The shadow workroom resembled his own workroom in the harmach’s castle, but that was the way of the Shadowfell. It had little true existence of its own, and merely imitated the daylight world-although never perfectly. Many of the furnishings and accoutrements from his workroom weren’t present here, or stood in the wrong place. Likewise, there were things present in the Shadow that didn’t exist in the living world version of this chamber. Before him, a complicated apparatus of silver coils and dark glass seethed slowly with a thick black substance. Rhovann approached the device, placed a rune-carved mold of silver beneath it, and carefully decanted eight marble-sized drops of liquid ebon into the impressions. Within moments the drops congealed into lustrous shadowy pearls, fixed in their form. “Good,” he murmured aloud. Then he returned to the silver circle and reversed his incantation, shifting himself back to the normal world. The shadows faded, and the air grew warm again.
Rhovann looked down at his shadow pearls, studying them for any imperfections. He found none. Satisfied, he carried them over to the great copper vats in which his runehelms grew. Murmuring potent spells, he took a shadow pearl and pressed it into the damp gray clay of each runehelm’s uncovered face, otherwise devoid of any features at all. Setting his mold aside, he took blank visors and affixed them to the empty faces of each of his new creations, whispering more words of power over the creatures to awaken the shadow pearls that would animate them.
A small commotion by the door of his laboratory caught his attention. He ignored it until he finished the last of the spells required. Then he brushed off his hands and looked up; Bastion stood waiting with Mirya Erstenwold, one great hand clamped around her upper arm. Rhovann noticed that her hands were bound behind her back and she’d been gagged, but her eyes were bright and furious. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “You may remove her gag, Bastion.”
The golem obediently undid the gag. Mirya spluttered as it came free, working her jaw with a wince of pain. “What do you want of me?” she demanded. “You’ve no right to send your monster off to fetch me whenever you feel like it!”
“I thought we might have a brief chat, Mistress Erstenwold,” he answered.
“You sold my daughter and me to pirates, you black-hearted bastard. I’ve nothing to say to you!”
Rhovann shrugged. “It would have been easier to have the two of you killed, Mistress Erstenwold; it was a matter of some inconvenience to spare your lives. I did so because I take little pleasure in wanton killing.” She glared at him, but he thought there was a shadow of fear behind her anger now. He sighed, and went on. “You have seen Geran Hulmaster since his exile, haven’t you?”
“You know that I have,” she replied. “As I told Edelmark, he wanted to see how I was getting along. He didn’t share any of his plans with me.”
“I’m sure. Well, let me come to the point. I expect that sometime within the next few tendays Geran may slip into Hulburg and contact you again. You will inform me at once should he do so.”
“Edelmark’s already threatened me, Rhovann.”
“Oh, you don’t understand. This is not a threat. It is a statement of fact.” Rhovann stepped close, and drew his wand with his silver hand. Mirya’s eyes widened in fright, but he touched the tip of his wand to her forehead and began a spell of domination. She shuddered in sudden panic and tried to pull away, but Bastion held her motionless, unable to retreat. The mage locked his eyes with hers, and bent the full power of his magic against her. She fought, and fought hard, her will surprisingly strong for someone untrained in the magical arts. For sixty heartbeats or more they struggled in silence, until finally her defenses crumbled under the relentless pressure of his enchantment. Her eyes, blazing in anger before, suddenly went blank and glassy, and her chin drooped toward the floor.
“When next you see Geran Hulmaster, you will do everything in your power to betray him to me,” Rhovann whispered in her ear. “Delay him in your home, lure him into meeting you in a specific place, seduce him-whatever you must do in order to keep him or maneuver him to a place where he can be caught. All you need do to summon me is to tell any runehelm-the helmed guardians in the streets-to tell me that you have Geran. Do you understand so far?”
“Yes, I understand,” Mirya said in a weak voice.
“Good. Now you will forget that we have spoken today, and carry on about your business as you normally would until you meet Geran Hulmaster again. Give no sign or indication to anybody what you intend, and do your best to conceal what you have done until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Mirya repeated.
“Very well. Bastion, unbind her.” Rhovann waited for the golem to free her wrists before finishing. “Now return home. If anyone asks what you were doing at the castle, you will say that you were questioned about Geran’s expedition against the Black Moon pirates. Supply whatever details are necessary to allay suspicion. You may go.”
Mirya’s eyes cleared, and she frowned. Without another word to Rhovann, she let herself out of the laboratory and hurried away. Rhovann returned his wand to his belt, feeling quite pleased with his own cleverness. Whatever else the next few tendays brought, Geran’s days of skulking around unnoticed in Hulburg were at end.
NINETEEN
27 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
For days, Geran, Hamil, and Sarth rode as hard as they dared to push their mounts, hoping to outdistance any possible pursuit from Myth Drannor. Geran didn’t believe that the coronal’s warriors had any special reason to pursue them with a vengeance, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that the Disarnnyls would make every effort to keep him from escaping justice. If he allowed himself to be recaptured, there would be no leniency from the coronal-of that much he was certain. Ilsevele might have been able to arrange matters with the Council of Justice given time, but he couldn’t see that she’d entertain any pleas for understanding after he’d gone to such lengths to flee her authority. Deciding that it would be better all around to leave Myth Drannor as swiftly as possible, Geran urged his companions to the best speed they could make, hoping that no guard companies were in position to intercept them.
Early on the morning of the third day, they emerged from the great forest of Cormanthor into the open lands along the southeast coast of the Moonsea. These lands had been settled long before, but large parts of the countryside had fallen into ruin in the last century, pillaged in wars between the surrounding cities and finally swept clean by the Spellplague. Sarth reined in and rubbed at his back with a small groan. He was not a good rider, and the last few days had been a sore trial for him. “I would not have believed it possible, but we seem to have gained our freedom,” the tiefling said. “Which way now? To Hillsfar?”
Geran brought his horse to a halt alongside Sarth. “I’m afraid we can’t slow down yet. Myth Drannor might not claim any land beyond the forest, but that doesn’t mean her warriors wouldn’t pursue us beyond the woods.”
“Do you really think they’re chasing us?” Hamil asked.
“The coronal doesn’t have a choice. She has to show that she won’t play favorites, and letting us go when she might still catch us wouldn’t look good at all. We might have fooled them by coming through the woods, but I think it’s wisest to assume they’re close behind us until we know they aren’t.” Geran glanced at the dark line of forest behind them.
“So, as Sarth said a moment ago: Which way now?” Hamil asked. “Do we head for Hillsfar anyway, or do we ride around the Moonsea and strike for Phlan?”
Geran thought it over for a moment. “Hillsfar. But let’s stay off the roads and stick to the countryside as much as we can.”