companions did not hesitate; they urged their mounts into a wild gallop. As they rode, Mari risked a glance over her (Shoulder. The ghost of Verraketh had vanished. However, she noticed that the sky had grown darker. Even as she watched, the clouds began to swirl in a spiral, faster and faster. High above, the unseen shadowsteeds screeched again, and this time their cries were not cries of hunger but of anger. Ghost or not, Verraketh was doing something that the winged steeds of the shadevari did not like.

The four horses raced toward the distant ridge that lay between them and the vale of the Shadowstar. Mari gripped Farenth’s mane with white-knuckled hands.

“Hold on, Caledan,” she whispered urgently. “We’re coming as fast as we can. Hold on just a little while longer …”

But the cold wind snatched the words from her lips.

Hooves clattering against loose stone, Mista scrambled up the last few feet to the summit of the knife-edged ridge.

“Good girl,” Caledan said, leaning forward in the saddle to stroke her neck. Despite the chill, her pale coat was flecked with foam. “I knew you could do it.”

Mista nickered uncertainly in reply. She did not like this place. Nor did Caledan. He gazed down into a dark hollow

in the blasted landscape. The vale of the Shadowstar. “Well,” he said. “We’re here.”

Though he had never seen this place before, Caledan had an eerie sense that he was coming home. Perhaps, in a way, he was. A thousand years of shadow magic ran in his veins. This was where it had all begun.

The vale itself was not so much a valley as it was a crater—a circular pit gouged into the surface of the world by a terrible, otherwordly force. The walls of the vale were formed of jagged black stone. Hot steam rose from countless fissures in the crater’s floor, creeping around a jagged spire of rock that stood like a sentinel in the vale’s center. He shut his eyes, and he could almost see it: the fiery streak plunging down through the sky to strike the ground with a flash as bright as the sun and a sound as deafening as two worlds colliding, leaving in its wake a gaping wound on the face of Toril.

Caledan opened his eyes and studied the steep slope leading down into the vale. Slowly, he dismounted. His joints ached fiercely, and he was horribly dizzy. Somehow he managed to stand upright.

“I’m afraid this is where we part ways, old friend,” he said haggardly.

Mista gave a firm snort, stamping her hoof in protest.

Caledan shook his head. “You can’t make it down that slope, Mista, and you know it. Frankly, I’m not certain I can, either.” He sighed. “But I have to try.”

The ghostly gray mare let out a worried nicker.

He encircled her strong neck with his arms. “I swear, I will come back for you, Mista, if it is at all in my power. I think that you’re the only one I really remember now. I know that there are others … others who were important to me once. But I don’t know their names anymore, or their faces.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Damn, but I hardly even remember my own name anymore.”

Mista nuzzled his cheek. She bared her big yellow teeth and bit his ear, but the gesture was only halfhearted. Caledan slapped her affectionately.

“Good-bye, old friend,” he said softly.

With that, he turned and began picking his way down the treacherous wall of the crater.

The going was agonizingly slow. Rocks skidded beneath his boots. Sharp edges sliced his hands when he reached out to steady himself. He was perhaps halfway down whfcn his feet set a whole section of loose scree into motion. The small rocks were as slick as marbles, and there was nothing for Caledan to grab on to. With a cry he fell, tumbling down the slope in a small avalanche of loose rock. When he came to a stop at the bottom, he was surprised to find he was still alive. Groaning, he pulled himself from beneath a pile of rubble and staggered to his feet. He was bruised and bloodied, his clothes rent in a score of places.

“Well, that was the quick way down,” he said with a manic laugh, but there was no one to hear his words.

Taking a deep breath, he stumbled onward, skirting a dozen crevices. Hissing steam rose from the fissures along with a dull red glow, filling the air with a sulfurous reek that seared his lungs. Only after several minutes did he consciously hear the throbbing sound that thrummed in his chest in time to his rapidly pounding heart.

It was music.

So this was the Valesong. Exactly how he knew about the Valesong, Caledan was not certain. The knowledge had simply come to him, like knowledge of the Shadowstar and Ebenfar. He cocked his head to listen. The music echoed all around. It was chaotic and dissonant, and he could make out no melody. That was because the music was flawed. He knew that, just as he knew everything

else. Long ago the music had been marred.

“And now I must restore it,” he whispered, the words hurting his parched throat. If the Valesong were complete, he would be free of the Shadowstar, free of the dark turmoil that raged within him.

Gripping the Shadowstar, Caledan lurched on. As he went, he racked his spinning brain, trying to figure out what he had to do to make the ancient Valesong whole once more. The knowledge was there, somewhere. It had to be. Then, like one groping blindly in the dark for a flint with which to light a candle, he found the answer.

The acrid smoke swirled. Caledan stumbled to a halt. Before him rose a massive pillar of solid basalt. Carved into its tapering surface were irregular stone steps. His gaze was drawn up the beckoning stairway that spiraled around the towering pinnacle all the way to the top. There, carved into the very summit of the pillar, was a gigantic chair. The throne of the Shadowking.

Even as Caledan gazed upon the onyx throne, he knew that he must sit upon it.

Desperately, he tried to cling to his plan of restoring the Valesong, of freeing himself from the dark power that raged within him, but those thoughts were brutally ripped away by a surging wave of desire. All he could think of was how good it would be to stop resisting, to finally let himself be swept away on that dark, turbulent sea. The other woke within him, and for the first time he was not frightened by its presence. At last, here was an end to his battle. He stepped forward, placing his boot upon the stairway.

As he did, one last fragment of the man who had been called Caledan Caldorien bubbled to the surface. He no longer remembered why he had created the myriad signs as he journeyed, or what they had meant. Yet an image drifted in his mind, of one last sign he intended to create.

For a moment, the forces inside him struggled. Then, with a shudder, he reached out and pressed his hand against the pinnacle. Beneath his fingers, dark stone melted, flowed, resolidified. He pulled his hand back, not even bothering to look at the object he had forged. It did not matter now. All that mattered was the throne.