The Shadovar clasped Namirrha's hand then, in a move so swift even Malygris hardly saw it, pulled him forward onto the blade of a glassy black dagger. Namirrha screamed in surprise and tried to call on his servant for help, but the Shadovar's hand was over his mouth in a black blur, and Malygris felt no urge at all to defend the necromancer. Brennus finished the attack by first pushing his black blade down to Namirrha's crotch, then splitting him up the center and letting the two halves of the body fall separately.
When he was done, the accursed amulet was hanging from the back side of his dark blade. This he dropped at Malygris's feet. 'There is your gift, Malygris.'
Malygris eyed the amulet warily, as he did the bloody mess in which the Shadovar stood. 'If you think to ingratiate yourself with your warmblood treachery-'
'We think to avenge the insult he paid us by implying that Shade was not the equal of a piteous bunch of wretches like the Zhentarim,' Clariburnus said, 'and the insult he paid you as well, in treating the Blue Suzerain like a trained attack dog.'
Had Malygris still had lips, he would have smiled. 'For that I thank you-but why should I honor the bargain he made? My dragons need Zhents to eat.'
'They will have plenty to eat in the war,' Brennus said. 'That I promise you.'
'If you think on it, you will find yourself still bound by Namirrha's promise,' Clariburnus said. 'You sold yourself to the Cult of the Dragon, and even we princes of Shade cannot free you now.'
CHAPTER FOUR
9 Mirtul, the Year of Wild Magic
Night in Shade Enclave came as a deepening of the general murk, when the air grew heavy and tepid and drew in on itself in inky mist. Galaeron sat on the balcony outside Villa Dusari's master bedchamber, not keeping watch, but watching. Despite the hour, the steady murmur and clatter of passing traffic growled up out of the ebony gloom, just loud enough to keep a company of restless householders from their pillows. Aris was down in the lower warrens of the city, plinking away in his workshop. Ruha was skulking about the house searching for Malik, who was obviously somewhere other than his chamber. Only Vala was in bed, on the other side of the door from where Galaeron sat. She was not sleeping, just staring into the blade of her black sword, a wistful smile on her full lips and a softness in her eyes alien to them during the day.
She was, Galaeron knew, looking in on her son in Vaasa. At night, her darksword often lulled her into a trance and showed her what was happening in the bedchambers of the Granite Tower-'dream walking' she called it, though it was more akin to spying. During their months together, he had learned to read her expression and tell when she was visiting Sheldon. That the sword seemed to be looking in on the boy more often these days was one of few things that made Galaeron think the weapon might not be entirely sinister.
Though he did not begrudge Vala these glimpses of her son, Galaeron did envy them. His own father and sister were lost to the fog of war-dead or beyond reach, he did not know which. The Swords of Evereska's desperate attempt to save the gate at the Rocnest had already become the stuff of legend. By all accounts, Aubric Nihmedu had been leading the charge, and Galaeron was not fool enough to believe a mere bladesinger likely to survive any combat in which Khelben Arunsun-one of Mystra's Chosen-had vanished without a trace.
His sister, Keya, remained trapped in Evereska- though Galaeron could not be certain of even that much, as the phaerimm had long ago stopped all communication with the Lasthaven by raising a magic deadwall around the Sharaedim. He could hardly bear to think of his little sister-at eighty, barely an adult- sitting alone in Treetop, sad and frightened, probably hungry and perhaps even in despair, while outside the phaerimm circled the city waiting for a chance to enter. Yet, the alternative-that the mythal had already collapsed and Evereska fallen-was too horrible to contemplate.
And it was Galaeron's doing-the escape of the phaerimm, the besieging of Evereska, the whole war. He had caused it in one of those terrible moments a person replayed in his mind a thousand times, telling himself that if he had done this, or said that, or just left it all alone, everything would have been fine. Instead, Galaeron and his Tomb Guards had followed a band of crypt-breakers down into the long-forgotten workings of a dwarven mine and found Vala and her Vaasan warriors preparing to rendezvous with their shadow mage master, Melegaunt Tanthul. In the confusion that followed, Galaeron had given the order that breached the Sharn Wall, nearly two dozen men and elves had died, and the phaerimm had escaped to begin their assault on Evereska.
Vala and the Shadovar had told him a hundred times that he had only been performing his duty and wasn't to blame, but their words could not change what had happened-or how he felt about it. Eager to undo his mistake, Galaeron had joined forces with Vala and her shadow mage master and set out to summon the only help that seemed capable of defeating the evil he had unleashed. Along the way, he had learned to use shadow magic and had overreached his limits, opening himself to the corrupting influences of the Shadow Weave and beginning a desperate battle against his own shadow for the possession of his spirit. At every step of the way, it seemed, he had made the wrong decision, and now that he could not be certain whether the thoughts running through his mind belonged to him or his shadow self, he was almost afraid to decide anything at all.
But there was one thing he knew for certain, one decision he knew to be his own. He would do anything to save Evereska, make any sacrifice to amend his terrible mistake.
Galaeron settled back and tried to clear his mind, but found himself too agitated. His thoughts kept returning to the morning, wondering whether Hadrhune would arrange the promised audience or find yet another excuse to put it off-and whether the Most High's help would be the solution to his shadow problems, or just one more mistake. Certainly, it did not bode well that the Shadovar had concealed the fact that Shade Enclave was moving away from Evereska. But even Galaeron could see how his shadow would have used that information to feed his suspicions and make him distrust the one most able to help him win his spirit back.
While there was a time when he could have stilled his thoughts by retreating into the Reverie, Galaeron had lost touch with that facet of elf nature when he allowed his shadow to invade. Instead of slipping into a semi lucid trance of memories and the shared emotions of other elves, he sank into the same insensible, nightmare-filled slumber as humans.
But this night even sleep would not come. He passed the black hours staring out into the darkness, listening to the city clatter past beneath his balcony, replaying the same thoughts and doubts over and over again until the gloom paled from night-ebony to dawn-gray and Aris came striding out of the murk carrying his statue of Escanor's battle against the phaerimm.
Already completed, the piece was Aris's finest yet, so flowing it seemed in danger of writhing from the giant's hands. The prince's figure was noble and majestic, one hand still stretched toward the phaerimm he had just killed as he twisted around to face his new attacker. The creature itself was connected to him by the tail piercing his abdomen, and also by two hands wrapped around his throat, an artistic license taken to impart the impression that the beast was hovering beside him unsupported.
'Aris, it's magnificent!' Vala said, joining Galaeron on the balcony as the stone giant stepped into the courtyard. 'You did that in one night?'
'I could not have finished without Malik,' Aris said. The statue was at balcony level, and the giant was speaking down from above. He half-turned toward the empty gate. 'He did most of the polishing.'
'And what has this favor cost you?' demanded Ruha, stepping out of the colonnade to meet them. 'An arm, or a soul?'
'That is no business of yours, shrew,' Malik said. 'You cannot be expected to understand what one friend does for another, since you have none of your own.' He craned his neck up toward the balcony. 'You would do well to make yourselves decent. The prince is on his way here.' 'The prince?' Galaeron asked. 'Which one?'
'Escanor, of course,' Malik said. 'If you are wise, you will benefit by my experience and do nothing to encourage him to return. There is no thief worse than a royal.'
Galaeron glanced at Vala, who merely shrugged and turned to don her armor-by Vaasan standards, a far superior mode of dress to any of the dusky gowns Hadrhune's servants had delivered. Galaeron opted for his scout's cloak, as even the coarsest Evereskan cloth was considered extravagant by non-elves.
By the time they had changed and joined the others in the courtyard, Escanor's entourage was pouring through the gate. Tall even by Shadovar standards, the prince was visible in the middle of the group, his coppery
