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 Water-deep, 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 Silver-hand 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.'
