PROLOGUE
26 Kythorn, the Year of Doom (714 DR)

In a gentle summer rain shower, Fflar Starbrow Melruth and his company fought for their lives on the outskirts of Myth Drannor. The streets of the Sheshyrinnam-the Temple Ward—were choked with blood-maddened throngs of gnolls whose battle cries sounded like the barking and snarling of hyenas. Towering mezzoloths, insectoid fiends armed with heavy iron tridents or simply their own sickle-like claws, waded through the feral gnoll warriors to reach the elven ranks
"There are too many, Fflar! We cannot reach the tower!" cried Elkhazel.
The sun elf swordsman was not generally given to despair, but Fflar could hear the hopelessness in his voice. All morning long the armsmen in Fflar's command, a sturdy company of Akh Velar infantry, had fought alongside many others to repel the
assault on the Temple Ward. But the evil warriors came on without a break, heedless of their own lives.
"We cannot abandon Crownfrost!" Fflar replied. "The arms-major is still fighting inside!"
He turned away from Elkhazel to meet the attack of a pair of axe-wielding gnolls. He cut one down with a quick drop and thrust into the warrior's midsection, deflecting the blow with an expert turn of his left-hand dagger. The other simply disappeared into the confused melee. Unfortunately, Elkhazel was right—there were too many foes, more savage warriors and hellspawned fiends than Fflar could have imagined in the whole world. So many gnolls lay dead or dying in the street surrounding Fflar's company that the elves could not form ranks or fight the battle of maneuver that might have favored their quickness and skill over the gnolls' brute strength.
Only forty yards ahead of Fflar's embattled company, the pale walls of Crownfrost Tower rose over the streets. Home to one of the city's wizard schools, it held no great secrets that Fflar knew of—but it happened to be a strongly built building on the city's outskirts. As such, the fiendlord commanding the enemy horde had chosen to launch his assault on that part of the elven city by seizing Crownfrost. Arms-Major Olortynnal had had no choice but to deny it to him. Somewhere in the tower Olortynnal and a small company of elite bladesingers and champions fought to repel the horde's attack, but the press of gnolls, mezzoloths, and other foul warriors had surrounded Crownfrost, keeping the elf armsmen outside from going to the aid of their commander.
We need a better plan, Fflar thought.
He stepped back from the front ranks, searching for some alternative, some order he could give that would change the character of the fight. As long as his soldiers were under assault from nearly all sides at once, there was little he could do.
He glared at Crownfrost, so near, and yet so unattainable, and to his surprise he spotted a pair of elves fighting desperately on the broken battlements-Arms-Major
Olortynnal himself, commander of Cormanthyr's army, and his second, Arms-Captain Selorn. Mezzoloths attacked the two recklessly, coming on despite horrible wounds, and nycaloths flapped ponderously in the air above the tower, closing in for the kill.
"Fflar! The arms-major!" Elkhazel called.
"I see him," Fflar answered. He didn't know how he could help the beleaguered champions, but he had to do something. Shouting a war cry in Elvish, he dashed forward into the line again, and hurled himself against the press, slashing and cutting on all sides as he struggled step by step for Crownfrost.
By the random opportunities of battle, or by the fury of his own counterattack, Fflar found a narrow space around himself.
"Follow me!" he called, and pressed ahead.
When next he found the chance to look up to Crownfrost, he saw a nycaloth alight behind Selorn and cleave the arms-captain to the breastbone with its heavy axe. The blow crumpled the warrior to the ground at one stroke. Olortynnal half turned to meet the new threat. With his back unguarded, the mezzoloth that had been in front of him stepped close and jammed the points of its trident between the elflord's shoulders. More weapons flashed, and blood splattered the wet stone of the tower's top. The arms-major sagged, only to be seized by the nycaloth and hurled down from the battlements with a shout of infernal triumph.
"Arms-Major!" Fflar cried.
Olortynnal struck the white flagstones of the street only a few feet from Fflar and lay still, his sword Keryvian clattering from his loose fingers. The gnolls all around Fflar hooted and yipped, shaking their weapons in delight, while the young captain stared in dismay at the broken body of Cormanthyr's great champion.
"Olortynnal. . . ." he said.
A gnoll standing near the fallen elflord stooped and split the dead arms-major's skull with its battle-axe. It howled in delight and shook its gory weapon in the air. Fflar's momentary horror vanished in an instant, replaced by a white-hot fury. Without even knowing how he did it, he hurled himself through the remaining gnolls and rammed the point of his long sword through the breastbone of the gnoll that had struck the fallen Olortynnal. The creature spun away, Fflar's blade lodged in its heart, and wrenched Fflar's sword from his hand.
Gnolls all around the young captain snarled with hate and moved in, axes and maces raised. Fflar found himself standing astride Olortynnal's body, wielding only a dagger in his left hand.
At least I will die defending a great champion, he told himself.
Then his eye fell on Keryvian, the arms-major's sword.
Quick as a fox, Fflar discarded his dagger and stooped to pick up Keryvian. It was a heavy hand-and-a-half sword of arcane blue steel, its edges slightly wavy, its hilt worked in the shape of a blue dragon's head and wings. Whether it was meant for him or not, he was in need of a sword, and better that he should take it than leave it to be stolen by gnolls or broken by demons.
A brilliant azure gleam sprung from the blade as his hand touched the hilt, and a cold steel voice seemed to whisper in his mind. I am Keryvian, last of Demron's blades. I will not fail in my strike, warrior.
Fflar nearly dropped the weapon in astonishment, but he was already in mid-swing, a wicked uppercut that sliced through the throat of the nearest gnoll and ended by cleaving the snoutlike face of a second one standing nearby. Keryvian burned with holy fire, and Fflar wheeled to face any other gnolls nearby.
They were backing away from him, yellow eyes fixed on the mighty sword. Fflar's soldiers cried out in acclaim, and surged forward to drive off the savage warriors, cutting down any who did not run. A great shadow fell over Fflar, and he looked up to see the nycaloth who had slain Selorn spiraling down toward him, great black wings spread wide, axe dripping in its claws.
"Get away from my prize, fool!" the monster bellowed. "I slew him. I claim his arms!"
Keryvian burned bright in Fflar's hands, and the captain raised the sword above his head in a high guard. The big warblade felt as light as a willow switch in his hands, and he could feel it burning with holy wrath against the infernal creature approaching. Fflar met the master with a grim smile.
"There is no prize for you here, hellspawn!" he called to the nycaloth. "Come any closer, and I will send you back to the foul pits from which you crawled!"
The nycaloth roared in wrath and plummeted down on Fflar. Despite his defiant words, terror knotted his chest—but then Keryvian spoke again in his mind.
I will not fail in my strike, the sword promised.

CHAPTER ONE
30 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

The high mage's summons found Araevin Teshurr in his workroom, quietly making ready to leave Tower Reilloch. He was just finishing with the last of his spellbooks, efficiently stowing them in a well-warded magical trunk, when the lilting voice of Kileontheal, last surviving High Mage of Reilloch Domayr, whispered in his mind.
Mage Teshurr, please join us in the great hall, she said. We would speak with you.
Araevin looked up at the interruption, and a flicker of impatience tightened his brow. He had frankly hoped to avoid this leave-taking, when it came down to it. But no elf wizard declined a summons from a high mage, let alone a roomful of them, and he knew that Kileontheal was not alone. He sketched a graceful bow to the empty air. "I will come," he replied.
That is the second time this year I have been called to the great hall by the high mages, he observed. They are beginning to make a habit of it.
He shook his head and placed the last spellbook in the trunk, closing and locking it with a whisper of powerful magic. Then he straightened and surveyed the workroom with a long, slow gaze. For better than eighty years Araevin had belonged to the Circle of Tower Reilloch, earning the right to call himself Mage, as well as the respect of his fellows. But the time had come for him to leave his studies there.
He caught a glance of his visage in a mirror hanging by the door, and smiled without humor. He looked the same as he had the day he first set foot in the tower, a tall sun elf with a long, sparely built frame, and an intelligent, inquisitive expression to his bronzed face. But his eyes were colder than they used to be, and there was a hardness to his demeanor that hadn't been there only a few months ago. After arduous travel, great battles, and deadly peril in the wildernesses of Faerun over the past four months, Araevin had become as sharp and unyielding as a blade of fine elven steel, as if fate had conspired to hammer out of him the ease of his former life.
He did not like the way that felt.
"Enough delay," he told the face in the mirror. "I am not so important that I can expect high mages to wait on me."
But Araevin took one more moment to touch his hand to his chest, running his fingers across the smooth purple gemstone that lay embedded there. The selukiira of Saelethil Dlardrageth was invisible to any but a wizard's eyes, and it lay concealed beneath his clothing, but Araevin found that he was hesitant to appear before Kileontheal and the others with the stone on his person.
They will notice if I do not bring it, he decided.
He frowned into the mirror again then slipped out the door, locking it behind him with another word of power. Even though Tower Reilloch was arguably one of the best-defended places on Evermeet, Araevin had acquired a very active sense of caution of late. Only a few months before, the daemonfey had proved that even a wizards' tower in Evermeet was not beyond attack.
Araevin strode easily through the familiar halls, strangely ill at ease on the day of departure. But the Queen's Guards who stood watch before the hall's doors of blueleaf and mithral greeted him amiably enough, and admitted him to the high mages without hesitation.
Bright sunlight filled the great hall, streaming in through the simple glass panes of the dome overhead. The high hall had been virtually demolished during the daemonfey raid against Tower Reilloch, but in the hundred days since the battle, artificers had worked long and skillfully to repair the battered chamber. The dome was not yet set with magic theurglass—that was the work of years, not months—but for the time being mundane glass served well, filling the elegant hall with slanting rays of warm spring daylight.
"Ah. Welcome, Araevin. Thank you for joining us." High Mage Kileontheal stood amid a half-circle of five high mages, the most Araevin had ever seen together in one place. She was a slender sun elf woman who might have been a girl of thirty, but she was in fact a full five centuries in age. Like all high mages, Kileontheal embodied a spirit of tremendous power in the frail envelope of a mortal, the potency of her Art almost shining from her wise face and slender form. She had been gravely injured by a madness spell during the daemonfey attack on the tower, but she had since been restored to her power and sanity by subtle songs of healing. Kileontheal had been fortunate; the High Mages Philaerin and Aeramma Durothil, the other two high mages of Reilloch Domayr, had not survived the attack.
"I am at your service," Araevin replied, bowing.
He stole a quick glance at the other high mages who stood with Kileontheal. To his surprise, he recognized the Grand Mage of Evermeet, Breithel Olithir himself. Next to him stood the wry and good-humored moon elf Anfalen, then a cold and distant moon elf diviner named Isilfarrel,
and finally a stern old sun elf whom Araevin guessed to be the lorekeeper Haldreithen.
"Are you well?" Kileontheal asked. "How is Ilsevele?"
"I am well enough. Ilsevele is in Silverymoon, visiting the court of Alustriel on behalf of her father. I have not seen her in a couple of tendays now, but we have spoken in sendings." In truth, Araevin had found that he had become accustomed to being apart from his betrothed. Despite the months they'd traveled together earlier in the year, they had spent years away from each other during their two decades of engagement. "How may I help you, High Mage?"
"I have heard that you intend to leave Tower Reilloch," Kileontheal said.
"Yes, High Mage. I feel that my studies here are concluded, at least for now. It's time for me to follow my own road."
"Where will you go?"
Araevin glanced at the others, who stood watching with impassive faces. High mages did not assemble for small talk, and he could not believe that they were all so interested in his comings or goings.
"The House of Cedars, Lady Kileontheal. I have not kept it up as I should have. And its solitude will suit my researches well."
"I am sorry to see you depart Reilloch, Araevin. So many of our comrades were lost in the daemonfey raid. Tower Reilloch is not the place it used to be." Kileontheal studied his face for a moment then added, "But perhaps you are not the mage you used to be, either."
He looked up sharply at that. Kileontheal did not miss much, did she? He met her gaze levelly.
"No, High Mage. I am not. The trials of the last few months have hardened me, and Saelethil's selukiira has provided me with whole new fields of lore to decipher, things I could not have imagined before." He indicated the great hall with a turn of his hand, "I have done everything that I can here at Reilloch."
"The study of high magic awaits you here if you stay, Araevin."
Araevin smiled and said, "While I have changed much in the last few months, I have not grown fifty years older."
"It is not an unreasonable wait," the moon elf Anfalen said. "You would be taking up high magic at less than three hundred years of age. Very few of us do that, Araevin."
"I know. When the time comes, I will be honored to begin my studies." He looked at the high mages facing him and frowned. "Is there some reason I should not leave Reilloch?"
Kileontheal inclined her head. Without meaning to, she seemed to be looking down at him from a great height indeed, though she was barely five feet tall. "We have been discussing your recovery of the selukiira, and your subsequent reweaving of Myth Glaurach's mythal. Lord Seiveril reports that your efforts resulted in the dismissal of a small army of summoned fiends, and led directly to his victory on the Lonely Moor, as well as the flight of the fey'ri legion and their daemonfey lords. You have accomplished great things since you left Evermeet a few short months ago."
"Thank you, High Mage."
"However," Kileontheal said, not quite interrupting him, "We are . . . concerned about the nature of the high loregem you have found, this Nightstar." She glanced at the others, and back to Araevin. "May we see it again?"
"It is deadly perilous to touch, High Mage. I have escaped harm only because of an accident of genealogy. The Nightstar of Saelethil will not spare you if you are careless."
"We will be careful, Araevin. None of us will try our strength against Saelethil's today," Breithel Olithir answered. The grand mage was new in his post, having ascended to his duties only a year ago. He too was a sun elf, dignified and stolid, but Araevin still sensed uncertainty about him. So many of Evermeet's mages had perished in the past few years, killed in Kymil Nimesin's rebellion of six years past, or lost in the expeditions to defend Evereska against the monstrous phaerimm only four years later. Olithir would have been the fifth or sixth choice for the title he held had other high mages lived, and most knew it.
The grand mage offered a small nod, and Araevin acquiesced with a flickering frown. He reached his right hand into his shirt and closed his fingers around the cold facets of the selukiira. The gemstone slipped painlessly from the flesh over his breastbone, leaving not a mark on him to show where it had been anchored to his very bones a moment before. Araevin willed it to become fully visible, and it appeared in his hand, a fine crystal of deep violet about the size of a woman's thumb, etched meticulously with tiny lavender runes.
He whispered a word and left it suspended head-high in the air, floating in place under the power of its ancient enchantments.
He withdrew three steps and said, "I remind you again, the Nightstar is very dangerous."
The high mages moved closer, though none approached closer than a full arm's length. Kileontheal pursed her lips thoughtfully as she studied the dark facets. Breithel Olithir whispered the words of seeing spells and stared intensely at the flickering spell-auras he read in the gemstone. The loremaster Haldreithen simply frowned, saying nothing.
Finally Breithel sighed and turned away from the Nightstar. "It is an old stone, of that I am certain—old, and strong."
"That is what I told you," Araevin said.
"Yes, but I wanted to see for myself. The selukiira might have instructed you to lie about its origins."
"Grand Mage, I am not under the stone's control. Examine me, if you are not sure."
"We have already," Haldreithen said. The scholar measured Araevin with a long look. "Just because no sign of the stone's dominion is obvious does not mean that you are not under its influence. After all, through this thing you wielded spells of mythalcraft we did not even suspect were possible. Who is to say that this Saelethil Dlardrageth didn't possess enchantments that we cannot detect?"
"If the Nightstar had overthrown my mind, Loremaster, why did it then permit me to strike against Sarya Dlardrageth and bar her from the mythal of Myth Glaurach?"
Araevin demanded. "For that matter, why did it not hide its identity, and invent a more innocuous origin? It could have used me to subvert one of you if it had concealed its true origin."
"Sometimes half a truth is the best way to cover a lie," the moon elf Anfalen said. "Still, I agree that your Nightstar would probably not have allowed you to tell us so much about it, if it really controlled your mind."
"Even if you are not shackled to the stone's will, you may be under a more subtle influence," Kileontheal said. "If you are right, the Nightstar is the handiwork of a monster. Selukiira hold much of their maker in them, and it seems to me that you might be wise to put it away somewhere for safekeeping and never handle it again."
"Better to destroy the thing outright," Haldreithen added.
"I understand your concerns," Araevin replied. "But consider this: The Nightstar holds spells of mythalcraft that no elf has known for five thousand years. Secrets as old as ancient Aryvandaar remain inside the selukiira. I do not understand all of them now, but in time I will."
Kileontheal gazed on the stone for a long time, then looked up at Araevin and asked, "Is the selukiira capable of instructing you in high magic?"
Araevin hesitated. He felt the other high mages awaiting his answer. He did not want to speak the truth, but he dared not attempt to deceive them.
"Yes," he said at last. He heard soft intakes of breath and sensed widened eyes and sharp sidelong glances around him. It was not often that high mages were surprised. "The spell I used to sever Sarya Dlardrageth from the mythal of Myth Glaurach was a spell of high magic. There are a number of even more powerful high magic spells in the Nightstar, as well as a great store of lore on mythalcraft and similar works. I have only scratched the surface of the selukiira's contents."
"Have you embarked on the study of the other high magic spells contained in the lorestone?" the diviner Isilfarrel asked.
"Not yet, High Mage, but it is my intent to do so." Araevin felt the consternation of the others, but he did not look away. "Sarya Dlardrageth did terrible things with the mythal of Myth Glaurach. What else might she do, given the chance? Who else might be able to do such things, now that the daemonfey have demonstrated that they are possible? Faerun is littered with the remnants of elven wards, vaults, and gates." He paused, allowing the high mages to consider his words. "I fear that things are stirring in Faerun, things that our forefathers buried and forgot long ago. Our ignorance may prove deadly."
"The impudence!" growled Haldreithen. "Kileontheal, you erred gravely with this one."
Kileontheal's eyes flashed, but she kept her voice calm. "Araevin, you have no way of knowing what perils might sleep in that ancient lorestone. Even if you succeed in your efforts, we may all have cause to regret it later. If nothing else, your defiance of our will in this matter speaks poorly of your readiness to become a high mage."
"I understand, High Mage. I have weighed all these factors in my decision. Whether you believe it or not, I am the best judge of the perils of the Nightstar."
"You will not study that lorestone here," Kileontheal replied.
"I know," Araevin said. He offered a deep bow. "That is why I have chosen to depart the tower. As I said, the time has come for me to follow another path."
Deliberately, he stepped forward and closed his hand around the selukiira as the high mages watched. He slipped the lambent gemstone beneath his tunic, and pressed it to his breastbone again. Then he turned his back on Kileontheal and the others, and strode out of the great hall.
*****
Patches of snow still lingered beneath the green branches of the evergreens that mantled Myth Glaurach's rocky shoulders. Despite the bright sunshine that had lingered all day, spring did not come early to the Delimbiyr
Vale. The air was damp and cold with the snowmelt, and not far from the ruined walls and broken domes of the ancient elven city, the Starstream—second of the four Talons that fed the mighty Delimbiyr-roared and rushed with white, cold floodwaters, so loud that its roar filled the air miles from the river's course.
Fflar Starbrow Melruth pulled his cloak closer around his broad shoulders, and gazed over the jagged stumps of a long-abandoned colonnade on the city's southern heights, watching the last embers of daylight painting the snowcovered mountaintops and high, wooded hills with soft splashes of gold and orange. He was a moon elf, tall and strongly built, with the strong hands and long arms of a born swordsman.
"A clear night coming," he remarked. "The stars will be out, but I think it will be cold."
Lord Seiveril Miritar looked up from the large map he was studying on a table nearby. He was a noble sun elf with red hair showing silver streaks at his temple, a high cleric of Corellon Larethian who wore a surcoat emblazoned with the star and sword of the elven god he served.
"I think I've come to like the spring here," said Seiveril. "I find it . . . bracing."
As High Captain of the Crusade-even Seiveril had come to think of Evermeet's expedition as "the Crusade," despite the fact that he'd resisted the appellation for some time—he had chosen the ruins of Myth Glaurach's library for his headquarters. Though the empty shell of white stone was mostly open to the sky, the building still possessed strong walls that were easily enclosed with light screens and rugged canopies. Nearly six thousand elf warriors were encamped in the city's ruins or in the forest nearby. An elite guard of twenty Knights of the Golden Star stood watch within a stone's throw of the old library, along with dozens of officers and aides who helped Seiveril and Fflar to keep order in the elven army.
"A couple of months ago you might have thought differently," Fflar said. "The wood elves of Rheitheillaethor told me how bitter the winters are in these lands. Do you know the ice broke on the Delimbiyr only a tenday ago?"
Fflar was more than he seemed, an ancient hero of fallen Myth Drannor whom Seiveril had called back into life with a powerful spell of resurrection. Together the sun elf cleric and the moon elf champion had led Evermeet's Crusade in a fiercely fought campaign to defend Evereska and the High Forest from the daemonfey legions of Sarya Dlardrageth.
"Will we still be here in midsummer? Or the fall, perhaps?" he continued.
Seiveril straightened up from his map table and looked at Fflar. "There's more on your mind than the weather, my friend. What is it?"
"How much longer can you keep this army together, Seiveril? Araevin banished Sarya's demons, we destroyed her orcs and giants, and her fey'ri have fled the field. It seems to me that you have accomplished your goal: Evereska has been preserved, the folk of the High Forest are safe. Your army has no enemy to fight." Fflar turned from the open colonnade and climbed a couple of weathered stone steps to the empty shell of the library, lowering his voice. "For that matter, have I now accomplished the purpose for which you summoned me from Arvandor? What am I supposed to do now?"
Seiveril frowned. "I do not know that I have an answer to your second question, Fflar. What are any of us supposed to do?"
"You called me back from Arvandor to beat an army of demons. Now that Sarya's demons have been defeated— through no doing of my own, I'll add—I find myself wondering whether I am supposed to, well, go back." Fflar looked at Seiveril and shrugged. "Do I just discorporate when I'm ready to go this time, or do I have to go throw myself off a precipice or something?"
"Is that what you want to do?"
Fflar looked at his hands for a long time. "I don't think so. I feel alive enough right now. I miss Sorenna, I miss her terribly. But I know she is waiting in Arvandor for me, and time does not mean much there, Seiveril. In the
meantime, there seems to be more of the world for me to see and more things for me to do. I just don't know if it is wrong for me to linger now."
Seiveril stepped close and set a hand on Fflar's shoulder. "I think I know Corellon's will in this," he said. "You were not called back to live one hour, or one day, or one battle. You were called back to live, for as long as fate, chance, and your own heart allow. There is nothing wrong in tarrying here. It is nothing more or less than any of us do."
Fflar looked up, a crooked smile on his face. "Well, good. I would hate to leave again without finding out where in Faerun the fey'ri legion has gone to ground."
"You and I both," Seiveril murmured. He returned his attention to the map spread out on the table. "You asked me a moment ago how long I intend to keep the army here. My answer is this: I will stay here until I am convinced that Sarya's legion won't return, and cannot be found. I don't expect all of our warriors to stay that long, but I certainly hope that some number of them do. We have unfinished business with her."
Fflar joined him at the map. "We fought her at the Lonely Moor eighteen days ago. As recently as ten days ago, she and her fey'ri were here at Myth Glaurach." He tapped on finger on the Delimbiyr Vale, thinking. "Some of her fey'ri can teleport, but not many. They would have used that tactic in combat, if it was available to them. But they do fly. How fast could a flying army travel? Fifty miles a day? Sixty?"
"They didn't seem to be tremendously strong or fast flyers, not like an adult dragon or a giant eagle. And they must carry some equipment with them. I expect they've abandoned anything like a supply train. Sixty miles a day, ten days... that would be six hundred miles from here." He looked more closely at the mountains and forests depicted before him, and frowned. Within that distance lay tremendous swaths of the great desert Anauroch, most of the wild backcountry of the Nether Mountains, the Graypeaks, the southern High Forest, the High Moor and the Evermoor, as well as the forbidding Ice Mountains north of Silverymoon, and even the Spine of the World and the High Ice. "She could be anywhere."
"Have you been able to divine any clues?"
"I have been casting divinations every day, with little luck. I suppose I must redouble my efforts, and ask Vesilde Gaerth and Jorildyn to have their own clerics and mages begin the search, too. Perhaps if enough of our spellcasters search at once . . ."
"I suppose it's the best chance we have. But Seiveril—if we do not find some sign of the fey'ri soon, you will have to give thought to how much of this army you can send home."
"Excuse me, Lord Seiveril?" Both elves turned as the priestess Thilesil entered the hall. She was also a cleric of Corellon, junior to Seiveril, who had joined Lord Miritar on his quest and served as his adjutant and chief assistant. "Lord Keryth Blackhelm of the High Council is here to see you."
"Keryth, here?" Seiveril frowned. Keryth was the High Marshal of Evermeet, leader of the island's armies, and one of Queen Amlaruil's most valuable advisors. "Show him in."
Thilesil nodded, and beckoned their guest in. "This way, sir."
She stood aside to permit Keryth to enter, and followed him in, anticipating decisions to record or orders to issue.
Keryth Blackhelm was a moon elf of middle years, perhaps a little past his prime as a swordsman, but still hale and fit. He was not as tall as Fflar, but he was a commanding presence anyway, with a fierce determination burning in his eyes and a gruff, confident manner.
"Lord Miritar," he said. "Thank you for receiving me."
"Of course, Keryth." Seiveril took Keryth's hand in a firm clasp. They'd served together on Evermeet's High Council for many years, and even if they did not always agree with each other, they shared a mutual respect. "Have you traveled long? I can ask for refreshments to be brought."
"No, the trip was quick. The grand mage loaned me the services of a sorcerer who knows the spell of teleportation. We left Evermeet not more than half an hour ago." Keryth looked about the ruined building. "How is Ilsevele?"
"She is well. I spoke to her just this morning. She
is visiting Silverymoon with her companions, though. I
believe Araevin is attending to some business at Tower Reilloch."
"I have not seen Silverymoon," Keryth replied. He wandered into the old library and through to the ruined colonnade outside, taking in the view. "This was Glaurachyndaar?"
"Yes. It was called the City of Scrolls in its day." Seiveril gestured at the ruins beyond the library. "The daemonfey used the grand mage's palace as their lair. While I have seen no sign of them since I have been here, I decided it was not prudent to take up residence in their quarters. There are deep vaults and armories hidden in the heart of the hill beneath the palace, and I am not sure that we have found all of their secrets yet."
"It seems that you have matters well in hand otherwise," Keryth said. He faced Seiveril. "Speaking of which, I have been sent here to ask if you would consent to attend the High Council's meeting in seven days and provide the queen and her advisors with a firsthand account of your campaign. We have heard many stories, and we want to get the most accurate report we can."
"You may have forgotten, Lord Blackhelm, but I am no longer a Councilor of the Realm."
Keryth shook his head. "No, the queen is not summoning you as such. Nor is she summoning you at all, to be honest. She only requests that you come to speak before the council, my friend. She will send a mage to teleport you, if you like, so it should not take you long at all. And to be honest, you will save us a lot of pointless debate in which Veldann or Durothil question the veracity of every report we have received."
Seiveril considered the request for a moment. He was certain that Selsharra Durothil and Ammisyll Veldann would question him harshly on any account he cared to provide. On the other hand, he could think of nothing he cared to hide, and he no longer needed to be particularly polite to the conservatives and antimonarchists on the council, did he?
He looked over to Fflar and asked, "Lord Starbrow, can you keep things in order here for a time?"
Fflar shrugged. "I'll know where to find you if I need you."
Seiveril turned back to Keryth. "All right, then. If the queen requests my presence, I will not tell her no. I will
be there."
*****
The House of Cedars stood on a rocky headland on Evermeet's rugged northern shore, hidden within a sparse forest of wind-shaped cedars and hemlocks. It was a rambling old elven lodge of open verandas and promenades anchored into the very rock of the headland. Araevin's ancestors had built themselves a home in which they remained a part of the world outside, instead of a burrow from which they could shut things out. Light screens of wooden paneling and large windows of strong glass in clever wooden frames allowed him to close or open most of the rooms as he saw fit.
Early in the winter Araevin had spent a tenday there, repairing the damage of many long years of weathering. As the spring turned toward summer and the days grew bright and windy along Evermeet's shores, he was pleased to see that his repairs were keeping well. He had lived in the house as a child, more than two hundred years past, but no one had lived there for a century or more. When he'd finally gotten around to visiting the place a few months before it had been in poor shape.
On his arrival Araevin spent three days arranging the personal effects and arcane tomes he'd had sent from his chambers in the Tower Reilloch. The house featured a handsome library on its eastward face, which Araevin filled with the collection of grimoires, spellbooks, journals,
treatises, and scrolls he had accumulated over eight decades of residence at Reilloch. Next to the library stood an empty hall that Araevin converted into his workroom, installing at one end the cabinet of theurglass in which he stored his collection of magic wands and other such devices. He also wove a potent fence of abjurations and magical defenses around the entire house, since he could no longer count on the wards of Tower Reilloch. He wove careful illusions to hide the books and artifacts he was most concerned about, and summoned magical guardians to defend the house if necessary.
As the sun set on the sixth day since he'd stood before the high mages, he removed the Nightstar from its hiding place over his heart and set the purple gemstone in a small stand before him.
"I think the time has come for you and I to speak at length," he told the selukiira.
The Nightstar made no answer, but Araevin thought he saw a lambent flash in its depths. The high loregem was a living artifact. It held dozens upon dozens of spells, much as Araevin's own spellbooks did. But beyond that useful function, the Nightstar protected the deeper secrets of mythalcraft and high magic. Already it had shown him spells for examining and shaping mythals, but the secrets of even greater power still awaited within the stone.
He drew a deep breath, and focused his attention on the flicker of light that lived in the heart of the gem, allowing his perception, his consciousness, to sink deeper and deeper into shining purple facets. The stone grew brighter, and distant voices whispered in his mind—and with an abrupt plunge he felt himself drawn into the gemstone, falling into a vast and illimitable expanse of towering amethyst ramparts.
He opened his eyes, and found himself in the poisoned garden of the Nightstar's soul. It was a magnificent place, a palace of gold colonnades and elegant arcades that existed nowhere except in the gem's own intellect. Lovely vines and flowers filled the open courtyard, but they were malicious and alive, things that slowly coiled and hunted with thorn and venom. In an old house on Evermeet's shore, his body stood locked and immobile, facing a shining purple gemstone, but as far as Araevin's senses could discern, he was physically here, a visitor in the infernal grandeur that lay at the heart of the gemstone.
"Saelethil!" Araevin called. "Come forth! I wish to speak to you."
The hungry flowers rustled and groped at the sound of his voice, but Araevin did not fear them. They were not real, and had no power to hurt him. He simply exerted his will and made a small brushing gesture with his mind, and the sinister things recoiled from him, leaving a clear circle around his feet.
"Saelethil! Come forth!"
Araevin frowned and glanced around, wondering if perhaps he had erred in some way, but when he looked back Saelethil Dlardrageth was standing silently only an arm's reach from him, regarding him with bright green eyes that held all the malice and venom of an asp. Despite himself, Araevin took a step back.
The ancient sorcerer smiled at the motion. In life Saelethil Dlardrageth had been a tall and regal sun elf, with handsome if cruel features, and the figment of his consciousness and personality that was embodied in the Nightstar chose to manifest itself in his living appearance.
"The measure of an undisciplined mind," Saelethil rasped, "is that the intellect allows emotion to challenge the observed truth. You know that I am not permitted to harm you, and yet you quail like a child at the mere sight of me, Araevin Teshurr."
Araevin did not refute the accusation. Saelethil would have excoriated him for denying it, in any case. The shade of the long-dead intellect that had crafted the Nightstar despised self-deceit more than anything. Instead, he decided to take the offensive.
"I spoke with the high mages about you recently," he said. "They wish you destroyed, and I am not altogether certain I disagree with them."
"Your high mages are fumbling incompetents, Araevin. They have no idea what it means to be worthy of that title." Saelethil sneered in contempt, but he turned away to inspect the garden, folding his arms imperiously across his chest. "Bring one here, and I will demonstrate the extent of their ignorance for you."
"Tell me of the high magic spells you hold, and I will judge the question of their ignorance for myself," Araevin replied. "You have shown me only one high magic spell so far, even though you claim to know a dozen more."
Saelethil glanced back at Araevin and grinned without humor. "Ah, perhaps there is some Dlardrageth in you after all, my boy. You've tasted true power, and now you thirst for more."
"What I thirst for is not your concern, Saelethil. Now, are you able to make good on your claims or not?"
The Dlardrageth archmage studied Araevin for a moment, his eyes cold and measuring. "I could, but you are not yet suited for the spells I haven't taught you."
"Not yet suited? In what way?"
"The highest and most dangerous art of high magic is the manipulation of magic more powerful than the mortal frame can bear. Your so-called masters in Evermeet accomplish this by forging a circle of mages to wield high magic. They cooperate with a number of other high mages to collectively shape a magic that would destroy any single one of them who attempted it."
"I know that much," Araevin said.
"Indeed. Well, there is another tradition for wielding high magic, Araevin Teshurr. Those of us who did not care to shackle our power to the weakest of our fellows wielded solitary high magic, free and unfettered by the prejudices of our peers. In order to wield power that otherwise would destroy us, we devised the telmiirkara neshyrr, the rite of transformation. We sculpted our very natures to suit ourselves for the power we intended to wield. With such preparation, a single high mage could transcend mortal limits and manipulate powers that otherwise might require a whole circle of high mages to manage."
"I did nothing of the sort when I severed Sarya from the mythal."
"You did not need to. Many spells of high magic can be cast without the aid of a circle or a transformation. The mythaalniir darach, the spell of mythal-shaping you wielded against my kinswoman Sarya, does not conjure into existence the awesome power of a high mythal. It simply allows manipulation of an existing font of power." Saelethil shrugged. "However, I did not see fit to preserve many spells of that sort in my Nightstar. The rest of the high magic spells I recorded require the telmiirkara neshyrr."
Araevin frowned, considering the notion. He did not think that Saelethil was permitted to deceive him, but he was certain that the Nightstar's persona was capable of choosing not to tell him something he didn't ask about.
"So you can teach me the rest of the high magic spells you hold if I perform this telmiirkara neshyrr?"
Saelethil nodded.
"What sort of transformation is involved?"
"You exchange a large portion of your mortal soul for demonic essence. Demons are magical beings by their very nature; a demonic nature serves to shield one from power of untrammeled high magic." The Dlardrageth smiled cruelly. "It is not very difficult."
Araevin blanched in horror. He understood the bargain the Dlardrageths had made so long ago.
"I will not do that!"
"Then you will find most of my high magic spells inaccessible," Saelethil said with open contempt. "I expected no better of you."
Araevin glanced down, thinking hard. He noticed that the poisonous creepers squirmed closer to him, and he brushed them aside again. If Sarya had access to the sort of mythalcraft he did in the form of the Nightstar, she would be able to wield those spells as if she were born to them . . . which, in fact, she was. He found himself thinking of the melodious voice of Malkizid, the sinister presence he had felt in Myth Glaurach's mythal when that device
had been under Sarya's control. What had Malkizid told Sarya about him? What did Malkizid know about mythals and their uses?
A thought occurred to him, and he said to Saelethil, "Demons are not the only creatures of supernatural power in the multiverse. Can your telmiirkara neshyrr bind other essences to a high mage, essences not steeped in evil?"
Saelethil hesitated, but said, "Possibly. You must transcend your mortality to wield these spells safely, but there may be more than one way to do that. Chaos, order, the elements, the concept you term 'good'... all these principles give rise to supernatural forces, and might prove suitable."
"What other transformations do you know, then?"
"I do not know any other than the one I used."
"Do you know of anyone else who would know?"
The Dlardrageth archmage frowned. "Yes," he said finally. "Ithraides and his students wielded high magic without the benefit of a circle."
"Ithraides?" Araevin said in surprise. He knew that name. Ithraides was the grand mage of fallen Arcorar, the ancient archmage who had driven the Dlardrageths out of Cormanthyr thousands of years in the past. From there Sarya Dlardrageth had gone on to subvert the realm
of Siluvanede and breed her legions of fey'ri warriors...
but before all that House Dlardrageth had been defeated by Ithraides and his allies, more than five thousand years ago. "Was he also bound to a demonic essence?"
"No. He shared your useless scruples. He discovered another soulbinding, something that allowed him to match my mastery. I sincerely doubt he would have had the stomach to follow the path I chose."
Araevin offered a grim smile and said, "No, I suppose he wouldn't have."
He took a step back, and willed himself up and out of Saelethil's poisoned garden. There was a dizzying moment of soaring recklessly upward into a world of great purple planes and dancing storms of lambent fire, and he opened his eyes with a sudden gasp of breath.
He sat in his library in the House of Cedars, the Nightstar gleaming on the table before him. The sea wind rattled the windows of his study, and the ocean was dark and wild beyond.
Ithraides knew how to wield high magic without a circle, just like Saelethil, he reflected. And he did it without transforming himself into a demon. That knowledge might still exist, if he looked in the right place.
"Arcorar," Araevin breathed, his eyes distant. Arcorar had become the realm of Cormanthyr, and Cormanthyr's capital was the city of Myth Drannor, which had fallen only six hundred years ago. Much lore of ancient Arcorar had been carried out of Myth Drannor in its final years to Evermeet and places such as Evereska and Silverymoon. Evermeet's hoard of Cormanthyran lore had been largely destroyed when Kymil Nimesin destroyed the Towers of the Sun and Moon five years ago, but what of Silverymoon? Araevin had heard that many Cormanthyran mages and scholars fled there when Myth Drannor fell.
It seemed as good a place to start as any, and Araevin
had other reasons to visit the city in any event.
He reached out for the Nightstar and slipped the gemstone inside his shirt again, pressing it to his breastbone.
He had a journey to make ready for.

CHAPTER TWO
6 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms.

Sarya Dlardrageth stood on the broken battlements of Castle Cormanthor beneath a warm, steady spring rain, and surveyed her new realm. The daemonfey queen was strikingly beautiful, with the arresting features and enticing curves of a noble sun elf woman, but her skin was a deep, perfect crimson, and she possessed a powerful pair of batlike wings she kept folded behind her like a great dark cape.
Her domain was quite small, really, not more than a couple of miles from one end to the other, for she could not claim to reign over the great forest that surrounded Myth Drannor's ancient buildings and walls. But it is a start, she told herself. Her eye fell on the rose-tinted tower the human clerics had raised within the very walls of Cormanthor's ancient capital, and she bared her slender fangs in a vicious smile.
The shrine stood blackened and burnt, scorched by fey'ri spells and ancient Vyshaanti weapons. Its smoke was sweet in the air. Her fey'ri legion—a thousand swordsmensorcerers, the pride of ancient Siluvanede—had made themselves masters of the ancient city.
Sarya was not defeated yet, not by a wide margin.
"Lady Sarya, a handful of the Lathanderians escaped," said the fey'ri lord Mardeiym Reithel as he approached carefully, offering a bow as he addressed her. "They used a hidden portal to flee our last assault. We could not follow."
Mardeiym, and the rest of the fey'ri for that matter, were much like Sarya, sun elves of high and ancient lineage who had been imprisoned thousands of years ago. Like her, they were winged demonspawn, with skin in fine hues of red and great dark wings. But they were still more mortal than not, elves with a demonic taint. Sarya and her son Xhalph were true daemonfey, with much stronger demonic bloodlines.
"The portal refused you?" Sarya asked.
"Yes, my lady. The Lathanderians possessed some key or password that we lacked. Since we cannot use the device, I ordered it sealed with stone."
"Good," Sarya replied. "I am not concerned with the escape of a handful of human priests. We are the masters of this city now. But I would not want spies to slip back through the portal and learn more about us."
Her army of fey'ri had easily overwhelmed the small companies of human adventurers and hidden nests of cultists and necromancers formerly encamped within Myth Drannor. The temple to Lathander had been the last bastion of explorers and adventurers remaining within the walls. Of course, monsters of all descriptions still lurked within their lairs and catacombs. But Sarya had no real need to eliminate such guardians, and most of the fearsome beholders, nagas, liches, dragons, and other such denizens of the ruins recognized that Sarya's legion of well-armed fey'ri was a foe beyond their ability to drive off. The fey'ri did not go out of their way to trouble such creatures in their lairs, and for their part, the intelligent ones did not emerge to challenge Sarya's warriors.
"There are still the devils to contend with," Mardeiym said. "If we leave them alone, I promise you they will turn on us." Hundreds of the supernatural fiends were bound to the ruined city. Before the arrival of Sarya and her legion, they had formerly ruled as masters over Myth Drannor. "We outnumber the filthy hellspawn. Our fey'ri warriors can defeat them now, before they have the opportunity to betray us."
Sarya regarded her chief captain with a cold glare. Mardeiym sensed danger and dropped his gaze to her feet. Under most circumstances, Sarya-a princess of the demon-ruled Abyss by birth—would have regarded any spawn of the Nine Hells as a hated enemy. Demons and devils had fought each other throughout eternity, the unbridled destruction of demonic evil battling for supremacy against cruel, infernal tyranny.
"Do not question my judgment," she said. "I have uses for the devils of this city."
"I apologize, Lady Sarya. I do not mean to question your decisions, but it is important that you know when the fey'ri are troubled." Mardeiym waited on her, his head still bowed in respect.
"Troubled?" Sarya said.
She turned away, pacing along the battlements. Flexing her wings, she luxuriated in the sheer pleasure of freedom. She would have liked to lash out at Mardeiym, remind him of the fearsome power she commanded and reinforce the ancient pacts by which she ruled absolutely over the fey'ri Houses. But the war captain was loyal to her, and spoke nothing more or less than the truth. She would do well to avoid teaching her subjects that bringing her bad news always led to punishment.
"Very well, Lord Reithel. Summon the House lords to my audience chamber, and I will explain more."
"As you command, my lady," the war captain said.
He bowed again, and vaulted over the battlement and took wing. Sarya watched him glide away into the ruins, then descended from the battlements into the spacious royal chambers she had claimed in the castle.
She allowed Mardeiym half an hour to gather the leaders of the other fey'ri Houses, busying herself with renewing the powerful abjurations and contingency spells with which she normally guarded herself, and she went down into the grand hall of Castle Cormanthor. Centuries ago, the corona's of the elven kingdom of Cormanthyr had presided over revels and banquets in the grand hall. Its walls were still painted with magical murals of woodland scenes that slowly changed from season to season, and the great columns that lined the walls were carved in the shape of tall, strong trees so realistic that stone blossoms and fruit could be glimpsed in the branches.
The leaders of her fey'ri legion awaited her in the hall. Each of the dozen demon-elves was the leader of one of the fey'ri Houses. Some, like Reithel, were ancient Houses from Siluvanede that were strong and numerous, having been imprisoned in the Nameless Dungeon for fifty centuries. Others, like Aelorothi, were survivor Houses, families of daemonfey who had passed their demonic heritage down through twenty generations from the time of Sarya's ancient realm to her revival only five years ago. The descendant houses were smaller and less numerous than ancient houses such as Reithel, but they were made up of fey'ri who had grown up in the world Sarya and her ancient legion had suddenly found themselves in. They were comfortable with the new world in a way that Sarya and the other ancient prisoners could never be.
Not for the first time, Sarya found herself wondering what had become of Nurthel Floshin. He was from one of the descendant Houses, and had served as an able spymaster and lieutenant. But he had not returned from the expedition she had dispatched to recover the Nightstar, and she could only assume that he was dead.
She turned her attention to the proud, cruel lords and ladies gathered before her. "Look around you," she began. "This will be our home, the founding-stone on which we will build our new realm. Before I and my family came to
Siluvanede, we dwelled here in Cormanthyr. It is only fitting that this is the place where we begin to rebuild."
Sarya leaped down from the steps on which she stood, flaring her wings to alight in front of the fey'ri lords. She did not look forward to what must be said next.
"You all know that this is not what I planned when I broke open Nar Kerymhoarth three months ago," she began. "I intended to erase the realms of the High Forest and Evereska from the map, and claim vengeance for the destruction of Siluvanede five thousand years ago."
She paused, holding the eyes of her minions, and said, "That, however, was a mistake.
"Perhaps events might have fallen out differently if Evermeet had not responded with so much force, or if Nurthel Floshin had not failed to recover the Nightstar, or even if the fortunes of battle had favored us against Evermeet's army. But these things did not happen. I underestimated our enemies' strength and resolve, or overestimated our own strength, or did not plan to overcome ill fortune—it does not really matter. The consequence of my mistake was that we had to abandon our stronghold at Myth Glaurach and leave our work in Evereska and the High Forest undone."
The daemonfey queen turned away from her fey'ri, deliberately putting her back to them as she paced. She hated the idea of introducing her own fallibility into her follower's minds, but it had to be there already, didn't it? Still, she did not want to let the fey'ri lords consider that last thought for long. She looked back over her shoulder at her captains and lords.
"It would be foolish of me to pretend that I am incapable of making mistakes," she said. "What I intend to do now is to learn from our mistakes. Before we take the field again or challenge the usurpers who have stolen our lands and treasures, we must grow much stronger. We will hide here in Myth Drannor, protected by the ancient power of its mythal. Within these ruined walls our enemies cannot divine our existence or scry out our strength. We will grow strong in secret, until the time is right for us to return."
"What of the baatezu?" Alysir Ursequarra asked. "When do we destroy them?"
"They are not our enemies," Sarya said firmly. "You are to strike no blow against the devils in this city unless I tell you to." The fey'ri lords shifted uneasily, some risking quick glances at their fellows. Sarya turned back to face her followers. "The devils that were summoned here decades ago were outcasts from the Nine Hells, mercenaries and marauders who have no loyalty to the rest of their kind."
"So they would have us believe," Alysir volunteered boldly. "How can we know they are speaking the truth?"
Sarya stalked close to Alysir, and lowered her voice to a menacing hiss. "I have investigated the matter, Lady Alysir. Do you think I have allowed myself to be deceived?"
Alysir Ursequarra paled slightly, but held her ground. "No, Lady Sarya."
Were her fey'ri not irreplaceably rare, Sarya would have killed Alysir Ursequarra on the spot. But each fey'ri warrior was worth twenty orcs or five ogres. She could not be careless of their lives. Sarya smiled coldly. "You forget, Alysir, that the devils are bound to this city, and we are not. Spells anchored to the mythal by human wizards twenty years ago trap the devils within Myth Drannor. I can alter the mythal to allow some, all, or none of them to escape from this place, or call them back and confine them any time I wish—but I will exact fealty from each devil I allow to leave. The devils cannot escape unless I help them, and I will not help them unless I am certain of their loyalty. They will serve in our armies alongside the demons and yugoloths we summon to serve us. Does that meet with your approval, Lady Ursequarra?"
Alysir Ursequarra offered a deep bow. "I am sworn to serve you, my lady. I do not question your commands."
"Good. It would go poorly for you if I thought you did." Sarya wheeled away, her tail lashing like a whip. "We hide, we wait, we grow strong, and we marshal the devils of this city to our service," she said. "Does anyone disagree?" None of the fey'ri spoke. Sarya nodded, and looked to a gaunt fey'ri sorcerer who stood a little apart from the other House
lords. "Very well. In that case . . . Lord Aelorothi, please describe for your peers the shape of the human lands that have grown up around Myth Drannor. These will be our foes someday, but not until we are ready for them."
The captains and lords turned their eyes on the sorcererlord. Aelorothi was a descendant House, and Vesryn Aelorothi had traveled widely all across Faerun for many years. He affected a gracious and courteous manner, but Sarya knew him to be capable of exquisite cruelties. A tenday ago she had named the gaunt fey'ri sorcerer her new spymaster, and set him to the task of insinuating daemonfey gold, assassins, and sorcery into the halls of power in every nearby land.
"It would be my pleasure, Lady Sarya," he purred.
"Listen carefully to Vesryn, my children," she told the fey'ri lords. "Many of you will be traveling these lands in the coming months, spying out their strengths and their weaknesses."
She motioned for the sorcerer to continue, and left her assembled captains behind her.
Vesryn stepped forward as she left, and moving very deliberately—Vesryn was nothing if not cautious—he wove his hands together and muttered the words of a spell of illusion, conjuring in midair the image of a great map.
"This," he began, "is the forest of Cormanthor . . ."

*****

Araevin left the House of Cedars in the morning after his conversation with the Nightstar. He followed rarely traveled paths into the wild pine forests and hills overlooking the sea, drinking deeply of the scent of the trees and the cool spring rain. Early in the afternoon he reached a worn old portal glade, a small clearing around a weathered stone marker that had stood in that spot for thousands of years.
Most of Evermeet's portals were closed forever, deliberately sealed in the past few decades to guard the island from any possible attack through the magical gateways, but a few still existed—some well guarded, others only one-way portals that allowed travelers to depart from Evermeet but not return, some so old or uncertain in their working that they were risky to use. Araevin had always been fascinated by portals, and he had spent many decades exploring them in both Evermeet and Faerun. He thought he might be the only person alive who knew how to wake the one in the glade.
He spoke the spells needed to activate the portal, and passed through. With a single step Evermeet's misty forests vanished, only to be replaced by the high, windswept downs of the Evermoors. Dusk was falling, the end of a bright and cold spring day; the Evermoors were far to the east of Evermeet.
"What becomes of the hours I missed?" Araevin wondered aloud.
He studied the featureless moorland, speckled with the first small blooms of spring despite the lingering patches of snow that still lurked in the shadowed places. It was important to be sure of his exact location in case the portal had somehow malfunctioned.
Satisfied, he closed his eyes, envisioning a small hilltop shrine he knew well, and uttered a spell of teleportation.
There was a moment of darkness, a vertiginous sense of falling without motion, and Araevin stood in the small wooded bower of a shrine to Labelas Enoreth, a mile beyond the walls of Silverymoon, another hundred miles from the portal-stone in the Evermoors. Two large blueleaf trees had long ago taken root in the veranda, shouldering aside the shrine's flagstones and forming a living roof over the elf deity's altar. A small balustrade of old white stone, overgrown with green vines, offered a view of the swift river Rauvin and the city of Silverymoon, cupped around both the river's banks
"Well, there you are. I have been waiting for you."
Araevin turned at the words, and found himself looking on the face of his betrothed, the beautiful Lady Ilsevele Miritar. She was a sun elflike he, but she was much fairer than he was—in both senses of the word—with a radiant
mane of copper-red hair and green eyes. She wore a tunic of green suede over cream-colored trousers, bloused into high leather boots decorated with tiny gold thread patterns. A slender long sword was sheathed at her hip.
"Ilsevele," he said, and he took three steps and caught her up in his arms.
"It's only been a couple of tendays," she said with a laugh, finally pushing him away. "You've gone years at a time without thinking to look in on me."
"I have spent too much time around humans lately," he answered. "After two hundred and fifty years, I believe I am losing the habit of patience."
"Well, you must wait a little longer. Our wedding is still two years away, in case you have forgotten." Ilsevele looked out over the human city nearby. Hundreds of lanterns were flickering to life in its tree-shadowed streets and graceful buildings, reflections glimmering in the dark waters of the Rauvin, and the stars were coming out in the darkening skies. "I am glad that you told me of this shrine. The view is lovely. And I've had several hours to admire it."
"I am sorry. I had a later start than I'd anticipated."
"No matter. I enjoyed a couple of hours to myself." She took his hand. "Come on, Maresa and Filsaelene are waiting in the city. They're anxious to see you, too."
The two sun elves followed an old path leading down from the shrine to the human city below. This close to Silverymoon, there was little danger even as darkness fell, but Araevin noted that Ilsevele wore her sword, and he approved.
"Where are you staying?" he asked. When he'd sent word to Ilsevele that he was coming, he had used a sending spell, and didn't know where it might have found her.
"An inn called the Golden Oak. It's quite nice, really. I like it much better than that Dragonback in Daggerford."
"I know the Oak. You have expensive tastes," he said with a smile.
Ilsevele drew closer under his arm. "I decided that I owed Maresa and Filsaelene some comfort, after what we've all been through over the last few months."
"I certainly don't begrudge you that."
They'd crisscrossed the Sword Coast and the North in search of the telkiiras containing the clues that would lead him to the Nightstar, facing brigands, trolls, wars, demons, imprisonment, and worse. And not all of their companions had survived their adventure.
Araevin's old comrade Grayth Holmfast had been murdered by the daemonfey, and Grayth's armsman Brant torn apart by demons in the fight to find the telkiira stones before the daemonfey did. Thinking of his lost companions, Araevin lapsed into a long silence as they neared Silverymoon's gates.
After a time, Ilsevele glanced at him and said, "You seem troubled."
"I was thinking of Grayth and Brant. They deserved better."
"I know." Ilsevele leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. "He did not want to return, Araevin. We brought him to Rhymester's Matins, the temple of Lathander in this city, and the human clerics cast divinations to determine whether his spirit would return willingly if they chose to raise him. Grayth is content with his life, and his death. All you can do is honor his sacrifice, and carry him with you in your memory."
"Grayth is wiser than I, for I am not content." Araevin said. He knew he was responsible for his friend's death. The daemonfey had killed Grayth to compel Araevin to lead them to the Nightstar. If he had yielded earlier, the cleric might still be alive. Araevin had destroyed Nurthel, the fey'ri who had actually killed Grayth . . . but Sarya Dlardrageth, the author of his death, had so far escaped justice. "We still have business with the daemonfey."
"I have not forgotten," she replied, with an edge of cold steel in her voice. Ilsevele was a warrior as well as a highborn lady; she believed that some things could only be set right with steel and courage, and she knew her own measure better than most.
They passed the guards at the city gates, and walked Silverymoon's broad boulevards until they reached the
Golden Oak—a large, comfortable inn whose common room was an open atrium beneath the spreading branches of a great oak tree, from which dozens of small lanterns hung. A bard strummed a lute, and many of the inn's guests sat drinking wine or ale beneath the oak tree, quietly conversing.
"Araevin!" called a loud voice. More than a few heads turned as Máresa Rost leaped to her feet, calling to the two elves. Máresa was an individual of striking appearance, a young woman whose skin was literally as white as snow. Her hair was long and silver-white as well, and it drifted gently around her head as if stirred by breezes unfelt by anyone else. She was a genasi, a human whose ancestry included beings of the elemental planes-in Maresa's case, air elementals of some kind. She wore crimson-dyed leather and carried a rapier at her hip. "You were supposed to be here hours ago!"
Araevin started to bow and apologize, but Máresa surprised him, throwing her arms around him and offering a fierce hug. "I-it is good to see you, too, Máresa," he stammered. He looked over Maresa's shoulder to the genasi's companion, a rather slight and young-looking sun elf woman who wore the emblem of Corellon Larethian's clerics on her tunic. "And you, too, Filsaelene."
Filsaelene offered a shy smile, and raised a goblet of wine. "Join us, please. I am afraid we are a little ahead of you already."
Freed from the daemonfey stronghold only a few tendays ago, none of her former comrades had survived their battle against the demonic invaders. Filsaelene still struck Araevin as timid and retiring, but she seemed to be recovering well under Maresa's care.
Máresa finally released him, and Araevin glanced over at Ilsevele. His betrothed shrugged.
"I could stand some song and wine," she said. "Why not?"
They spent the evening drinking good wine, enjoying the music of the bard, and trading stories of old adventures. After a time, the lutenist was joined by a flutist and a drummer, and the three struck up a lively dance, in which Araevin was kept quite busy by dancing with all three of his companions in turn. Finally, tired and pleasantly aglow with the warm wine, he and Ilsevele said their goodnights to the others, and retired to Ilsevele's comfortable room.
Whether it was the wine, the dancing, or simply the hidden relief of having survived their trials of the past few months, they made love for a time. Then they spent the hours after midnight lying together, content to be near each other without speaking. Such moments had become rare in the past few years, it seemed.
Ilsevele's fingers glided over the cold, hard gemstone sealed to Araevin's chest, and he felt her frown.
"You brought the selukiira with you?" she asked.
"I still have more to learn from it," he told her. Then he reached up to mesh his fingers with hers, and brought her hand to his face, holding her close as they drifted off into Reverie together.
"I thought you said it was dangerous—an artifact of the daemonfey of old."
"It is," he said, and said no more about it.
The next morning, Araevin stirred from his Reverie and dressed himself in the dark hour before dawn. Ilsevele roused herself as he rose, drawing a deep breath as she called herself back to the inn room from whatever far memory or dream she had wandered in her own Reverie.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"The Vault of the Sages," Araevin replied. He looked over at her. "It is the best library in the city, perhaps all of the North, and I have some research to do."
"The Nightstar?"
"Yes. I have not yet solved all of its mysteries." Araevin drew his cloak over his shoulders, and picked up the worn rucksack in which he carried many of his notes and journals. "I must learn more about the magic of ancient Arcorar, or at least some specific spells and rites from that era, if I am to unlock the deeper secrets Saelethil concealed in this lorestone."
Ilsevele sat up sharply. "Is it a good idea to do that? You were lucky once with the Nightstar. Perhaps you shouldn't delve any further into it unless you have to."
"Last night we spoke of our unfinished business with the daemonfey. If I ever mean to finish it, I think I will need to know what other secrets the Nightstar holds."
Ilsevele stood too, and said, "I will come with you, then."
"There is no need. I'm not sure how much you could help, to be honest. I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for."
Ilsevele's eyes narrowed. "I remind you, my betrothed, that I know a little bit about magic too. Besides, I have nothing else in particular to do today, and I might like a chance to look around a fine library for my own account, not yours."
He winced. "I did not mean to imply that you were unable to help me," he managed. "I would enjoy your company, if you wanted to come along."
Ilsevele crossed her arms. "I find that less than convincing."
They ate a quick breakfast of warm bread and apple butter in the inn's common room, and set out across Silverymoon as the human town slowly woke. The Vault of the Sages was a tall horseshoe-shaped building of stone, sturdy and strong. Araevin and Ilsevele entered only moments after the priests of Denier, who kept the Vault, opened the doors for the day.
An old human cleric with a fringe of snow-white hair around his bald pate looked up from a desk to greet them.
"Ah, good morning! It is not often we are visited by two of the ar Tel'Quessir. I am Brother Calwern. How might we help you today?"
"I am Araevin Teshurr, and this is my betrothed, Lady Ilsevele Miritar," Araevin replied. "I am interested in making use of your library."
"Of course. What topics interest you, sir?"
"I am looking for books or treatises on the magical lore of ancient Arcorar, from the early days of Cormanthyr—the centuries following the Twelve Nights of Fire, or perhaps the Fifth Rysar of Jhyrennstar. You may also have writings by the wizards Ithraides, Kaeledhin, Morthil, or Sanathar."
Araevin did not mention Saelethil Dlardrageth. Saelethil would never have shared any of his writings with other mages, or left a record of his studies other than the Nightstar intended for members of his own House.
Brother Calwern raised a bushy eyebrow, and leaned back in his seat. "We have few works of such antiquity here. The wizards you named, are they from the same era?" Araevin nodded, and the Deneirrath priest continued. "I will have to examine our indices and catalogs to see if we have anything that might help you. It might take a little time. In the meantime, I can certainly recommend a likely tome or two for you to begin with. I presume you read Loross and Thorass?"
"Among others, yes."
"Excellent!" The Deneirrath priest stood up, and gestured toward an archway leading deeper into the great building. "If you please, then—this way."
Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and offered a small smile. When it came down to it, he couldn't resist a scholarly mystery, and there was not a better place in Faerun to solve one than the libraries of Silverymoon. Together they followed Brother Calwern into the Vault of the Sages.

*****

"High Lords and Ladies of the Council, the Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion!"
Seiveril faltered on the threshold of the Dome of Stars, surprised to hear his own name announced. He glanced at the herald-captain, a young sun elf who stared straight ahead, giving no further sign that he recognized Seiveril's presence.
Eighty years on the Royal Council and never once have I been announced, Seiveril wondered. Instead, he had always been a member of the body that guests were announced to.
He felt the eyes of the minor lords and functionaries in attendance fall on him, as he stood unmoving in the chamber door. Then Seiveril recovered, and he strode with growing confidence into the Dome of Stars.
The high council chamber of Evermeet, the Dome was part of the sprawling palace compound in Leuthilspar. A striking chamber with a dark, star-flecked marble floor and a great clear ceiling of magic theurglass, the Dome was illuminated by the warm yellow light of late afternoon, striking bright gleams from the glossy stone underfoot. It was a magnificent chamber, and in its center stood the glassteel council table, a delicate ornament of frostedwhite glass magically hardened to the toughness of steel. It had always struck Seiveril as a good metaphor for the elf race—beautiful to look upon, yet stronger than the eye could believe.
Six of Evermeet's councilors waited on Seiveril's approach. Closest to him, at the left-hand foot of the horseshoe-shaped table, sat the old scribe Zaltarish, one of the queen's most valued advisors. Beside Zaltarish sat the High Admiral Emardin Elsydar, master of Evermeet's navy, and on the other side of the admiral—past Seiveril's own former seat, apparently still vacant-was the High Marshal Keryth Blackhelm, leader of Evermeet's army.
On the right-hand wing of the table sat two of Seiveril's most determined opponents: Lady Selsharra Durothil, matron of the powerful sun elf Durothil clan, and Lady Ammisyll Veldann, another sun elf noble who governed the southern city of Nimlith. Both highborn sun elves stared daggers at him as he came near. To Veldann's left sat Grand Mage Breithel Olithir, another sun elf. Seiveril had always thought well of Olithir, even if the fellow did not trust his own wisdom.
At the head of the table sat Queen Amlaruil herself, dressed in a resplendent gown of pearl-white that was set with countless gleaming diadems. Her raven-dark hair was bound by a simple silver fillet, and she held a thin scepter of shining mithral across her lap.
"You are welcome here, Seiveril Miritar," Amlaruil
said in a warm voice, and she smiled graciously. "So little time has passed since you left, and yet we have so much to speak of."
Seiveril looked up into Amlaruil's eyes, and felt his heart flutter at the sad wisdom and perfect beauty of her face. To look on Amlaruil as she sat in state was to catch a glimpse of Sehanine Moonbow's throne in Arvandor, or so it was said._ For his own part, Seiveril knew of no son or daughter of Evermeet who could stand before Amlaruil unmoved.
"I thank you, Queen Amlaruil," he replied, and he bowed deeply.
When he straightened again, Amlaruil looked left and right to her advisors. "I asked Lord Seiveril here today, in the hope that we might hear from his own mouth the tale of his battles to defend Evereska and the High Forest from the daemonfey army. Few events in Faerun within the last few years have portended so much for the People, and we would only be wise to inform ourselves as best we can about Lord Seiveril's campaigns " Amlaruil looked back to Seiveril, and said, "Will you speak, old friend?"
"Of course, Your Highness. Where should I begin?"
"Begin with your mustering at Elion," Keryth Blackhelm said. "We were all here for your call to arms when you spoke of returning to Faerun, and we remember the arguments that led to your oratory. Tell us what happened after you left this chamber."
"Very well," Seiveril agreed, and he began his tale.
He recounted the gathering of companies and volunteers in Elion, and the efforts to organize useful military units from the horde of individuals who had answered his call. He described their quick transit to Evereska by means of the ancient elfgates when it became clear that the city was in imminent peril, and the victory of the Battle of the Cwm, in which Seiveril's Crusade had stopped the daemonfey horde from laying siege to Evereska. Then he went on to the pursuit of Sarya Dlardrageth's army through the wild lands north of Evereska, to the climactic battle at the Lonely Moor.
"That was a terrible fight," Seiveril said. He could see it before his eyes even then, remembering the onslaught of demons and the furious battle as the Crusade found itself surrounded on all sides by Sarya's forces. "We fell on the ranks of orcs, ogres, and such, and decimated them. But Sarya and her demons teleported to our flank, and attacked fiercely, while her fey'ri took to the air and fell on our rearmost ranks. It seemed desperate indeed, but then Sarya's demons all vanished at once—each one of them banished back to its native hell as the spells holding the demons in our world failed. That turned the tide. The fey'ri warriors abandoned their orcs and ogres and fled the field soon thereafter."
"The demons vanished—that was Araevin Teshurr's work at Myth Glaurach?" asked the grand mage.
"It was."
"What has happened since?" Zaltarish the scribe asked.
"Well, we have searched all of the North, or so it seems, for any sign of where Sarya and her surviving fey'ri warriors might be hiding. The spellcasters among our army have cast divination after divination, hoping to uncover some sign that our scouts might have missed. We have also helped the wood elves to hunt down the last of the orc warbands and ogre gangs that accompanied the fey'ri in their assault against the High Forest."
"You have won a great victory," Selsharra Durothil said. Seiveril fixed his eyes on her, instantly suspicious. Lady Durothil had not spared many kind words for him over the past few months. Selsharra ignored his dark look and continued, "The daemonfey attack against Evereska and the High Forest has failed. Events have vindicated you, Lord Miritar. I do not think I was wrong to argue for caution when we debated this question a few short months ago, but I certainly cannot argue today that your impetuousness did not accomplish a great good."
Seiveril carefully kept his face neutral, merely inclining his head in response to Durothil's concession.
What is she up to? he wondered.
"So," Keryth Blackhelm said, "When can we expect the return of your army?"
"When I am certain that the threat of the daemonfey has truly passed, and that no other enemies will try Evereska's strength as soon as I leave. Some companies I could send home within a month or two, I think Others I may ask to remain longer."
"How will you judge when the daemonfey have been finally defeated?" the high admiral asked. "What if you simply cannot find them again?"
"I am prepared to wait."
"A few months is one thing," Ammisyll Veldann observed. "What if you find no sign of the daemonfey for a year? Two years? They are evidently well hidden, after all. Is Evermeet to be left shorn of its defenders for as long as you see fit to be stubborn?"
"The daemonfey are not the sole standard by which I shall judge my errand in Faerun completed," Seiveril replied. "The daemonfey were tempted to strike against Evereska because the People withdrew so much of their power from Faerun. I mean to find a way to set that right before I say I am done."
"That will be hard on your warriors, will it not?" Veldann asked. "They joined you to defend Evereska, and Evereska has been defended. They did not answer your call in order to garrison gloomy old ruins in the middle of the wilderness for years."
"I require none to remain who are not willing," Seiveril said.
Ammisyll Veldann threw up her hands, and leaned back in her seat. "Nothing has changed," she muttered.
Selsharra Durothil looked around the Council table, and let her gaze linger on Amlaruil. "I would like to put forward a proposal," she said.
If Queen Amlaruil anticipated more argument from the conservative sun elf, her face did not show it. She graciously nodded. "Of course, Lady Durothil."
"While I do not necessarily agree that Lord Seiveril requires an army quite as large as he now has at his
command," Selsharra Durothil began, "I think we have all seen the wisdom of his arguments about maintaining a presence in Faerun. In fact, it seems to me that this task may be important enough to justify a lasting amendment to Evermeet's defenses. Instead of relying on the zeal and good intentions of those who happen to take interest in affairs in Faerun, we should shoulder this responsibility ourselves, and formally recognize and support Lord Seiveril's actions so far. Let us name him the East Marshal of the Realm, admit him again to the High Council, and designate his standing army in Faerun as the East Guard.
"We can incorporate the East Guard into the armies of Evermeet, and thereby ensure that our brave soldiers need not abandon their oaths to the Crown in order to take service in Lord Miritar's army. In fact, we can assess both Evermeet's current defenses and the forces Miritar will need to continue his watch overseas, and divide our forces with more deliberation than before. Both the defenses of Evermeet herself and the strength of our East Guard should be improved with some careful planning."
Seiveril stared at Selsharra Durothil, not bothering to hide his amazement. He noticed that most of her fellow councilors were staring, too.
She can't have decided that I was right! he told himself.
Almost grudgingly, Keryth Blackhelm nodded in agreement. He looked to Queen Amlaruil. "There is a great deal of sense in that idea, my queen," he murmured. "We could station the forces best suited for each job in the right place. Evermeet would be safer, and we would be better situated to intervene in Faerun when the need arises."
Grand Mage Olithir also nodded and said, "The same is true for our mages, spellblades, and bladesingers. And I for one would welcome Lord Seiveril's voice at this table again."
Ammisyll Veldann turned a furious look on Selsharra Durothil. "You are not seriously suggesting that we reward Miritar's disobedience by returning him the seat that he surrendered in this council!" she snapped.
"I do not condone the manner in which Lord Miritar assembled his expedition and decided for himself what was right for all of us," Selsharra answered, "but I cannot deny that his vision and foresight secured Evereska, and perhaps saved thousands of our kindred from destruction and slaughter."
"The constituency of the High Council is the queen's prerogative," Zaltarish observed. "It is for her to decide such matters."
"I must consider the suggestion for a time before I know my answer," Amlaruil said. She looked at Seiveril. "And I suspect that Lord Miritar will wish to consider the question, too. You are asking him to take up a heavy burden, Lady Durothil."
"A burden that he sought out, Your Highness," Selsharra replied.
Amlaruil rapped her scepter on the glassteel table. "We will reconvene in a few days to deliberate the question at length. Until then, Lord Miritar, I would be delighted if you could tarry a few days here in Leuthilspar."
Seiveril bowed again. "Of course, Your Highness," he said.

CHAPTER THREE
10 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

For three days, Araevin explored the depths of Silverymoon's Vault of the Sages. He passed long hours poring over ancient yellow parchments and carefully thumbing through heavy tomes of thick linen paper. He wandered from chamber to chamber, examining the orderly stacks kept by the priests of Denier, or he waited in reading rooms while the helpful clerics brought him books and scrolls they thought might interest him. It was not inexpensive, of course-to make use of the library cost him hundreds of pieces of gold—but Araevin did not begrudge the cost. The clerics of Denier used the fees to acquire and copy rare texts from other libraries all across Faerun.
Ilsevele helped him in his search, screening works of potential interest to determine whether or not Araevin needed to see a particular
reference. She saved him countless hours of reading through dead ends, or wasting time on old works that simply had no bearing on the subject matter he was after. The two sun elves arrived at the library an hour after dawn every morning, and remained until after dark each night before heading back to the Golden Oak and joining Maresa and Filsaelene for the evening meal, wine, and dancing.
They had little luck at first, spending the first day looking at old records and accounts of Arcorar that had nothing to do with magic or mythals. On the next day they successfully narrowed their search by reviewing a list of potentially relevant tomes assembled by the Deneirraths; less than sixty books or documents in the Vault possessed the right combination of antiquity and subject matter to warrant close inspection. A dozen titles into the list, on the morning of the third day of their search, they stumbled across what they were looking for.
"Araevin, I think I've found something," said Ilsevele. She straightened up from the desk where she sat, reading through a set of ancient scrolls. "This scroll describes a judgment by the Coronal of Arcorar against House Dlardrageth, and records how the House was expunged from the realm."
Araevin looked up from the window bench where he was sitting, consulting his journals, and asked, "Who is the author?"
"A court mage named Sanathar."
"I know that name," he said. He set down his journal and joined Ilsevele at her table. He found the passage she indicated, and murmured aloud as he read: "Yes, I see it . . . the high mage Ithraides gathered a company of wizards, and they used their spells to destroy or drive off the Dlardrageths, finally walling off the Dlardrageth tower in Cormanthor—that was the old name for Myth Drannor, of course . ." He skimmed the old manuscript, careful not to handle the ancient parchment more than was absolutely necessary. "Look, here. More passages were added later. The spell-prison raised around House Dlardrageth was finally removed almost five hundred years after the coronal's mages moved against the Dlardrageths."
"I saw that. They found that they had missed several of the daemonfey."
"Sarya and her sons, and a few others. Yes, that makes sense. We know that the daemonfey escaped from Arcorar and insinuated themselves into several powerful Houses in Siluvanede, creating the fey'ri." Araevin read farther, and his eyes widened. "Interesting," he breathed. "This may be what I was looking for. Near the end of this account Sanathar tells us that the Nightstar was interred in a secure vault—that we know, of course, since I eventually found it there—but he also says that Ithraides departed for Arvandor soon after the creation of the vault. The star elf Morthil took many of Ithraides's tomes and treasures into his keeping."
"Star elf? An unusual turn of phrase. Do you think he meant sun or moon elf?"
"No, it's quite clear. Look, other sun elves and moon elves are named here, and here. I think the text implies a separate race or nationality."
"I've never heard of star elves before," Ilsevele said. "A kindred of the People who died out long ago? Or maybe he is referring to elves who came to this world from another world? Some of Evermeet's folk are descended from elves who sailed the Sea of Night in flying ships."
Araevin studied the ancient yellow parchment for a long moment, eyes narrowed in thought.
"Just because we haven't heard the term 'star elf' before doesn't mean that no one else has," he finally replied. "My friend Quastarte has spent years studying the realms and races of elvenkind in this world. He knows far more about the topic than I do. Perhaps he could tell us more about who these people were, or where and when they lived. For that matter, there might be information close at hand here in the Vault."
He began reading the passage more carefully, studying the exact nuances of the text.
Ilsevele set aside the pages of the manuscript that
Araevin was interested in, and continued to read ahead while he pored over the older pages. The two of them read together in silence for a short time, until Ilsevele stiffened and drew back from the old parchment in front of her.
"There is something else, Araevin."
Araevin glanced up from the scroll. "What?"
"There's a passage by Ithraides. He's writing about the Nightstar here." Her brow furrowed. "Ithraides records that the selukiira killed two mages of Arcorar. The selukiira was protected by fearsome wards, spells designed to make sure that only daemonfey wizards would be able to use the stone. In fact, Ithraides writes here that he did not dare touch it himself." Ilsevele glanced down at Araevin's chest, even though the lorestone was hidden beneath his shirt. "If the Nightstar is that dangerous, why didn't it destroy you, as well? Did the deadly spells fail with time?"
"No, they're still there." Araevin looked down at the tabletop before him. "The Nightstar spared me because it recognized me."
"Recognized you? What do you mean by that?"
He could not bear to look up to her face. "I mean that it found Dlardrageth blood in me. The Nightstar is not permitted to destroy a Dlardrageth—at least, not one who knows enough about magic to make use of its powers. I am related to Saelethil Dlardrageth, at least distantly."
Ilsevele drew in a soft breath. "Araevin, I didn't—why didn't you tell me?"
"I did not know for certain myself until I attempted the selukiira. Oh, I suspected that I might have a distant kinship to one or the other of the fey'ri houses—a very long time ago, my family dwelled in Siluvanede, in the years before the Seven Citadels' War. And when I spoke with Elorfindar in the House of Long Silences, he reminded me of our relationship. But I never dreamed that I could be a Dlardrageth."
He made himself meet her gaze, and said, "I understand that you will break off our engagement, of course. I can't blame you."
"Break off the engagement?" Ilsevele stared at him. "Because twenty or thirty generations ago a Dlardrageth or a fey'ri married into your family? If you go back that far, we all have hundreds-thousands—of ancestors, don't we? Who can say whether we would be proud to be descended from each of them?" She shook her head. "Why, I've touched the lorestone myself, and it hasn't harmed me. I might have a Dlardrageth ancestor, too."
"You've never touched it except when I was holding it. If I ever set it down, don't lay a finger on it, Ilsevele. It will gladly destroy you. It would enjoy destroying you."
Ilsevele shuddered. "You keep it next to your heart. How can you abide that?"
"It's harmless to me. As long as it is bound to me, it cannot harm anyone else, not without a great deal of carelessness. And I don't have any intention of being careless with this device."
"Still . . . if it's dangerous, and you know it's dangerous, why wear it at all? Maybe you should return the Nightstar to that vault Ithraides built for it."
Araevin reached inside his tunic and curled his fingers around the Nightstar. He brought out the lambent gemstone, holding it in his thumb and forefinger. The purple facets glimmered with an eldritch light.
"I can't do that yet," he said. "The Nightstar has taught me much already, but there is more to learn. When I master the secrets of this stone, there is nothing Sarya Dlardrageth can do that I won't be able to undo."
"What secrets?" Ilsevele asked. "You already learned enough mythalcraft to sever her from the mythal of Myth Glaurach. There is more?"
He hesitated, and said, "Yes."
Ilsevele studied him for a moment, and her eyes hardened. "High magic?"
Araevin nodded. "Yes. High magic. The Nightstar can give me Saelethil's knowledge of high magic. The high magic spells and high mythalcraft in this stone will let me defend or reweave any mythal Sarya attempts to subvert. Or any other enemy, for that matter."
"I thought Philaerin and the other high mages directed you to wait fifty years before taking up the study of high magic."
"I don't think they appreciate the dangers of waiting, Ilsevele. I have spent decades roaming the human lands of the North, and I've seen the works of Aryvandaar and Illefarn that sleep in the wilds of the Sword Coast. They are dangerous things, and they are growing more perilous every year."
"So you have decided that you know better than a circle of high mages?" Ilsevele was incredulous. "Araevin, did it ever occur to you that they wanted you to wait for your own good? How can you so lightly disregard their advice?"
"Because I know what this lorestone is, and what it can teach me. If I waited fifty years to study it, I would be no more ready than I am now." Araevin gazed into the Nightstar, then sighed and slipped it back inside his shirt. "You saw what I was able to accomplish with only a portion of the Nightstar's lore. I banished hundreds of Sarya Dlardrageth's demons at one stroke! Your father might have won the battle at the Lonely Moor without my help, but even if he did, how many elves would have died to destroy those monsters?"
"Yes, you made good use of what you learned from the lorestone," Ilsevele said. "But you can't seriously be arguing that the end justifies the means! That is a very slippery slope, and you know it. What if you could have won the battle by casting some terrible spell of necromancy, animating the bodies of our own fallen warriors so that they would continue fighting? Yes, the battle would have been won, and yes, no more of our own would have died who hadn't been killed already-but would it have been worth the price?"
"Banishing demons is hardly comparable to defiling our own dead! You know I would never do something like that."
"Using an evil weapon to accomplish a good end is dangerous ground, regardless of the exact nature of the weapon or the end in question."
"Of course. But the spells and the knowledge contained in this selukiira are only tools, Ilsevele. The device can't harm anyone as long as I do not permit it to do so, and it offers me invaluable insights into spells and lore lost to the People for ages." Araevin threw his hands wide in an angry shrug. "Someone has to study the arts our enemies might turn against us, simply to understand how we might defend ourselves when they are used against us. At the moment, I seem to be the only one who can dare this high loregem to do that."
"But the daemonfey don't have access to Saelethil's lore now," Ilsevele protested. "Why else would they have been looking for the Nightstar before? I don't understand why you shouldn't just put it back where you found it, Araevin. Ithraides's defenses kept the Nightstar out of evil hands for five thousand years, after all."
"Sarya Dlardrageth was entombed for almost all that time, so it's not at all clear to me that Ithraides's defenses were in fact sufficient to the task."
Ilsevele stood, seizing her cloak from the chair back she had draped it over and throwing it around her shoulders.
"I'm not sure you understand as much about the Dlardrageths or the Nightstar as you think you do," she said. "An ancient marriage and a glimmer of kinship don't stain you with evil, Araevin. Flirting with dangerous and hateful powers because you think the end justifies the means—that is what you should worry about."
She gave him one final sharp glance, and strode stiffly out of the reading room. Araevin watched her leave.
Is she right? he wondered. Maybe I should simply bury the Nightstar again, until I know for certain that I need it.
He rubbed his fingers over the small, cold facets above his heart, and sat down to read more about Morthil, Sanathar, and Ithraides, and their accounts of the device from fifty centuries ago.
*****
Scyllua Darkhope, Castellan and High Captain of Zhentil Keep, stared intently at the stronghold rising on the green verge of the forest that lay, low and distant, beyond the ruined walls of Yulash Here on the outskirts of the abandoned city a new Zhentish watchtower was being raised, and the heavy wooden scaffolds and booms surrounding the shell of cold gray stone seemed as light and fragile as a birdcage.
It struck her as incongruous that a work of enduring strength could be born within such a light and impermanent cocoon. A bad windstorm could blow down the scaffolding in an hour, but once its work was done, why, her new tower might stand for a thousand years.
She studied the work a little longer, not really watching the indentured masons and stonecutters at their tasks, simply lost in the metaphor. Her own life could be described in a similar way, she decided. Out of the fragility and impermanence of the flesh, a stone-hard spirit took shape. Out of the weakness of her heart and her foolish early hopes, the foundations of true purpose and real clarity had been laid. When her true self had finally taken form, well, it was of no account that the scaffolding of her ideals and her former dreams had been discarded, was it?
"High Captain?"
Scyllua pulled her gaze from the ongoing construction, and turned to her lieutenant. The Zhentish officer visibly steeled himself when she glanced at him. She was not a tall woman, but she was broad-shouldered and athletic, and the black plate armor she wore with the ease of long experience only contributed to her formidable presence.
"Yes, lieutenant?"
"The wizard Perestrom is here. You asked for him after reading his report."
"Have him brought up," Scyllua commanded without looking at the lesser officer. She rarely bothered to look anyone else in the eyes, and had the habit of staring off over a shoulder or fixing her blank gaze on someone's breastbone as if she might bore a hole through his heart with simple concentration. She didn't realize that she had that habit,
and certainly didn't do it deliberately; she simply found face-to-face conversations distracting, and did not like to break the chain of her thoughts.
The lieutenant struck his fist to his chest in the Zhentish salute-not that Scyllua noticed-and withdrew briefly, before returning with a tall, vulture-faced wizard in black robes, the Zhentarim mage Perestrom.
"High Captain Darkhope," the wizard said, offering a shallow bow as an insincere smile creased his sharp features. He looked up at the tower under construction. "That is something of a vanity, you know. The Art offers many ways to render such an expensive defense useless."
"A tower built with care and foresight may not be impervious to a skilled wizard, Perestrom, but at least it will discourage the less competent ones." Scyllua smiled thinly to herself, even though she faced away from the others. "And we can take steps to discourage attacking wizards, of course. For example, I have heard that our clerics have mastered a rite that would reave the life from a wizard, transforming him into a ghost, and bind him to a specific task for all eternity—for instance, the defense of this tower against enemy sorcerers. I shall have to give some thought to where I might find a wizard of suitable skill for such a task."
"I will be happy to provide several recommendations," Perestrom replied. If his arrogant smile faltered just a hint, Scyllua did not see it.
"Of course. Now, about your report . . . What were you doing in Myth Drannor, exactly?"
"I am the master of a small adventuring company, the Lords of the Ebon Wyrm. I have led several expeditions into various ruins around the Moonsea and old Cormanthyr, in search of various glimpses of arcane lore and magical treasures. A tenday ago we arrived in the ruins of Myth Drannor, intent on retrieving whatever artifacts we could find from the old city. We explored the ruins for several days, with a little success. But five days ago, late in the afternoon, we were attacked by a large company of flying, demonic sorcerers. I lost several of my fellow Ebon Wyrms before we managed to escape into the ruins."
"Demons and devils of all sorts are known to plague Myth Drannor," Scyllua observed. "And they often slay adventurers there. I see nothing remarkable about your tale so far, Perestrom."
"As you say, High Captain," Perestrom said, again offering a small, insincere bow. "However, I found it noteworthy that these demonic sorcerers had the features of elves, and spoke Elvish to one another."
"Elves?" Scyllua glanced over her shoulder at the tall mage. "Unusual, I admit, but why does it merit Zhentarim attention?"
"Because I think there are a thousand or more of these fellows in Myth Drannor now, a whole army of them." Perestrom's smirk faded a bit. "They attacked several other adventuring companies in and around the city over the next day or so, and we were attacked by several different demon-elf bands during this time. We eluded most of these attacks through my spells-illusions to hide our presence, summonings to conjure up monsters that could cover our withdrawal—and I kept careful notations on the arms and devices of each such band we encountered.
"When we finally abandoned the ruins, I spent another two days spying out as much as I could about these new foes, using various spells and devices. I will be happy to share my notes, if you would care to examine my evidence in detail."
Scyllua faced Perestrom, He had managed to seize her attention, all right.
"A thousand?" she asked. "All of them spellcasters?" "Better than half, I would say. Few as accomplished as I am, of course."
"Of course." Scyllua considered that for a time. "What about the baatezu? Did they destroy many of these newcomers?" That would be a good measure of their strength, anyway.
"As far as I could tell, the devils did not contest their presence. I saw no fighting between the demon-winged sorcerers and the devils of Myth Drannor. In fact, on a few occasions I saw devils in the company of the newcomers."
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 long-dead 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."

CHAPTER FOUR
13 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms