consciously,” said Melegaunt, “but whatever a man or elfmakes, he also makes the shadow of. If he makes himself brave and honest, then he makes a shadow of himself that is not.”
“So a man makes a shadow of himself that’s a woman?” Vala asked.
“No, that would be the opposite,” Melegaunt explained. “A shadow is not opposite, only absence. In the day, it is the absence of the light that your body blocks. In a man, it is the absence of the male, not the presence of the female. In the case of Galaeron’s shadow self, it is the absence of kindness and loyalty.”
“That thing wasn’t part of me,” Galaeron insisted.
“No, it wasn’t,” agreed Melegaunt, “but you created it, and through it, you touched a new magic.”
“Then it must be an evil magic.” Galaeron retrieved his sword. He could still feel the strange ribbon of coldness that connected him to the ground. “I would that you had never shown it to me.”
“Do not let the guardian frighten you.” Melegaunt laid a hairy human hand on Galaeron’s shoulder. The greatest treasures are always protected, and this one is key to defeating the phaerimm. It is the only magic they do not understand. If we are to save Evereska, you will need to wield it well, and wield it often.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
23Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp
The phaerimm WarGather lay exactly where Melegaunt had said it would, in the dwarven workings just beyond the breach in the Sharn Wall. A green spell glow hung in the air, barely bright enough to illuminate the room and render Galaeron’s dark sight unnecessary. The tiny chamber was packed with phaerimm, the last two feet of their tails dragging on the floor so they could float upright beneath the low ceiling. They were surrounded by swirling clouds of dust, stirred up by a cacophony of strange whistling winds similar to the sand devils he occasionally saw spinning across the sands of Anauroch. In the back of the room, barely visible through jostling phaerimm and swirling dust clouds, a cage of polished bones barricaded the entrance to a side passage. The vertical bars were made of sturdy
human thigh bones, stacked one atop another and fused together with magic. With a lighter color and generally more delicate form, the crossbars were probably elf. The door was a grillwork of ribs interlaced around four skulls, two human and two elf, with sad eyes still floating in the sockets.
The door was hanging ajar, and the attention of the phaerimm seemed to be centered on the tunnel wall beside it, where a pair of elves sat against the stony wall. Through the forest of phaerimm bodies, Galaeron recognized the gilded seams of Kiinyon Colbathin’s plate armor. The other figure Galaeron could not identify, though the glimpses of gold thread and red silk suggested it was a high mage.
It was difficult to see more. He and Melegaunt were on the far side of the Sharn Wall, squatting opposite each other to peer through the hole that had been opened by the beholder Shatevar. Vala and her men were a hundred paces away, keeping watch in case any more phaerimm appeared. Even at that distance, their thoughts poured through Galaeron’s mind in a constant stream. He tried to focus on the three phaerimm nearest the two prisoners.
Your crudeness has given us nothing but corpses, Tha, said the one nearest Kiinyon. Though it seemed to be addressing its fellow through the swirling winds, Galaeron could understand it only by concentrating on its thoughts. The effort made his head ache, for the message itself was often lost in an emotional muddle of jealousy and contempt. It is time to let someone more skillful rack them.
Perhaps, Zayif there were one more skillful, responded Tha.
The others have screamed their throats raw and told you nothing, countered Zay. First we must break their will Only then they will tell us the words.
Melegaunt tapped Galaeron’s arm. Words? The wizard did not speak, but only thought the
“So a man makes a shadow of himself that’s a woman?” Vala asked.
“No, that would be the opposite,” Melegaunt explained. “A shadow is not opposite, only absence. In the day, it is the absence of the light that your body blocks. In a man, it is the absence of the male, not the presence of the female. In the case of Galaeron’s shadow self, it is the absence of kindness and loyalty.”
“That thing wasn’t part of me,” Galaeron insisted.
“No, it wasn’t,” agreed Melegaunt, “but you created it, and through it, you touched a new magic.”
“Then it must be an evil magic.” Galaeron retrieved his sword. He could still feel the strange ribbon of coldness that connected him to the ground. “I would that you had never shown it to me.”
“Do not let the guardian frighten you.” Melegaunt laid a hairy human hand on Galaeron’s shoulder. The greatest treasures are always protected, and this one is key to defeating the phaerimm. It is the only magic they do not understand. If we are to save Evereska, you will need to wield it well, and wield it often.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
23Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp
The phaerimm WarGather lay exactly where Melegaunt had said it would, in the dwarven workings just beyond the breach in the Sharn Wall. A green spell glow hung in the air, barely bright enough to illuminate the room and render Galaeron’s dark sight unnecessary. The tiny chamber was packed with phaerimm, the last two feet of their tails dragging on the floor so they could float upright beneath the low ceiling. They were surrounded by swirling clouds of dust, stirred up by a cacophony of strange whistling winds similar to the sand devils he occasionally saw spinning across the sands of Anauroch. In the back of the room, barely visible through jostling phaerimm and swirling dust clouds, a cage of polished bones barricaded the entrance to a side passage. The vertical bars were made of sturdy
human thigh bones, stacked one atop another and fused together with magic. With a lighter color and generally more delicate form, the crossbars were probably elf. The door was a grillwork of ribs interlaced around four skulls, two human and two elf, with sad eyes still floating in the sockets.
The door was hanging ajar, and the attention of the phaerimm seemed to be centered on the tunnel wall beside it, where a pair of elves sat against the stony wall. Through the forest of phaerimm bodies, Galaeron recognized the gilded seams of Kiinyon Colbathin’s plate armor. The other figure Galaeron could not identify, though the glimpses of gold thread and red silk suggested it was a high mage.
It was difficult to see more. He and Melegaunt were on the far side of the Sharn Wall, squatting opposite each other to peer through the hole that had been opened by the beholder Shatevar. Vala and her men were a hundred paces away, keeping watch in case any more phaerimm appeared. Even at that distance, their thoughts poured through Galaeron’s mind in a constant stream. He tried to focus on the three phaerimm nearest the two prisoners.
Your crudeness has given us nothing but corpses, Tha, said the one nearest Kiinyon. Though it seemed to be addressing its fellow through the swirling winds, Galaeron could understand it only by concentrating on its thoughts. The effort made his head ache, for the message itself was often lost in an emotional muddle of jealousy and contempt. It is time to let someone more skillful rack them.
Perhaps, Zayif there were one more skillful, responded Tha.
The others have screamed their throats raw and told you nothing, countered Zay. First we must break their will Only then they will tell us the words.
Melegaunt tapped Galaeron’s arm. Words? The wizard did not speak, but only thought the
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