Crypt of the shadowking - Mark Anthony [61]
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…"
Eleven
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