The Summoning (10 page)

Galaeron had no need to open himself to anything. His fear was coursing through him. He could feel it in his hollow stomach, in his heaving chest and hot huffing breath, hear it in his pounding pulse and the wail rising in his throat.

The scream did not quite reach his lips before Melegaunt covered his mouth. “You can’t scream, Galaeron.” The wizard’s face was returning to normal, his pointed ears vanishing into his dusky hair, his arched eyebrows growing straight and

bushy. “You mustn’t, or the phaerimm will give us all something to fear.”

Galaeron pushed Melegaunt away The wizard sailed across the chamber and slammed into the opposite wall, now looking completely human.

When Galaeron managed not to scream, Melegaunt nodded encouragingly “Good. Now use it, Galaeron. Use that power inside to cast your spell.”

“You’re mad! The only thing 111 use it for is to kill you.”

Galaeron drew his sword and was instantly separated from Melegaunt by Vala and her men.

“Not like that, elf!” Melegaunt’s voice grew stern and commanding. “Will you master your fear, or be its slave?”

Something in the wizard’s tone reached Galaeron. He touched his neck where the demon had bit him and felt smooth skin.

“Now, Galaeron!” urged Melegaunt “Cast the spell!”

Finally beginning to understand, Galaeron let the sword fall and ran his fingers through a series of mystic gestures, then finished by cupping his palm to his ear. His fear did not evaporate as expected, but burned down through him, branding him with raw ribbons of pain that trailed through his body and vanished into the darkness beneath his feet.

Galaeron rolled his hands through the second half of the spell. When he began to rub his brow, the ragged ribbons of pain turned cold, filling him with a biting numbness that started in his feet and shot up through him like icy lightning.

Then Galaeron’s mind was filled with wispy voices, all talking at once in half-formed sentences. He let out a groan and covered his ears. Melegaunt stepped past Vala and the others, then took Galaeron by the shoulders and looked into his eyes.

It’s a bit confusing. The words sounded inside Galaeron’s head, reverberating above a dozen other voices. You’re hearing the thoughts in all of our minds. Think of them as wind, and pay attention only to what you want. It helps to talk until you’re accustomed to it.

Galaeron removed his hands from his ears. “What did you do to me?”

“1 showed you your shadow sell” As Melegaunt had promised, the other voices faded into the background. “Think of it as the wellhead tapping another kind of magic.”

“What kind of magic? Vampire? Or drow?”

“Neither—and don’t blame me for that thing,” chuckled Melegaunt. “What you saw, you made.”

Galaeron glared at him. “I didn’t make that.”

“Not consciously,” said Melegaunt, “but whatever a man— or elf—makes, he also makes the shadow of. If he makes himself brave and honest, then he makes a shadow of himself that is not.”

“So a man makes a shadow of himself that’s a woman?” Vala asked.

“No, that would be the opposite,” Melegaunt explained. “A shadow is not opposite, only absence. In the day, it is the absence of the light that your body blocks. In a man, it is the absence of the male, not the presence of the female. In the case of Galaeron’s shadow self, it is the absence of kindness and loyalty.”

“That thing wasn’t part of me,” Galaeron insisted.

“No, it wasn’t,” agreed Melegaunt, “but you created it, and through it, you touched a new magic.”

“Then it must be an evil magic.” Galaeron retrieved his sword. He could still feel the strange ribbon of coldness that connected him to the ground. “I would that you had never shown it to me.”

“Do not let the guardian frighten you.” Melegaunt laid a hairy human hand on Galaeron’s shoulder. The greatest treasures are always protected, and this one is key to defeating the phaerimm. It is the only magic they do not understand. If we are to save Evereska, you will need to wield it well, and wield it often.”

23Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

The phaerimm WarGather lay exactly where Melegaunt had said it would, in the dwarven workings just beyond the breach in the Sharn Wall. A green spell glow hung in the air, barely bright enough to illuminate the room and render Galaeron’s dark sight unnecessary. The tiny chamber was packed with phaerimm, the last two feet of their tails dragging on the floor so they could float upright beneath the low ceiling. They were surrounded by swirling clouds of dust, stirred up by a cacophony of strange whistling winds similar to the sand devils he occasionally saw spinning across the sands of Anauroch. In the back of the room, barely visible through jostling phaerimm and swirling dust clouds, a cage of polished bones barricaded the entrance to a side passage. The vertical bars were made of sturdy

human thigh bones, stacked one atop another and fused together with magic. With a lighter color and generally more delicate form, the crossbars were probably elf. The door was a grillwork of ribs interlaced around four skulls, two human and two elf, with sad eyes still floating in the sockets.

The door was hanging ajar, and the attention of the phaerimm seemed to be centered on the tunnel wall beside it, where a pair of elves sat against the stony wall. Through the forest of phaerimm bodies, Galaeron recognized the gilded seams of Kiinyon Colbathin’s plate armor. The other figure Galaeron could not identify, though the glimpses of gold thread and red silk suggested it was a high mage.

It was difficult to see more. He and Melegaunt were on the far side of the Sharn Wall, squatting opposite each other to peer through the hole that had been opened by the beholder Shatevar. Vala and her men were a hundred paces away, keeping watch in case any more phaerimm appeared. Even at that distance, their thoughts poured through Galaeron’s mind in a constant stream. He tried to focus on the three phaerimm nearest the two prisoners.

Your crudeness has given us nothing but corpses, Tha, said the one nearest Kiinyon. Though it seemed to be addressing its fellow through the swirling winds, Galaeron could understand it only by concentrating on its thoughts. The effort made his head ache, for the message itself was often lost in an emotional muddle of jealousy and contempt. It is time to let someone more skillful rack them.

Perhaps, Zay—if there were one more skillful, responded Tha.

The others have screamed their throats raw and told you nothing, countered Zay. First we must break their will Only then they will tell us the words.

Melegaunt tapped Galaeron’s arm. Words? The wizard did not speak, but only thought the question.

Probably words of passing. Galaeron intentionally avoided any mention of the mythal.

should have known, Melegaunt responded. There’s a mythal.p>

Galaeron scowled. I said nothing about a mythal.

Melegaunt shrugged. Words have shadows, too.

So I’ve noticed, Galaeron thought. But what would Evereska’s mythal explain—if there was one, that is?

Melegaunt smiled knowingly Phaerimm need magic in their environment to survive, just as you and I need air. Without it, they starve.

Then why are they still alive? Galaeron asked. There can’t be much magic in Anauroch.

More than you think. What do you imagine the Shorn Wall is?

The barrier that imprisons them sustains them? surmised Galaeron. Cruel.

Perhaps, but not as cruel as what will they will do to Evereska—if it has a mythal, said Melegaunt. Phaerimm are solitary, contentious creatures, but there are almost forty of them living close together in the ruins of Myth Drannor.

Galaeron nodded, already taking the wizard’s meaning. The ancient mythal that had once protected Myth Drannor had not perished with the city. Though it had deteriorated over the ages, it was still very powerful—powerful enough, apparently, to nourish a colony of phaerimm. And if the deteriorating magic of Myth Drannor’s mythal was enough to sustain forty of the creatures, he could only shudder at the thought of how many Evereska’s far stronger mythal might support.

Galaeron shook his head at the thought of the evil he had unleashed.

Melegaunt tapped Galaeron’s knee. You did not unleash this. You were executing a sworn duty. If the blame lies anywhere, it lies with me.

Galaeron shook his head.
knew we were in above our heads the instant I saw Vala’s beholder, and she warned me so. Had I listened—p>

You would have violated your oath to protect the crypts of your ancestors, which is not something Galaeron Nihmedu would do, Melegaunt said. And had I not been so eager to escape, I would not have instructed Vala to break even a Vyshaan crypt in order to find the dwarven mine. At the least, the fault is ours together, and there is no use second-guessing ourselves. Know that had you been a coward and turned your back on me, the evil you did would have been far greater than this. We are going to set things right, you and I together, but this matter is bigger than Evereska—much bigger. Even were we to fail and Evereska to fall, what you did would still be worth it.

To a human, perhaps, Galaeron thought.

Though he did not think it consciously he knew that if Evereska fell, his name would be vilified in the coming ages as terribly as that of the Vyshaan or the drow On Faerűn, at least, Evereska was the last haven of elven civilization—all that remained of the empires that had founded mighty cities such as Cormanthor and Siluvanede. More determined than ever to find a way to stop the phaerimm—to destroy their entire race, if need be—he turned back to the WarGather.

Having won the argument about the best way to proceed with the interrogation, Zay was holding Kiinyon Colbathin spread-eagled above its—his—toothy maw, flicking his barbed tail across the bloody rents in the tomb master’s battered armor.

Would you like that, elf? The phaerimm was using thoughtspeech alone to talk to his prisoner, for the wind language of the phaerimm was clearly not one most elves were likely to speak. It would be an honor to carry my egg.

The barbed tail arced down to touch Kiinyon’s lips, then the creature motioned to several fellows. They leveled themselves horizontally and ran their own tails over the elf’s body, probing for holes and seams in his armor.

Perhaps I will let you carry eggs for all my friends, taunted Zay.

Kiinyon seemed barely conscious enough to notice. His

eyes were swollen half shut, his broken nose spread across both cheeks, his lip split so badly that the tip of his tongue showed where there should have been teeth. It was more difficult to tell the condition of the body beneath the armor, save that the deep creases and puckers bespoke plenty of bruises.

Would you like that, slave? All those larva grooving inside, slithering through your entrails, eating the food from your stomach?

Impossibly, Kiinyon shook his head and said, “No.”

The word was so garbled that Galaeron barely understood it. He was surprised to discover he felt none of the tomb master’s pain. Elves who lived even in reasonably close contact were so connected to each other—through the Reverie and the Weave—that they shared at least some shadow of each other’s emotional experiences. Instead, Galaeron sensed Kiinyon’s anguish and fear only through Melegaunt’s eavesdropping spell. There was even—he was ashamed to admit— some small part of him that actually took pleasure in the tomb master’s pain.

Galaeron found the strange emotion as puzzling as he did frightening. Elves were not spiteful, for their emotional bonds tended to curb such low passions. In a very real sense, to wish pain on another was to wish it on oneself, and not even the most arrogant Gold was foolish enough to do that The vile sentiments Galaeron was experiencing seemed all too human.

The phaerimm continued to hold Kiinyon a long time, allowing his fellows to run their barbed tails over the elf’s body, until a strange, rhythmic moaning rose from the tomb master’s lips. Galaeron did not recognize the sound until the other captive, the elf in the high mage’s robes, began to say the Prayer for the Dying.

“Behold, there in the West There I see my comrades and my lovers, my childhood friends, those who have gone before me and those still to come. There I see them in the tall oaks, high in the limbs where the golden sun lights their faces.

“They are calling my name. They are calling my name. They are calling me West, and there I am going.”

The voice was unmistakable. It had not only the clear articulation and eloquent intonation so typical of the Sun elves, it had the same plumy timbre Galaeron had come to know so well over his last two years of duty. The voice belonged, undoubtedly, to Louenghris’s father, Lord Imesfor.

One of the phaerimm backhanded the high mage, silencing him, then Zay raised his tail and brought it down hard on Kiinyon’s breastplate. The barb penetrated the mithral steel and sank to its base, but Galaeron saw no convulsing muscles as he had when Takari was implanted.

No? Then you must give me a reason, said the phaerimm. Tell me the first word, and I will let you die without eggs.

“Goldheart,” Kiinyon whispered. “The word is Goldheart.”

Liar!

Zay motioned to his fellows, and a dozen barbs pinged through Kiinyon’s armor. A couple of the tails began to convulse, but the spasms seemed weaker and more sluggish than the ones that had implanted the egg in Takari. The tomb master screamed, and his body grew puffy and rose toward the ceiling. Only the phaerimm’s grasp prevented it from floating all the way.

As astonished as Galaeron was by the strange effect, he was even more astonished to discover he could actually stand to keep watching. By all rights, he should have felt so sickened that he found himself either attacking madly or cowering in fear.

My congratulations, Zay, said Tha, now speaking in the phaerimm’s wind language. The same false answer.

Zay pushed Kiinyon into the bone cage, where the tomb master floated to the ceiling and hovered helplessly, pinned in place by the strange magic with which the phaerimm had injected him.