"Oh, the usual tales of blights and plagues, vanishings and hauntings. They say there's an evil loose in the land, a sickness in the ground. It's been a bad harvest, with all the rain lately." The forester smiled and shook his head, his gray whiskers twitching like an otter's. "People love to tell a tale of woe. There's no substance to rumors of sorcery and witch-weather."
"I'm not so sure." Aeron shivered by the fire. "Something is wrong in the Maerchwood; that much I know." He sat back, thinking. "Kestrel, I have to go. This is much worse than I thought it was."
"That's not very reassuring. What can you do?"
"I don't know," said Aeron. "But I might know someone who does know. Give Eriale my greetings. And, Kestrel... if things become any worse, get Eriale and come to the Maerchwood. I've been able to counter some of this illness, and you're welcome to stay at the Storm Tower as long as you like."
"The old ruins by the gorge of the Winding River?"
Aeron smiled. "It's not as ruined as you might think. You might be safer there than you are here."
Kestrel studied Aeron for a long moment. "It's that bad?"
Aeron simply stood and took his hand. "I'll let you know if I find any answers." He drained the last of the ale, shouldered his cloak, and set out into the weak daylight again. It was surprisingly cold and clammy. Aeron wondered if a frost was near, weeks or even months before the season turned. He didn't like the idea of the land suffering through a long winter under these conditions.
On his way back to the Storm Tower, Aeron actually became lost for a few hours as the trail he followed petered out in a muddy morass of thickets, briars, and fens. He could not remember any such place in the bounds of the Maerchwood. When he finally picked up his path again he redoubled his speed, Baillegh bounding behind him like a silver streak in the gloom.
It was late in the night when he reached the tower. He rested, ate a light meal, then set to work rummaging through Fineghal's storehouse of arcane lore and enchanted devices until he found a small orb of crystal. Aeron carried the orb to a small table before one of the tower's high windows and sat down, staring into the milky glass.
In his mind's eye, he formed a picture of Fineghal's face and called out with his will. "Fineghal! Where are you?"
To his surprise, the response was immediate. The orb swirled and cleared, and he gazed upon a forest-city of slender trees and leaping pathways high over the ground. Fineghal stood in the foreground on a wide flet of gleaming wood, glancing up into the sky. "I see you have found my seeing-glass, Aeron," he replied.
"Where are you?" Aeron asked, peering at the scene.
Fineghal gestured at his surroundings. Although Aeron heard his words plainly in his mind, the orb conveyed no sound; Fineghal spoke silently. "I have kinfolk who tarry still in the great forest of the Chondalwood," he replied. "I've passed the last few seasons among them. Tell me, do you know what is going wrong with the magic?"
"You have sensed it too?" Aeron asked.
"For the last month or so, my spells have failed for no reason I can determine. And there are other wizards here who have encountered the same result. There seems to be less magic in the world, as if the Weave is dying away." The elf lord's fear and concern were evident, even through the magical link of the crystal ball. "Never in my days have I seen something like this."
"I think I know what is happening," Aeron said. "Magic is not fading. It is . . . changing its character. While the Weave you know is weakening, the shadow-magic is growing stronger."
Fineghal grimaced. "I can't perceive it. I only see the weakening of the magic that I command."
"Have you noticed anything else unusual? Strange weather, a failure of the harvest, rumors of hauntings?"
"We've heard many tales of such things from the lands to the north and east of the Chondalwood. In the past few weeks, the tide of sickness has reached us here. The failure of magic is tied to these occurrences?"
"I believe that everything-the strange weather, the failure of crops, the plagues and the wars-is tied to this. The Weave permeates everything that exists, after all. If it becomes darker, more sinister, the world will grow dark as well."
The elf seemed to turn away for a moment, as if he were speaking to someone else whom Aeron could not see. "Your explanation makes sense, Aeron. It would account for the events we've witnessed here."
"The longer we allow this to continue, the worse it will get," Aeron said. He described his meeting with Master Crow and related the rumors he'd heard of war in Cimbar.
"Could this have something to do with the Shadow Stone, Aeron? You once told me that you thought that it acted as a conduit that enabled a mage to bypass the Weave. Master Crow's appearance on your doorstep can't be entirely coincidental."
"I think you're right," Aeron said. "But that still doesn't give me any idea of how to counter the effects."
Fineghal seemed to waver in indecision. "I'll set out at once for the Storm Tower," he finally said.
Aeron smiled, his spirits climbing. "There's room for two Storm Walkers in this forest, Fineghal. I can really use your help. When will you be here?"
The elf laughed bitterly. "Before this started, I knew three or four spells that would have whisked me to your side in the blink of an eye. But I cannot wield enough of the Weave to power any of them now. I'll have to travel by more mundane means. Six or seven days, at a minimum."
"I'll be waiting for you. Go with care-I don't like the look of this at all."
"Nor do I," Fineghal said. He raised his hand, and the contact faded, leaving the orb empty and colorless again.
* * * * *
Two more watchful days passed, as Aeron used every divination at his command to study the situation with little success. On the third day, he was roused from his futile efforts by the subtle warning of one of his warding spells. Someone was approaching the Storm Tower. He rose and moved over to one of the windows, peering out into the gloom. On the path leading from the wood, three figures blundered through the mist. He quickly recognized Kestrel and Eriale, both carrying light packs, but the third person wore a large hood. Aeron scrutinized the last one for a long moment, then gave up and trotted downstairs to let them in to the tower.
"Kestrel, Eriale! What happened? Why are you here so soon?" Aeron ushered them into the tower's entry hall.
Kestrel stepped inside, his face blank. "We had to talk to you, Aeron." He glanced back at the third member of their party-a large, broad-shouldered man-and waved him forward. "I've brought Phoros Raedel to see you."
Aeron started in surprise as the nobleman took off his dripping hood and fixed an angry glare on him. After a long moment, Aeron managed to say, "I never thought I'd find you on my doorstep."
"I would have avoided this if there were any other alternative, Morieth." Phoros shifted uncomfortably, his face set in an uncompromising scowl.
"Alternative to what?" Aeron demanded.
Eriale stepped forward and laid her hand on Aeron's arm. "Aeron, listen. He's come to ask your help."
The mage snorted in anger. "You're joking."
"It's true, Aeron," said Kestrel. "Hear him out."
Raedel glowered until his face shone red. He said, "That black-hearted scoundrel Crow has turned me out of my own castle. I want your help in getting rid of him."
Aeron folded his arms and turned a flat stare on the nobleman. "You sought his services to put me in my place. If you don't want Master Crow under your roof anymore, get rid of him yourself."
Raedel bridled. "I knew this was a bad idea," he rasped.
He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, fuming.
Eriale glared at Aeron. "You're better than that, Aeron," she snapped. She started after Raedel and caught him as he opened the door. "Wait, my lord. You need his help."
"I'll be damned if I'm going to beg for it!" the count roared, wheeling on her. "If he can't be bothered with driving a black-hearted necromancer out of the town he grew up in, then so be it! I'll find a way to do it myself."
Kestrel stepped in front of Aeron and pointed out the open door. "Aeron, this is foul sorcery. The land suffers under a curse of some kind. You're the only person we know with knowledge of these things. You might not care a whit about Phoros Raedel's troubles, but the count's woes are the woes of all Maerchlin. The villagers and forest-folk don't deserve this." He fixed his keen eyes on Aeron's face, refusing to allow the mage to look away. Eriale and Phoros paused by the door.
Aeron glanced at Phoros and back to Kestrel. He sighed and waved his hand to indicate the midday gloom and the filthy, clinging damp. "This isn't Crow's doing. They're both symptoms of the same disease. I don't have any idea of how to break the spell that's poisoning the land."
Phoros weighed Aeron for a long moment. "You say that Crow's just a part of this. Fine. But if you don't have any other place to start, it can't hurt to treat a symptom. He's using sorcery to eat the minds of my people, Morieth. My people, the people who look to me to defend them! I've never sought to rule by holding a man's will in my fingers. If you let Crow stay in Maerchlin, he's going to turn this entire province into a charnel house."