“There can be only one answer,” Morhion concluded. “The shadevari aren’t after Caledan. They’re after us. They want to make certain Caledan completes his transformation into a shadowking, so that he can free them from their prison.” Morhion took a deep breath. “In fact, there is only one person who could possibly have summoned the avatars of the shadevari …”
“Caledan,” Ferret whispered hoarsely. “Caledan himself summoned them, deliberately or not.”
There was a long silence as the three huddled around the pitiful little fire. A small sound broke the tension. They turned in surprise to see Kellen sitting up in his blankets. The boy’s face was pale but no longer deathly so. His fever had broken. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes, then yawned heartily.
“I’m hungry,” he said blearily. “What’s for dinner?”
Kellen frowned when the only answer he received was a chorus of joyous laughter.
K’shar loped across the desolate landscape. The broken plateau of the High Moor stretched endlessly in all directions, brooding under an iron-gray sky. The half-elven Hunter tilted his head back as he ran, breathing in the sharp air, searching for the scents of man: smoke from a campfire, the odor of cooked meat. At first he detected only the metallic traces of stone and snow. Then, faintly, he discerned a third scent. It was acrid, like the odor that lingers after a lightning strike. K’shar recognized the stench of magic.
His gaze was caught by a jagged silhouette standing against the leaden sky. The Hunter squinted at the crumbling stump of a ruined tower atop a low hill. For leagues all around, it was the only place that might offer some protection from the elements. Instinct urged him toward the tor. Above all else, K’shar trusted his instincts.
As he climbed easily up the steep slope, he noticed footprints in the damp turf. A smile sliced across his thin face. He recognized the impression of a woman’s boot with a triangular nick in the instep. Al’maren. Outside the mostly collapsed stone wall he found tracks like those he had seen in the ruined city in the Reaching Woods. The gigantic hounds that had attacked Al’maren and her companions in the ancient city had found them again, here on this hilltop. K’shar noticed numerous gouges in the rocky soil along with dozens of scorch marks. Some sort of magical battle had been waged here—one or two days ago by the look of things.
With animal grace, K’shar leapt over the stone wall. How long had his quarry camped here? And had they survived their battle with the magical hounds? K’shar knelt beside the remains of a cookfire, holding his hand over the ashes. They were still warm. Al’maren and her friends had been here only that morning. They had indeed survived the battle. And they were no more than two hours ahead of him.
Swiftly, K’shar stood. “You have been a worthy opponent, Al’maren,” he whispered to the chill air. “But I have almost caught up with you now. And once you are gone, nothing will stand between me and Caldorien.”
Like a stag taking flight, he sprang over the wall and stretched his long legs to run lightly down the hill. His nostrils flared in anticipation. Instinct told him the chase was almost over.
And above all else, K’shar trusted his instincts.
Eighteen
It was midday when they brought their horses to a halt before the onyx bridge.
“ ‘Beyond lies the Domain of Ebenfar,’ ” Morhion read, translating the dim runes carved into a timeworn standing stone.
Mari nudged Farenth toward the edge of the yawning defile. She peered down, blinking dizzily. The vast depths tugged at her, as if trying to suck her down to the jagged rocks far below. Hastily, she backed Farenth away from the precipice. The slender bridge that arched over the chasm was made of black stone. Mari did not need Morhion to tell her that it had been forged with magic. On the far side of the bridge stood two colossi—gigantic statues hewn of basalt—forming a sinister gateway with outstretched arms. The towering statues were cracked and pitted, but Mari recognized their eyeless faces and spiny crests. They were shadevari. She shivered, gathering her forest green cloak tightly around her shoulders. There could be no doubt now that the ancient beings were inextricably linked with the Shadowking.
“Do you think Caledan has been here?” she asked, her voice breaking the brooding silence.
“There are no traces of his passing,” Morhion answered, “but that means nothing. He has left no sign for a long time—not since the last one in Soubar.”
“My father has been here,” Kellen said, his voice filled with quiet certainty. “Not long ago.”
Mari opened her mouth to question Kellen’s statement, then bit her tongue. After their battle with the shadowdragon at the ruined tower, she knew there was much about Kellen she could not possibly understand. “Then we had better get moving.”
“I’ll go scout out the bridge and make certain that it’s safe,” Ferret said. He dismounted, heading for the stone arch. A few minutes later he returned, looking vaguely queasy.
“What’s wrong?” Mari asked. “Will the bridge hold us?”
“It shouldn’t even be able to hold itself!” Ferret said with a shudder. “By all rights, that spindly excuse for an engineering project should have collapsed into the gorge centuries ago. Some sort of magic is holding it up.”
“It will bear us, then,” Morhion said in satisfaction.
“I suppose so,” Ferret replied grudgingly. “Unless the enchantment that glues it together conveniently decides to come unstuck just as we’re crossing.” He shot the mage an uneasy look. “Magic doesn’t spoil after a few centuries, does it?”
“It can,” Morhion said nonchalantly.
“Thanks for the reassurance,” Ferret grumbled.
Astride Tenebrous, Morhion volunteered to be the first to cross the ancient bridge. Mari came next, followed by Kellen, while Ferret brought up the rear—muttering something about “demented, suicidal wizards.” As she guided Farenth onto the narrow span, Mari noticed a single transparent crystal set among the bridge’s black stones. She asked Morhion what it was.
“I think it is a keystone.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It is the magic of such keystones that keeps the arch from collapsing.”
Cautiously, they continued across the bridge. The horses snorted nervously, their hooves skidding on the smooth onyx stone. One slip would send horse and rider plummeting into the chasm. As they passed the center of the span, Mari noticed a second crystal embedded in the bridge—another one of the magical keystones.
Suddenly, a blast of cold air snatched at Mari’s cloak, and Morhion looked up, his long golden hair flying wildly back from his brow. The horses clattered to a halt. In front of the mage, a dark form coalesced out of thin air. Serafi. Mari’s heart froze as she thought of the most recent pact Morhion had forged with the spectral knight.
The mage’s voice was a mixture of loathing and revulsion. “What do you want, Serafi?”
The dusky knight bowed mockingly in midair. “Why, as always, I wish to help, Morhion. You are being followed. Your pursuer is a half-elf, a skilled tracker. I know not who he is, but he comes to kill you—which, of course, I cannot allow.”
“K’shar.” Mari whispered the name of the Harper Hunter. “How far behind us is he?”
“A few minutes at most,” the ghostly knight said coolly. “You must prepare yourselves to encounter him.”
Morhion clenched a fist in anger. “If you’re feeling so benevolent, Serafi, why don’t you dispatch him for us?”