The Siege by Troy Denning Page B

of Chosen?” Hadrhune asked.
    Galaeron shook his head. “The phaerimm know better than that,” he said. “The Chosen can be defeated but not slain—at least not by Mystra’s magic.”
    Eyes sparkling at this last correction, Telamont said, “Whatever their purpose, this is a battle we cannot permit.” He turned to where Escanor and Rivalen had appeared without any apparent summons, then raised a murk-filled sleeve toward the world-window. “You will take your brothers and your best legions and save those sick fools if you can. Leave the phaerimm until we understand their game.”
    “It shall be done.”
    Both princes placed their palms to their breasts, then turned and were gone.
     
    Galaeron felt the weight of Telamont’s unspoken question and knew that something was being demanded of him that had, until now, only been asked. He turned to the world-window and focused his attention on the High Moor, then on the horde of tiny figures swarming over it, then on the five figures drifting along behind it between the two companies of illithids. Each time, the window responded to his will, the image shifting and growing larger to show him what he wished to see.
    When Galaeron was finally looking at only the thornbacks themselves, he shifted from one to the other, studying each one in turn, looking for scars or scale patterns or anything that might trigger one of Melegaunt’s memories. Had the world-window been capable of carrying sound, he would have cast the spell that Melegaunt had taught him to understand their languages, but even the Shadovar could not eavesdrop without sending a spy. The Most High had already made clear to Galaeron that until he grew adept enough with shadow magic to find and pass on the knowledge that Melegaunt had entrusted to him, he would not be allowed to risk his life in any manner. For a Tomb Guard princep accustomed to chasing cutthroat crypt breakers down narrow passages strewn with magic death traps, the restriction was not an easy one to observe.
    After several minutes of allowing his thoughts to wander over the phaerimm, Galaeron finally looked away from the world-window.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t summon anything.”
    Telamont accepted the failure with a patience uncharacteristic toward anyone except Galaeron.
    “Do not let it concern you,” he said. “I’m sure it is just your shadow interfering. The harder you try to control it, the stronger it becomes.”
     
    “I’m not trying to control it,” Galaeron said. “I’m just letting my mind wander.”
    Telamont’s eyes twinkled beneath his cowl, and there was a flash of what might have been a white-fanged grin. “You are always trying to control your shadow, elf. You are the kind who must control what he fears.”
    “What I fear is becoming a monster,” Galaeron insisted. “Of course I want to control my shadow.”
    “As I said,” Telamont replied. His sleeve rose, then a cold weight settled on Galaeron’s shoulder. “It is no matter. The princes have their orders.”
    The world-window filled with a foggy expanse, which gradually grew less hazy as the Most High brought into focus what he wanted to see. Even after the scene stopped shifting, it took Galaeron a moment to notice a series of faint bluish lines that he recognized as crevasses in the High Ice.
    The crevasses broadened into the dagger-shaped ribbons of deep, icy canyons, and Galaeron began to notice an odd patchwork of vapor columns rising off some sections of the massive glacier. One of these columns expanded to fill the world-window, and a square plot of snow gradually darkened from white to gray to ebony as it continued to grow larger. Finally, Galaeron found himself looking at something that appeared to be a huge, black carpet being unrolled by a company of ant-sized Shadovar.
    “A shadow blanket,” Telamont explained, answering Galaeron’s question sooner than he could voice it. “A square mile of pure shadowsilk.”
    Galaeron frowned,