"Maybe he's dead," Caledan said with a mock laugh. He gathered his patched cloak about him against the evening chill.

Mari circled the base of the tower, looking for a way inside. The arched doorway had collapsed into a pile of jagged rubble, but there was a dark, gaping crack to one side of the doorway. It looked almost wide enough for her to squeeze through. She shrugged off her heavy cloak.

"What are you doing?" Caledan demanded.

"Something useful," she snapped.

She ducked her head to peer into the crack-and stars flashed before her eyes. She cried out in pain, taking a dizzy step backward as she rubbed her aching head.

"You're right," Caledan said drily. "That's the most useful thing you've done in ages."

"Shut up, Caldorien." Something was wrong here. Very wrong. She began running her hands along the tower's wall. The cracked and weathered stones felt strange, smoother under her touch than they looked. An idea glimmered in her head. She tried to stick her hands into the crevice in the wall.

Her fingers met solid stone.

"It's an illusion!" she whispered in sudden understanding.

"What are you talking about, Harper?"

"The wall, scoundrel. I know it's difficult, but try not to be so dense. Here, feel it for yourself." She grabbed his hand and held it against the stones. "It looks like it's crumbling, but it feels solid."

Caledan's eyes widened in surprise as he felt along the wall.

"I'm willing to bet the rest of the tower is the same," Mari went on. "Someone is using magic to make it look as if it's moldy and abandoned."

Caledan shook his head, frowning.

They heard the sound of a heavy iron bolt, and suddenly a door swung open where a moment ago there had been only blank wall. Golden torchlight spilled out onto the street. Mari and Caledan stared in shock.

A man clad in a simple but expensive-looking robe of pearl gray stood in the doorway. He was tall-far taller than even Caledan-and his face was lost in the shadow of a cowl. The man stood in silence for a long moment, then lifted his hands slowly to push back the robe's heavy hood.

"Caledan Caldorien. It has been some time," the man said, his tenor voice as burnished as brass. He gestured to the open doorway. "Enter."

Minutes later Mari found herself sitting in the study of Morhion the mage, an octagonal chamber at the top of the tower, anxiously clutching a goblet of crimson wine in her hand. She had always thought a mage's work chamber would be a dark and cluttered place, littered with stacks of moldering scrolls and myriad jars filled with foul concoctions. However, Morhion's study was a surprisingly clean and pleasant room. Neatly kept bookshelves lined the walls, and intricate Sembian rugs covered the floors. A small fire burned on the hearth, and dozens of candles bathed the room in a warm glow of light. The air was sweet with the faint, dusty fragrance of dried herbs.

Caledan paced the room in agitation, having drunk the wine the mage offered him in one swift gulp. His shaggy eyebrows were drawn down over his pale eyes. The tension seemed to hang in the air between the two men, an almost palpable thing. Mari did not dare say anything.

Morhion sat at an uncluttered table of polished rosewood, sipping his wine calmly. The mage was a handsome man, one of the handsomest Mari had ever seen. His features were fine and noble, and his golden hair fell about his broad shoulders like a lion's mane. Yet his deep blue eyes were so cold and calculating that Mari found it disturbing to gaze at him for any great length of time.

"You have come seeking something, Caledan," the mage said. "Perhaps you can stop for a moment and tell me what it is before your pacing wears a hole in my floor."

Caledan snorted in disgust and sank down into a leather armchair, glaring at the mage. "That's one thing I never did like about you, Gen'dahar. You always pretended you didn't understand things you knew perfectly well. You know why we're here. It's the book, the one you took from the monastery of Oghma in the Sunset Mountains."

The mage nodded. "The Mal'eb'dala? I suspected as much."

"What do you want with it?" Caledan asked accusingly.

"The same as you, I imagine," the mage answered, unperturbed by Caledan's tone. He stood and walked to a narrow window, gazing out over the city. "Ravendas seeks something buried deep beneath the Tor, and in the past she has shown an interest in The Book of the Shadows. It is not so difficult a connection to make. I had hoped the book might hold the secret to defeating Ravendas, to driving her from Iriaebor."

"Why should you care, mage?" Caledan asked, gritting his teeth. Morhion turned to regard Caledan with his unblinking gaze, and Mari noticed that even Caledan could not bring himself to meet the mage's disturbing eyes.

"This is my home," Morhion said simply. "My life is here, such as it is." Caledan looked daggers at Morhion, but he did not contest the mage's words.

"Have you read the Mal'eb'dala?" Mari forced herself to ask. "Have you learned what it is Ravendas is searching for beneath the Tor?"

"I believe so." Morhion pulled a heavy tome bound in black leather from a high shelf and set it on the table. Mari and Caledan bent over the book as the mage turned to a page marked with a ribbon of black satin. The writing was clear, but Mari could make no sense of the words, written in the ancient Talfirian tongue.

"Well, what does it say?" Caledan asked in annoyance. The mage ignored him, directing his words to Mari.

"The Book of the Shadows is an encyclopedia, of sorts. Its author, whoever he or she was-and indeed, there may have been more than one over the centuries-describes many mysteries forgotten since ancient times. Some entries describe terrible creatures, abominations of magic, while others discuss swords of power, or enchanted rings and the like. But there is only one entry that Ravendas would be interested in." He touched the page lightly. "This is it."

The mage began to translate the passage. '"Long ago,'" thе mage read in his resonant voice, "'in a land east of the mountains and west of the sea, there dwelt a king named Verraketh, a ruler both feared and mighty.'" Morhion flipped the page. The tale of how Verraketh became a king goes on for some time. It is not particularly relevant to what comes after." He ran a finger down the page, then started again. "Ah, yes. This is it. 'Skilled above all men was Verraketh in the art of sorcery, but such was the power of his dark magic that slowly it did consume him, flesh and soul. Verraketh was changed until he appeared as a man no longer, but rather as a being most hideous, his maleficent heart filled only with darkness. Thus it was that Verraketh came to be called by a new name-the Shadowking.'"

"Sounds cheerful," Caledan noted wryly.

Morhion shot him an unfriendly glance but continued reading. "'For a long age did the Shadowking rule over his dusky realm, but ever he hungered for greater dominion. Many were the lands that fell…'" Morhion paused. "I am afraid the ink is blurred on the rest of this page, but I think we can imagine that many lands fell under the Shadow-king's dominion." He turned the page. "This, I think, is the important passage.

"'… so began the forging of the Nightstone. It was a gem wrought by the hand of the Shadowking from his own essence, but it was not beautiful to look upon. Rather it was as dark and cold as death. With it the Shadowking meant to gain sway over the spirits of men and bring countless realms under his dire rule.

'"Yet when the Shadowking first took up the Nightstone in his hand to wield it, he discovered that he had been tricked. The mute troll who had worked the bellows of the Shadowking's forge cast off his disguise, revealing himself as the great bard named Talek Talembar.