Telamont's attention turned to the phaerimm themselves, and the scene shifted yet again. Accustomed to the Most High's rapid changes of focus, Galaeron turned his own attention to the thornbacks and began to let his thoughts wander over the question of why so many had gathered in one place. He had been coming to the palace every day since their initial meeting, spending most of that time peering into the world-window and trying to get in touch with whatever Melegaunt had passed on to him during those last few moments of life. Sometimes it worked, and he was able to divine the enemy's intentions in time to save a few dozen-or even a few hundred- lives. More often, he had no more to offer than anyone else.
Regardless, Telamont Tanthul spent part of each day-sometimes most of it-with Galaeron, never teaching him directly, but always approaching the subject obliquely, as if concentrating too bright a light on his shadow self would only send it into hiding. No matter how long these sessions lasted, Galaeron always returned to Villa Dusari exhausted, numb, and irritable- so much so that Vala was beginning to question whether Telamont was helping him control his shadow or the other way around. Though she was not allowed into the war room-even Escanor had not been able to prevail on the Most High to allow her inside-she insisted on coming to the palace each day and waiting out in the throne room's whispering murk. Given how peevish that was making her, Galaeron was beginning to think she was the one struggling with a shadow crisis.
Telamont stepped away from the rim of the world-window and fixed his platinum eyes on Galaeron, and- as always-Galaeron felt the question on the Most High's mind.
"I can't see the sense in forcing this battle," he admitted. "When we raised the shadowshell, there were only ten phaerimm outside-"
"The figure is now twelve," Hadrhune corrected from the other side of Telamont. "Our agents located one in Baldur's Gate, and another in… that little kingdom south of the Goblin Marches-" "Cormyr?" Galaeron asked.
Hadrhune nodded, his thumbnail digging into the deeply worn groove atop his ever-present staff. "In what was once the city of Arabel."
"Still, that is nearly half of their number outside the shell," Galaeron said. "Why risk so much to stop an army that may well die of the ague before it ever reaches the Sharaedim?" "To slay a pair of Chosen?" Hadrhune asked.
Galaeron shook his head. "The phaerimm know better than that," he said. "The Chosen can be defeated but not slain-at least not by Mystra's magic."
Eyes sparkling at this last correction, Telamont said, "Whatever their purpose, this is a battle we cannot permit." He turned to where Escanor and Rivalen had appeared without any apparent summons, then raised a murk-filled sleeve toward the world-window. "You will take your brothers and your best legions and save those sick fools if you can. Leave the phaerimm until we understand their game." "It shall be done."
Both princes placed their palms to their breasts, then turned and were gone.
Galaeron felt the weight of Telamont's unspoken question and knew that something was being demanded of him that had, until now, only been asked. He turned to the world-window and focused his attention on the High Moor, then on the horde of tiny figures swarming over it, then on the five figures drifting along behind it between the two companies of illithids. Each time, the window responded to his will, the image shifting and growing larger to show him what he wished to see.
When Galaeron was finally looking at only the thorn-backs themselves, he shifted from one to the other, studying each one in turn, looking for scars or scale patterns or anything that might trigger one of Melegaunt's memories. Had the world-window been capable of carrying sound, he would have cast the spell that Melegaunt had taught him to understand their languages, but even the Shadovar could not eavesdrop without sending a spy. The Most High had already made clear to Galaeron that until he grew adept enough with shadow magic to find and pass on the knowledge that Melegaunt had entrusted to him, he would not be allowed to risk his life in any manner. For a Tomb Guard princep accustomed to chasing cutthroat crypt breakers down narrow passages strewn with magic death traps, the restriction was not an easy one to observe.
After several minutes of allowing his thoughts to wander over the phaerimm, Galaeron finally looked away from the world-window. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't summon anything."
Telamont accepted the failure with a patience uncharacteristic toward anyone except Galaeron.
"Do not let it concern you," he said. "I'm sure it is just your shadow interfering. The harder you try to control it, the stronger it becomes."
"I'm not trying to control it," Galaeron said. "I'm just letting my mind wander."
Telamont's eyes twinkled beneath his cowl, and there was a flash of what might have been a white-fanged grin. "You are always trying to control your shadow, elf. You are the kind who must control what he fears."
"What I fear is becoming a monster," Galaeron insisted. "Of course I want to control my shadow."
"As I said," Telamont replied. His sleeve rose, then a cold weight settled on Galaeron's shoulder. "It is no matter. The princes have their orders."
The world-window filled with a foggy expanse, which gradually grew less hazy as the Most High brought into focus what he wanted to see. Even after the scene stopped shifting, it took Galaeron a moment to notice a series of faint bluish lines that he recognized as crevasses in the High Ice.
The crevasses broadened into the dagger-shaped ribbons of deep, icy canyons, and Galaeron began to notice an odd patchwork of vapor columns rising off some sections of the massive glacier. One of these columns expanded to fill the world-window, and a square plot of snow gradually darkened from white to gray to ebony as it continued to grow larger. Finally, Galaeron found himself looking at something that appeared to be a huge, black carpet being unrolled by a company of ant-sized Shadovar.
"A shadow blanket," Telamont explained, answering Galaeron's question sooner than he could voice it. "A square mile of pure shadowsilk."
Galaeron frowned, as puzzled by what the Shadovar were doing as why Telamont was showing it to him. At the end of the blanket already laid out, a thickening vapor haze was beginning to rise into the air, while tiny rivulets of crystal water were flowing out from beneath the edge, braiding themselves into sparkling streams that merged into broad creeks and vanished down the blue crevasses in silver horsetails of falling water. "You're melting it!" Galaeron gasped.
"Yes." If Telamont noticed the alarm in Galaeron's voice, his tone did not betray it. "The shadow blankets absorb all of the light that falls on them, then trap it below in the form of heat. We have already laid hundreds along the edge of the High Ice." "Hundreds?"
Galaeron concentrated on a larger area of the High Ice. Sensing his change of focus, Telamont yielded control of the world-window, and the scene drew back to show the hundreds of vapor columns rising off the ice. "You're changing Faerыn’s weather!"
"We are rejuvenating what the phaerimm destroyed," Telamont corrected.
The scene changed again, this time to the southern edge of the High Ice, where dozens of huge rivers were gushing out of blue-tinged caves in the base of a mountainous wall of snow and ice. The water was pouring into enormous basins that had been dry for a thousand years, recreating the lakes that had once lain along the northern fringes of Netheril.