His voice became a growl. "Do you understand what this means, Al'maren? You will be branded a renegade. Every Harper will have the right to hunt you down and slay you. And by all the gods, they will be obliged to do it!"

"I know," she said sadly. "I know."

Within the glowing sphere. Thantarth shook a fist at her, his face crimson. "Stop this foolishness now, Al'maren. Stop it, or I swear you will—"

Mari did not wait to hear what awful fate he intended for her. In one swift motion, she picked up the chair and hurled it at the shimmering sphere. There was a brilliant flash and a sound like shattering glass as the orb burst into a thousand azure shards. Mari shut her eyes against the blinding glare. When she dared open them again, the magical sphere was gone. All that was left of the chair were a few charred sticks of wood scattered on the floor. They looked like nothing so much as burnt bones.

I never believed it would come to this, Mari thought with a mixture of apprehension and peculiar exultation. I never believed that I, Mari Al'maren, would become a renegade Harper.

Yet that was exactly what she was now. A renegade, a fugitive, and an outlaw. The full realization of what she had done crashed down upon her, and she slumped down into a chair. She had just given up everything she had ever fought for, everything she had ever believed in. But she could not destroy Caledan, and she would not let anyone else destroy him. There had to be a way to stop Caledan's dark metamorphosis. I promised you, Kera. I told him good-bye, but I will be damned to the Abyss if I'll turn my back on him.

"Are they going to kill my father. Mari?"

She had forgotten Kellen. He stood beside her chair, his green eyes overly large in his pale face. He had overheard everything.

"No, Kellen," she said quietly. "No one will hurt your father. We won't let that happen."

He nodded gravely, then threw his arms around her neck. She returned his hug fiercely. At last she pushed him gently away and stood up. There was no time to waste.

When Morhion arrived at the Dreaming Dragon an hour later, he found her packing her saddlebags. He raised a single golden eyebrow. "Going somewhere, Mari?"

She firmly buckled the last leather strap and dusted off her hands. "You might say that."

"Haven't you forgotten something?" He eyed the small rip on the collar of her green jacket meaningfully.

"No," she replied crisply. "I haven't."

Interest flickered in Morhion's icy eyes. "I see."

They sat at one of the common room's long trestle tables. Estah brought hot tea, brown bread, and honey for their breakfast. The halfling innkeeper eyed Mari curiously. She had heard the commotion in the common room this morning, but Mari had not yet had the courage to tell Estah about her disturbing conversation with Belhuar Thantarth. There was no more putting it off. By the time she finished, Estah's usually gentle expression had been replaced by one of flinty outrage.

"They have no right," the halfling said harshly. "Caledan has devoted the best part of his life to serving the Harpers, and in his darkest hour of need they turn against him. How dare they!"

Mari sighed. "The Harpers always work for the greater good, Estah. If sacrificing one man can save a hundred, then in their minds it's a fair bargain."

"Yet sometimes," Morhion countered, "when one stone is taken out, an entire wall can come tumbling down. That is something the Harpers have never understood— if you'll forgive me, Mari."

She shot him an ironic look. "Believe me, Morhion, no apology is necessary."

"What do you intend to do?" he asked.

"Follow him," she said fiercely. "And find him."

"And then?"

"I don't know," she said impatiently. "I'll think of something."

"I can see you've really thought this out," he noted dryly.

"Well, do you have any better ideas?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

Mari groaned. Why would mages never come out and say what they were thinking? "All right, Morhion. What's on your mind?"

A faintly smug smile touched his lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

As a brilliant square of morning sunlight crept across the wooden floor, Mari and Estah listened with growing fascination—and growing dread—to the knowledge Morhion had gleaned from the ancient copy of The Book of the Shadows. First he told them about the Shadowking. Mari knew the myth—how the ancient sorcerer Verraketh was transformed by his own dark magic into a bestial creature of evil, and how he was defeated by the legendary bard Talek Talembar. Yet, as Morhion now explained, all that was only the first part of the tale. The prelude, as it were.

"In ancient days," the mage began, "a blazing star fell to Toril. The only one to see it fall was a wandering minstrel. Curious, he journeyed in the direction of the falling star and came upon a smoking crater. In the center of the steaming pit, the minstrel found a hot piece of metal shaped like a star. Thinking it beautiful, the minstrel quenched the piece of metal in a pool of water and fastened it to a silver chain, making it into a medallion. The minstrel donned the medallion, and from that day on his fortune changed. First he became a renowned musician, then a noble lord, and finally the ruler of his own land. The medallion was called the Shadowstar. The minstrel's name was Verraketh—Verraketh Talembar."

Mari and Estah exchanged startled looks, but they said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the mage's narrative.

"In time," Morhion went on, "the medallion granted Verraketh not only great fortune, but great magic as well. It infused him with awesome power—power over the substance of shadows. It was a magic that was passed on to his only son, Talek Talembar, who became a bard and a sorcerer in his own right. As the years went by and Verraketh aged not, he became known as the Shadowmage; his kingdom was called Ebenfar.

"The years turned into centuries, and the magic of the Shadowstar began to transform Verraketh until he was a man and a mage no longer, but a thing of pure and evil magic, which folk in fear named the Shadowking." Morhion regarded his two listeners solemnly. "I think you both know the rest of the tale. Seeking dominion over all men, the Shadowking forged the Nightstone. But Talek Talembar defeated his father and sealed both Shadowking and Nightstone inside the crag upon which, an eon later, Iriaebor was raised."

"So it was from his father that Talek Talembar inherited his shadow magic?" Mari asked.

"That is so," Morhion replied. "There is something else I learned, though not directly from the Mal'eb'dala." He turned to the halfling innkeeper. "Estah, what was the name of Caledan's father?"

She scowled, obviously wondering at the purpose of this question. "It was Caledan Caldorien."

"And the name of his father."

"Why, Caledan Caldorien, of course," Estah replied in consternation. "Morhion, you know as well as I that it's a family name. It's been passed down from father to son for centuries."

"Yes," the mage replied gravely. "Just like the shadow magic."

Chill fingers danced up Mari's spine. "Get to the point, Morhion."

The mage pulled a sheaf of parchment from his belt and unrolled it on the table. He pointed to a series of runes. "This is the name Talek Talembar. It is written in Talfir, the language spoken in these lands a thousand years ago. Later, when folk came from the east, crossing the Sunset Mountains to settle the Western Heartlands, they brought their own language with them. Many of the old names, of both people and places, were still used, but the tongue of the easterners contained different sounds than the speech of the Talfirc. As a result, the old names were bastardized—their pronunciations changed—so they could be written in the new language."

Morhion pointed to another line of writing on the parchment. The letters looked vaguely familiar, but Mari couldn't quite read them.