Curse of the Shadowmage - Mark Anthony [19]
He glanced once more at the runecast scattered across the silver tray. The runes spoke clearly. Some great change was coming, and with it risk and hardship. A sharp smile touched his lips. Let the upheaval come, thought. I shall welcome it.
Morhion leaned over the table to gather up the rune-stones. A chill gust of air rushed past him, and the fire flared brightly. Sparks flew crackling into the air, but the flames died down as quickly, leaving the chamber eerily darkened. Morhion shivered, his breath fogging. He rose, his long golden hair flying wildly behind him, and turned to shut the window. It was closed. The cold light of the full moon spilled through the glass, gilding the room's furnishings with frosty light. Though Morhion half guessed what he would see, the horror of it was not lessened.
Like strands of pure silver thread, the moonlight wove itself into a recognizable shape. Glistening tendrils spun faster and faster in midair, outlining the form of a tall man clad in ornate, archaic armor. The glowing threads plunged into a pair of black pits where the figure's eyes should have been, and two pinpricks of crimson light flared to life. The last silvery tendrils spun themselves into nothingness; the apparition was complete. The spectral knight, surrounded by a corona of pale light, took a step toward the mage.
Old, familiar dread gripped Morhion's heart. He managed to whisper a single word. "Serafi."
The ghostly knight bowed, but the gesture was one of mockery, not respect. "The orb of Selune rises full into the night sky. It is time once again for you to fulfill our bargain, Morhion Gen'dahar." Serafi's voice seemed to echo eerily from all directions.
A mirthless smile touched Morhion's lips. "Do you truly believe that I could have forgotten?"
"Perhaps," Serafi intoned indifferently. "The memories of the living are fleeting. But the dead never forget."
"I do not forget my vows," Morhion said.
The knight drifted menacingly closer. "Then give to me the blood that is my due. The pact is binding."
Though he had done this once each month for the past ten years, Morhion trembled involuntarily as he went through the ritual of lifting an arm and drawing back the sleeve of his night robe. Beneath the cloth, his forearm was crisscrossed with thin, white scars-the legacy of a pact he had once forged to save Caledan's life, an act for which he was later branded a traitor.
It had begun ten years before, in the darkest hour of the old Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon. The Harper Kera, a member of the Fellowship and Caledan's beloved lay dead-murdered at the hands of their foe, the Zhen-tarim warrior Ravendas. Blaming himself for Kera's death, Caledan journeyed to the Zhentarim fortress of Darkhold to exact his revenge. Confronting Ravendas in her lair would mean his own demise, but Caledan cared not, for he meant to join Kera in death. Morhion's betrayal was this: He had forced Caledan to choose life.
Against Caledan's wishes, Morhion too went to Darkhold, and revealed Caledan's plans to Ravendas. Without the advantage of surprise, Caledan's attempt to slay Ravendas was foiled, as was his own suicidal objective Caledan would have been captured, then executed, but Morhion engineered their escape from the catacombs beneath Darkhold-doing so at terrible cost.
It happened that in ancient times Darkhold had been keep of the lost Empire of Netheril. Morhion had learned of a dark spirit that haunted the caverns beneath the keep-the usurper Serafi, who two thousand years before had schemed to seize the throne of Netheril and been executed for treason. The spectral knight agreed to show Morhion a secret way out of the catacombs, demanding a dark vow in exchange. Morhion had no choice but to accept.
With Serafi's help, Caledan and