Curse of the Shadowmage

Three

The boy sat at a table high in the mage’s tower, chin on hands, gazing into the multicolored center of a small, pyramid-shaped gem.

“Tell me, Kellen, what do you see within the crystal?”

Morhion spoke softly as he paced around the table. His long vest of dusky purple rippled gently as he moved, causing the runes embroidered on its edges to undulate like silver serpents.

“I see the light of the candles, refracted by the crystal’s facets,” Kellen answered solemnly.

“Are you certain that is all?” Morhion’s voice was almost hypnotic. “Look deeper, Kellen. Do not be so certain you already know what you will see. Open your mind to unexpected possibilities.”

Kellen frowned skeptically but leaned over the crystal once more, furrowing his forehead in concentration. “I see … I see …” Suddenly his green eyes widened. His voice became a whisper of wonderment. “I see stars, Morhion! Shining against the deepest sea of black. And there are bright moons, fiery comets with glowing tails, and … and a strange orange ball with striped rings around its middle. I don’t know what it is, but I can tell that it is very large. Larger than I could even imagine.”

A fierce spark glinted in Morhion’s ice-blue eyes. “Yes!” he said quietly, more to himself than to the child. “Well done, Kellen.”

“It is all so beautiful,” the boy said dreamily. He was swaying in his chair now.

“Do not lose yourself in the crystal!” Morhion warned sharply. He gave Kellen’s shoulder a hard squeeze, snapping the boy out of his trance. Kellen gave a shudder, then with great effort turned away from the gem. “You must always maintain control of your senses when gazing into the crystal,” Morhion told the boy sternly. “Once lost in its depths, you might find it is not so easy to return.”

Kellen nodded, apprehension written on his round face. Morhion reminded himself that, despite Kellen’s remarkable perceptiveness, he was still only a boy of eleven winters. The mage’s expression softened. “Fear not, Kellen. You will never become lost in the crystal so long as I am near.”

Kellen smiled at the mage. “I know, Morhion.” He touched the smooth surface of the crystal. “It is magic, then, isn’t it?”

Morhion nodded. “There are some small magics bound into the crystal, yes. But they merely provide the catalyst, that is all. True magic comes from within.”

Kellen thought about this for a long moment. Then he asked, “What is the world I perceived in the crystal, Morhion?”

“I cannot say, Kellen. There exist many worlds beside our own. There are mages who believe that some of these worlds are the wells from which we are able to draw our magic. Perhaps just such a world you saw.”

Outside the arched window, the full orb of the moon was rising above Iriaebor’s spires. The autumn evening was chilly, although Morhion’s study was warm and comfortable. Most people thought mages live in drafty old towers littered with musty tomes and rotting scrolls. Morhion enjoyed living against stereotype. Vibrant tapestries hung from the circular chamber’s stone walls; the floor was thick with expensive Amnian carpets. Books, parchments, and all manner of magical paraphernalia were arranged neatly in dark wood cases, and a fire burned brightly in a copper brazier in the room’s center.

Morhion poured two cups of spiced wine. As he handed one of the silver cups to Kellen, he watched the boy. The mage found he was curious to discover the limits of Kellen’s abilities. True, such inquiries would be premature. Most youths did not test their magic until their fifteenth year, or even later. And yet …

Morhion moved to a glass cabinet and took out a small wooden box. He set the box on the table before Kellen, opening the lid. Inside, resting on a cushion of purple velvet, was a small, dark stone. Carved into the pebble was an arcane sigil, the rune that symbolized magic.

“I want you to pick up the stone, Kellen,” Morhion said, gazing at the boy intently.

Kellen bit his lip in thought, studying the pebble for a long time as if trying to unlock its mysteries. Finally he shrugged. Reaching out, he picked up the stone. It lay small and dark in the palm of his hand. Morhion leaned forward, eyes glittering. Now, he thought. It should come now!

Nothing happened. Kellen opened his mouth as if to say something. The words were never uttered. The dark stone flared with brilliant green light, shards of emerald illumination spraying outward, dancing crazily across the walls and ceiling. There was a sizzling sound, and the smell of burning flesh. Kellen cried out, dropping the stone. Abruptly, the blinding green light dimmed.

Morhion blinked, clearing his vision. The stone lay on the mahogany table, dark and ordinary-looking once more. Kellen clutched his left hand. His face was pale and drawn. Morhion reached out and gently unclenched Kellen’s fingers. Branded on the boy’s palm was a mirror image of the symbol that was carved into the pebble—the rune of magic.

Kellen looked up at the mage, his pain suddenly forgotten. “What does it mean, Morhion?”

Morhion did not answer. Instead, he slowly raised his own left hand. In the center of his palm was an old, puckered scar—a duplicate of the blistered mark on Kellen’s hand. Kellen was bursting with questions, but before he could voice any, Morhion shook his head, silencing him. This had been enough for tonight. He drew a silk handkerchief from a pocket and tied it loosely about the boy’s wounded hand.

“Go to the inn, Kellen, and find Estah,” Morhion instructed. “She will heal your hand. But the burn will scar. You will bear the mark of magic all your life.”

Kellen nodded gravely. “I know.”

“And if Caledan is angered at what I have done, send him to me and I will speak to him.”

Kellen shook his head. “My father isn’t in the city, Morhion. He left last night on a journey for the Harpers. Hell be gone for a tenday at least, if not more.”

“I see. I didn’t know Caledan and Mari had a new mission.”

“Mari didn’t go with him. She has her own assignment for the Harpers.” While Kellen’s voice was always solemn, now it seemed strangely sad as well. “I think it’s better this way. They were getting tired of arguing all the time.”

Morhion stiffened, a peculiar tightness in his chest. Was there trouble between Mari and Caledan?

As if reading the mage’s thoughts, Kellen went on. “Mari and my father have said good-bye to each other, Morhion. I think that, when they return from their current missions, she will leave Iriaebor forever.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t want her to go, but I suppose she has to.”

“I see.” They were the only words he could manage. Mari and Caledan parting ways? The mage could hardly imagine such a thing. Yet that was not quite true, was it? For he had dared to imagine it—he, Morhion the traitor. A spike of shame pierced his heart.

Kellen pushed himself from his chair and walked softly to where Morhion sat. He did a surprising thing then, putting his arms around Morhion’s neck and leaning against the mage’s shoulder. Morhion froze. He was not accustomed to such intimacy. You have dwelt too long in the cold isolation of magic, Morhion, he admonished himself. Tentatively, he enfolded the boy in his arms, returning the innocent embrace.

For a time, after Kellen had left, Morhion sat gazing out the window, sipping spiced wine. Finally he rose and picked up the dark pebble, shutting it once more in its box. He knew that he had taken a risk in asking Kellen to touch the magestone. Yet, after the ease with which the boy had used the crystal to scry other worlds, Morhion’s curiosity had overwhelmed him. The stone had proven undeniably that Kellen was mageborn. Had he not been, the stone would have wounded him terribly or might even have struck him dead. Not only born to mage-craft, Kellen also had shadow magic in his blood. Each was a great power—and a great burden. Had the two talents ever combined before in one individual? And what would be the effects of their coexistence? Morhion did not know, but something told him the world of Toril had never before seen the likes of Kellen.

Morhion returned the wooden box to its cabinet, then moved to a long table laden with neatly arranged rows of clay jars, glass vials, and copper crucibles. He had promised Mari he would examine a dark substance they had discovered in the Zhentarim hideout. He bent to his task and soon found himself caught up in the search for knowledge—mixing potions, weighing out bits of colored powder, heating ingredients over a candle flame. Magic was a pastime of which he never tired.

Morhion paused, lifting a glass vial of the tarlike substance. So far, his tests had revealed that the substance was not magical itself, but that a faint residue of magic clung to it, as was typical of conjured matter. It was necessary to test the effects of the substance on a living creature.

He reached into a wicker basket and drew out a wriggling white mouse. It blinked its red eyes fearfully. Morhion stroked its snowy fur, calming it with soft words, and slipped it inside a large glass bottle. The mouse scurried around the bottom of the bottle. Carefully, Morhion opened the vial and poured a single drop of the dark fluid into the bottle. Then he corked both vial and bottle. The mouse avoided the dark, sticky spot but otherwise seemed to suffer no harm. Apparently, the substance did not exude a poisonous humour.

At last, Morhion turned his gaze from the bottle. It was time for another experiment. He wanted to try to ignite some of the dark substance. He lit a candle, and with a murmured spell caused the flame to flare up brightly.

There was a muffled squeal of terror. Startled, he turned and stared at the glass bottle, now bathed in the brilliant light of the candle. Inside, the white mouse scrabbled frantically at the glass. The dark spot on the bottom of the bottle had started to undulate. Even as he watched, the small blob expanded, molded itself into a new shape, and rose off the glass. Morhion took in a sharp breath. The thing was shaped exactly like the dark creatures Mari had described, only in miniature. Spreading its winglike appendages, the thing floated toward the frantic mouse. The mouse stopped scrabbling and cringed against the glass.

The attack happened so quickly that Morhion almost didn’t see it. With startling swiftness, the creature dove at the mouse, engulfing the animal. The mouse squealed, struggling violently inside the inky folds of the creature. Abruptly the struggling ceased. The dark creature floated away from the mouse. All that was left were a few gobbets of bloody pulp plastered to the inside of the glass. Morhion stared in fascination and revulsion. Behind him, the minor spell he had used to light the candle expired, and the brilliant flame dimmed. As it did, the floating creature inside the bottle dropped suddenly to the bottom and melted once more into a small splotch of dark fluid.

Morhion raised his eyebrows in surprise. So it was the light, he realized. The bright light had caused the black fluid to form itself into one of the strange creatures, and after the light was extinguished, the creature reverted to liquid. The things the Zhentarim sorcerers had conjured were creatures of both darkness and light. For a moment, Morhion hesitated, thinking of the poor, doomed mouse. Then he did what he knew he must.

He destroyed the vial of dark fluid with a spell of disintegration. That seemed the safest and the most conclusive thing to do. He did save one tiny drop of the dark substance, and this he bound magically in the center of a small ruby pendant around which he wove a strong enchantment. He slipped the pendant’s chain over his head and tucked the cold gem beneath his robes. Now he would be able to sense the magic that had conjured the dark substance, if he ever chanced to draw near its source.

Midnight found the mage in the bedchamber below his study. He sat in a velvet chair, gazing into the flames dancing in a stone fireplace, thinking of all this day had wrought. On a small table beside him, seven runestones lay scattered in an intricate pattern. The runecast had upset Morhion at first. The pattern was one of chaos and upheaval. It worried him, yet there was a dangerous feeling of exhilaration in his chest as well. He dared to admit the truth to himself: There was a part of him that longed for catastrophe, even craved the excitement of it.

These last two years had been years of calm and peace for Morhion. They had proven a welcome respite from the dark turmoil of his life, and he had even known something of a mild joy. Yet of late he had grown complacent. He no longer pushed his magic to the limits of its power; he no longer sought knowledge with the same voracity and hunger as a stag pawing through the snows of winter in search of sustenance. He needed to face adversity once more, to meet a challenge of both mind and magic. Otherwise, he might one day wake up and find himself nothing more than a court magician, conjuring petty magics to entertain simpleminded nobles, and content with that. On that day, Morhion knew that he would be as good as dead.

He glanced once more at the runecast scattered across the silver tray. The runes spoke clearly. Some great change was coming, and with it risk and hardship. A sharp smile touched his lips. Let the upheaval come, he thought. I shall welcome it.

Morhion leaned over the table to gather up the runestones. A chill gust of air rushed past him, and the fire flared brightly. Sparks flew crackling into the air, but the flames died down as quickly, leaving the chamber eerily darkened. Morhion shivered, his breath fogging. He rose, his long golden hair flying wildly behind him, and turned to shut the window. It was closed. The cold light of the full moon spilled through the glass, gilding the room’s furnishings with frosty light. Though Morhion half guessed what he would see, the horror of it was not lessened.

Like strands of pure silver thread, the moonlight wove itself into a recognizable shape. Glistening tendrils spun faster and faster in midair, outlining the form of a tall man clad in ornate, archaic armor. The glowing threads plunged into a pair of black pits where the figure’s eyes should have been, and two pinpricks of crimson light flared to life. The last silvery tendrils spun themselves into nothingness; the apparition was complete. The spectral knight, surrounded by a corona of pale light, took a step toward the mage.

Old, familiar dread gripped Morhion’s heart. He managed to whisper a single word. “Serafi.”

The ghostly knight bowed, but the gesture was one of mockery, not respect. “The orb of Selûne rises full into the night sky. It is time once again for you to fulfill our bargain, Morhion Gen’dahar.” Serafi’s voice seemed to echo eerily from all directions.

A mirthless smile touched Morhion’s lips. “Do you truly believe that I could have forgotten?”

“Perhaps,” Serafi intoned indifferently. “The memories of the living are fleeting. But the dead never forget.”

“I do not forget my vows,” Morhion said.

The knight drifted menacingly closer. “Then give to me the blood that is my due. The pact is binding.”

Though he had done this once each month for the past ten years, Morhion trembled involuntarily as he went through the ritual of lifting an arm and drawing back the sleeve of his night robe. Beneath the cloth, his forearm was crisscrossed with thin, white scars—the legacy of a pact he had once forged to save Caledan’s life, an act for which he was later branded a traitor.

It had begun ten years before, in the darkest hour of the old Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon. The Harper Kera, a member of the Fellowship and Caledan’s beloved, lay dead—murdered at the hands of their foe, the Zhentarim warrior Ravendas. Blaming himself for Kera’s death, Caledan journeyed to the Zhentarim fortress of Darkhold to exact his revenge. Confronting Ravendas in her lair would mean his own demise, but Caledan cared not, for he meant to join Kera in death. Morhion’s betrayal was this: He had forced Caledan to choose life.

Against Caledan’s wishes, Morhion too went to Darkhold, and revealed Caledan’s plans to Ravendas. Without the advantage of surprise, Caledan’s attempt to slay Ravendas was foiled, as was his own suicidal objective. Caledan would have been captured, then executed, but Morhion engineered their escape from the catacombs beneath Darkhold—doing so at terrible cost.

It happened that in ancient times Darkhold had been a keep of the lost Empire of Netheril. Morhion had learned of a dark spirit that haunted the caverns beneath the keep—the usurper Serafi, who two thousand years before had schemed to seize the throne of Netheril and been executed for treason. The spectral knight agreed to show Morhion a secret way out of the catacombs, demanding a dark vow in exchange. Morhion had no choice but to accept.

With Serafi’s help, Caledan and Morhion escaped Darkhold, surviving to defeat Ravendas later in the crypt of the Shadowking. For years afterward, Caledan despised Morhion as a traitor. However, Caledan eventually came to understand that Morhion had betrayed him in order to save his life, and thus the two renewed their friendship. To this day, Caledan did not know of the pact Morhion had forged to save his life.

And he never will, Morhion thought fiercely.

The mage drew a small knife from the sheath at his hip. Slowly, carefully, he used the sharp tip to trace a thin red line into the flesh of his arm. Crimson blood oozed forth.

“The pact is binding,” Morhion whispered hoarsely.

With menacing speed, Serafi knelt and caught Morhion’s arm in a freezing grip. “Ah, the sweet substance of life!” the spirit cried exultantly in his sepulchral voice. “How I long to taste it again …”

A low moan of fear escaped Morhion’s lips as the spectral knight bent over the mage’s bleeding arm and began to drink.