"'In his rapture, the Shadowking had detected not the enchantment which Talembar had bound subtly within the Nightstone. The gem refused to obey its creator, but rather heeded only the power of the magical song which Talembar played upon his pipes.'"

Morhion turned another page. "'For seven days and seven nights the Shadowking wrestled with Talek Talembar, and the earth shook with the fury of their battle. But in the end victory belonged to Talembar. At the end of all things the great bard raised his pipes to his lips and played the shadow song, weaving its enchantment about the Shadowking and his dark creation, the Nightstone. The Shadowking bowed on bended knee to the bard who had defeated him. Then did Talembar bind his vanquished foe within a great crypt, and over the crypt he raised a cairn higher than a hill. And the power of the Nightstone was hidden away forevermore.'"

Morhion stopped then, shutting the book carefully.

"But what happened to Talek Talembar after he defeated the Shadowking?" Man asked.

Morhion shrugged. "I cannot say. The passage remains unfinished."

Mari frowned. It disappointed her that the tale told nothing more about the hero named Talembar.

"I don't understand," Caledan said with a scowl, starting to pace once again. "What does any of this have to with Ravendas and Iriaebor?"

"The Mal'eb'dala says Talek Talembar raised a great mound over the Shadowking's crypt," the mage answered, "a mound as high as a hill. I think that hill of legend is the very Tor upon which Iriaebor stands. I think Ravendas is digging within, searching for the Shadowking's crypt"

"Then it's the Nightstone she seeks," Mari interrupted, and the mage nodded.

"Perhaps it is only a legend and nothing more," Morhion said, returning the book to its shelf. "But what if it is not? If the Nightstone was real, and Ravendas held it in her hand, she would have the power to enslave every man and woman in Iriaebor, perhaps even beyond."

Mari clenched her jaw. "The Harpers will never allow this," she said grimly.

"Damn the Harpers," Caledan said angrily. Mari looked at him in surprise, but he glared back defiantly. "I will not allow this."

Caldorien and the Harper were gone. The mage, Morhion Gen'dahar, sat alone by the fire in his tower. He' studied the runes he had scattered across a wooden tray lined with dark velvet. There were nine of them, each a small square of fired clay embossed with a single rune. Sometimes he saw hints of the future in the patterns they formed. It was these very runes that so far had kept him from moving against Ravendas. And now Caldorien had come, just as the runes foretold. In his heart he found he was gladdened to know that Caldorien yet lived. There had been madness in the man's eyes the last time the mage had seen him. But that had been long ago. He supposed Caldorien considered him an enemy now, but that did not matter.

What mattered now was the Nightstone, and nothing else.

These last seven years had been trying. They had been long years, years of waiting. Morhion had been forced to stoop to working as a court magician to support himself and his work. How much time had he wasted, advising foppish lords and entertaining petty nobles? How many times had he been forced to create a disguise for an adulterous husband, or conjure frivolities of illusion for a tittering contessa, when his time would have been so much better spent here among his books? But it was the curse of life that one had to eat, and so Morhion had performed these petty services in return for gold.

All that would be over soon. The waiting was done. Ravendas sought the Nightstone, and she was near her goal. Now Caldorien had returned, to help or hinder the mage as the fates decreed. Morhion wondered which it would be.

Morhion rose and knelt by the hearth, banking the coals in the ashes for the night. Suddenly a cold draft of air fanned the flames, bringing with it the dank scent of earth and rot, the sweet fragrance of death. Tonight was the full moon. It was time.

He stood up and watched as a pale, luminous form materialized before him, just as it had once each month for the past seven years. Thin strands of silver spun upon the empty air, outlining the shape of a man dressed in ornate, archaic armor. The silver strands grew brighter, weaving their glimmering magic, tracing the sharp lines of the man's face, his cruel mouth, and high cheekbones. Finally the silver strands plunged into the darkness where the man's eyes should have been. Two small specks as fiery as coals appeared.

Morhion felt his knees weaken, but he did not bother to sit. Even after all these years, no matter how many times the spirit came, he was never prepared for this sensation.

"It is time," the ghostly man whispered, his voice as insubstantial and chilling as mist. "The pact we forged beneath the fortress of Darkhold is binding. I demand my due."

“The pact is binding," Morhion whispered with a nod. His fingers trembling, he pulled a small bronze knife from the pocket of his robe and drew it across the flesh of his left arm. He grimaced with pain but made no sound as the dark crimson blood welled forth, sizzling where it fell upon the hot stones of the hearth.

The spectral man cried out in ecstasy, an inhuman sound, and knelt, bringing his cruel mouth to the pool of blood on the floor. The hot, crimson blood vanished from the stones as Morhion watched with all too familiar horror.

"More, mage," the spirit whispered, clutching Morhion's wrist with fingers as chill and numbing as ice. A low sound of terror ripped itself from Morhion's throat, but he could not break free.

The spirit bent the cruel mouth to the mage's arm to drink. "Yes, mage, the pact is binding…"

Caledan and Mari walked in silence back toward the Dreaming Dragon. Night had descended, and the full moon rising above the city's towers seemed to cast more shadows than light. The gloomy setting suited Caledan's mood.

The conversation with Morhion Gen'dahar had left him edgy and preoccupied. Why was the treacherous mage so interested all of a sudden in The Book of the Shadows?

When they reached the narrow alleyway that led to the inn's back entrance, Mari laid a hand on Caledan's arm, halting him. "Caldorien, tell me something," she said, her brown eyes intent "You're not going to act a fool and break into the tower to confront Ravendas, are you?"

Caledan shrugged, annoyed at her question. "Why would I tell you if I was? Do you confide everything in me, Harper? Or are there matters your precious Harpers have discussed with you that you've neglected to share?"

Mari's eyes widened, her face pale. Caledan allowed himself an inward smile. He had struck a blow. It seemed that the Harper was hiding something from him.

"You don't understand anything about the Harpers, Caldorien," she replied, shaking her head sadly. "I think you've forgotten everything it means to be one."

He laughed harshly. "No, I remember all too well. Everything's a game to you and your kind, isn't it? You manipulate people as if they were pieces on a gameboard. Don't tell me the Harpers really care about Iriaebor, or any of its people. They want to show up the Zhentarim, that's all."

"Think whatever you like, Caldorien."

Caledan opened his mouth for a bitter retort, but then he swallowed the words. There was something in her usually proud expression, a hint of a sorrow he had never seen before. His anger drained away.

Suddenly she was in his arms, clinging to him tightly. Their lips met, and Caledan felt a dizzying wave of fire inflame him. He held her close, and for a single crystalline moment the darkness around them was forgotten.

Then they heard the hiss of a sword being drawn.