Марк Энтони - Curse of the Shadowmage

This was too much for Mari to absorb. “Ferret’s grandmother?” she said incredulously. “But she’s so … young. Ferret was a good ten years older than me, and Jewel can’t be a day over—”

“Ninety-three,” Jewel interrupted with a laugh. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but I can assure you there’s no magic involved. Just good blood. The women of the Talondim clan have always aged gracefully.”

“I believe that qualifies as an understatement,” Morhion commented matter-of-factly. Jewel gave him a solemn nod.

Mari had learned a little about Jewel from her grandson, Ferret. The Talondim clan were independent thieves, not allied with any guild. Normally, such free-lancers were eradicated by the fiercely territorial thieves’ guilds, but the Talondim family was unusually powerful—due in no small part to the strong hand and keen mind of the clan’s matriarch. As a result, instead of attacking the Talondim family, the thieving guilds of Iriaebor more often sought to forge alliances with Jewel. Thus the Talondim family prospered.

Mari was suddenly filled with sadness at the memories of Ferret. “Your grandson was a good thief, Jewel,” she said quietly. “I can’t tell you how much he helped us when we were fighting Ravendas. But more than that, he was a good man. I miss him.”

Jewel reached out and gave Mari’s hand a squeeze. “I know, love. We all do.” She sighed wistfully. “For the longest time I was furious with the Harpers and the Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon, for taking Ferret away from me. But now that we’ve met at last, I can see why he risked everything to help you.”

Mari wanted to say how sorry she was, but the words would not come, so she settled for gripping Jewel’s hand fiercely. Jewel laughed and caught Mari in a maternal embrace. “There’s no need to cry, Mari. Don’t you see? We’ve already become friends.”

Despite a flood of tears, Mari couldn’t help laughing, for it was true.

It was Cormik who politely reminded them all why they had come to Jewel’s invisible tower, and they got down to business. It took some time to recount all they knew concerning Caledan’s transformation, yet Mari was amazed that Jewel absorbed it so quickly and with such aplomb.

“I have heard of this Stiletto,” Jewel confessed when Mari finally finished. “But I’m afraid I know very little about him.”

“Very little would be more than I know at the moment,” Cormik replied gruffly.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me in your case, Cormik?” Jewel asked smartly. “As far as my sources have been able to determine, Stiletto is a new underworld power in the Western Heartlands. He—or she, for no one really knows—appeared about two years ago, and since then has quickly risen to power in the world of thievery. Each day, more and more underworld operations fall under Stiletto’s control. Every thieves’ guild west of the Sunset Mountains has felt Stiletto’s bite, and I’m afraid the Talondim clan is no different. We’re all losing obscene amounts of money, so you can imagine that the location of Stiletto’s base of operations is something every guild-master and crime lord in the Western Heartlands would give his pickpocketing hand to know. Despite all our efforts, Stiletto has managed to keep his lair—and his identity—a secret.”

Mari chewed her lip in thought. “Well, at least now we know that Stiletto is somewhere in the Western Heartlands. That narrows it down a bit.”

“Oh, indeed,” Cormik replied drolly. “Now we have only a quarter of a continent to search rather than the whole thing.”

Mari scowled at him. “I was just trying to look on the bright side.”

“I think you’ll have to look harder,” Morhion advised gloomily. “I fear we have little chance of finding Stiletto before Caledan does. I have no doubt that the Shadowstar beckons Caledan. It may take time, but eventually its call will lead him to Stiletto.”

Jewel gave the mage an appraising look. “At the risk of uttering the obvious, why don’t you just let Caledan do the work for you?” Mari, Morhion, and Cormik stared at her, uncomprehending. “Think of it, loves. If Caledan is going to try to get the Shadowstar from this Stiletto, then why don’t you simply follow Caledan for now, and ask questions about Stiletto along the way? You might get lucky and learn where Stiletto is in time to beat Caledan there. And if not, at least you won’t be far behind.”

New hope flooded Mari’s chest. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a plan. “Jewel, you’re brilliant!”

The matriarch of the Talondim clan shrugged modestly. “It’s a gift.”

The gateway was ready. Morhion stepped back and regarded the stone arch.

With red ochre, for power, he had outlined the runes carved into the rock. In front of the arch he had laid down a pathway of willow branches to symbolize travel. At present, the archway opened onto only a wall of rough-hewn stone. But when he spoke the word of opening …

The gateway stood in a chamber beneath Morhion’s tower. It had been placed here by the powerful mage who had first raised the spire, three centuries ago. Yet the gateway was an artifact whose age was better measured in eons. It had taken Morhion long years of study to unlock the gateway’s secrets. Even now, he was not certain that he truly understood the arch’s ancient, alien magic.

“You risk great peril by using the gateway, Morhion,” a sepulchral voice spoke behind him.

Morhion spun around, breathing in air suddenly turned chill. The hateful word escaped his lips with a hiss. “Serafi.”

The spectral knight drifted closer, bringing with him the scent of dry dust and rot. His eyes glowed like drops of molten iron, smoldering with contempt—and desire. “It is folly for you to use the gateway, mage. Its magic is far more vast than your puny, mortal mind could possibly imagine.”

Forcibly, Morhion willed away the fear and loathing that clouded his mind. “I cannot imagine that you care,” he said flatly.

“Oh, but I do care.” Serafi’s hollow voice oozed mock sympathy. “Have you forgotten our bargain already, Morhion? How like a mortal!” The ghostly knight floated closer still. “Allow me to remind you, then. Your body belongs to me now. I am concerned what happens to it. I want to be certain it comes to me in the same excellent condition in which it stands now.”

Morhion felt his head being tilted back. He resisted, the cords of his neck standing out with the strain, but it was no use. Icy, invisible hands tangled through his long golden hair, then moved to stroke the warm flesh of his throat. Suddenly the bodiless fingers tightened. Morhion choked, unable to breathe. His hands scrabbled at his neck, but they found no purchase against the incorporeal grip that strangled him. A roaring noise filled his ears. Everything grew dim …

“No, not yet,” Serafi whispered.

The freezing hands released Morhion’s throat. He staggered backward, drawing in shuddering breaths while brilliant sparks of light exploded before his eyes.

Serafi’s voice reverberated with menace. “Do not think that you can escape your vow through death, Morhion. Your body is my property, and I will be watching over it.”

Morhion wanted to shout, to hurl some curse at the spectral knight, but Serafi melted into the air and was gone.

Mari arrived a short while later. She stepped through the tower’s door along with a flood of late afternoon sunlight. It was time to begin their search for Caledan and the Shadowstar.

When she saw Morhion, concern lit Mari’s eyes. “Are you all right, Morhion? Your neck … it’s been bruised.”

Hastily, Morhion turned up the collar of his purple vest, concealing the livid marks. “It is of no importance,” he said, more sharply than he intended. But she had caught him off guard.