Farthest Reach (10 page)

“Here it is,” Starbrow said.

“That’s not daemonfey work,” Araevin said at once. He pointed at the decorative stonework. “They have no use for carvings like that.”

Starbrow looked sharply at him “You mean this is a dead end?”

“No, I didn’t say that. There’s no reason that Sarya and her vultures couldn’t have used a portal like this.”

Araevin studied it, searching for any markings or lettering to read.

“Can you open it?” Filsaelene asked.

“Possibly,” Araevin replied. “Let me try a spell first.”

He whispered the words of a simple detection spell, and carefully examined the flickering auras that glimmered around the ancient doorway.

“It has the right sort of magic,” he decided. “And it’s certainly strong and well-woven enough to have lasted for quite a long time.”

He spoke another spell, one that would divine many of the secrets of the portal. In his eyes the magical Weave ghosted into existence, bright and many-colored, each strand hinting at work done well and carefully long ago.

“It’s a keyed portal,” he said.

“Which means?” Starbrow asked.

“It won’t open unless we take the right action or present the right device—a token of some kind, a password, some specific thing that would keep just anybody from opening the doorway.”

Araevin examined the blank gateway for a few minutes longer, and he began to chant the words of a longer and more difficult spell, seeking to wrest from the portal itself the knowledge of what key would activate it.

He finished the spell, and in his mind’s eye he caught a glimpse of a small white flower, a tiny bell only the size of a thumbnail, really.

“That makes sense,” Araevin said with a soft laugh. “What? Have you figured it out already?” Starbrow said.

“It’s only a matter of knowing the right spells. They’re somewhat rare, and I suppose not all that many wizards have studied them.” Araevin straightened, and reached out to tap the carving of the vine surrounding the doorway. “This vine—it is rellana, isn’t it?”

Starbrow and the others exchanged blank looks, but Ilsevele nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “I think it is.”

“That’s all we need. Each of us must carry a petal of a rellana blossom and speak a short password-nesyie alleisendilie—and the portal will activate.”

“I’ll send for some,” Starbrow said at once. He quickly trotted out of sight and called out to the nearby guards. In a few minutes, he returned with a handful of tiny white blossoms. “Here you go,” he said. “What would they do if they needed to use the portal and these weren’t in bloom?”

“The builders probably kept a small jar of old petals somewhere near this place,” Araevin said. He helped himself to a small petal, and held it pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Now, how do we want to do this? It might be best if I went ahead alone, in case there’s some trap I didn’t expect—”

“Nesyie alleisendilie!” Maresa said.

She touched the blank stone of the archway, and disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing but a small white petal drifting down to the floor.

“Maresa!” Ilsevele snapped, but the genasi was nowhere in sight. The noblewoman snarled. “Now what do we do?”

“She doesn’t like to waste time, does she?” Starbrow observed. “Well, let’s hope that Araevin can get us out of wherever we wind up.”

He plucked a single petal out of the handful he held, dropped the rest into Araevin’s hand, and followed Maresa into the portal. With a sigh, Ilsevele snatched up a petal and hurried after him, followed by Filsaelene a moment later.

Araevin took a moment to scoop up the whole handful of rellana flowers, just in case there were multiple portals on the far side that made use of the same key. Then he followed his comrades into the unknown.

*****

Sarya Dlardrageth studied the founding-stone of Myth Drannor’s mythal, dreaming of the things she could do with its power. Unlike the stone in Myth Glaurach, which was a massive natural boulder, Myth Drannor’s was a well-shaped obelisk of deep rose-colored stone on a plinth of granite. Golden light seemed to glimmer in the translucent stone, hinting at power waiting to be harnessed.

The daemonfey queen carefully swept the rest of the chamber with the most acute detection spells she could manage, making absolutely sure that she knew precisely what was or wasn’t enclosed in the mythal chamber. It was a relatively large and airy room, a spacious vault with a high, graceful arch to the ceiling. By some ancient artifice six bright columns of sunlight shone down into the room, relayed through Castle Cormanthor’s upper floors by hidden shafts. The floor was a complex design of intersecting circles rendered in several different varieties of marble, covered in a thick coat of dust from centuries of disuse.

Satisfied that no scryings or magical traps awaited her, Sarya returned her attention to the mythal stone. “I am ready,” she announced.

“Excellent,” replied someone from within the mythal’s living fountain of magic. Melodious, even beautiful, the voice was masculine and perfect. “Open your gate, then, I will join you there.”

Sarya raised her hands and began to declaim the words of a very powerful spell, one of the most dangerous she knew, a spell designed to breach the barriers between the planes and create a magical bridge into another realm of existence. The mythal thrummed in response, the intangible pulse of the old device taking on a new and different note. Sarya ignored the mythal stone’s change and pressed on, finishing her gate spell with skill and confidence.

“The gate is open!” she cried. “Malkizid, come forth!”

Before Sarya a great ring or hoop of golden magic coalesced from the air. Through it she glimpsed the realm of Malkizid, an infernal wasteland of parched desert, windswept rifts, and black, angry skies torn by crimson lightning. Then, through the gate, the archdevil Malkizid appeared. With one smooth step he crossed from his infernal plane into the mythal chamber.

He was tall, well over six feet, and sturdy of build. His skin was marble-white, even paler and more colorless than that of a fair-complexioned moon elf. His hair was long, black, and straight, and his eyes were large and absolutely black, with no hint of pupil, iris, or white. He wore a long crimson robe embroidered with gold designs, and he carried a large silver sword point-down in one hand, keeping it close by his side. A small trickle of dark blood ran down his face from some unseen injury in the center of his forehead, but Malkizid paid it no mind.

“I am here,” he said.

“So I see,” Sarya replied.

She let her gate lapse, and immediately spoke the words of a second spell. Beneath Malkizid’s feet a complex summoning diagram flared into existence, encircling the powerful devil with a barrier of impenetrable magic.

Malkizid glanced down, and his mouth twisted in a cold imitation of a smile.

“What is this, Sarya?” he asked.

“A binding diagram that should hold even you, Malkizid. Simply a precaution in case you were not forthright about aiding me once summoned.”

“It is hardly necessary, I assure you. I have come to help you, after all. What could I possibly gain by betraying you now?”

“I have no idea, but I see no reason to invite treachery.” Sarya watched Malkizid carefully, a spell of dismissal only an instant from her lips.

Malkizid shrugged. Blood dripped from his wounded forehead.

“As you wish, then,” said the devil. “I can instruct you just as well from within this diagram. Now, will you speak the spell of mythal reading? You will need to make visible the threads that bind this artifice together.”

Sarya hesitated. “Is there any chance of warning the mythal’s creators by casting that spell here? Several of those who raised this mythal are still alive. I can think of at least one who wields Mystra’s silver fire.”

“I know of whom you speak,” Malkizid replied. He did not name the wizard Sarya was thinking of, for it was well known that Mystra’s Chosen could hear their names spoken anywhere in the world, and any words that the speaker uttered after the name. “I do not fear him, but then again, I am protected inside this exceedingly thorough summoning circle. However, the first thing we will do is silence the mythal’s alarms and prevent it from sending out any kind of warning to its creators. I will show you how.”

“Can you be certain that it will work?”

Malkizid’s dark eyes flashed, and a frown creased his noble countenance.

“Sarya Dlardrageth, I forgot more about mythalcraft ten thousand years ago than those who raised this stone managed to accumulate in all the time since. This mythal was raised by mere novices. Long ago I taught the Vyshaanti how to build wonders you could not conceive of! In the days of Aryvandaar’s glory mythals were weapons of war, and mythalcraft was the grandest and most terrible of the martial skills. Of course I know how to conceal my presence from such a device!”

Despite herself, Sarya took half a step back. For just a moment she glimpsed the ancient anger that Malkizid hoarded beneath his calm demeanor, and demon queen that she was, she still took note.

“You have had access to this mythal for nearly twenty years,” she observed. “If you are so knowledgeable, why haven’t you subverted it already?”

Malkizid grounded the point of his silver sword in the smooth stone floor and glowered at her. “First, I am not an elf, nor the recipient of any special blessing of Mystra’s. You still possess enough elf blood in your veins to deceive some of this mythal’s defenses, Sarya, while I do not. Second, I dare not set foot in the bounds of this mythal through any use of my own power. The wards raised by the Zhents two decades ago trap devils within the mythal’s bounds. I will show you how to modify that stricture soon, but until I found you, I had no one to bring me to this place who would not instantly trap me here.”

“You could be trapped here now,” Sarya said, nodding at her binding circle.

“Only if you wished to betray me,” Malkizid replied, “and I would advise you to carefully consider any such course of action, for the consequences would be severe. If nothing else, you would find me much less forthcoming with my secrets of mythalcraft if you thought to coerce me.”

Sarya weighed the devil’s words, comparing them with what she thought she knew.

“I will not betray you, Malkizid. I only seek to protect myself.” She indicated the mythal stone with a flick of her wing and asked, “Now, how do we proceed?”

“First,” said Malkizid, “I will show you how to inspect the mythal’s very structure and identify the properties that are useful, those that are dangerous, and those that you can modify with some work. Then, we will make you the mistress of this mythal, so that no one else can contest your mastery of the device or sever you from it in the way Myth Glaurach’s mythal was taken from you. Now that we have learned that your enemies can do such a thing, I see no reason to allow it to happen again.”

19 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

The first portal led to a ruined chamber high on the shoulders of an icy, windswept mountain. The bitter cold struck Araevin the instant he stepped through the magical gate, and the sting of wind-driven snow and the roar of the storm left him barely able to see or hear at all in the first moments after he arrived. He threw up one arm to shield his eyes, and peered at the old stonework around him.

“Araevin!” Ilsevele shouted to make herself heard above the wind. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know!” he called back.

Araevin finally blinked his eyes clear. The others stood around him, backs to the wind, holding cloaks close around their throats as the garments flapped and fluttered. Narrow window slits looked out over a scene of magnificent desolation, a cloud-wracked sea of black peaks and deep valleys. The chamber—and presumably, whatever structure it was a part of-actually stood well above the cloud layer. Sunlight streamed into the room, painfully bright.

About the same time of day as before, Araevin noted. We haven’t moved terribly far to the east or the west. What mountains of such size stand near Myth Glaurach? The Nether Mountains, but they are not so tall. The Spine of the World, or maybe … ?

“I think these are the Ice Mountains,” he told his companions. “Two hundred miles north of Myth Glaurach, perhaps? It’s only a guess, though.”

“We can’t stay here long,” Starbrow replied. “Can we return through the portal?”

Araevin turned to examine the blank stone face of a gateway, framed by a similar rellana vine device.

“Yes,” he replied, “but we’ll need rellana again. I’ve got the rest of the blossoms if we need to go back.”

“It’s not so bad here,” Maresa observed. The genasi seemed more at home in the frigid air and howling wind than Araevin could believe. Her cloak hung from her shoulders, ruffling gently in the wind that streamed the others’ cloaks like pennants behind them, and her long white hair drifted gently. She was a creature of the elemental air, and she was well suited for high places and strong winds. “So what do we do now?”

“Explore,” said Araevin. “See if we can find any other portals the daemonfey might have used, or a trail or path leading away from this place.”

Starbrow shifted Keryvian so that the heavy sword’s hilt was close to his hand. He looked out the window slit at the steep slopes beyond.

“There might not be a road, Araevin. All the daemonfey have wings—maybe they just flew off from here.”

“We’ll consider that possibility when we have to.” Araevin looked around the tower. The row of windows overlooking the mountain slope below stood to his left. To his right a broad swath of the chamber’s wall was simply gone, as if something had cleaved the old building with a titanic axe stroke. The stonework had an elven look to it—somewhat heavier than elves might normally build, but given the evident remoteness and difficulty of the location, he could hardly blame the builders for using whatever materials were close at hand.

Was the place a watchpost of some kind? he wondered.

They made their way through an empty archway in the intact wall to another room, this one a large rectangular hall or banquet room, also brightly lit by the dazzling sunlight on the snow. Most of the roof was absent, lying in piles of rubble and debris on the floor of the chamber. Deep snowdrifts clung to the corners of the room.