Curse of the Shadowmage by Anthony Mark Page A

large in his pale face. He had overheard everything.
    “No, Kellen,” she said quietly. “No one will hurt your father. We won’t let that happen.”
    He nodded gravely, then threw his arms around her neck. She returned his hug fiercely. At last she pushed him gently away and stood up. There was no time to waste.
    When Morhion arrived at the Dreaming Dragon an hour later, he found her packing her saddlebags. He raised a single golden eyebrow. “Going somewhere, Mari?”
    She firmly buckled the last leather strap and dusted off her hands. “You might say that.”
    “Haven’t you forgotten something?” He eyed the small rip on the collar of her green jacket meaningfully.
    “No,” she replied crisply. “I haven’t.”
    Interest flickered in Morhion’s icy eyes. “I see.”
    They sat at one of the common room’s long trestle tables. Estah brought hot tea, brown bread, and honey for their breakfast. The halfling innkeeper eyed Mari curiously. She had heard the commotion in the common room this morning, but Mari had not yet had the courage to tell Estah about her disturbing conversation with Belhuar Thantarth. There was no more putting it off. By the time she finished, Estah’s usually gentle expression had been replaced by one of flinty outrage.
    “They have no right,” the halfling said harshly. “Caledan has devoted the best part of his life to serving the Harpers, and in his darkest hour of need they turn against him. How dare they!”
    Mari sighed. “The Harpers always work for the greater good, Estah. If sacrificing one man can save a hundred, then in their minds it’s a fair bargain.”
    “Yet sometimes,” Morhion countered, “when one stone is taken out, an entire wall can come tumbling down. That is something the Harpers have never understood— if you’ll forgive me, Mari.”
    She shot him an ironic look. “Believe me, Morhion, no apology is necessary.”
    “What do you intend to do?” he asked.
    “Follow him,” she said fiercely. “And find him.”
    “And then?”
    “I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “I’ll think of something.”
    “I can see you’ve really thought this out,” he noted dryly.
    “Well, do you have any better ideas?” “As a matter of fact, I do.”
    Mari groaned. Why would mages never come out and say what they were thinking? “All right, Morhion. What’s on your mind?”
    A faintly smug smile touched his lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”
    As a brilliant square of morning sunlight crept across the wooden floor, Mari and Estah listened with growing fascination—and growing dread—to the knowledge Morhion had gleaned from the ancient copy of The Book of the Shadows. First he told them about the Shadowking. Mari knew the myth—how the ancient sorcerer Verraketh was transformed by his own dark magic into a bestial creature of evil, and how he was defeated by the legendary bard Talek Talembar. Yet, as Morhion now explained, all that was only the first part of the tale. The prelude, as it were.
    “In ancient days,” the mage began, “a blazing star fell to Toril. The only one to see it fall was a wandering minstrel. Curious, he journeyed in the direction of the falling star and came upon a smoking crater. In the center of the
    steaming pit, the minstrel found a hot piece of metal shaped like a star. Thinking it beautiful, the minstrel quenched the piece of metal in a pool of water and fastened it to a silver chain, making it into a medallion. The minstrel donned the medallion, and from that day on his fortune changed. First he became a renowned musician, then a noble lord, and finally the ruler of his own land. The medallion was called the Shadowstar. The minstrel’s name was Verraketh—Verraketh Talembar.”
    Mari and Estah exchanged startled looks, but they said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the mage’s narrative.
    “In time,” Morhion went on, “the medallion granted Verraketh not only great fortune, but great magic as well. It infused him