Crypt of the Shadowking (19 page)

“Then let us see to the provisions, wife,” he said, and she nodded, standing up.

“We need to pack food enough for four,” she agreed.

“You had best make that five, friend Estah.”

The companions all looked up to see a tall, imposing man step into the room. His long blond hair fell against the shoulders of his pearl-gray robe, and his cold blue eyes bore no trace of emotion.

“Morhion,” Caledan said, as if the word was poison.

The mage approached. He nodded slowly in greeting to each of the companions before returning his attention to Caledan. “What do you want?” Caledan said, standing to face the mage.

“These matters involve ancient magics, Caledan,” the mage said unhesitatingly. “The Nightstone is an object of fell sorcery, and the shadow song itself an enchantment of great power. You will need me if you wish to truly understand their nature.”

Caledan opened his mouth to protest, but Mari stepped forward and spoke before he could say anything. “We leave from the inn at dawn,” she told the mage. Morhion nodded and then lifted his cowl, plunging his face into shadow.

“I will be here. At dawn.”

Caledan clenched his fingers into a fist, but the Harper’s hand on his arm restrained him.

“Until then,” the mage said. He turned and left the room. A chill seemed to linger in his wake.

Silence reigned for a long moment. Finally Caledan spun around to glare at the Harper. “Why did you do that?” he demanded hotly.

“We need the mage, Caledan,” she said defiantly. “You know we do. Think of someone other than yourself for a change.”

“I think Mari’s right, Caledan,” Tyveris said solemnly, watching Caledan intently.

Caledan glared at the others. He knew they didn’t bear the same enmity for Morhion he did—they were a forgiving lot, maybe to a fault. “I won’t deny we are dealing with things—with magic—that we know little about, Harper. But I’ve already warned you once that the mage does things for his own purposes.”

“And what purposes might those be, Caldorien?” Mari responded.

Caledan looked at the others grimly. “Maybe he wants the Nightstone for himself.”

Twelve

Mari rose in the dark, before even the first gray light of morning had touched the sky. She dressed quickly in her small room, donning her soft doeskin breeches and a rust-colored coat, over which she threw a thick woolen traveling cloak of her favorite forest green.

She gathered the few items she would need on the journey, packing them in a leather saddlebag. Briefly she considered bringing a roll of blank parchment and a quill, then realized there would be no time—or opportunity—to send another missive to the Harpers of Twilight Hall.

Downstairs she found Caledan already up. Estah and Jolle were helping him gather the gear they would need for the journey. Jolle had brought down a number of swords, daggers, crossbows, and stiff leather jerkins from the attic. “Good morning, Harper,” Caledan said with his wolfish smile. “So you decided to get out of bed and join us on this quest after all.” Mari held her tongue. She tried on several of the leather jerkins. Finally she found one that appeared to be the right size, but the buckles were stiff and unbending.

“Here. They go this way,” Caledan said, reaching roughly around her waist to fasten one of the straps.

Mari jerked away from his grasp. “I can do it myself,” she said crisply. Caledan backed off, looking somewhat miffed.

Both Ferret and Tyveris arrived at the inn’s back entrance just as Estah was setting breakfast on the table in the kitchen. The monk’s timing was impeccable when it came to meals. Afterward, the others sorted through the attic equipment. Ferret selected several sharp daggers, tossing them experimentally in the air to test their weight. Tyveris came across a worn leather jerkin that had once been his. He grinned and pulled it on, then frowned. Unless a miracle were performed, he wouldn’t be able to fasten the laces across his stomach.

“I guess being a monk agrees with you,” Caledan commented wryly.

“I never liked this ratty jerkin anyway,” the loremaster grumped, discarding the garment for a somewhat roomier choice.

Cormik slipped into the inn’s back room to bid the companions farewell. Beneath his plain, unobtrusive cloak he was clad in a silken, gold-embroidered tunic. His opulent attire always looked a bit out of place in the rustic inn.

“Any idea how close Ravendas is to finding the Nightstone?” Caledan asked.

Cormik shook his head. “None of my people have gotten close enough to Ravendas to find out.”

Mari nervously adjusted the silver Harper’s sigil on her jacket, making sure it was concealed for the journey. “She’s been digging for months now. She must be close.”

Cormik patted her shoulder with a chubby, ring-covered hand. “Don’t fear, Mari Al’maren. My associates and I will keep Ravendas occupied while the Fellowship is away.” He smiled broadly, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “Of course, if you wanted to stay behind, my beautiful Mari, I’m certain I could find some… er, shall we say ‘suitable tasks’ you could help me accomplish while your friends here are gone.”

Mari patted Cormik’s cheek fondly and deftly extricated herself from his grasp. “Not in a thousand years,” she said with a sweet smile.

“That’s impertinent of you, Mari,” Cormik said chidingly, and then he laughed. “I like that in a woman. Take care of her, Caledan.”

Caledan regarded Mari sourly. “I’ll try,” was all he said.

After Cormik departed, the companions gathered in the garden behind the inn. As the first amber rays of dawn streaked across the sky, changing it from burnished silver to brilliant azure, Ferret kept watch for any city guards that might wander down the lane. Jolle had retrieved their mounts from the inn’s stable, and the companions saddled their horses and loaded their saddlebags. Mista stamped a hoof impatiently.

“Patience. We’re almost ready,” Caledan told the gray mare, affectionately scratching her chin. She responded by trying to nip his fingers.

As they mounted their horses, Mari took in a sharp breath of surprise. There were five riders assembled in the garden, not four. The mage Morhion was there, clad in midnight blue leather and a cloak of misty gray, sitting astride a black gelding. But she had not heard him and his horse approach. Nor, by their reactions, had the others.

“I see you didn’t change your mind,” Caledan said, making no attempt to disguise his dislike of the mage. If the words stung Morhion, he did not show it. His regal visage was placid, his blue eyes like iced sapphires.

“I gave you my word I would come,” Morhion said. “My word is binding.”

Caledan snorted but said nothing more. Mari nudged her chestnut gelding, Farenth, toward the mage.

“I am glad you’ve decided to come with us,” she said to Morhion, trying to keep her voice steady under his disconcerting gaze.

“Is that so, Harper?” the mage asked. His tone was not hostile, but neither was it especially friendly.

Mari shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, doing her best to meet Morhion’s eyes. “Yes, it is,” she said firmly. “The Nightstone is an artifact of legend, Morhion, of magic. It’s simple. We need a mage on this journey.”

“Is it as simple as that?” Morhion asked with a faint smile.

Mari gathered her cloak more closely around her shoulders to ward against the damp morning air. “Caledan thinks that you’re coming with us for your own purposes. He thinks you wish to obtain the Nightstone so you can wield it for your own ends. Should I listen to him?” She searched the mage’s face carefully for any trace of a reaction. His face, however, was as smooth and unreadable as a marble statue’s.

The mage shrugged, his golden hair glimmering in the sun. “You yourself must choose what to believe, Harper.”

It was time to be off. Estah was scurrying busily about. Every few moments she remembered one more thing the companions just might need and hurried to tuck it away in a pack or saddlebag.

“Enough, wife,” Jolle chided her gently, holding her hand firmly. “If you put anything more in those packs, the poor horses are going to collapse.”

Estah sighed and nodded. “I suppose you’re right, husband. I’ve packed some balms and bandages, Tyveris. You know how to use them if…”

“Of course, Estah,” the big loremaster said warmly, reaching down to grip the hauling healer’s hand.

Estah nodded with a smile. Then the expression faltered. “But what will you do without a healer?” she said, worry showing in her brown eyes. “If one of you were to get hurt, and I wasn’t there to … and especially you, pretty one.” She reached up to touch Mari’s hand. Mari didn’t know what to say. “I just don’t know what I’d do. I don’t think that I could bear it.”

“Go,” a voice said softly. A hand fell gently on Estah’s shoulder.

It was Jolle.

Estah turned to gaze at him, shaking her head softly. “Go,” Jolle repeated. “It means everything to you. And it might mean everything to all of us as well.”

“But I can’t,” Estah said softly. “Why, who will run the kitchen in the inn? And tend the garden? And take care of the children? And who will light new candles for you, husband, when the old ones burn too low?” Jolle raised a finger to her lips to silence her protests. “Go,” he said one last time. They embraced. His eyes shone with sorrow, but also with pride and love.

Scant minutes later Estah sat in her pony’s saddle, and the Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon, reunited, was ready to take up where they had left off.

“I’ll be here when you come back, wife,” Jolle cried. Estah only nodded, as if even that was more of a farewell then the two of them could bear.

“Take care of yourself, Jolle,” Caledan advised the baffling innkeeper. “If any of Ravendas’s men come around asking questions, you don’t know anything about where we’ve gone. Be careful. Don’t get yourself into trouble.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Jolle said, a hard glint in his eye. “I can take care of myself. It’s you who ride into danger, not I. May the gods watch over you.”

The riders made their way single file down the alley behind the Dreaming Dragon. Ferret rode at the fore, scouting ahead. When he indicated the way was clear, the companions made their way out of the alley, riding through the city streets in the early morning light.

As they approached the city’s west gate, they fell silent. They were about to pass through when a rough-looking guard stepped into their path, halting the companions. He didn’t look to be Zhentarim, but his hand rested on his sword hilt with practiced ease.

“All right, mates. Show me your papers,” the guard said, eyeing them distrustfully.

“Papers?” Caledan asked, apparently taken by surprise. “That’s right,” the guard growled. “It’s a new rule, come down from the tower just yesterday. No one’s to leave the city without papers bearing Lord Cutter’s seal. Seems some city guards have been getting badly cut up, and Lord Cutter doesn’t want the rats who are doing it to sneak out of Iriaebor before she rewards them properly. Now, you got papers or don’t you?”

Mari saw Caledan’s hand creeping down toward his boot—and his concealed dagger. “Sure, I’ll show you our papers,” Caledan said, his body tensing.

Suddenly his horse was jostled aside as Morhion rode forward. “Here they are,” the mage said, handing the guard several pieces of parchment. Mari’s eyes widened. The papers were completely blank! The mage was going to get them all killed. She started inching her own hand toward the saddlebag where she had stashed a crossbow.

“Well, everything seems in order here,” the guard said. Mari stared. The man wore a vacant look on his face, and Morhion watched him intently as he folded up the blank parchment and handed it back. “Well, get on with you,” the guard barked. “I haven’t got all day.”

Morhion spurred his horse through the gate.

“Come on,” Caledan whispered to Mari, and she nudged her horse to follow. Whatever magic Morhion had used to trick the guard, it had worked.

They rode swiftly for a league or so until Iriaebor, the City of a Thousand Spires, disappeared behind a low hill. They turned west across rolling plains that were green with the new growth of early spring. Pale, tiny flowers dotted the grass, their fragrance sharp in the air. The sun was warm, and Mari threw her cloak back over her shoulders. It felt good to be away from the oppression of the city. She had forgotten how bright and lovely the world could be.

They had a long journey before them. Even riding hard, the city of Berdusk was almost four days’ away, and the Fields of the Dead lay another hundred leagues to the northwest, nearly a tenday farther, and that only if the weather held.

Shortly after midday, Ferret, who had been scouting up ahead, came galloping back toward the companions on his skinny roan stallion, his nose twitching. “I don’t know if any of you were expecting company,” the thief said, “but it looks like we’ve got some. There’s someone keeping watch on a hilltop about half a league ahead.”

Mari knew the thief’s sharp eyes were seldom wrong. “Just one person?”

The thief nodded. “It could be either a man or a woman. It’s hard to tell, with the black robes.”

“Black robes?” Caledan spoke up, casting a glance at Mari.

She looked worried.

“What is it, Caledan?” Estah asked in concern. “Is it someone you know?”

“Maybe,” he said grimly, gripping the hilt of the sword resting at his hip. “It sounds like that would-be assassin we ran into on the road to the Sunset Mountain monastery.”

Ferret led them farther northwest, following a narrow valley that circled out of sight some distance from the rise where he had glimpsed the black-robed assassin. They rode hard for over two hours, pushing their mounts to their limits as the land, green and damp with the new spring, rolled by. But as the sun sank toward the western horizon, Ferret once again saw a black silhouette on a low ridge in the distance.

“It’s no use,” Caledan said. “This fellow can move fast. Man, Tyveris, and I know that from experience. I’d rather face him now than later, in the dark.” He eyed the westering sun nervously.

“Then we should find a defensible place and wait for him,” Morhion said coolly. “Let the choice of where we meet be ours, not his.” Caledan nodded grudgingly.