"The same as you, I imagine," the mage answered, unperturbed by Caledan's tone. He stood and walked to a narrow window, gazing out over the city. "Ravendas seeks something buried deep beneath the Tor, and in the past she has shown an interest in The Book of the Shadows. It is not so difficult a connection to make. I had hoped the book might hold the secret to defeating Ravendas, to driving her from Iriaebor."
"Why should you care, mage?" Caledan asked, gritting his teeth. Morhion turned to regard Caledan with his unblinking gaze, and Mari noticed that even Caledan could not bring himself to meet the mage's disturbing eyes.
"This is my home," Morhion said simply. "My life is here, such as it is." Caledan looked daggers at Morhion, but he did not contest the mage's words.
"Have you read the Mal'eb'dala?" Mari forced herself to ask. "Have you learned what it is Ravendas is searching for beneath the Tor?"
"I believe so." Morhion pulled a heavy tome bound in black leather from a high shelf and set it on the table. Mari and Caledan bent over the book as the mage turned to a page marked with a ribbon of black satin. The writing was clear, but Mari could make no sense of the words, written in the ancient Talfirian tongue.
"Well, what does it say?" Caledan asked in annoyance. The mage ignored him, directing his words to Mari.
"The Book of the Shadows is an encyclopedia, of sorts. Its author, whoever he or she was-and indeed, there may have been more than one over the centuries-describes many mysteries forgotten since ancient times. Some entries describe terrible creatures, abominations of magic, while others discuss swords of power, or enchanted rings and the like. But there is only one entry that Ravendas would be interested in." He touched the page lightly. "This is it."
The mage began to translate the passage. '"Long ago,'" thе mage read in his resonant voice, "'in a land east of the mountains and west of the sea, there dwelt a king named Verraketh, a ruler both feared and mighty.'" Morhion flipped the page. The tale of how Verraketh became a king goes on for some time. It is not particularly relevant to what comes after." He ran a finger down the page, then started again. "Ah, yes. This is it. 'Skilled above all men was Verraketh in the art of sorcery, but such was the power of his dark magic that slowly it did consume him, flesh and soul. Verraketh was changed until he appeared as a man no longer, but rather as a being most hideous, his maleficent heart filled only with darkness. Thus it was that Verraketh came to be called by a new name-the Shadowking.'"
"Sounds cheerful," Caledan noted wryly.
Morhion shot him an unfriendly glance but continued reading. "'For a long age did the Shadowking rule over his dusky realm, but ever he hungered for greater dominion. Many were the lands that fell…'" Morhion paused. "I am afraid the ink is blurred on the rest of this page, but I think we can imagine that many lands fell under the Shadow-king's dominion." He turned the page. "This, I think, is the important passage.
"'… so began the forging of the Nightstone. It was a gem wrought by the hand of the Shadowking from his own essence, but it was not beautiful to look upon. Rather it was as dark and cold as death. With it the Shadowking meant to gain sway over the spirits of men and bring countless realms under his dire rule.
'"Yet when the Shadowking first took up the Nightstone in his hand to wield it, he discovered that he had been tricked. The mute troll who had worked the bellows of the Shadowking's forge cast off his disguise, revealing himself as the great bard named Talek Talembar.
"'In his rapture, the Shadowking had detected not the enchantment which Talembar had bound subtly within the Nightstone. The gem refused to obey its creator, but rather heeded only the power of the magical song which Talembar played upon his pipes.'"
Morhion turned another page. "'For seven days and seven nights the Shadowking wrestled with Talek Talembar, and the earth shook with the fury of their battle. But in the end victory belonged to Talembar. At the end of all things the great bard raised his pipes to his lips and played the shadow song, weaving its enchantment about the Shadowking and his dark creation, the Nightstone. The Shadowking bowed on bended knee to the bard who had defeated him. Then did Talembar bind his vanquished foe within a great crypt, and over the crypt he raised a cairn higher than a hill. And the power of the Nightstone was hidden away forevermore.'"
Morhion stopped then, shutting the book carefully.
"But what happened to Talek Talembar after he defeated the Shadowking?" Man asked.
Morhion shrugged. "I cannot say. The passage remains unfinished."
Mari frowned. It disappointed her that the tale told nothing more about the hero named Talembar.
"I don't understand," Caledan said with a scowl, starting to pace once again. "What does any of this have to with Ravendas and Iriaebor?"
"The Mal'eb'dala says Talek Talembar raised a great mound over the Shadowking's crypt," the mage answered, "a mound as high as a hill. I think that hill of legend is the very Tor upon which Iriaebor stands. I think Ravendas is digging within, searching for the Shadowking's crypt"
"Then it's the Nightstone she seeks," Mari interrupted, and the mage nodded.
"Perhaps it is only a legend and nothing more," Morhion said, returning the book to its shelf. "But what if it is not? If the Nightstone was real, and Ravendas held it in her hand, she would have the power to enslave every man and woman in Iriaebor, perhaps even beyond."
Mari clenched her jaw. "The Harpers will never allow this," she said grimly.
"Damn the Harpers," Caledan said angrily. Mari looked at him in surprise, but he glared back defiantly. "I will not allow this."
Caldorien and the Harper were gone. The mage, Morhion Gen'dahar, sat alone by the fire in his tower. He' studied the runes he had scattered across a wooden tray lined with dark velvet. There were nine of them, each a small square of fired clay embossed with a single rune. Sometimes he saw hints of the future in the patterns they formed. It was these very runes that so far had kept him from moving against Ravendas. And now Caldorien had come, just as the runes foretold. In his heart he found he was gladdened to know that Caldorien yet lived. There had been madness in the man's eyes the last time the mage had seen him. But that had been long ago. He supposed Caldorien considered him an enemy now, but that did not matter.
What mattered now was the Nightstone, and nothing else.
These last seven years had been trying. They had been long years, years of waiting. Morhion had been forced to stoop to working as a court magician to support himself and his work. How much time had he wasted, advising foppish lords and entertaining petty nobles? How many times had he been forced to create a disguise for an adulterous husband, or conjure frivolities of illusion for a tittering contessa, when his time would have been so much better spent here among his books? But it was the curse of life that one had to eat, and so Morhion had performed these petty services in return for gold.
All that would be over soon. The waiting was done. Ravendas sought the Nightstone, and she was near her goal. Now Caldorien had returned, to help or hinder the mage as the fates decreed. Morhion wondered which it would be.
Morhion rose and knelt by the hearth, banking the coals in the ashes for the night. Suddenly a cold draft of air fanned the flames, bringing with it the dank scent of earth and rot, the sweet fragrance of death. Tonight was the full moon. It was time.
He stood up and watched as a pale, luminous form materialized before him, just as it had once each month for the past seven years. Thin strands of silver spun upon the empty air, outlining the shape of a man dressed in ornate, archaic armor. The silver strands grew brighter, weaving their glimmering magic, tracing the sharp lines of the man's face, his cruel mouth, and high cheekbones. Finally the silver strands plunged into the darkness where the man's eyes should have been. Two small specks as fiery as coals appeared.