The Siege (4 page)

Galaeron started to lift his head, then—after a hissed, “Are you mad?” from Malik—thought better of it and pressed his brow back to the floor.

“I am, Most High.”

“And you did this why?” The voice seemed more interested than angry.

“To prevent it from escaping with the secret of the shell.” Galaeron did not enjoy speaking to the floor, and he could not keep his irritation from creeping into his voice. “That was why the phaerimm were there, to learn how to defeat the shell so they could take Shade Enclave unawares later.”

“Truly? And how do you know this?”

“The same way I knew they were there in the first place,” Galaeron replied. “To tell the truth, I don’t understand myself. All I can say is that I knew.”

The voice remained silent.

“It just made sense,” Galaeron said, as confident that the voice desired further explanation as he was of his fate if he failed to provide it. “They had to know what we were doing, and they couldn’t allow that. They had to be planning something.”

“That explains why you held the phaerimm beside Escanor?” the voice said.

Galaeron started to agree, then realized that was not what the voice wanted. There was still a question to be answered.

“The prince had just killed one phaerimm,” Galaeron explained. “I thought it would be easy for him to kill another one, especially when it was teleport dazed.”

Again, the silence.

“The only other place to send it was at Vala,” Galaeron said. “I thought if it did kill someone, better Escanor than her.”

“Stupid elf.” Malik shrieked, forgetting himself and raising his head. “Think what you are saying, before you get—”

The objection ended with the dull thump of a halberd butt striking Malik’s cloth-swaddled head. Galaeron glanced over and found the little man sprawled unconscious but still breathing.

The voice asked, “You are struggling with your shadow, are you not, elf?”

“Losing, I think,” Galaeron said. This time, he needed only the hint of a silence before realizing that he was to continue. “Prince Escanor has been looking at Vala. I didn’t like it.”

“Ah.”

Galaeron felt the weight of Vala’s stare and tried to keep his eyes fixed on the floor, but the voice remained silent, and eventually he felt compelled to peer in her direction. He found her returning his gaze as best as she was able, a look of surprise and triumph in her emerald eyes.

“It is nothing to be concerned about.” The voice sounded amused. “Shadows are by nature unconquerable and unknowable. You can defeat them only by defeating yourself.”

More silence, but this time Galaeron did not feel compelled to speak. The air grew muggy and less still, and Galaeron felt as though he could dare breathe again.

When the voice spoke this time, it was farther away. “Hadrhune will see to it that you and your companions are lodged near the palace. If I am to avoid losing any more of my princes, it seems I must teach you how to live with your shadow.”

Uncertain of whether that was a good thing, but hoping it was, Galaeron started to raise his head—and felt the butt of a halberd on the back of his neck. He touched his head to the floor again.

The voice asked, “That will meet with your approval, will it not, eh?”

“Of course,” Galaeron said. His heart was pounding— whether with joy or fear remained to be seen, but definitely with excitement. “Thank you.”

Silence, heavy and expectant.

“And, of course, I’ll repay you any way I can.” “Good, Galaeron,” said the voice. “Now we understand each other.”

Though the month of Tarsakh had nearly passed and the Greengrass festival was fast approaching in Waterdeep, a fierce blizzard was roaring in from the east, battering the window panes with its angry winds and dropping more snow on a city already buried to the doorknockers. Nor was this the wet slosh that blew in from the sea early every Greening. This was needle-snow, tiny spears of ice crystals formed over the High Ice and swept across the continent in howling walls of frostbite.

There was no prospect of it melting any time soon. Melting required warm breezes and bright sun, and the closest thing to either that Waterdeep had seen in three months was the steady flow of pearl-colored storm clouds sweeping across the sky. Matters had grown so bad that the city guard had covered the frozen harbor in mountains of excess snow, the woodcutters were finding it impossible to keep smoke in the city’s chimneys, and the area farmers had yet to till their frozen fields. In short, Waterdeep was facing a natural disaster of the worst proportions, which was what made the news Prince Aglarel brought so fortuitous — suspiciously so, at least to anyone who knew how such things worked.

The Shadovar stood before Piergeiron Paladinson and seven of the Masked Lords of Waterdeep, his eyes glowing silver and his ceremonial fangs flashing white as he addressed the imposing assembly in the marble-walled majesty of the palace’s Court Hall. In addition to Piergeiron and the Masked Lords, the gathering included the Silverhand sisters Storm and Laeral, Lord Tereal Dyndaryl from

the isle of Evermeet, Lord Gervas Imesfor of Evereska, and the inevitable host of gawkers that could be expected whenever such a group of dignitaries came together.

If Aglarel was aware of the power and influence of those whom he addressed, his easy manner and confident voice betrayed no sign of the knowledge. Huge and dark, with a blocky face and long ebony hair, he wore a flowing black cape and purple tabard that almost gave him the appearance of floating as he strode back and forth behind the podium, now and again emphasizing a point by stabbing the air with a black talon that looked more like a shard of obsidian than a human fingernail.

“The Sharaedim has become the prison of the phaerimm,” the prince was saying. “Now that my people have completed the shadowshell, the wisest thing to do is to wait and let it do its work.”

“Wisest for you humans, perhaps,” said Lord Imesfor. Though a powerful, well-respected lord in Evereska, he was a withered and disheartened husk of an elf whose fingers had been so badly mangled by a group of phaerimm captors that he could barely dress himself, much less cast a spell. “What of the elves still trapped in Evereska? What of our lands?”

“The enemy has already ravaged your lands. The shell will do nothing to change that,” Aglarel answered. “As for your elves besieged in Evereska, we can only hope we reach them before the phaerimm do.”

“We will reach no one hiding behind this shadowshell of yours,” Tereal Dyndaryl said. Relatively tall for even a Gold elf, he had a gaunt face that made his already sour countenance seem absolutely bitter. “We don’t have time to starve the phaerimm out. We must carry the fight to them!”

“You know how to do that, Lord Dyndaryl?” Aglarel asked. Considering the accusatory tone Dyndaryl had

employed, the prince’s voice remained surprisingly cordial. “If the elves have a faster way to defeat the phaerimm, the Shadovar are eager to help.”

Dyndaryl’s flaxen cheeks darkened to amber. “We are working on a few ideas, but nothing I can share at the moment.”

“When the time comes, then,” Aglarel said, without a trace of disbelief. “For now, the shell remains our best choice. Please advise your commanders to give it a wide berth. Those coming into contact with it will lose whatever touches it, and anyone using Mystra’s magic on it will accomplish nothing and may well regret the results.”

“And why would that be?” demanded Storm Silverhand.

A striking, silver-tressed woman who stood more than six feet tall, Storm was garbed in form-fitting leather armor and armed for battle. Though she lived half a continent away and had arrived at the meeting uninvited, Piergeiron had nevertheless welcomed her attendance. When dealing with one of Mystra’s Chosen, it was usually the wise thing to do.

“No one here cares for your Shadovar threats,” added Storm.

“You misunderstand, Lady Silverhand,” Aglarel said. He probably meant his smile to seem forbearing, but the line of fang tips hanging down behind his black lip made it look rather more sinister. “The Shadovar are not threatening anyone. I am merely informing Lords Piergeiron and Dyndaryl of the shell’s dangers.”

What are those dangers? whispered Deliah the White, one of the Masked Lords of Waterdeep. Like the other masked lords, her identity was concealed beneath a magic cloak, helm, and mask, and her words could be heard only by Piergeiron and her fellows on the council. Knowing of these dangers does us little good unless we also know what they are.

“What, exactly, is the nature of these dangers?” Piergeiron asked. As the Open Lord, it was his duty to serve as the council’s common face and speak for the others in public. “It does us little good to know of them without knowing what they are.”

Aglarel cast a meaningful glance over his shoulder at the gawkers in the public gallery. “It wouldn’t be wise to reveal the shadowshell’s nature at present,” he said. “Suffice it to say that we all know what happened when a mere Tomb Guard’s magic hit a shadow spell.”

Along with Deliah the White and several others, Piergeiron found himself nodding. This whole mess had started when a patrol of Evereskan Tomb Guards interrupted a rendezvous between a powerful Shadovar wizard and what the elves took to be a company of human tomb robbers. A phaerimm had been drawn to the sound of the resulting turmoil, and during the terrible battle that followed, the patrol leader’s Weave-based magic had clashed with the Shadovar’s shadow-based magic. Nobody really understood what had happened next, except that the result had torn a hole in the mystic barrier that had kept the phaerimm imprisoned beneath Anauroch for over fifteen hundred years.

After allowing his audience a moment to contemplate his words, Aglarel continued, “Can you imagine the consequences if that spell had been loosed by one of Waterdeep’s battle wizards?” He glanced at Gervas Imesfor. “Or perhaps a high mage from Evereska?”

“There is no need to imagine,” Storm said darkly. “We all know what happened at Shadowdale—which is why I am finding your concern for our welfare so difficult to believe now.”

“What happened at Shadowdale was a misunderstanding,” Aglarel countered, “and it was your attack that

opened the Hell breach. We lost one of our own to it as well.”

“A small price to be rid of Elminster,” Storm spat.

“That was never our intention,” Aglarel said. “Rivalen and the others were there to talk—”

“Perhaps you forget that I was there, Prince,” Storm warned. “I saw what your brothers did.”

Before the lightning that flashed in her eyes became bolts flying from her fingers, Piergeiron raised a hand and said, “As concerned as we all are about Elminster’s fate, that is not the matter before this council.”

He could not allow Storm to turn this discussion into a quarrel over who had caused Elminster’s disappearance. The argument was a sore one, and growing more so since the Simbul had turned up missing as well. There were some who suggested she had already recovered Elminster and spirited him off to some other dimension to recuperate. But Storm insisted on holding the Shadovar responsible for Elminster’s continued absence, and she never missed an opportunity to rebuke them over the matter.

Piergeiron did not know what to believe—he had heard convincing evidence that supported both sides— and it really didn’t matter to him. His only goal was to keep the matter from erupting into a full-blown magic duel anywhere within a hundred leagues of Waterdeep— much less within the walls of his own palace.

He locked gazes with Storm and said, “Whatever happened that day in Shadowdale, the last thing Evereska— or Faerűn itself—needs is war with the Shadovar, too.”

“Whatever happened?” Storm fumed. “I have told you what happened! The Shadovar are as bad as the—”

“Come now, Sister,” Laeral said. Almost as tall as Storm, she had the same silver hair but emerald eyes instead of blue. “Exaggeration serves no one, and I have

seen for myself what the Shadovar can do against the phaerimm. We need all the help they can provide.”

“Help from a nest of vipers will prove poison in the end,” Storm retorted.

“We are asking for no more than was Netheril’s in the days of our fathers,” Aglarel said. “Leave us to Anauroch, and no one on Faerűn need fear Shade Enclave.”

“Anauroch is not Waterdeep’s to grant or deny,” Piergeiron said, trying to guide the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Just as Evereska is not the Shadovar’s to quarantine.”

“I could not agree with you more, Lord Piergeiron,” Aglarel replied. “Which is only one of the reasons we should establish a coordinating council. I’m sure we can all agree that it would be in Evereska’s best interest if our nations shared in the responsibility of making these sorts of decisions.”

“A magnanimous gesture, Prince Aglarel, considering that the Shadovar have dealt the phaerimm the few losses they have suffered in this war,” Laeral said warmly. She knew whereof she spoke; her beloved Khelben “Blackstaff Arunsun had vanished during a battle early in the war, and she was spending much of her time at the front trying to determine what had become of him. “I am certain Lord Imesfor would welcome such a council.”

Before the elf could voice his approval or disapproval, Storm asked, “Who would lead this council? The Shadovar?”

Aglarel nodded without hesitation. “For now,” he said, “it appears we are best equipped to assume that duty.”

When dragons kneel before halflings! scoffed Brian the Swordmaster. As one of the Masked Lords of Waterdeep, his words came to Piergeiron as a barely audible whisper. They’re trying to take control of the war zone.

Aglarel cast a brief glance in Brian’s direction, then

looked back to Piergeiron and said, “If the Lords of Waterdeep find our leadership uncomfortable, we would not be adverse to naming Lord Imesfor master of the council. It is, after all, his home that is in peril.”

Piergeiron was almost too astonished to reply. The discussions between the masked lords were shielded by the same magic that protected their identities, yet Aglarel had plainly heard what Brian had said.