Stars were beginning to appear in a dusky sky when K'shar reached Hill's Edge. The trading settlement was in a stir; something had transpired here recently. Curious, the half-elf prowled undetected through town, catching snippets of conversations. At last he overheard somethingg of interest. Sinking into a shadowed corner, he listened to two people talking on the front steps of an inn. I told Faladar that I didn't like the looks of them," lamented a red-faced woman—a cook by her stained apron and the large wooden spoon she clutched. "But he wouldn't listen to me. Not that he ever did." You saw them then?" a man in merchant's garb asked in fascination.

"Aye, I did," the woman replied dramatically. It was clear this was not the first time she had told this tale. "They came here at dusk two nights ago, and a strange-looking bunch they were. The red-haired woman, she wore sword at her hip. And the tall one, he had the air of a wizard about him. Had a gaze to freeze your blood, he did. They killed poor Faladar, I'm certain of it." She let out an overwrought sigh. "And now it's up to me to run the Five Rings all by myself."

Something made K'shar think that the woman was not truly sorry to be in charge of the inn. Silent as a wraith, he slipped away. He needed to hear no more. Al'maren and her companions had been here just two nights ago, evidently they had murdered a man. The renegade was sinking low indeed. Quickly, he made his way out of town.

It was full dark, and the moon had not yet risen when K'shar came to the stone bridge over the River Reaching, but his golden eyes required only the faintest of light. He knew it was for abilities such as this that his grand mother's people had been—and still were—persecuted. Some thought that the ability to see in the dark could come only from evil magic. K'shar knew that the darkvision came from generations of his ancestors living in lightless underground caverns. Regardless of its origin, the darkvision was best kept secret, K'shar knew, even from the Harpers. Those who walked the daylight world would not understand his dark heritage.

As he set foot on the bridge, something caught his sharp eyes. He knelt to examine the moist dirt in front of the stone span.

"By all the stars of midnight," he swore softly.

The tracks had been trampled by booted feet and iron shod hooves. But K'shar could see enough to know they were like no tracks he had seen in all his years as a Hunter. They were shaped like the prints of a barefoot man, but the toes were unusually long, and there were only three of them, and these ended in curved talons. No man had left these tracks. Nor had any beast that K'shar was familiar with.

Fascinated, he followed the strange tracks. There had been two of the creatures. They had stood before the bridge for a time before heading southward. The tracks were clearer once they left the heavily traveled road, and after a short way they were joined by the prints of a third, similar creature. K'shar halted. He had come to a place where the tracks of the unknown creatures were superimposed on a different set of prints—prints he recognized.

"Al'maren," he said in amazement. He squatted down and studied the myriad shapes pressed into the ground. Whatever the three creatures they had chased Al'maren and her friends toward the edge of the Reaching Woods. Had Caldorien ventured into the Reaching Woods as well? Or had he continued westward down the Dusk Road? The half-elf mulled over this dilemma. He could not be certain which way Caldorien had gone. On the other hand, he was certain about

Al'maren. He made his decision.

"A Harper in the hand is worth two in the bush," he noted wryly, before plunging soundlessly into the shadowed forest.

Thirteen

The lone traveler had been following the broad swath of the Trade Way for three days now, ever since leaving the strange little town of Triel behind. The traveler did not know his destination, but that did not matter. For he would certainly know it when he arrived there; he dreaded that time, evn as it drew him onward.

Occasionally he passed other travelers on the road— merchants, soldiers, or wanderers on pilgrimage—and these drew away, clutching cloths to their mouths and noses as they hurried by, as though they feared he might have some disease. He knew that he looked strange. That morning he had caught, a glimpse of himself in a pool of water as he bent to drink. His flesh was mushroom-pale, and half-moons of shadow hung beneath his green eyes. Given this, and his midnight blue cloak that was caked with mud and dried leaves from sleeping on the ground, he supposed people feared him for a dead man risen from the grave. It was ironic, for a shambling corpse was nothing compared to the horror he was in truth becoming. He laughed, knowing it was a terrible sound.

The mist-gray mare he rode nickered questioningly, shattering his dark reverie.

"It's all right, Mista," Caledan murmured, leaning forward to stroke the smooth arch of her neck. "It's just me here now, not… the other."

Mista let out a soft whinny.

"Let's stop a moment," he said, trying to sound more cheerful. "We've been on the road all day, and you must be tired."

At this, Mista gave an emphatic and slightly indignant snort. She hadn't planned to mention it, but since he brought it up, she was indeed overdue for a rest stop. They came to a halt at the side of the road, and Caledan dismounted. He ran his hand over the pale velvet of her nose. While this would have been a perfect opportunity In bite his fingers, as she was wont to do, she only nibbled at them halfheartedly. Mista knew this was a dark time for her friend.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Mista," Caledan said quietly. "I think I'm starting to forget myself, to forget who I am. I try to remember things from my life, and all I see are shadows. I can hardly remember what Mari looks like now, or Kellen, or Morhion." He leaned his cheek against Mista's flat forehead. "But you're my oldest friend of all, aren't you? And you're here with me, so I can't forget you."

The opportunity was simply too much for her to resist. She bared her big yellow teeth and chomped his ear.

"You wench!" he roared, slapping her flank. She threw her ears back and gave him a distinctly self-satisfied look. "So much for tender moments," he grumbled, and went to find some water for them to drink.

A clear brook ran beside the road. Next to it was a bush laden with autumn blackberries. He wasn't hungry, knew he should eat. Plucking a handful of the he popped them into his mouth one by one. Then another handful for Mista. He started to rise, then halted. Now was the perfect chance, while the other slumbered. Caledan reached his free hand toward the blackberry bush, whistling a dissonant melody. All he had to do was relax his will for a heartbeat, and the shadow magic welled forth like dark water gushing from an underground spring. Still, he usually played his pipes or at least hummed a tune when he worked the transformations. It helped him concentrate. And somehow it made him seem less of a monster.

Caledan's hand began to tremble, calling tendrils of from nearby shadows. They coiled like onyx serpents around the bush, molding the plant, reshaping it. After a moment, he whistled a sharp note of dismissal.

The dark tendrils slipped silently back into their pools of shadow. Caledan an never knew what form the metamorphosis would take, but the new shape was always a reflection of his soul. This time, the bush's branches had been molded into two, intertwining figures. They were human forms, but whether they were embracing each other in a sensuous expression of love or were fighting to strangle each other in their loathing, it was impossible to tell.

Caledan scrambled away from the bush. It was dangerous to linger too long. The other was sleeping now, but when it woke it would know all that he knew. If the other learned what the metamorphosed objects meant, it would surely try to stop him from creating more. The dark presence had been growing within Caledan for months now, perhaps years. For a long time it had kept its existence hidden. He knew now—as he did not know before—that he had been the cause of the murders in Iriaebor. The other had used his shadow magic to perform the deeds without his knowledge, but Caledan not blameless. The victims—men of violence, corrupt nobles, agents of the Zhentarim—all had been people Caledan himself despised. The hatred had been his own.