Before long these were baking in the ovens next to the fireplace, filling the kitchen with their warm fragrance. Kellen was wiping excess flour off the table when two voices drifted from the inn's back hallway.
'I told you I would take care of the problem, Caledan.' The first voice was rich, like wine and smoke, but there was a sharp edge of annoyance to it.
'What's the difference, Mari?' This voice was rougher than the first, almost a growl, but with a note of musicality to it all the same. 'You wanted the problem taken care of, and I took care of it. It doesn't really matter whether it was my knife or yours.'
The first voice was blistering. 'For your information, Caledan, 'take care of the problem' does not universally mean 'put a dagger in its heart.''
Kellen looked up to see a man and a woman enter the kitchen. The woman was not pretty. She was tall and rawboned-though not at all ungainly-wearing doeskin breeches and a green velvet jacket over a billowing white shirt. She tossed her thick, darkfire hair over a shoulder like a horse tossing its mane; indeed there was something rather horsey about her large features and too-square jaw, though in a pleasing way.
If the woman was equine, the man was wolfish. He was lean and broad shouldered, and moved with a stiff, predatory grace. Gray flecked his dark hair, and his eyebrows were shaggy above gray-green eyes. His slate- colored doublet was well kept, but over it he wore a travel-stained cloak of midnight blue.
Kellen knew the pair well. The wolfish man was his father, Caledan Caldorien, while the square-jawed woman was Caledan's companion, Mari Al'maren. The two of them were more than lovers; they were partners as well, for both Caledan and Mari were Harpers. As a team, they embarked on dangerous and invariably secretive missions for the mysterious, benevolent organization known as the Harpers. Kellen's mother had died over two years ago. As his father's constant companion, Mari might have filled the void. However, Estah was more than enough mother for everybody who lived at the inn. Thus, over time, Mari had become more like an aunt to Kellen, and a very special friend. Together they made up stories, practiced at archery-for Mari was a master of the longbow-and went for long treks in the rolling hills outside the city, hunting for lizards, interesting stones, and buried treasure. For a time, Kellen had imagined that Mari and his father might get married one day. Now he was not so certain. The two had always been contentious in their relationship. However, these days arguing was all they seemed to accomplish.
'Good morning, Kellen,' Caledan said, his grin cheerful if a bit haggard. Apparently, Harper work had kept the pair out all night, as it often did. He flopped into a chair and started to put his boots up on the table, but a sharp glare from Estah made him think twice. He lowered his mud-spattered boots to the floor. Mari paced tensely in front of the fire, arms crossed. She cast a smile at Kellen, but it was thin and fleeting. Kellen shot her his warmest smile in return, for which she gave him a grateful look.
'The spy we discovered in the High Tower could well have been Zhentarim, Caledan,' Mari went on in a low voice. 'If so, he would have known if there are others of his kind in Iriaebor, and whether it's the Black Network that's behind the unexplained murders in the city. I really would have liked to have kept him alive long enough to ask him a few questions.'
Caledan gave a rough snort of laughter. 'Answering questions is difficult when one has a dagger in one's back. It's very distracting to one's concentration. At least so I've heard.'
Estah scowled at this. 'Well, that's fine talk for present company,' she said sharply, giving a meaningful nod in Kellen's direction.
Caledan seemed not to hear the halfling's reproving words. As happened increasingly often of late, his gaze had gone suddenly distant, as if he stared into some far-off place that the others could not fathom. It was just one of several peculiarities Caledan had been exhibiting recently. At times he seemed terribly far away, while on other occasions his temper would flare hotly at the most minor of annoyances, and he might laugh loudly-almost too loudly-at unlikely things such as a coal bursting on the hearth or a dropped plate shattering against the floor. Shadows hung beneath his eyes, gathering in the hollows of his cheeks. He had not been eating much lately, to Estah's great concern. Kellen was beginning to wonder if his father might be ill.
Caledan's gaze came back to his surroundings. 'I don't see why you're so mad at me, Mari,' he went on as if ere had been no pause. 'I was having some fun and got little carried away, that's all.'
Mari stared at him in shock. 'It isn't like you to be so cavalier about Zhentarim, Caledan. If the Black Network could find a way to get Iriaebor under its yoke again, it'd do it in a second. And these murders may be the beginning of some plan to do just that.'
Caledan and Mari didn't usually speak to Kellen of their work for the Harpers. Despite this, he gleaned much from what they let slip in his presence. For instance, he knew Zhentarim were a sort of cult. They followed no god in particular, though they cultivated many of the darker ones to gain magic, but instead worshiped gold and power, stopping at nothing to win these. The Harpers worked against all evils in the Heartlands, but the Zhentarim were their time-honored enemies.
Several years ago, the Black Network had taken control of Iriaebor, enslaving the populace and bleeding the city dry. It was Caledan and Mari, on a mission for the Harpers, who finally had ousted the Zhents from Iriaebor. The Black Network was still furious at losing its grip on the wealthy city and would do anything to regain control.
If Mari's suspicions were right, now the Zhentarim were trying to do just that. Since Higharvestide, there had been over a dozen murders in Iriaebor. Each of the murders shared the same grisly details: All occurred at night, with the corpses horribly mauled. In each case the victim was a less-than-savory individual, ranging from back-alley hoodlums to corrupt petty nobles. The
Harpers feared the deaths were part of some Zhentarim plot-perhaps sacrifices for a ritual magic of dark and unknown purpose-and that the Black Network was preying on the dregs of society for some mysterious reason. Mari and Caledan had been given orders to investigate. However, it looked as if they had no answer to these strange occurrences.
Kellen thought of his intention to tell his father about the curious handprint he had seen on his window. He looked at Caledan, then Mari. Both seemed weary from their night's travails, and from their argument. After a moment, he decided he would have to figure out for himself what the handprint signified.
Mari took her leave then. 'It was a long night,' she said with a deep sigh before heading upstairs to her chamber.
Caledan did not follow her. 'I have some things to do down in the New City,' he explained gruffly. 'I'll be back before sundown.'
Estah only nodded, her lips pursed in a frown of disapproval. Caledan paused to ruffle Kellen's hair affectionately, then disappeared out the inn's back door.
Midday arrived dim and dreary. A storm had gathered over the city, and the failing light forced Jolle to light candles throughout the inn. The threatening cloudburst kept customers away; the inn's long main room stayed empty. Kellen sat in a corner, playing a gentle melody on his bone flute while two very small people sprawled on the floor before him. These were Estah's children, Pog and Nog. The girl, Pog, was the elder of the two; she was red-cheeked and impish. The boy, Nog, was quieter; he seemed to subscribe to the theory that actions spoke more strongly than words. Being the eldest, Kellen often found himself taking care of the two young halflings.
'Today I'm going to tell you the story of the Shadowking.' Kellen told them in a low voice.
'The Shadowking?' Pog gasped, her eyes wide. Nog let out a squeal of terror and delight.
'That's right,' Kellen said mysteriously. 'A long age ago, in a land called Ebenfar, there lived a king. This king was a great sorcerer, and his name was Verraketh.' Lifting the flute to his lips, Kellen played a few wild notes. He gestured to the shadows on the wall, cast by a flickering candle. Pog and Nog stared, wide-eyed. In time with Kellen's music, the shadows swirled, silently reshaping themselves into jagged shapes that suggested a craggy landscape. Atop the highest peak stood the silhouette of a man, his cloak blowing behind him.
This was shadow magic. It was a rare talent that ran in Caldorien blood and that always appeared in a family member at least once in a generation. Caledan possessed it and so did Kellen.
Kellen lowered his flute. 'Although he was powerful beyond all others, Verraketh's magic was dark at heart. In time it transformed him, until at last he was a man no longer, but an awful creature of evil-the Shadowking.' He played a dissonant melody on his pipes, and the shadows on the wall responded. The silhouette of the man expanded, twisting into a new form: a bestial shape owned by pointed antlers. Pog and Nog let out small cries, clutching each other, but they did not take their eyes off the shadows.
Kellen went on in an eerie whisper. 'For centuries, the Shadowking ruled from his dark throne in Ebenfar,
