Aeron stepped forward, raising his staff to strike, but Crow whirled in place and vanished in a dark pyre of smoke. Aeron waited a long moment to see if he'd really gone and then sat down heavily on a rock, laying his staff across his knees. "Sarim," he said bleakly into the night. "What has Oriseus done to you?"

Fifteen

Aeron returned to Caerhuan and prepared for a magical siege. He attempted several powerful defensive spells, but each enchantment he worked seemed to go awry; the Weave seemed to slip through his fingers, while the burgeoning strength of the shadow-magic, the power of death and darkness, refused to obey his command, writhing in his grasp like a venomous serpent seeking something to poison. It took all of Aeron's effort to keep the seething magic under his control and form it into the shapes he desired.

Finally, he was satisfied with his defenses, although a task that should have taken days had consumed several weeks. Despite the fact that the Maerchwood had been vulnerable during the time it took Aeron to weave the spell of watchfulness, Master Crow had not struck at Aeron, nor had any more of his former associates from the college appeared on his doorstep. Their absence only served to reinforce Aeron's fears.

The summer failed quickly, giving way to an unusually cold and damp autumn. Day after day, the forest was cloaked in dense, still mists that left the ground-carpet black and soggy, damp with a sweet, sick odor of rot. Aeron shivered in revulsion as he went abroad; the air beaded his cloak and tunic with heavy drops of cold water, and any time he brushed past a leaf or tree it left a dark, foul smear across his skin or clothes. The animals of the forest cowered in their lairs, reluctant to go abroad in the unnatural mists.

Aeron searched for some sign that the Maerchwood was under attack, but he found nothing to indicate that the weather was anything other than natural. No spell held the gloom over the forest. Every time Aeron wielded magic, he was conscious of the growing difficulty of commanding even a glimmer of the Weave. Nothing could relieve the bleak and dismal gloom.

He set out to survey the forest, hoping to find some indication of a place where the foulness originated, but from one eave of the forest to the other, everything was the same. A month into autumn, he found himself near the western edge of the forest, and with hopeless resignation he turned his steps toward Saden and home.

Kestrel greeted him warmly, but his eyes showed fatigue. "Aeron! It's been months, lad. Where have you been?"

"I've been walking the forest, Kestrel," Aeron replied. He undid his cloak and hung it by the fire, grimacing as oily water ran over his hands. "Have you any ale?"

"Of course," Kestrel said. "But you'll want last winter's brew. The stuff they made this year isn't fit for a goblin." The old forester ventured back to the tap he kept in his cellar and returned with two leather jacks. He drew up a chair by the fire and handed one to Aeron. "So what is new in the Maerchwood?"

"I wish I knew," Aeron said with a scowl. "Phoros Raedel's retained the services of a dangerous sorcerer. I believe he's responsible for some insidious blight over the forest, but I can't fathom the magic that's at work." He described the evil change in the wind that had fallen over the forest in the weeks since he'd met Sarim in his incarnation as Master Crow. Would he have fallen if I hadn't set him against Oriseus? he wondered briefly. He sighed and stared into the dark ale in his mug.

Kestrel frowned. "I've heard tales of Raedel's mage, too, but I don't think he is responsible for this weather. It's not just the Maerchwood, Aeron. It's everywhere. You don't talk to many people, but travelers pass through Saden every now and then-herdsmen from the Akanul, teamsters carrying cargo to Mordulkin, and boatmen on the Adder River. They say it's like this all across Chessenta, maybe even all of Faerun. People are frightened."

Aeron was stunned. "I have a hard time believing that Master Crow could work such a dire enchantment."

"From what I hear, Phoros's pet mage has been too busy to work this sort of mischief, anyway," Kestrel said.

"Why? What's happened?"

"They say that Phoros Raedel's not the master of his own castle anymore. Crow is the real lord of Maerchlin these days. I've spoken to merchants who have arranged audiences with Phoros, only to find that Master Crow did all the talking. They said the count stared into space, nodding whenever Crow asked him a question." Kestrel scratched his chin. "Phoros Raedel might be a bastard at times, but at least he's a bastard you can count on."

"Crow told me that he came to Maerchlin to take power here," Aeron said. "He said that Oriseus-the leader of the college-meant for his followers to hold high places in every land." The young mage paused, thinking hard. If Crow was telling the truth, Oriseus was not just the master of the college anymore-he was the lord of all Cimbar. "Kestrel, have you heard anything of the Sceptanar?"

"The king of Cimbar?" Kestrel shrugged. "They say there's a new one, although it's hard to be sure of a story from so far away. Cimbar's broken its old truce with Akanax, and Soorenar has sided with Cimbar. Most travelers are of the opinion that it's only a matter of time until Akanax falls, and that will leave Cimbar as the only power of consequence left." The woodsman swallowed some musty ale. "I can't see the other cities standing by while the Sceptanar crowns himself Overking of Chessenta, but who's going to stop him?"

"It seems I don't hear anything in the Maerchwood."

Kestrel chuckled. "It's just gossip, Aeron."

"Have you heard any other tales from abroad?"

"Oh, the usual tales of blights and plagues, vanishings and hauntings. They say there's an evil loose in the land, a sickness in the ground. It's been a bad harvest, with all the rain lately." The forester smiled and shook his head, his gray whiskers twitching like an otter's. "People love to tell a tale of woe. There's no substance to rumors of sorcery and witch-weather."

"I'm not so sure." Aeron shivered by the fire. "Something is wrong in the Maerchwood; that much I know." He sat back, thinking. "Kestrel, I have to go. This is much worse than I thought it was."

"That's not very reassuring. What can you do?"

"I don't know," said Aeron. "But I might know someone who does know. Give Eriale my greetings. And, Kestrel... if things become any worse, get Eriale and come to the Maerchwood. I've been able to counter some of this illness, and you're welcome to stay at the Storm Tower as long as you like."

"The old ruins by the gorge of the Winding River?"

Aeron smiled. "It's not as ruined as you might think. You might be safer there than you are here."

Kestrel studied Aeron for a long moment. "It's that bad?"

Aeron simply stood and took his hand. "I'll let you know if I find any answers." He drained the last of the ale, shouldered his cloak, and set out into the weak daylight again. It was surprisingly cold and clammy. Aeron wondered if a frost was near, weeks or even months before the season turned. He didn't like the idea of the land suffering through a long winter under these conditions.

On his way back to the Storm Tower, Aeron actually became lost for a few hours as the trail he followed petered out in a muddy morass of thickets, briars, and fens. He could not remember any such place in the bounds of the Maerchwood. When he finally picked up his path again he redoubled his speed, Baillegh bounding behind him like a silver streak in the gloom.

It was late in the night when he reached the tower. He rested, ate a light meal, then set to work rummaging through Fineghal's storehouse of arcane lore and enchanted devices until he found a small orb of crystal. Aeron carried the orb to a small table before one of the tower's high windows and sat down, staring into the milky glass.