Forsaken House (43 page)

“Reform the knights. We’ll swing back toward the south and turn east to take the damned fey’ri in the flank. If we can defeat them, the orcs and ogres will break.”

Seiveril glanced up into the dark skies overhead. Stars were beginning to appear through the violet wisps of the day’s overcast, illuminated by the last faint rays of the sunset far to the west. The clouds were breaking up. It would be a clear and starry night.

“I don’t know what became of the demons,” Seiveril said, “but the Seldarine are smiling on us tonight.”

The western skies still glowed with the fading gold of sunset over Evermeet. Amlaruil strolled along a balcony of the palace, looking down over the dark streets of Leuthilspar as one by one the warm lanterns of the elven city began to wake beneath the stars. The night was cool and the sea-breezes growing stronger. She listened to the voice of the waves and the wind, even as her handmaidens laughed and chattered behind her.

Zaltarish walked at her side, a thin staff in his hand.

“You must give Lady Durothil an answer of some kind soon,” he said. “If nothing else, she will insist on a date by which you will reach your decision concerning the council.”

“I meant what I said,” Amlaruil began. “Filling the council is my prerogative, not hers, and I will do so in the time and manner that—”

Her eyes opened wider, and she drew in a small gasp. There was something in the Weave, subtle, a distant vibration as if a great, deep harp string had been touched a great distance away. Her step faltered and she gripped the balustrade, turning to peer east over the dark sea.

“What is it, my queen?” Zaltarish asked softly.

“High magic in Faerun,” the queen said. “Not a true spell of high magic, only the … touching of one. It resonates in the Weave.”

The scribe followed her eyes toward distant Faerun and asked, “What does it signify?”

Amlaruil gazed into the night for a long time, then lifted up her face, smiling at the stars.

“I am not certain, old friend, but I think a mighty blow has been struck against our enemies. Sunrise will find new things in Faerun.”

The damaged Vyshaanti battle-platform hovered high over the battlefield of the Lonely Moor, its deck canted slightly to one side. Sarya didn’t know if the device could be repaired or not, but she was unwilling to abandon it, even with its crumpled and scorched armor plates. But sooner or later the platform would certainly draw another attack from the elf spellcasters below, and it was only a tool, after all. Broken tools were to be discarded, and that was that.

The savage warriors who had fought and died as the fodder for her army were rapidly reaching the status of broken tools as well. Untold numbers of orcs, ogres, and such had fallen in the futile attempt to overwhelm the

deadly steel core of Evermeet’s army. They’d done well enough while the elves were beset by hundreds of demons and flanked by her fey’ri, but the demons she’d seeded among their ragged ranks had served to drive the tribal warriors onward with suitable zeal. With the demons gone, the orcs and their kin didn’t seem so eager to try their chances against elven arrows and battle magic

“The battle is lost, my lady,” Mardeiym Reithel said. He bowed and continued, “We must withdraw the fey’ri before our losses grow any worse.”

“I know,” Sarya snarled.

She was tempted to punish the fey’ri for his temerity, but she held her hand. Mardeiym was competent and respectful, and it was certainly not his fault that he’d lost a quarter of the army-the fiercest and most powerful quarter, really-in one terrible moment. She had to get back to Myth Glaurach right away to see what had happened to the mythal stone. Had it finally decayed past the point of usefulness? Or had one of her underlings attempted something rash? Was Nurthel capable of such a brazen act of defiance?

“Signal the legion to disengage at once,” she commanded. “Leave the orcs and the rest to the mercy of the elves. They shall serve to cover our retreat.”

Mardeiym called to the messenger fey’ri who waited on his orders. “Sound the retreat!” he said. “We’ll retire by air.”

The messengers sounded their brazen trumpets, and from the melee of flashing swords and crackling spells below, the fey’ri began to rise, taking to the air. Better than a thousand of Sarya’s demonblooded warriors had started the battle at sunset, but she guessed that a third of her fey’ri would not return to the halls of Myth Glaurach. Demons could be summoned again. Orc tribes could be enticed with promises of loot and easy victory. But her fey’ri were indispensable.

“What will we do now, my lady?” Mardeiym asked quietly.

Sarya clenched her fists on the iron rail of the platform

until the strength in her fingers left marks in the armor plate.

“Preserve the fey’ri,” she answered. “Fall back and regroup to fight another day. You will gather the fey’ri and lead them back to our city at your best speed, but do not abandon the wounded if you can help it.”

“Where will you be, my lady?”

“I must return to Myth Glaurach immediately to see what has happened there. Now go.”

“Yes, Lady Sarya,” the fey’ri warmaster replied.

He struck his fist to his breastplate in salute, and took to the air to join the fey’ri flying away from the battle.

Sarya spared the elf soldiers beneath her one hateful hiss, then she teleported herself away from the battle-platform. It was rash of her, but she chose to send herself directly to the mythal stone in its deep well of living rock. She needed to know what had happened to the spells with which she had anchored her demons to the physical world.

She appeared in a gout of sudden flame, her spell shields crackling into life, her staff held in guard as she readied herself to strike. But no enemies awaited her.

“What is this?” she snarled into the cold air.

There was no reply.

Angrily, she stalked over to the great rosy stone and set her hand on it, commanding it to reveal what had been done to it. But the mythal refused to answer. It did not recognize her presence at all.

“Who did this?” she screamed aloud. “Who did this?”

Ah, Sarya, I see that you have returned. You may be pleased to learn that I can answer that question, Malkizid’s beautiful voice spoke from the mythal stone, melodious and perfect.

“Malkizid! What has happened to the mythal?”

I regret to inform you that a sun elf wizard with some skill in these matters appeared in this chamber a short time ago, and performed some alterations to your mythal stone. I presume from the outrage in your voice that he has sealed the mythal from any further contact on your part.

“Why did you not stop him?” Sarya raged.

I had no power to do so. I can communicate through this device, but I can exercise none of my powers at your end. Malkizid allowed himself a small laugh then added, I warned the fellow that you would be terribly angry.

“This is no laughing matter,” the daemonfey queen snarled. “The loss of this mythal just now wrecked my army on the Lonely Moor. I had the palebloods trapped between my demons and my fey’ri, and my demons vanished all at once. My victory was stolen from me, damn you!” She whirled away in anger, stalking the floor of the mythal chamber, eyes aflame with emerald fire. “This is intolerable. I must resummon those demons and yugoloths at once.”

Alas, this mythal will no longer serve you for that purpose. The sun elf who came here made certain of that. Malkizid’s golden voice paused then added, But … there are other mythals you might turn to your purposes.

The daemonfey queen stopped in mid-step and snapped her gaze to the rose-hued boulder, even though she knew that Malkizid was not really there.

“Myth Drannor,” she said

I have no ability to manipulate the mythal of Cormanthor, for I am not an elf However, with your elf’s blood and my knowledge of mythalcraft, we could accomplish far more in Myth Drannor than you could in Myth Glaurach. Is it really necessary to begin your reign by reclaiming Siluvanede? Or are you willing to found your dynasty here instead?

Sarya folded her wings close behind her back, and narrowed her eyes.

“Before my family came to Siluvanede, we sought the throne of Arcorar. I am not without a claim to Cormanthyr’s throne.” She considered the offer, examining the possibilities, and said, “Your suggestion interests me. I gain the kingdom denied my House for six thousand years, but what do you gain, Malkizid?”

The light tones of the golden voice vanished for an instant.

Freedom, Malkizid answered. And the dream of a new Aryvandaar ordering the world as it should have long ago. Our paths run together for quite a long time, Sarya Dlardrageth.

The daemonfey queen weighed Malkizid’s words, and assented with a predatory smile.

“Very well. I will bring my fey’ri to Myth Drannor, and we will make ready an army even greater and more terrible than the one I just raised.”

I await your arrival, then.

Sarya nodded. She did not entirely trust Malkizid, but she couldn’t see what he might gain from leading her astray, and what he said made sense to her. Already she was considering the questions of how to carry away the treasures and armaments she had stored beneath Myth Glaurach. There was much to do, and not much time. She started to turn away, but then one more thought struck her.

“One last thing, Malkizid,” she rasped. “Tell me—who ruined this mythal for me, and where can I find him?”

Seven days after the Battle of the Lonely Moor, Fflar watched Seiveril Miritar raise his banner in the forest-grown ruins of Myth Glaurach. The daemonfey were gone. The crusade’s Eagle Knights had cautiously followed the retreating fey’ri legion to their hidden stronghold in the Talons of the Delimbiyr, but a day before the rest of Seiveril’s army reached the outskirts of the ancient Eaerlanni city, the fey’ri had vanished without a trace. Having lost their demon allies and abandoned their orc and ogre warriors, the fey’ri seemed disinclined to meet Evermeet’s army again.

“It was a handsome city in its day,” Seiveril observed.

Along with Araevin, Ilsevele, and Maresa, he had wandered through the ruins with Fflar for a time, studying the stinking forges and warrenlike

friends,” he said. “I called for a Return. Our work is not yet done.”

The others fell silent, sensing the sternness in the elflord’s voice. Seiveril studied each in turn, and his smile softened.

“For now,” he said, “the fey’ri are nowhere to be found. Come, friends; join me for supper in my tent.”

Ilsevele took her father’s arm, and Araevin fell in close beside her on the other side. But Fflar found himself hanging back. The dead ruins of Myth Glaurach still had more to say to him, and in the melancholy mood stealing over him, he felt more kinship to the ghosts of that place-so like his own lost city—than he did to the elves with whom he lived a second time.

Ilsevele glanced over her shoulder, noticing his absence, and asked, “Lord Starbrow? Aren’t you coming?”

“Go on ahead. I’ll follow shortly.”

Fflar watched the sun elf lord and his entourage descend back to the crusade’s camp. The sun was setting, and the lanterns of the elven army surrounded the foot of the hill like a garland of candles amid the trees. The evening was fine and clear, with little of the cold wind that often raked the Delimbiyr Vale in the early spring, but Fflar could tell that it would be quite cold later on. It suited his mood.

The open square before the ruined palace was not unlike the broad plaza that had stood before Castle Cormanthyr. He remembered a hot, humid day with a brassy sky and the smoke of burning homes thick in the air, and he shuddered.

What is this place? he wondered. What am I doing here? A lifetime ago I fought for the People, and now I live and fight again.

“Did I know peace in Arvandor?” he asked the emptiness, but he found no answer.

He sighed and sank down on the low, jumbled stones of an old stone wall, listening to the silence of the ruins.