Curse of the Shadowmage (29 page)

It drew him upward. No longer feeling pain or weariness, he climbed the spiral staircase. At last he reached the top and gazed at the tortured landscape that stretched in all directions. Soon, he thought, all this will be mine. A smile twisted his face. He ascended the final step and sat upon the throne.

Out of thin air, shadows appeared, coiling around him like a royal robe of black satin. He shut his eyes and curled up in the chair, knees to chest, like a child in its mother’s womb. It felt so sweet to rest, and finally to forget. More dusky tendrils swirled about him, cocooning him in the soft stuff of shadows. In moments, his body was completely covered by a dark, sticky sheath bound securely to the onyx throne. Swiftly, the jet-black sheath dried, becoming hard and glossy, sealing its contents safely within.

It was a chrysalis.

Nineteen

“There it is,” Morhion said solemnly. “The heart of Ebenfar.”

They dismounted and gazed into the smoking crater. A bitter wind whistled over the saw-toothed ridge, but clouds of warm mist rose up from the desolate vale. The acrid steam burned in their lungs.

Ferret scratched his stubbled chin nervously. “Let me guess—the Shadowking did his own decorating, am I right? The gloomy neo-gothic overtones highlighted by the retro-apocalyptic blasted rock are a dead giveaway.” He clapped his hands together. “It simply screams ‘Shadowking.’ “

Kellen gave the weasely thief a curious look. “You’re a silly man, Uncle Ferret.”

Ferret shot Kellen a crooked-toothed grin. “I know. But don’t underestimate silliness, Kellen. It’s a surprisingly good self-defense mechanism, and a whole lot more fun than panicking.”

Kellen reached out and gently patted the thief s hand. “If you say so, Uncle Ferret.”

A high-pitched whinny rang out on the frigid air. The companions turned in surprise to see a riderless horse trot toward them across the windswept ridgetop. It was Mista, Caledan’s gray mare. When Mari grabbed Mista’s bridle, the horse snorted nervously, rolling her eyes. Mari stroked the smooth arch of the horse’s neck, trying to calm her.

“Caledan,” she said hoarsely. “He’s already here. We’re too late.”

“Perhaps,” Morhion replied. “But perhaps not. We must believe that there is yet time to save him.”

Mari’s shoulders trembled. She clutched at Mista’s mane. “I don’t know if I can do it, Morhion,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“Do what, Mari?”

“Look at him,” she answered in anguish. “I don’t know if I can face him if he’s … changed. To see him, turned into a … a thing of evil. I’m not sure I have the strength to bear it.”

Morhion took a deep breath. He was not certain he could bear it either. Yet maybe he did not need to be so strong. Maybe none of them did. He reached out and gripped Mari’s shoulder. “We can all do it together, Mari,” he said softly. “Together, we will be strong enough.”

A fragile smile touched her lips. “Promise?”

He nodded solemnly. “I promise.” Abruptly, a low laugh escaped him. “Did I not warn you that one day, when you least expected it, I would be on your side?”

“Well,” she said with mock indignation, “it’s about time.”

Morhion smiled at her. Then his gaze was drawn downward, into the mist-shrouded vale. “We’ll leave the horses here,” he said.

Traversing the steep slope down into the crater was an ordeal. At first, Morhion worried about Kellen’s ability to climb the jagged cliffs. Then he realized his fears were unfounded. Kellen moved as nimbly down the treacherous slope as did Ferret. Boy and thief picked their way lightly over sharp rock outcrops and across expanses of slick scree. Mari and Morhion followed more carefully. At one point, the mage’s boot slipped on a patch of loose rubble, and he lost his balance altogether. He would have gone sailing over the edge if Serafi had not materialized before him. The spectral knight raised his ethereal gauntlets, and a blast of frigid air blew Morhion backward. Serafi said nothing. He did not have to. Morhion knew the knight had saved his life for one reason only: to protect the body that the dark spirit would soon possess for his own. With a flash of his burning eyes, Serafi vanished. Mari and Morhion exchanged grim looks.

At last they reached the bottom of the crater.

Ferret let out a low whistle. “So this is what the Abyss looks like. Not that I can say I was really all that curious to know.”

The vale of the Shadowstar did indeed look like some dismal limbo for the damned. Perhaps it was, at that, Morhion thought with a bitter, silent laugh. Serafi, Caledan, Morhion himself—who were they but lost souls one and all?

Cautiously, the four made their way toward the center of the blasted vale. The sulfurous reek was almost overpowering. Tatters of steam scudded across the rocky ground, and a dull red glow hung on the air like a bloody miasma. Acrid steam rose from countless fissures in the dark rock, and it was from some of these crevices that the ruddy light emanated.

Morhion wasn’t exactly certain when he noticed the low thrumming. Abruptly he halted, cocking his head. By

the expressions of the others, they had heard it as well. It was a vast sound, and incomprehensibly complex. Countless different tones and pitches blended together to forge a single throbbing voice that was almost like—

“Music,” Morhion finished the thought aloud.

“The Valesong,” Mari said in amazement. Gradually her expression became a frown. “But there’s something wrong with the music. I’m not certain exactly what—this is like no harmony I’ve ever heard before. It’s almost alien. Still, I can’t help but feel there’s something wrong. It’s almost as though some part of it were … missing.”

Morhion trusted Mari’s knowledge of music. “Verraketh said that he marred the Valesong long ago.” He gazed around at the rocky landscape. “But what is the source of the music? We cannot restore it if we do not know how it is formed. Does it truly echo here from the dawning of the world?”

“That would be some echo,” Ferret commented skeptically. The thief began to look around, exploring. Morhion wondered what he was doing. “Doesn’t this music seem familiar?” Ferret muttered. The thief hopped aside to avoid a blast of hot steam shooting from a nearby fissure. At the same moment, another tone was added to the music that throbbed in the vale.

Kellen looked at the fissure, his green eyes curious. “It’s almost like a pipe organ,” he said thoughtfully.

Ferret snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” He tousled Kellen’s dark hair. “Good work, kid!” Kellen grimaced, smoothing his hair with a hand.

Morhion gazed at the little thief. “What are you thinking, Ferret?”

“Just a minute,” Ferret said hastily. The thief continued to explore the vale in ever-widening circles, climbing atop heaps of rubble and peering into dark pits. At last he let out a hoot of victory. He waved an arm wildly, gesturing for the others.

“What have you found?” Mari asked as they reached the thief.

Ferret perched atop a blocky outcropping. Three jagged holes gaped in the rock beneath him. “Look at these fissures,” the thief directed.

“Are we supposed to be impressed?” Morhion asked dubiously.

Ferret hopped down. “Don’t you notice something strange about these holes, something that makes them different from all the other crevices in the vale?”

“There’s no steam,” Mari said after a moment.

“Exactly.” He peered into one of the fissures; it was large enough to crawl into. “As far as I can tell, these three holes join together a little way down. Unlike all the other fissures in the vale, no steam is blowing out of these. Something must be blocking them from below.”

Morhion suddenly understood what the clever thief was getting at. “Now I see, Ferret. The music doesn’t echo in the vale. The vale itself is making the music.”

“You got it,” Ferret beamed. “It was Kellen who made me understand. The steam blowing through all these crevices acts like a giant pipe organ. Each fissure makes one note, and all the notes blend together to make the Valesong.”

Mari nodded excitedly. “But something below ground is blocking these fissures, which means the Valesong is missing three notes. That’s how Verraketh marred it.”

Morhion bent to examine the rough-edged holes. He could see only darkness beyond. “We have to find a way to unblock these fissures. If we can restore the Valesong, we just might have a chance to—”

“Morhion! Mari! Ferret!”

The cry rang out over the vale. Kellen. Swiftly the three turned, peering into the swirling steam, trying to

catch a glimpse of the boy. He must have wandered off.

Mari’s sharp eyes found him first. “There!” she said, pointing. As they approached, they saw what had caused him to call out.

“Kellen,” Morhion said gravely. “I want you to take a step back. Carefully.”

The boy stood on the edge of a wide pit. Crimson light rose out of the pit, along with wisps of hot yellow smoke. Four yards below the rim of the pit was a bubbling pool of lava. When Kellen did as he was told, Morhion reached out and snatched the boy safely away from the edge.

Mari gazed down at the pool of molten rock, her face bathed in the ruddy glow. “The lava must be heating a source of underground water, and the resultant steam is forced up through the fissures in the rock, making the Valesong.”

“Hey, guys,” Ferret said with a gulp. “You may want to look up for a second.”

The others did as the thief bid. Morhion swore softly. On the far side of the pit stood a sharp-edged pinnacle of basalt. Carved into the jagged surface of the spire were stairs spiraling upward, leading to the pointed summit. There was something up there, a dark shape at the very top of the stone spire, but Morhion could not make it out.

Carefully, the four skirted the lava pit and approached the pinnacle. They found the beginning of the stone staircase on the far side of the spire, opposite the pit. They found something else as well: A patch of stone had been molded into a new shape. It was a human hand, reaching out of the surface of the pinnacle. An object rested in the outstretched hand, a set of pipes. They looked like the reed pipes a forest satyr might play to enchant a nymph, but they were made of smooth onyx stone.

“Caledan,” Mari whispered.

Kellen approached the stone hand and reached out to

touch the onyx pipes. The instrument parted from the hand with a faint snick! and came away in Kellen’s grip. He stared at the pipes in wonder. They were beautiful, as smooth and fluid as midnight water.

“Thank you, Father,” he said softly. He tucked the pipes into the pouch at his belt, where he kept his bone flute.

“Anyone else curious to find out what’s up there?” Ferret said, beady eyes shining. He pointed to the staircase with a thumb.

Cautiously, the four ascended the rough-hewn staircase. The steps were narrow and uneven, and one slip could send them plummeting to the rocky ground far below. Finally they climbed the last steps to the summit and found themselves on a half-moon-shaped stone platform. Before them, hewn from the dark bones of the pinnacle itself, was a gigantic chair.

No, not a chair, Morhion realized. A throne.

“In Mild’s name, what is that?” Mari gasped.

The thing on the throne was about the size and shape of a barrel, but it was jet black and glossy, and tapered smoothly at one end. The object was attached to the throne by a sticky mass of dark strands. Only after a moment did Morhion realize that the thing’s hard surface was slightly translucent. He could just glimpse something within, something dark and pulsating. Whatever it was, it was alive.

“It’s almost like some sort of cocoon,” Ferret said with awe and revulsion.

“No, not a cocoon,” Morhion countered in sudden realization. “Not a cocoon, but a chrysalis, like that which encases a caterpillar while it completes its metamorphosis into a butterfly.”

“While it completes its metamorphosis?” Mari repeated. Her voice became an anguished moan. “Oh, by

all the gods of light. It’s Caledan!”

Instantly Morhion knew she was right. He took a step toward the chrysalis, reaching out a hand. “Caledan, my friend—”

His words were cut short by a shriek of pure and ancient malevolence. A form uncoiled itself from a jagged outcrop behind the throne. The thing’s gray, scaly hide had blended seamlessly with the dull stone, concealing it even as it had lain before their eyes. Now the creature sprang down to stand protectively before the chrysalis on the throne. It extended spiny arms ending in obsidian talons; its spiked tail flicked menacingly. The thing’s eyeless face was utterly inhuman.

A shadevar.

The creature opened its lipless mouth, revealing dark needle teeth. “The king sleeps,” it hissed in a voice like a serpent’s. “You shall not harm him.”

“Get back!” Morhion shouted at the others. They retreated toward the staircase, but they knew they could not outrun the shadevar. The mage stretched out his left hand. Isela’s ring glittered on his finger.

Rapidly, Morhion spoke the words of an incantation. It was the same spell of protection he had cast against the shadowhounds on the High Moor. Once again, a ring of shimmering blue magic spread outward from the mage. The ring’s violet gem flared, and the expanding circle of magic changed from ice blue to brilliant purple. The glowing circle struck the shadevar and expanded beyond. Blazing tendrils of magic crackled around the creature’s form, engulfing it in purple fire.

The shadevar only grinned.

As though removing a burning cloak, it shrugged its spiny shoulders. The glowing tendrils of magic fell to the ground. There they sizzled for a moment, then went dark. Morhion stared in horror. The spell had not worked!

He had been certain that the key to the ring’s power lay in using a spell that contained elements of both light and dark. Yet he had been terribly wrong.

“Run!” Morhion screamed. “I’ll try to hold it off as long as I can!”

The others only stood behind him, frozen in terror. In his mind, Morhion prepared a spell of lightning, though it would likely be useless against the powerful creature. Spiked tail twitching, the shadevar advanced.

“Ifou would defile the king,” it hissed poisonously, raising a clawed hand to tear Morhion’s throat out. “Now you will die.”