Had you set your hand on the stone, as the others did, you would have been lost without hope of redemption.
"And it is my magic that keeps me here. I don't belong in the shadow land; no living man does. And so by daylight I've been free to walk the waking world. At night, the Shadow Stone grows strong enough to drag me into its own plane. And each day that passes, each night I walk in the realm of the shadow, my reality fades."
You are almost spent. You lack the strength now to return to the daylight against the stone's influence.
"I must expunge any magical power that I have left to me in order to eliminate the stone's hold." Aeron mulled that over. He still had a half-dozen spells remaining in his mind, spells he'd managed to preserve throughout his travels. The only way he could imagine to rid himself of magic would be to speak each spell, cast it here in the shadow, and dissipate its energies. When all the spells were gone, he'd have no magic for the stone to retain its hold on him. And he might escape the shadow prison that sought to claim him.
You will be left powerless. Your spellbooks remain in the college. And there is only one source of magic here for you. Each spell you speak must be powered by the stone, and therefore, with each casting, its influence over you will grow stronger. You will fall completely under its power long before you escape the plane of shadow.
"That," said Aeron, "will depend on me."
He weighed the options, thinking it through, but there was really no choice. The plane of shadow was devouring him slowly, dissipating his life in its endless gloom. He was certain to perish if he remained. The stone might or might not overpower him. His only hope lay in the course of madness.
He turned and looked around him. He stood on a long, open ridge, a dark line of woods off to his right, a dim ruined castle a mile or so across untended fields to his left. It was as good a place as any. Deliberately he closed his eyes and forced the knotted symbol for the spell of shielding to the forefront of his mind and set it free.
Streaming up from the barren ground, icy tendrils of blackness poured into Aeron's body, filling him with something hateful and cold. His mind reeled and his heart ached with revulsion, but he worked through the spell and discarded it uselessly into the night. He immediately selected the charm of blindness and stammered it out while his body convulsed and his blood ran as sluggishly as a filthy, choked sewer. His mind already reeled on the brink of oblivion.
You can't do it. The stone's overwhelming you.
"Not until I let it," Aeron hissed in response. He reached deep into his reserves of will, finding strength even beyond the limits of what he'd thought he possessed, and barked out the next two spells, enduring the cold, black rottenness that surged and seethed in his soul, forcing his mind above the rising tide of insanity. If he failed, his life was the least of the things he would forfeit.
Phantasms of terror and mist swirled around him under the lightless sky, drawn by the sorcery he unleashed. He was burning like a beacon on the hilltop, shrouded in a cold white fire that danced like will-o'-the-wisps in the marshes. He hammered his way through the next, a spell of disenchantment, and botched it badly. . but it was spent, and now one last spell remained, a spell of illusion. With the last of his strength and sanity, Aeron gibbered the words, and the raging power of the Shadow Stone gave it form and then destroyed it.
And a silence as final as death fell on the sere hillside.
Aeron lay on the cold road, exhausted, starving, his gut aching with violent nausea. But he did not feel the stone's touch in him anymore.
He looked down at his hands and noticed that an odd rose-and-orange glow was staining his flesh, his robes. It puzzled him for a moment, and then he realized that he was seeing the first light of morning shining on him, although it touched nothing else yet in the gloom of the shadow land. He glanced to the east, watching as the sunrise dispelled the preternatural darkness.
The sunlight touched him, but it brought no warmth. Weakness assailed him, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, every last reserve of his strength suddenly depleted beyond hope of restoration.
He found himself kneeling in a broad farm field sown with young corn. A long line of dark trees sketched the horizon, rising and falling in gentle hills and deep dells that Aeron knew like the back of his hand-Maerchlin. With the last of his strength, he snorted in amazement. "I'm home," he whispered. Then he collapsed into the rich, wet earth.
Raedel's soldiers found Aeron before the sun had risen an hour into the sky.
Twelve
Aeron was dragged through the village and into the castle's gaping mouth by a squad of mailed soldiers. They spared him no discomfort, manhandling him with angry shoves and cuffs to his head as if he'd been a struggling berserker. At first Aeron almost welcomed their attention; each blow confirmed his escape from the plane of shadow and reminded him of his reality.
The guards wasted no time in bringing him before Phoros Raedel, in the musty, oak-paneled great hall. The room was crowded with the men-at-arms and retainers of the Raedels and a handful of village leaders who had business with the count this morning. The conversation died away as Aeron was led into the room.
Phoros Raedel rose from the high seat, openly amazed. "Morieth!" he stated, his face slack. The young lord had filled out in the two years since Aeron had last seen him; some of his hard-won muscle was settling around his waist, and his face, once chiseled and clean, seemed more florid now. But the strength of his arms and the cruelty in his eyes remained, and a wide smile of satisfaction spread across his features as he slowly approached. "Oh, how I've dreamed of this moment. My sight was gone for a month before my father found a priest who could undo your spell."
Aeron drew himself up and met the count's glare with a calm gaze. "I did what I had to do. You'd have killed Kestrel if I hadn't acted." He hesitated, then added, "I didn't want you for an enemy, Phoros."
"You didn't want me for an enemy?" Raedel brayed harsh laughter. "Regos still carries the scar you left when you laid open his arm. Miroch you burned alive. You bewitched my guardsmen, and you blinded me! And now you're sorry for it?"
Aeron waited until Raedel had stopped laughing. Familiar or not, Phoros still meant him no good. He bit back an angry retort, the old scar across the top of his left ear aching as if to remind him of how his feud with the young lord had begun. "I only sought to protect myself and those I love. I don't regret saving Eriale from Miroch's attentions or helping Kestrel to escape from your dungeons, but I wish it had never been necessary."
Raedel blinked. He studied Aeron for a long moment, eyes narrowed. "You've changed," he said at last.
"I've little fight left in me," Aeron replied.
The young count held his gaze for a long time before looking away to the guards. "Take him away," he said. "He's guilty of raising his hand against a lord, sedition, sorcery, and a dozen other charges. He'll hang tomorrow morning."
"One favor, Raedel?" Aeron said.
Phoros wheeled on him, astonished. "You want to ask a favor of me? Are you insane?"
"Pardon Kestrel and Eriale. You only arrested them to catch me."
"Pardon them? Why? They're rebels and traitors, fugitives from my dungeons!"
"Now that you have me, let them go," Aeron said.
Phoros scowled. "What does it matter if I pardon them or not? They fled Maerchlin two years ago."
"They never did anything wrong, Phoros. It's not right for them to be outlaws on my account."
The count weighed Aeron's words and abruptly agreed. "Very well. Kestrel and Eriale are pardoned, for what it's worth." He waved his hand at Aeron's guards, dismissing them. "Be careful with Morieth. He is a skillful sorcerer. Keep his hands bound, and keep a hood over his head. And I want him guarded around the clock by two swordsmen in his cell. He will not walk out of my dungeons again."