The Sorcerer (9 page)

“It is my curse, Most High,” he said—but of course there was no stopping there. “It is my design always to tell you

what you wish to hear—but since that is rarely what is true, before I know it I am foolishly blurting out the things your other advisors are too wise to say.”

“Too wise,” Escanor asked, glaring pointedly at Hadrhune, “or too cowardly?”

Telamont’s glance darted in the prince’s direction.

“Careful, my son. You are one of those Malik is talking about”

He lowered Malik back to the floor, then slipped a murky hand through Escanor’s ribs and grabbed the prince’s still glowing heart.

“Interesting. Tell me about the spell that did this.”

Escanor’s gaze shifted to the hand in his chest.

“It was the silver fire.” His voice was shaky. “It burned through my spell-guard—”

“No.” Telamont pulled his arm away, and a glowing palm appeared at the end of his sleeve. “Silver fire is raw Weave magic. If that’s what this was, we would be spinning into a dimensional vortex right now.”

“Really?” Malik gasped.

He had witnessed enough combat to know that when raw Weave magic contacted raw Shadow Weave magic, the result was a rip in the fabric of reality. It was just such an accident— when the magic bolts of Galaeron Nihmedu’s Tomb Guard patrol met one of Melegaunt Tanthul’s shadow bolts—that had ripped the Sharn Wall and released the phaerimm in the first place.

“Then you must be …” Too late, Malik realized the risk he was taking by revealing that he realized Telamont’s true nature. He tried to hold his tongue, but the curse compelled him to finish what he had started. “… living shadow magic!”

The Most High’s murk-filled cowl turned in Malik’s direction.

“Not living, exactly.” A faint crescent of purple appeared where a human’s smile would have been, and Telamont

finished, “No need to feel bad about blurting it out. You were never going to leave here anyway.”

“Most High?” Malik looked around as though searching for a door, but of course there was no escape into anything but the shadows. “That is hardly needed! I can keep a secret as—”

“The enclave, worm,” Hadrhune said. “He means you will never leave Shade Enclave.”

“Just so,” Telamont said. “I find your advice too… necessary … to let you go.”

“Is that all?” Malik sighed in relief. “Then we are in agreement Why would I wish to leave Shade? I have everything I desire here—Villa Dusari, the ear of the Most High, a stable for my beloved horse and plenty to feed her. I would be a fool to leave all this!”

For once, there was nothing more for his curse to compel him to say.

“How very pleased we are,” Hadrhune said, running his thumbnail across his palm. “I am sure the princes are as delighted as I am.”

“The only delight that matters is mine,” Telamont said. “I will be delighted when someone tells me what to make of this.”

He held up his glowing hand.

“Obviously a form of false magic aura,” Hadrhune said. “Commonly used in bazaars and such places to make plain weapons appear enchanted.”

Telamont remained silent, and when Hadrhune did not add anything more, he turned to Malik. Resolved to jeopardize his position no further that day by being the bearer of bad news, Malik tried to remain silent as well.

Then he found himself saying, “We have a saying in Narjon, where I was once an esteemed merchant if someone fills your oil jar with sand, it is not because he wishes to give you sand.”

Telamont and the princes remained silent and continued to look at him.

“Have you no scale cheats in Shade?” Malik asked, exasperated. “It means someone is trying to deceive you. Whoever created this false aura wishes you to believe his spell is silver fire—”

“Phaerimm!” Telamont and Escanor growled the word together.

“That would explain the swiftness of their spellcasting,” Hadrhune said, turning to Escanor. “It surprises me that you failed to see it in the field.”

“Had you ever been in the field, perhaps you would—”

“Enough,” Telamont said in that cold, dangerous tone again. “You are both to blame.”

He raised an arm, and with a flick of his sleeve sent Hadrhune crashing into Escanor. They went tumbling across the throne room floor locked in an embrace of pain. Telamont waited until they had vanished into the shadows before turning to the rest of his princes.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” he said, “hi all things, you succeed or fail together. If one fails me, all fail me.”

The princes’ eyes dimmed with fear, then somehow speaking in flawless unison they said, “We understand, Most High.”

Telamont glared at them for a moment, then finally waved a sleeve in the direction Escanor and Hadrhune had tumbled.

“See to your brother’s wounds and your own. This war is too close to lose another prince.”

The princes bowed and retreated into the shadows, leaving Malik and the other attendants alone with Telamont The Most High placed a sleeve around Malik’s shoulders, turned him toward the dais, and started to ascend back to his throne.

“It pleases me that you are happy here, Malik.”

“Very happy,” Malik said. “Except for the frequent attempts on my life, perhaps.”

“Ah, yes,” Telamont sighed. “Hadrhune.”

Malik waited for the Most High to say he would no longer have need to worry or that something would be done about that, but they continued to climb in silence until they came to the step where Malik normally stopped.

Telamont kept his arm around Malik’s shoulders, guiding him onto the throne platform itself. This drew an astonished murmur from the attendants below, but the sound faded to silence as the Most High took his seat and stared into Malik’s eyes.

“Hadrhune was not so different from you once—if you will forgive being compared to an elf.”

Malik’s jaw fell at this revelation, for he had never seen enough of Hadrhune’s shadow-swathed face to note either arched eyebrows or pointed ears.

“There was a time when he served me as well as your counsel does now,” Telamont continued. “I tell you this so you will know that I reward those who aid me with eternal loyalty, even after they have lost their usefulness and become a burden.”

Malik inclined his head. “I am honored that you would treat me so.”

“I could” Telamont said, his voice again assuming that dangerous coldness, “were this debacle not your fault.”

“My fault?” Malik broke into a cold sweat. “How have I caused this, Most High?”

“This happened because we did not anticipate the phaerimm’s plan. We did not anticipate their plan because we do not have the knowledge my son Melegaunt passed on to Galaeron. We do not have Galaeron because he is still in Arabel.”

Telamont sank back into his throne and continued, “Did you not tell me that if we sent Vala to be Escanor’s bed slave, Galaeron would return to Shade and try to rescue her?”

“I may have said, er, uh—” Compelled by Mystra’s curse to tell the exact truth, Malik stammered to a stop then was forced to continue, “I did say that was the surest way to draw

him back in a rush. I have no dou—er, a reasonable belief— that my plan will still work … eventually.”

Telamont’s s eyes grew white and icy. “Eventually, my patience will come to an end. One might even say that it is waning now.”

A lump the size of a fist appeared in Malik’s throat, but he still managed to say, “Indeed?”

Telamont remained silent

Malik found that he had another question, a question he desperately did not want answered but which was rising up inside him like his stomach after a meal of bad fish. He clamped his mouth shut and swore he would not open it, that he would choke on the words before he allowed them to spill forth.

But his will was no match for that of the Most High, and he soon heard himself asking, “What happens when your patience has gone?”

“Then Vala will pay for her treachery in helping Galaeron escape,” Telamont pronounced.

That would certainly be a great waste of womanly flesh.” As fond as Malik was of Vala, he was less worried for her than he was relieved at not hearing his own name. “But a waste that matters little to me, as I am quite sure the only thing I would ever find in her bed is a quick death.”

“That might be preferable.”

Again, Malik found himself asking a question he did not really want answered.

“Preferable, Most High? To what?”

“To taking her place,” Telamont answered.

Take her place?” Malik exclaimed. “But I am a man!”

“And if you want to stay that way, I suggest you make good on your plan.”

Malik felt the blood leaving his head and knew he was close to fainting, which was hardly something that would inspire the Most High’s confidence. Knowing from his long experience as a merchant and a spy that the best way to

cover a weakness was to bluff, he forced himself to meet Telamont’s gaze.

“You must know that in my service to Cyric, I have suffered a hundred injuries worse than that.” It was as true a statement as any he had ever made. “If you wish to inspire me, you must do better than that.”

The murkiness beneath Telamont’s cowl stilled with shock.

“You dare demand a boon?”

“When the risks are great, the reward must be even greater,” Malik said. “That is the first rule of business taught to me by my wise father.”

Telamont remained motionless for several moments, staring at Malik in disbelief. Finally, the purple crescent of a smile appeared beneath his eyes.

“As you will, then,” he said. “Bring me Galaeron Nihmedu, and you shall name your price. Fail … and I shall name mine.”

Sven had there not been a giant-sized gap in the caravan between Galaeron and Ruha, the group of wealthy citizens holding a farewell party at the city gate practically announced that Aris of Thousand Faces was leaving town. The Arabellans had turned out in their finest splendor, many standing in silk-draped wagons beside their latest acquisitions— masterpieces in granite and marble, bought the day before at give-away prices. All eyes were fixed on the long line of riders and draft animals coming down the street, and as soon as the onlookers saw the unexplained space where the invisible giant was walking, they raised sparkling flutes of champagne in silent tribute.

“I’d say your idea worked, Ruha,” Galaeron said quietly. “Had we hired a crier to stroll the streets all

night, we couldn’t have spread our ‘secret’ any faster.”

“Yes, I have always found that the surest way to proclaim a thing is to say it should not be repeated,” Ruha said. “I only hope it did not pain Aris to part with so many works so cheaply.”

“Why should that pain me?” Aris whispered. “Their owners will enjoy the pieces all the more, and I don’t have to carry so much gold.”

“There are plenty of Arabellans who would’ve been happy to shoulder the burden for you,” Galaeron said. The way they hoard the stuff, one would think they eat it”

As the front of the caravan reached the gatehouse, the caravan master slipped out of line to pay the gate tax. The bursar held himself primly upright and made a show of tallying each draft animal as it passed through the gate. His guards stood at strict attention, their gazes fixed on the opposite side of the archway and their halberds posted at full-arm. Though Cormyrean officials were reputed to be generally honest—at least by human standards—they were no more prone to perpetual diligence than other men, and Galaeron realized that Aris’s well-wishers were not the only ones who had come down to see them off.

When their turn came to pass under the archway and be counted, Galaeron glanced into the arrow loop behind the guards and found a familiar cascade of golden hair shining in the depths of the gatehouse. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. The hair moved closer, and Princess Alusair’s familiar face appeared on the other side of the loop. Her eyes were red and glassy, though it was impossible to say whether from weeping or exhaustion.

“Thank you.” Galaeron mouthed the words without speaking them aloud. “Your kindness has lit my heart”

Alusair smiled. “And your courage mine.” She also spoke the words silently. “Sweet water and light laughter, my friend.”

“Fare you well.” Galaeron did not give the traditional

“Back soon” reply, for they both knew he would not be returning to Cormyr. “May your realm prevail and your people know peace.”

Galaeron could not be certain Alusair saw enough of this last wish to understand, for she vanished behind the edge of the arrow loop as the caravan continued forward. They passed beneath the spikes of the iron portcullis and clomped across the drawbridge onto the beginning of the High Road.

Once they were outside the city walls, a small army of beggars—farmers and craftsmen rendered destitute by the ravages of the Goblin War—emerged from the tents and ramshackle huts of Pauper’s Town to beg alms. Aris slipped sacks of gold to Galaeron and Ruha, who tried to avoid calling attention to their friend’s generosity by proclaiming, “Here’s a copper for you,” and pressing the gift firmly into the supplicant’s hand each time they passed out one of the gold coins.

The strategy proved even less effective than their “effort” to sneak out of town undetected. Whenever the astonished beggars—especially the children—opened their hands and saw what they had been given, they could not help crying out in delight. Soon, Galaeron and Ruha were surrounded by a moving throng, many of whom noticed the giant-sized gap between them and guessed the true identity of their benefactor.

They reached the small bridge that separated the marshaling fields from Pauper’s Town, and the press of beggars brought the caravan’s progress to a near standstill. The curses of drivers behind Galaeron and Ruha began to grow both in volume and vehemence but were drowned out by a steady chorus of, “Ilmater’s blessing on the Generous Giant,” or, “Thanks to the Tall One!”

It was in the middle of this madness that a slender hand wearing two silver rings reached up for a coin. Clasped around the wrist above the hand, hidden almost out of sight inside the cuff of a purple sleeve, was a silver bracelet bearing

the skull-and-starburst symbol of Cyric, Prince of Lies. Galaeron ran his gaze up the sleeve to a silver-trimmed collar, where he found himself looking into the sunken eyes of a hollow-cheeked woman with ropy blond hair.