The Shadow Stone Page 3

  Two

  The warmth of a golden sunbeam against his face woke Aeron in the early hours of the morning. He opened his eyes. Cold stone lay beneath him, and above him the green branches of the forest wove a tangled skein of light and shadow. For a moment, he was completely disoriented, but then the events of the previous night returned to him. The ruins of the elf tower seemed unremarkable by daylight. The silver tracery and elfin aura were gone, and the stones were simply mossy old stones again.

  He pushed himself to his feet, stretching. Eriale stirred close by, raising her head and blinking at him. “Aeron? Where are— Oh, I remember.” She sat up, clasping her arms and shivering. “Was it all a dream?”

  “I don’t think so,” Aeron said. There was no sign of the hunters, and all he could hear were the normal small sounds of the forest—birdcalls sweet and high, the gentle sighing of the upper branches in the breeze, rustling and motion all around him as the forest began to wake. The ruins faced the sunrise, sheltered against the green hillside like a jewel in the hand of a gentle giant. He felt surprisingly well rested, considering the fact that he’d slept on a hard stone floor. “Do you think Fineghal’s nearby?”

  “The elf prince? I don’t see him, or his hound.” Eriale stood and looked around. “What do we do now, Aeron? Do we wait for him, or do we move on?”

  “I’m not sure where I’d go even if we left now. Raedel’s men might have missed us last night, but they won’t give up so quickly.”

  Eriale nodded. “I hope Father’s all right. The constable wouldn’t have been happy to find us missing.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Aeron said confidently. Inwardly, he was very concerned for Kestrel, but it would do no good to share that with Eriale. With a sigh, he reached down and shouldered his pack. In the warm light of the morning sun, the astounding encounter of the night before seemed nothing more than a dream. Aeron wanted to linger by the elf tower, to see if their mysterious host might reappear. He’d never dreamed that he would meet an elf, let alone a lord of elven-kind, so close to Maerchlin. Ancient ruins, elven magic … he’d dreamed that someday he’d see these things with his own eyes. If I leave this place, he wondered, will I ever see them again?

  He ran his hand through his hair, sighing. Despite his curiosity, it was best for Eriale and he to move on quickly and make the most of their lucky break while the hunters were off their trail. “Come on. Fineghal’s not here, so I guess we’re free to go.”

  Eriale frowned but agreed. “Where are we going?”

  “South, I think. All of the Maerchwood lies ahead of us in that direction. There’s a lot of forest to hide in.”

  They picked their way out of the tower, circling once to take in the full extent of the wreckage. Aeron decided it must have been a slender and graceful structure in its day, easily as tall as the turrets of Raedel Keep but much more elegant. It seemed sad that it stood no longer. With one last glance, he squared his shoulders to face the day’s march.

  “Aeron!” Eriale reached out for his arm and pointed back at the tower. There, on the fallen wall, sat the white wolfhound of the night before. It seemed much more solid and tangible by daylight, as if its ghostly form had returned to its own rightful body. The hound barked once and trotted down from the old stones, heading south. It paused to look at them, wagged its tail, and barked again. “I think she wants us to follow her,” Eriale said.

  Aeron glanced around. The forest he knew, the forest he’d grown up in, still surrounded him. But the old elven ruins and the white hound beckoned to him, emblems of a mystery he’d never suspected. He turned without a sound and trotted after the wolfhound, Eriale just a step behind. The hound led them deeper into the forest, choosing faint game runs that Aeron might have missed without her guidance. She stayed well in front of them, sometimes pressing so far ahead that all Aeron could make out was a glimmer of silver in the shadows beneath the trees.

  After an hour’s march, steep walls of moss-covered rock rose on either side of them. The sound of rushing water grew louder as the hound beckoned them on, now prancing eagerly. They finally emerged into a bowl-shaped gorge. A tall cascade plummeted down the opposite wall, pooling beneath the wet, gray rock. Cold and clear, a stream ran south out of the vale, sluicing over a flat sheet of bedrock at the base of the escarpment. Above Aeron, the forest clung to the lip of the gorge, and an ephemeral rainbow shimmered in the morning light. He gasped in delight, sensing the cool spray on his face.

  Sitting cross-legged before the misty plume, eyes closed and hands folded, Fineghal waited. He glanced up and rose to greet his hound as she barked and played in the water that ran past his feet. “My thanks, Baillegh,” he said quietly. Then he turned to Aeron and Eriale, springing lightly from boulder to boulder as he came down to meet them. His garb had changed in the daylight to a deep green and russet brown. Aeron could still sense the otherworldly aura mantling the elf lord, but it struck him now as a sense of health, vigor, or rightness—Fineghal belonged here. “Welcome, Aeron Morieth and Eriale of Maerchlin. You honor me by accepting my invitation.”

  Aeron couldn’t think of any gracious response. Instead, he asked, “Where are we?”

  “This is my home. Or one of them, anyway. All of the Maerchwood is my home, but I require some place to abide. I took the liberty of coming ahead, but I see that Baillegh showed you the way.” The elf’s expression was difficult to read, wry and self-deprecating, yet not bitter. He gestured behind him to a small satchel that lay beside where he’d been waiting. “If you have not yet eaten, I’ve some breakfast to share.”

  “Thank you, Lord Fineghal,” Aeron said. “I’m hungry.”

  Fineghal held up a hand. “Please. I am simply Fineghal, and I’ll have no one at my table call me lord.” He sat down on a low shelf of stone, and Aeron and Eriale joined him. From the satchel, he produced a number of small cakes, apples and pears, honey, cheese, and a flagon of fruited wine. While they ate, Aeron related the story of his encounter with Phoros and subsequent flight. Fineghal listened, his eyes never leaving Aeron’s face.

  When Aeron finished, Fineghal looked toward the north and Maerchlin. “They hunt for you still, Aeron. Fortunately they can’t find your trail from the tower to this place.”

  “Another enchantment?” Aeron asked.

  “The tower was a place of refuge many years ago. Those who came to it in need were not meant to be found or followed.” Fineghal seemed lost in his recollections for a long moment before he returned his attention to Aeron and Eriale. “So, young Aeron, what do you intend to do now?”

  “I can’t go home,” Aeron said. “I can’t even stay close by. I’ll have to go somewhere far from here. I’d thought I might live off the land until things calm down, but it might be years before I can return to Maerchlin.”

  “If ever,” Fineghal replied. “You have no kin?”

  “No, my—er, no, Fineghal. I was orphaned when I was young. My father, Stiche Morieth, led a revolt against Lord Raedel twelve years ago. He was hanged for it, and many other people with him. Including my mother.”

  “It seems hard to believe that the Morieths could ever come to grief in Maerchlin,” Fineghal mused. “I remember a time when the Morieths were held in great honor, both by your people and by mine. In fact, there were Morieths who married elven folk a long time ago.”

  Aeron grimaced. “Phoros and his friends used to call me a half-breed for that.”

  “I can see traces of elven blood in your features. It must have been hard for you, Aeron. In my experience, Chessentans are not forgiving of such faults.”

  They fell silent for a time, listening to the wind in the trees and the rushing of the water.

  “Fineghal, you said the tower was a place of refuge,” Eriale asked. “What did you mean by that?”

  The elf glanced at her. “Centuries ago, the Maerchwood was home to Calmaercor, a small elven realm akin to the great kingdoms of the Chondalwood or distant Cormanthyr,” he said. “In those days, elven land
s such as Calmaercor were scattered across all of Faerûn. But the elven folk have many enemies—dragons and orcs, giants and goblins, and even human, with their lands that grew up around our borders. The people of Calmaercor fought the troll kings of the mountains that men call the Riders to the Sky, the fire creatures of the Smoking Mountains, and finally the power of ancient Unther. Our forest, which once stretched from the Adder Peaks to the Sky Riders, has been burned, logged, and settled a piece at a time. And we have been diminished while our old foes have grown more numerous.

  “Unlike the elves of Myth Drannor or the hidden fastnesses of other lands, we didn’t place our faith in cities or fortresses. Instead, we built watchtowers to hide our people in times of danger. The first were built to thwart the trolls and salamanders, but as humans migrated into what is now Chessenta and brought axe and fire against our forest, we hid from them as well. In time the towers all fell, sniffed out by human sorcery and pulled down one by one.”

  “What happened to Calmaercor?” Aeron asked.

  “Two hundred years past, we decided to withdraw from the Maerchwood and leave these lands to the Chessentans. I am one of the few who remain.”

  “Why do you stay?” asked Eriale.

  Fineghal straightened and swept one arm out to indicate the cascade, the glistening rock, the rich forest. “I cannot bear the thought of leaving,” he said. “I miss my people, but having lived under these trees all my life, I can’t imagine living anywhere else. There is magic here still.”

  “You must have lived here a long time,” Eriale said.

  Fineghal looked up at the sky overhead. It was as bright as burnished brass, promising another day of summer heat. “As humans reckon time, about a thousand years,” he said quietly. “The very stars have shifted since my youth. Yet it seems like no more than a long summer’s day.”

  Aeron stared at the elven lord. A thousand years … if he lived to be a hundred, Fineghal would have lived his life span ten times over. “By Tchazzar,” he murmured, awestruck. “A thousand years …”

  Fineghal smiled sadly. “Time doesn’t touch the elves in the way it touches humans. Although you may find, Aeron, that your elven blood is stronger than your human blood. I suspect that the years will pass lightly for you.” With a fluid ease of motion, Fineghal came to his feet and stood over Aeron and Eriale. “I am afraid that I must leave now. I have responsibilities elsewhere within the forest’s bounds. You are welcome to remain here, both of you, as long as you like. No humans will find you here. Come and go as you please, Eriale. Aeron, you would be wise to abide here for a time to avoid those who seek you. Perhaps matters will settle themselves in a few months.”

  “You’re leaving us here?” Eriale asked.

  The elf nodded gravely. “I ask only that you do not reveal this place to anyone else and that you treat it with care. Harm nothing that lives within this dell.” He paused and then added, “I may be back in a month or two, certainly before autumn. Eriale, Baillegh can show you a hidden trail back to Maerchlin.” He picked up his thin pack, slung it over one shoulder, and started down the gorge, lightly stepping from stone to stone in the white-rushing stream. Baillegh wagged her tail and followed with a yip.

  Aeron and Eriale exchanged puzzled glances. “Did we say something to offend him?” Eriale asked.

  “I don’t know,” Aeron replied. Fineghal’s offer was generous. The valley would make an excellent campsite, with good water, plenty of fishing and hunting nearby, and Maerchlin only ten miles away when he chose to go home. But as he watched the noble elf striding off into the emerald shadows of the Maerchwoods, he found that he longed to know more. He could remain here, but he would be a peasant squatting in a king’s castle, never understanding the many fine and beautiful things that surrounded him. A strange intuition coalesced in his mind, a certainty that his meeting with Fineghal was no accident, no fortunate coincidence, but the intangible hand of fate at work. Fineghal had said that he’d been waiting for Aeron, but Aeron realized that he had been waiting for Fineghal, too, a sign to shape him into the man he was meant to be.

  Without thinking, he splashed across the cold, swift stream and scrambled down the wet gray stone after Fineghal. Desperation gripped his heart. He forgot Eriale, gaping after him. “Wait, Fineghal! Wait a moment!”

  The elf turned, his face impassive. “Yes, Aeron?”

  He stopped ten paces short of the elf, his breeches darkened to the knee with cold water, breathless and suddenly horrified by his own temerity. What in Faerûn was he thinking about? Fineghal waited patiently as Aeron wrestled with his fears. Closing his eyes, Aeron forced himself to speak what was in his heart. “I—I want to come with you. I want to know more … about the elves, about the forest.…” His voice trailed off as he fumbled for the words to express what he felt. “I want to know about the old magic.”

  Fineghal studied him. “Aeron, the power that I wield is no magician’s trick to be learned and forgotten on a young man’s whim. It is a road that will chain your feet from the moment you set foot upon it. Should you take this step, there will be no turning back for you.”

  “You were waiting for me,” Aeron said. “Why? What’s special about me?”

  “More than you might guess, Aeron Morieth.”

  “Aeron! Have you lost your mind?” Eriale stood pale as a ghost, her mouth open in shock.

  Aeron ignored her, his attention fixed on Fineghal. “I can keep up. Ill do anything you ask. I need to see what you see, to learn what you know. I have nothing to lose.”

  The elf faced Aeron, measuring the boy with a long, serious glance. An hour ago, Aeron would have wilted beneath that searching gaze, unable to confront the scrutiny of the elf’s ancient wisdom. But as he met Fineghal’s face, the turmoil of emotion in his heart calmed. His destiny was bound up with the elf lord; all his life had led to this confrontation beneath the soaring spray of the cascade.

  Fineghal’s cool gaze softened. He recognized the unbending purity of purpose that infused Aeron at that moment. “All right, Aeron. I will let you come with me … if you consent to a test.”

  “A test?”

  “Yes. Before I try to teach you, I must know whether or not you can be taught.”

  “Anything!” Aeron replied.

  “You should think before you answer so quickly. There may be a time when you discover that your heart’s desire is not what it seems.” Fineghal shook his head. “I can see it would be useless to ask you to reconsider. Very well, then. Come with me.” With a rueful glance at the misted dell, the elf turned and started down along the stream again, moving slower this time. Aeron and Eriale hurried after him. Baillegh skipped and bounded from rock to rock behind them, bringing up the rear.

  Fineghal chose a nearly invisible path that wound southeast, crossing the rocky ridge and snaking through the rugged country beyond. By midday, they were deep into the spine of the forest, the great range of tree-mantled hills that ran through the heart of the Maerchwood. Fineghal led them on a steep trail that eventually climbed clear of the trees altogether, bringing them to a windswept spire of weathered stone. “This will do,” he announced as Aeron and Eriale collapsed on the ground.

  “What is this place?” Eriale gasped.

  “The cumarha midhe,” Fineghal said over his shoulder. “In Common, Forest’s Stonemantle. It’s a place of strength and purpose, a place of magic.”

  “This is where you’ll test me?” guessed Aeron.

  Fineghal turned his ancient eyes on Aeron. Despite himself, the young forester quailed. “Aeron, you will imagine that you are in another place, facing a dire threat. The test varies for every person who attempts it; the place and the peril are locked within your heart. But anything you can imagine, you can attempt.”

  “Is it dangerous?” Eriale asked.

  “Magic is dangerous,” Fineghal replied. “If Aeron succeeds, he won’t be harmed. If he fails … many have sustained injury in tests of this kind.”

  The girl frowned.
“Aeron, maybe you should—”

  Aeron cut her off with a curt slash of his hand. “I’m ready,” he told Fineghal.

  “As you wish,” Fineghal said. He raised his hand, pointing at Aeron, and hummed a soft melody under his breath. A strange prickling sensation danced across Aeron’s entire body, and the hollow of his chest reverberated with a chordlike resonance that drew his breath away. For the second time in the span of a day, Aeron felt magic at work nearby. He gasped in astonishment, closing his eyes.

  The world tumbled away in darkness, vanishing like a bird taking wing at dusk. His heart fluttered in his chest in sudden panic, and his hands scrabbled at the nothingness that embraced him. Before his panic could master him entirely, light silently flared around him. He gaped in amazement at what he saw.

  He was standing in the great hall of Raedel Keep.

  Every detail was perfect, down to the tiny crack in the flagstone by the door, the stale sunbeams that slanted in through the leaded-glass windows, the dancing of dust motes in the yellow light. Aeron had only been in the great hall half a dozen times, and never alone, but here he stood. A ghostlike flicker caught the corner of his eye, and he saw a pale lord hovering behind him.

  I am here, Aeron, Fineghal said silently inside his mind. This is the test you have created for yourself. Be strong.

  Aeron turned slowly. He could sense the dreamlike quality of the vision, the inordinately still air, the rhythmic beating of his heart in his ears, the impression that things wavered and vanished when he wasn’t looking directly at them. Why Raedel Hall? he wondered.

  Ghostly shapes began to fill the chamber, becoming darker and more substantial. Phantom guards in black mail lined the walls, holding gleaming halberds. In the empty wooden seat before him, an image of Lord Raedel materialized, a stout man with a blunt, unforgiving face. He scowled past Aeron. Turning his head, Aeron saw the tall figure of a proud, golden-haired man in chains. A cold lance of pain seared his heart. “Father?” he whispered. Behind Stiche Morieth, a young and beautiful woman stood holding the hand of a small, thin boy with a bright mass of yellow curls atop his head. Aeron realized that he was looking at himself as he appeared that day.