Farthest Reach (8 page)

Despite herself, Scyllua felt her clarity slip just a fraction. What could Perestrom’s report signify? she thought. A new army in Myth Drannor? One that could rally the devils of the city to their banner? At the very least, it meant that further Zhentarim expeditions to the ruined elven city must be undertaken with even more care and preparation than usual. Could it pose a threat to Zhentil Keep itself? That many spellcasters and devils would be a formidable force, if they found a way to escape the wards imprisoning them within Myth Drannor’s walls. But there were lesser states between Myth Drannor and Zhentil Keep—the Dales, for instance, or Moonsea cities such as Hillsfar.

Threat, or opportunity?

“Very well, Perestrom. I agree that this merits more investigation.” Scyllua lifted her unfocused gaze to the wizard’s eyes until Perestrom looked away, his self-assurance not quite up to the intensity of her attention. “I will speak to Lord Fzoul about this, and we will consider how our ignorance might be amended.”

*****

Ilsevele left Araevin to continue his researches by himself, spending her time in the company of Maresa and Filsaelene. She said that she simply wanted more time to wander Silverymoon’s tree-shaded streets and explore its odd shops, quaint markets, and famed universities, but Araevin could read her silent disapproval well enough. He promised himself that he would set aside his work for a time and join her in taking in Silverymoon’s sights, but first he wanted to see what he could find out about star elves and the longdead mage named Morthil, who had helped Ithraides destroy the Dlardrageths in Arcorar five thousand years ago.

On the morning of his fifth day in the Vault, and his second alone, Araevin found himself striding from reading room to reading room in search of Calwern, anxious to locate the next manuscript on his ever-growing list. He glanced out the leaded glass windows that marched along the hall, noting the bright spring sunshine outside and the soft and distant sound of the breeze caressing the branches of the stately old shadowtops sheltering the Vault’s windows, when he felt the cold, tingling presence of strange magic arise within his mind Araevin recoiled, dropping the sheaf of paper he carried and whirling to search the empty halls around him. Faint whispers of distant magic coiled in his mind, and he felt a presence forming, a sense of grim competence behind it.

He started to speak the words of an arcane defense, but then he felt a familiar visage behind the magic, a stern face with a thin beard of black and gray, features somewhere between an elf’s and a human’s.

“A sending,” he murmured, feeling more than a little foolish. He relaxed and focused his attention on the message.

Araevin, this is Jorildyn, spoke the distant voice in his mind. We have found portals under Myth Glaurach. Starbrow suspects the daemonfey built them. Can you come and investigate?

The magic of the sending lingered, awaiting his response. Araevin frowned, considering Jorildyn’s message.

I will be there in a few days, he replied. Contact me again if you need me to be there any sooner.

Then Jorildyn’s sending faded, its magic expended by Araevin’s response.

He glanced up at the bright spring sunshine filling the old library, and fought off a shudder. Portals … of course, he thought. But where do they lead? Sarya and her followers might easily have made their escape through the magical doorways. A portal might lead anywhere—a forgotten dungeon, an undead-haunted tomb, the sunless depths of the Underdark, even a network of other portals—anywhere. And without the proper key, it might prove impossible to pursue Sarya and her followers at all. Araevin had certainly studied enough of the magical gateways to know that.

“Master Teshurr, are you well?” Calwern asked. The Deneirrath cleric hurried into the hallway, his kind old face anxious with concern.

“Yes. Forgive me—I just received a sending,” Araevin said, coming back to the library with a start. “I am afraid I must go.”

“Is there anything we can do for you?”

“No, my friend, I think I must leave Silverymoon.”

“I see. Do you know when you will return?” Calwern asked.

“A couple of tendays, I hope?” Araevin stooped and picked up the lists he had dropped, quickly setting them back in order again. “While I am gone, will you have your sages look into these sources for me? I will come back soon and see what you and your colleagues have learned.”

“Of course.” Calwern took the papers, bowed, and touched his brow and heart in the elven manner. In Elvish he said, “Sweet water and light laughter until we meet again, then.”

“And to you,” Araevin replied.

He returned the cleric’s parting, then hurried out of the Vault of the Sages, making his way to the Golden Oak.

In the middle of the day, the inn yard was almost empty, the tables beneath the great oak tree deserted and silent. He found his way to the room Ilsevele and he shared. She was not there, nor were Maresa and Filsaelene in their own rooms, so Araevin began to pack up his belongings, making ready to leave. He settled the account with the innkeeper for all of them, and he waited for his companions.

Not long before dusk, Ilsevele, Maresa, and Filsaelene returned to the inn, tired but in good spirits after another day of wandering Silverymoon’s streets and markets. Araevin stirred himself from a shallow Reverie as they bustled into the room, laughing at some jest or another.

“Good evening,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You’re an elf, you’re good at it,” Maresa observed. She grinned at her own wit. “In fact, we can go back out again for a while, if you’d like.”

Ilsevele glanced at his pack and staff by the door, and the soft smile faded from her perfect features. She looked back to Araevin, her expression guarded.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

“I’ve heard news of the daemonfey, I think.” Araevin stood. “Starbrow had Jorildyn speak to me in a sending. Your father’s warriors have found some portals hidden beneath Myth Glaurach, and Starbrow suspects that the daemonfey might have built them or used them for their own purposes. He asked me to examine the portals. I told him I would come within a few days.”

“Portals? Leading where?” Maresa demanded. “More troll-haunted forests, or monster-plagued caves? I’ve had enough of portals, thank you.”

“I won’t know where they lead until I see them for myself,” Araevin said. He looked at his companions, and gestured at the inn room. “Starbrow asked for me, and I intend to go. But there’s no need for you to leave Silverymoon, if you would prefer to stay.”

“I’ll come,” Ilsevele said at once. “My father’s fight against the daemonfey is my fight, too, and my place is with you.”

Araevin nodded. He hadn’t really expected anything other than that from her, even after their argument in the Vault.

“It may be nothing,” he said. “But, if Starbrow has stumbled onto the trail of the daemonfey, it might be more than a little dangerous to follow them. I might stumble into the middle of Sarya’s audience chamber again. Or they may set magical traps or monstrous guardians to discourage pursuit.”

“You are going to attempt those portals, regardless of the danger,” Ilsevele observed. “I will, too.”

“Why do they need you for this task, Araevin?” Filsaelene asked. “Aren’t there dozens of skilled mages with Seiveril and Starbrow at Myth Glaurach?”

“Yes, there are, but Araevin’s made a special study of portal magic over the last few years,” Ilsevele answered for him. “He knows as much about portals as any mage in Faerun by now.”

“When are you leaving?” Filsaelene asked.

“Tonight or tomorrow morning,” Araevin said. “I can make arrangements for you to remain here as long as you like, Filsaelene. I don’t want to turn you out in the street. You too, Maresa.”

Filsaelene frowned, her eyes dark and thoughtful. “No, I think I would like to come with you. If your business with the daemonfey isn’t finished yet, the least I can do is help you finish it. If you hadn’t found me when you did, I doubt that Sarya would have left me alive in that dungeon when she abandoned Myth Glaurach.”

“You don’t owe us any debt, Filsaelene,” Ilsevele said. “We would have aided anybody in your circumstances.”

“I know,” the young sun elf said. “But … even if I owe you nothing for saving me from the daemonfey dungeons, I owe something to my friends who died fighting the daemonfey. If I can help to make the daemonfey answer for the evil they have caused, I will.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to stay here by myself,” Maresa muttered. She crossed her arms and glared at Araevin. “Next time, let’s find something that needs doing in a city like Calimshan or Waterdeep, instead of some musty old ruins in the middle of the wilderness.”

“It’s our task, not yours,” Araevin said. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, yes I do,” Maresa said. “I didn’t know him as long as you did, Araevin, but Grayth was my friend, too. And Brant, as well. If you have any chance of finding where that demonspawned bitch Sarya is hiding, I want to be a part of it. I’m in the habit of killing people who murder my friends.”

Araevin grimaced. Maresa had struck straight at a point he had half-forgotten. Caught up in the mystery of Saelethil’s lore, it had somehow slipped from the forefront of his mind that his oldest and truest human friend had not survived their battles against the daemonfey.

“I will be glad for your company, then,” he told Maresa.

Ilsevele looked down at the pack by the door. “So we are leaving now?” she said.

“Soon,” Araevin replied. “I just wanted to be ready. But if we all are going … it’s dusk, and the daemonfey already have a twenty-day head start. Tomorrow morning is good enough.”

Maresa brightened. “Well, good, then. I was afraid I wouldn’t have one more chance to drink and dance all night long before we set out.”

“It’ll be a hard day of travel tomorrow, if you overdo it this evening,” Filsaelene warned.

“That,” said Maresa, “will be tomorrow’s problem.”

13 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

Seiveril Miritar spent much of his time in Leuthilspar closeted with Keryth Blackhelm and other captains of Evermeet’s armies and knighthoods, describing in exacting detail the course of the campaign his Crusade had fought across the wilderlands of the North. As best he could, he told them how he had confronted the daemonfey army and their demonic allies—which tactics worked against an army of winged sorcerers, which weapons and spells served to defeat demons and which did not.

When he finished with that task, he steeled himself for a duty he had no heart for, but that he had to do. After he tarried in Leuthilspar for a day more, he outfitted a riding horse in the stables of his family’s villa in the capital and left the city. He rode north into the green meadows and airy forests of the western hills, to the small forest estate of Elvath Muirreste. There he visited with Nera Muirreste, Elvath’s wife, and as best he could he told her how Elvath had died. She had heard of Elvath’s fall already, and greeted him wearing the gray veil of mourning.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” Seiveril said to her. “Elvath was more than my captain-at-arms and adviser. He was my friend. I cannot tell you how much I regret his death.”

Lady Muirreste sighed. “I know, Seiveril. Elvath thought the world of you, and he answered your call to arms with a willing heart. His death is almost more than I can bear, but it gives me comfort to know that he died fighting for a good and true cause.” Nera sat in silence for a time then she set her hand on his and asked, “How did it happen? I only heard that he fell fighting outside Evereska.”

“Elvath had command of our right flank,” Seiveril said. He found that he was glad of the opportunity to simply recount the tale, rather than search for comforting words. “Our cavalry was there. They fought valiantly and well all morning. Elvath’s forces were outnumbered, but he commanded some of our best companies, and they used their speed and courage to great effect.

“After an hour of fighting, we repelled the daemonfey attack, and their lines broke. Their army fell back in retreat. I sent our cavalry in pursuit, and Elvath and his Silver Guard drove the orcs and ogres and the rest out of the West Cwm, sealing our victory. But near the top of the Sentinel Pass on the far side of the Cwm, Elvath was killed by a boulder thrown by a giant. He was simply looking the wrong way and had no chance to dodge it.” Seiveril paused then added, “He was killed at once.”

“Were you there?”

“No, I was tending to wounded on the far side of the vale when he fell. I might have been able to save him, had I been closer. But so many of our warriors were injured in the early fighting …” He made himself look into Nera’s eyes. “I left the pursuit in Elvath’s hands, because my healing was needed so badly where I was. I should have led the pursuit myself.”

Nera squeezed his hand. “Did others live because you chose as you did?”

Seiveril considered the question. “Yes. The healing spells I cast that day likely saved a number of people who otherwise would have died.”

“Then I am certain that I do not regret your decision, Seiveril. And I know that Elvath would not, either.” Nera Muirreste released his hand, and smiled sadly behind her veil.

Seiveril took his leave an hour later, and rode back to Leuthilspar in the afternoon, taking his time. Hundreds of elves who had followed him to Faerun had fallen in battle, and he owed visits to many more people, a burden that should have broken his heart. Yet Nera’s question kept him from drowning in the grief he felt.

Did others live because I chose as I did? he asked himself. And the answer was an unequivocal yes. Elf warriors who fell in battle against the daemonfey had undoubtedly spared many more lives, the lives of many others who had no skill for battle and otherwise might have died terrible deaths. He grieved for each son or daughter of Evermeet who died following his banner, but he could not bring himself to believe that he had been wrong to take up arms against the daemonfey threat.

He returned to Leuthilspar late in the afternoon, following the familiar boulevards and winding ways that led to the Miritar villa. He tended to his horse himself, dismissing the groom as he unsaddled the animal, rubbed it down, brushed its coat, watered it, and put away the tack and harness. He had just filled the feed bag and was finishing his work, when he became aware of someone watching him from the stable door.