"Your father could never do that."
Kellen jumped out of his chair at the sound of the voice, nearly dropping the flute. The shadow birds vanished like puffs of smoke. He spun around to see a tall man with eyes like blue ice and hair as long and golden as a lion's mane. Though Kellen had seen the man only a handful of times over the last two years, he recognized him all the same. It was Morhion, the mage who had once belonged to the Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon.
Morhion took a step closer. He was clad in shirt and breeches of pearl gray, and over these flowed a vest of twilight purple so long it almost reached the ground. The mage spoke again in his resonant voice. "Caledan can make shadows dance with his music, but I have never seen him pipe them right off the wall. How long have you been able to perform this feat, Kellen?"
Kellen thought about this. "Always, I suppose," he said finally. "However, it was only a few months ago that I discovered I could do it. It isn't so hard, really. I just think about the shadows jumping off the wall… and they do!"
A musing smile touched the handsome mage's lips. "Something tells me that it is not quite so simple as you present it, Kellen. You have great talent at magic."
Kellen only shrugged, but inwardly he beamed. He barely knew Morhion, but Kellen liked the mage all the same. Morhion was cool, even distant, but there was lightning in his blue eyes, and he wore power comfortably, like a soft cloak. An idea struck Kellen. "I think that we should be friends, Morhion."
Morhion raised a single eyebrow. "Oh? And why is that?"
Kellen thought of the years he had spent locked in a tower room by his mother, so that his power over shadows would remain a secret. He knew Morhion spent most of his time in solitude in his own tower, studying spells. "Because," he said finally, "we both know what it is to be alone with our magic."
After a long moment, Morhion nodded. "I think perhaps you're right. Very well. Come to my tower tomorrow, Kellen. We shall talk of magic, you and I."
Kellen gave the mage a smile. Then, placing his flute in its leather pouch, he dashed off to the kitchen to help Estah and Jolle with the evening meal. Outside, the storm had passed, and by sundown the inn would be crowded with hungry patrons once again.
Caledan returned from his wanderings late in the afternoon. Mari came downstairs just as he stepped through the inn's door. The two exchanged troubled looks but no words. Morhion spoke briefly with each. He had some news concerning their investigation into the unexplained deaths, though Kellen did not learn its precise nature. After that, Morhion left the inn to return to his tower. Belatedly, Kellen realized that the mage would have been the perfect person to tell about the frosty handprint.
"I suppose I can tell Morhion tomorrow," Kellen decided as he cranked the handle of the iron spit, turning the sizzling piglet over the hot flames.
Estah appeared before him. "I need some more sage for the stew, Kellen. Do you think you could pick some in the garden for me?"
Kellen nodded and ran out the back door of the inn. He was glad to escape the heat of the fire; the cool evening air felt good against his glowing cheeks. The inn was perched on the precipitous western edge of the Tor, and Kellen paused to gaze at the distant horizon, watching the sun sink into a sea of clouds as brilliant as molten copper. He hurriedly made his way through the garden This late in the year, the garden was mostly a tangle of dried brown plants and witchgrass. At last Kellen found a patch of dark green herbs. He knew which was sage by its dusty scent, and he picked a handful. Turning, he started back toward the inn.
That was when he saw them. They glittered on the hard ground, outlined in white crystals of frost. Footprints. Kellen's heart skipped a beat. He took in a deep breath of air—air no longer just cool, but sharp and cold, like steel in the dead of winter. Slowly, he followed the trail of shimmering footprints with his eyes. The ghost stood on the edge of the Tor. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the man's translucent body. He seemed to waver in and out of existence—now dim, now bright—like the flickering light of a dying candle. The man was clad in peculiar, ancient clothes, at once more flowing and more angular than modern attire. Although he wasn't certain how, he realized who the spirit was. His father had encountered this same shade once before, though that had been far from here, in the desolate land known as the Fields of the Dead. Kellen's breath fogged on the frigid air as he whispered the words. "Talek Talembar."
The ghost gazed at Kellen with eyes like emeralds, then stretched out his arms in a plaintive, urgent gesture. The spirit's voice blended eerily with the low moan of the wind.
"The old king hath fallen… and a new king doth rise to take his place…"
As the last sliver of the sun slipped below the far horizon, the ghost vanished, leaving Kellen to shiver alone in the gathering gloom of the garden.
Two
Mari Al'maren sat in the common room of the Dreaming Dragon, waiting. Through a window, she watched as the black night sky softened to slate blue, then pearl gray, and at last blazed into scarlet brilliance. She had been up all night. Finally she heard the sounds she had been waiting for outside the inn's door: the grating of a boot heel on stone, the rattling of an iron key in the lock, the creak of hinges the door swung open. A tall figure wrapped in a tattered midnight blue cloak stepped into the common room. Surprise registered in his faded green eyes. "You're up early" Caledan said cheerfully. "No," Mari countered crisply. I'm up late." It took a moment for the implication of her words to register on his angular visage His grin faded. "How about if I told you that I went out for a midnight constitutional and lost track of the time?"
Mari gazed at him steadily. "You can give it a try, but don't get your hopes up. I'd really hate for you to be disappointed."
Caledan winced. "I was afraid of that." He shrugged off his ragged cloak. Beneath, he wore the old travel-stained black leathers he preferred for night work.
Mari stood, taking a half dozen paces toward the stairs before turning to regard him. "All right, Caledan. Where have you been all night? You can tell me now, or if you'd rather, we can scream at each other first. But either way. you are going to tell me."
Caledan opted to cooperate directly. "I went to the Barbed Hook," he said. "It's a tavern down in the New City, on the waterfront."
"I've heard of the place," she said coolly, crossing her arms. "The clientele consists of brawling sailors, besotted dockhands, one-handed cutpurses, and a generous sprinkling of harlots. A little too high class for you, don't you think?"
Caledan grimaced. "I'll be generous and ignore that. Do you remember the spy we discovered in the High Tower?"
"A man dancing around trying to pull a dagger out of his back before he drops dead is a curiously memorable image."
He pretended not to hear the sarcasm in her voice. "I did a little investigating and found out that our spy had been seen down at the Barbed Hook, so I decided to scout things out. Guess what? I noticed a few of our friend's cohorts disappearing down a hidden passage into a back storeroom. One of them bore ritual scars on his cheekbones. There's no question about it. They were definitely Zhentarim."