"Always glad to be of help, love."
They ate dinner in silence, each of them wondering the same thing: How far ahead of them was Caledan? As the others readied themselves for sleep, Morhion took the chance to slip away.
The mage circled around a jagged rock outcropping to be certain he was out of earshot of the others. He did not need to call out. A blast of cold air whipped the leaf litter into a miniature cyclone, and out of the swirling leaves drifted a vaporous, armor-clad figure Morhion knew well. "You are wise to come to me, mage," Serafi intoned in sepulchral voice. "Just because we have forged a new pact, it does not mean that our old pact is binding no longer."
"A fact of which I am well aware," Morhion said bitterly.
Serafi drifted closer. Pale frost tinged nearby leaves of gold and crimson. "I am angry with you, mage. You risked yourself foolishly in the ruined city. You nearly perished. Have you forgotten that your body belongs to me?"
Morhion shrugged indifferently. "And what if I die, Serafi? There is nothing you can do then." The spectral knight's laughter echoed malevolently from all directions. "Oh, you are wrong about that, mage. I have dwelt long in the twilight world of the dead, and I am powerful here. Die without granting me your body, and I will make every moment of your eternal after-existence one of pure and utter torment." Morhion shuddered despite himself. He drew out a small knife and made a cut on his forearm. Dark blood welled forth. He was glad for the pain; it cleared his head. "Get on with it, spirit," he snapped. "I cannot be long. The others will wonder where I've gone."
Serafi knelt and began to drink rapturously. "Ah, yes…" he moaned. "Exquisite. But soon I will no longer need to drink to feel the sweet warmth of blood. Soon it will flow in my own veins. Your body will be mine, Morhion. Then, perhaps, that of the woman you call Mari will be mine as well . ."
"What?" Morhion hissed.
"Do not play the innocent with me, Morhion," Serafi said mockingly. "I know you desire her." The knight's laughter echoed again on the cold air. "Ah, but you have this perverse need to torture yourself, don't you? Yes, you must always deny yourself that for which you long. Well, be certain of this, Morhion—if you are too foolish to claim her, then once your body is mine, I will."
Crimson rage flared before Morhion's eyes. He snatched his arm from the spirit's chill grip. "Get away from me," he snarled. "Your drink is done. Our pact is fulfilled for this moon. Now begone."
Serafi rose, eyes glowing hotly. "As you wish, mage, But I will not go very far."
Before Morhion could spit a curse at the spectral knight, the frigid wind gusted again, and Serafi was gone. For a long moment the mage stood still, breathing deeply, trying to regain his composure. The spirit's mocking words echoed in his mind, words made all the more horrible because there was a shard of truth in them. However, those were feelings Morhion had banished long ago. It is a mage's lot to dwell in solitude, he told himself. He repeated the words again, and again, until at last his heart quieted Then he made his way through the grove, hurrying back to camp before the others noticed his absence.
Two days later they reached the small trading town of Triel.
It was more of a fortified stockade than a proper town, but they were able to buy fresh supplies, and at least there was one inn where they could spend a night indoors. As in every town, there were thieves in Triel, and it didn't take Cormik and Jewel long to ferret them out. The two returned to their rendezvous point in the town square.
"We're getting closer to Stiletto's base of operations," Cormik told Morhion and Kellen.
Jewel nodded in agreement. "The thieves here were extorted into paying tribute to Stiletto months before anyone had even so much as heard the name in Hill's Edge. We're definitely not far away now." Then perhaps there is a chance we may yet reach the Shadowstar before Caledan," Morhion said. Mari returned then. She had gone to discuss news with the local lord.
"How did it go?" Cormik inquired. "Strangely," Mari said, rolling her eyes. "Lord Elvar's the most paranoid man I've ever met. He makes you look as svelte as a willow switch, Cormik, yet he's convinced he's going to starve to death. However, he's less worried than he was a few days ago."
"Why is that?" Jewel asked. Mari went on excitedly. "It seems rats were plaguing Elvar's granary. Then a stranger came to town—a stranger who got rid of the rats by conjuring dark cats with the music of his pipes. What's more, the stranger stayed on for a while at Elvar's insistence. He left just two days ago." Her eyes flashed brilliantly. "Caledan's been here."
"I know," Kellen said quietly. He pointed to an object in a dim corner. It was a hand reaching out of the cobbles from which it had been forged. It was clenched in agony and despair, like the handd of a drowning man. Mari shook her head in sorrow. "Caledan," she whispered.
"It's almost as if he's leaving us these signs deliberately."
"Yes, " Morhion echoed quietly. "But if so, what do they mean?"
* * * * *
K'shar pushed aside the tangled witchgrass and gazed upon the half-metamorphosed milestone with curious golden eyes. Without doubt, this was the work of Caldorien's twisted shadow magic. For three nights and two days, the half-elf had been running swiftly through the Reaching Woods, stopping a mere half-dozen times, and then only long enough to sip water from a clear brook or to swallow a handful of acorns or late berries. Now blood surged hotly in his veins. He had found the trail.
Quickly, he examined the footprints pressed into the soft earth around the milestone. Five people had gathered here: a strong yet graceful woman, a tall man, a child, a heavy man, and a small woman who walked lithely but with a slight foot drag—perhaps due to age or injury. K'shar could guess the identities of at least three of them. The strong woman was Mari Al'maren; the tall man was the mage Morhion Gen'dahar; the child was Caldorien's son, Kellen. The renegade Al'maren was indeed trying to find Caldorien, and it appeared she had help. K'shar regretted that she had a child with her children were blameless creatures, and far too often paid for the crimes of their elders—but that did not matter He would let nothing stand between himself and his prey
As the autumn day wore on, K'shar loped easily down the Dusk Road, stretching out his long legs. From time to time, spying a traveler approaching, he would plunge into the thickets beside the highway, moving silently until it was safe to return to the road once more. K'shar preferred to make his way through the world unseen.
While he felt no hunger, by midday he knew he needed sustenance, or the swiftness of his pace would suffer. Halting, he scanned a hedgerow with keen eyes. Suddenly he plunged a hand into the bracken with uncanny speed. When he withdrew his hand, a fawn-colored rabbit struggled in his grip. K'shar spoke a gentle word, passing a hand before the creature's face. The animal fell still, gazing at him with trusting brown eyes. It felt nothing when he snapped its neck with a precise twist of his hand. There was no time for a fire, so K'shar ate the rabbit raw. While the half-elf respected all animals, he felt no regret in killing the rabbit. It was the lot of the hunted to sustain the hunter. And one day, when he died, his own body would feed the grass that the rabbit ate. Such was the nature of the chase.
Stars were beginning to appear in a dusky sky when K'shar reached Hill's Edge. The trading settlement was in a stir; something had transpired here recently. Curious, the half-elf prowled undetected through town, catching snippets of conversations. At last he overheard somethingg of interest. Sinking into a shadowed corner, he listened to two people talking on the front steps of an inn. I told Faladar that I didn't like the looks of them," lamented a red-faced woman—a cook by her stained apron and the large wooden spoon she clutched. "But he wouldn't listen to me. Not that he ever did." You saw them then?" a man in merchant's garb asked in fascination.
"Aye, I did," the woman replied dramatically. It was clear this was not the first time she had told this tale. "They came here at dusk two nights ago, and a strange-looking bunch they were. The red-haired woman, she wore sword at her hip. And the tall one, he had the air of a wizard about him. Had a gaze to freeze your blood, he did. They killed poor Faladar, I'm certain of it." She let out an overwrought sigh. "And now it's up to me to run the Five Rings all by myself."
Something made K'shar think that the woman was not truly sorry to be in charge of the inn. Silent as a wraith, he slipped away. He needed to hear no more. Al'maren and her companions had been here just two nights ago, evidently they had murdered a man. The renegade was sinking low indeed. Quickly, he made his way out of town.
It was full dark, and the moon had not yet risen when K'shar came to the stone bridge over the River Reaching, but his golden eyes required only the faintest of light. He knew it was for abilities such as this that his grand mother's people had been—and still were—persecuted. Some thought that the ability to see in the dark could come only from evil magic. K'shar knew that the darkvision came from generations of his ancestors living in lightless underground caverns. Regardless of its origin, the darkvision was best kept secret, K'shar knew, even from the Harpers. Those who walked the daylight world would not understand his dark heritage.
As he set foot on the bridge, something caught his sharp eyes. He knelt to examine the moist dirt in front of the stone span.
"By all the stars of midnight," he swore softly.
The tracks had been trampled by booted feet and iron shod hooves. But K'shar could see enough to know they were like no tracks he had seen in all his years as a Hunter. They were shaped like the prints of a barefoot man, but the toes were unusually long, and there were only three of them, and these ended in curved talons. No man had left these tracks. Nor had any beast that K'shar was familiar with.
Fascinated, he followed the strange tracks. There had been two of the creatures. They had stood before the bridge for a time before heading southward. The tracks were clearer once they left the heavily traveled road, and after a short way they were joined by the prints of a third, similar creature. K'shar halted. He had come to a place where the tracks of the unknown creatures were superimposed on a different set of prints—prints he recognized.
"Al'maren," he said in amazement. He squatted down and studied the myriad shapes pressed into the ground. Whatever the three creatures they had chased Al'maren and her friends toward the edge of the Reaching Woods. Had Caldorien ventured into the Reaching Woods as well? Or had he continued westward down the Dusk Road? The half-elf mulled over this dilemma. He could not be certain which way Caldorien had gone. On the other hand, he was certain about
Al'maren. He made his decision.
"A Harper in the hand is worth two in the bush," he noted wryly, before plunging soundlessly into the shadowed forest.
Thirteen
The lone traveler had been following the broad swath of the Trade Way for three days now, ever since leaving the strange little town of Triel behind. The traveler did not know his destination, but that did not matter. For he would certainly know it when he arrived there; he dreaded that time, evn as it drew him onward.
Occasionally he passed other travelers on the road— merchants, soldiers, or wanderers on pilgrimage—and these drew away, clutching cloths to their mouths and noses as they hurried by, as though they feared he might have some disease. He knew that he looked strange. That morning he had caught, a glimpse of himself in a pool of water as he bent to drink. His flesh was mushroom-pale, and half-moons of shadow hung beneath his green eyes. Given this, and his midnight blue cloak that was caked with mud and dried leaves from sleeping on the ground, he supposed people feared him for a dead man risen from the grave. It was ironic, for a shambling corpse was nothing compared to the horror he was in truth becoming. He laughed, knowing it was a terrible sound.
The mist-gray mare he rode nickered questioningly, shattering his dark reverie.
"It's all right, Mista," Caledan murmured, leaning forward to stroke the smooth arch of her neck. "It's just me here now, not… the other."
Mista let out a soft whinny.
"Let's stop a moment," he said, trying to sound more cheerful. "We've been on the road all day, and you must be tired."
At this, Mista gave an emphatic and slightly indignant snort. She hadn't planned to mention it, but since he brought it up, she was indeed overdue for a rest stop. They came to a halt at the side of the road, and Caledan dismounted. He ran his hand over the pale velvet of her nose. While this would have been a perfect opportunity In bite his fingers, as she was wont to do, she only nibbled at them halfheartedly. Mista knew this was a dark time for her friend.
"I don't know what I'd do without you, Mista," Caledan said quietly. "I think I'm starting to forget myself, to forget who I am. I try to remember things from my life, and all I see are shadows. I can hardly remember what Mari looks like now, or Kellen, or Morhion." He leaned his cheek against Mista's flat forehead. "But you're my oldest friend of all, aren't you? And you're here with me, so I can't forget you."
The opportunity was simply too much for her to resist. She bared her big yellow teeth and chomped his ear.
"You wench!" he roared, slapping her flank. She threw her ears back and gave him a distinctly self-satisfied look. "So much for tender moments," he grumbled, and went to find some water for them to drink.
A clear brook ran beside the road. Next to it was a bush laden with autumn blackberries. He wasn't hungry, knew he should eat. Plucking a handful of the he popped them into his mouth one by one. Then another handful for Mista. He started to rise, then halted. Now was the perfect chance, while the other slumbered. Caledan reached his free hand toward the blackberry bush, whistling a dissonant melody. All he had to do was relax his will for a heartbeat, and the shadow magic welled forth like dark water gushing from an underground spring. Still, he usually played his pipes or at least hummed a tune when he worked the transformations. It helped him concentrate. And somehow it made him seem less of a monster.