Seiveril Miritar spent much of his time in Leuthilspar closeted with Keryth Blackhelm and other captains of Evermeet's armies and knighthoods, describing in exacting detail the course of the campaign his Crusade had fought across the wilderlands of the North. As best he could, he told them how he had confronted the daemonfey army and their demonic allies—which tactics worked against an army of winged sorcerers, which weapons and spells served to defeat demons and which did not.
When he finished with that task, he steeled himself for a duty he had no heart for, but that he had to do. After he tarried in Leuthilspar for a day more, he outfitted a riding horse in the stables of his family's villa in the capital and left the city. He rode north into the green meadows and airy
forests of the western hills, to the small forest estate of Elvath Muirreste. There he visited with Nera Muirreste, Elvath's wife, and as best he could he told her how Elvath had died. She had heard of Elvath's fall already, and greeted him wearing the gray veil of mourning.
"I am so sorry for your loss," Seiveril said to her. "Elvath was more than my captain-at-arms and adviser. He was my friend. I cannot tell you how much I regret his death."
Lady Muirreste sighed. "I know, Seiveril. Elvath thought the world of you, and he answered your call to arms with a willing heart. His death is almost more than I can bear, but it gives me comfort to know that he died fighting for a good and true cause." Nera sat in silence for a time then she set her hand on his and asked, "How did it happen? I only heard that he fell fighting outside Evereska."
"Elvath had command of our right flank," Seiveril said. He found that he was glad of the opportunity to simply recount the tale, rather than search for comforting words. "Our cavalry was there. They fought valiantly and well all morning. Elvath's forces were outnumbered, but he commanded some of our best companies, and they used their speed and courage to great effect.
"After an hour of fighting, we repelled the daemonfey attack, and their lines broke. Their army fell back in retreat. I sent our cavalry in pursuit, and Elvath and his Silver Guard drove the orcs and ogres and the rest out of the West Cwm, sealing our victory. But near the top of the Sentinel Pass on the far side of the Cwm, Elvath was killed by a boulder thrown by a giant. He was simply looking the wrong way and had no chance to dodge it." Seiveril paused then added, "He was killed at once."
"Were you there?"
"No, I was tending to wounded on the far side of the vale when he fell. I might have been able to save him, had I been closer. But so many of our warriors were injured in the early fighting . . ." He made himself look into Nera's eyes. "I left the pursuit in Elvath's hands, because my healing was needed so badly where I was. I should have led the pursuit myself."
Nera squeezed his hand. "Did others live because you chose as you did?"
Seiveril considered the question. "Yes. The healing spells I cast that day likely saved a number of people who otherwise would have died."
"Then I am certain that I do not regret your decision, Seiveril. And I know that Elvath would not, either." Nera Muirreste released his hand, and smiled sadly behind her veil.
Seiveril took his leave an hour later, and rode back to Leuthilspar in the afternoon, taking his time. Hundreds of elves who had followed him to Faerun had fallen in battle, and he owed visits to many more people, a burden that should have broken his heart. Yet Nera's question kept him from drowning in the grief he felt.
Did others live because I chose as I did? he asked himself. And the answer was an unequivocal yes. Elf warriors who fell in battle against the daemonfey had undoubtedly spared many more lives, the lives of many others who had no skill for battle and otherwise might have died terrible deaths. He grieved for each son or daughter of Evermeet who died following his banner, but he could not bring himself to believe that he had been wrong to take up arms against the daemonfey threat.
He returned to Leuthilspar late in the afternoon, following the familiar boulevards and winding ways that led to the Miritar villa. He tended to his horse himself, dismissing the groom as he unsaddled the animal, rubbed it down, brushed its coat, watered it, and put away the tack and harness. He had just filled the feed bag and was finishing his work, when he became aware of someone watching him from the stable door.
"Yes?" he said without turning.
"I'm glad you haven't lost the habit of doing such work for yourself," Queen Amlaruil replied. She glided into the stable and paused to pat the horse's neck. "I see you have been out riding."
Seiveril recovered from his surprise, and bowed. "Yes, my lady. I have just returned from Elvath Muirreste's home."
"He fell near Evereska, didn't he?"
"Yes, he did. Calling on Nera was the least I could do." Amlaruil looked over the horse's shoulders at him. "That was good of you, Seiveril."
Seiveril brushed off his hands and said, "If you like, we can go inside. For some reason I feel uncomfortable entertaining the monarch of Evermeet while standing in my stable."
"It has the virtue of being a place where we are unlikely to be listened to," Amlaruil said. "I can think of a few people who might be tempted to scry on you. Or me, for that matter."
"In that case, I suggest the garden." Seiveril led Amlaruil through another door to a small bower between the stable and the manor itself. A simple stone bench overlooked a small, natural waterfall that trickled through the grounds. It was nothing compared to the expansive gardens ringing Amlaruil's palace, but it was quiet and private. And just to ensure their privacy, Seiveril spoke a prayer to Corellon and wove a spell designed to obscure any efforts to spy on them.
When he was done, he turned to Amlaruil and asked, "What brings you to my house, my lady?"
"I wanted to know what you thought of Selsharra Durothil's suggestion. Are you willing to resume a Council seat and hold an office such as she describes?" Amlaruil sat down on the bench and arranged her silver-hued gown.
"The East Marshal?" Seiveril frowned, thinking carefully. "Are you asking me to accept this duty?"
Amlaruil smiled. "Answer my question first, and I'll
answer yours."
"Well . . . no, I do not think I want to hold such a title." "Is it because Selsharra suggested it, or do you have some other objection?"
"I am certainly suspicious of Selsharra's motives," Seiveril admitted. "After all, she reversed her position with the skill of a pirouetting dancer, didn't she? But even assuming that she was completely honest and forthcoming, I still am not sure that what she suggests will work."
The queen tilted her head. "Go on."
"If I swore myself to your service again, and accepted a titled office that made me a high captain of your army, I would naturally be subject to your commands. I would arrange my forces as you asked, I would march when you ordered me to march, and I would not march against an enemy unless I asked you first." Seiveril shrugged. "That also means answering to the council for everything I do or don't do."
"The council does not have the authority to tell me what to do," Amlaruil said. "It is true that I think twice before I disregard their suggestions, but the responsibility for Evermeet's governance and safety are mine, not theirs. I will not allow the Durothils and Veldanns of the council to question my decisions beyond a reasonable point."
"I am not certain that is as true as you would like it to be," Seiveril said. Amlaruil's eyes flashed, and he quickly hurried on. "You will not be on the throne forever, Amlaruil, and I will not be your general in Faerun for long. An arrangement we make now, because it suits both our talents and our interests, may not survive our successors."
"Even I do not know when that day will come, Seiveril. We can hardly allow ourselves to refrain from making good and sound judgments now because we think those who follow us may overturn them."
"Nevertheless. The next monarch to sit on Evermeet's throne may not possess the mandate of the Seldarine, as Zaor did and you do. Even if a Moonflower heir succeeds you, the succession may entail compromises, limits on the monarch's power. In that scenario, your heir may not be able to refuse a council demand to recall any standing army you leave in Faerun" Seiveril looked down at his feet. "I do not want to see my work in Faerun reversed, because Evermeet's monarch or council-or the next holder of my prospective title, for that matter—change their minds about engaging Faerun in a decade or two."
"Seiveril, I have no intention of departing for Arvandor any time soon."
"That's not always left to our choosing, is it?" he countered.
"You truly believe that you will have an easier time maintaining a presence in Faerun through your voluntary call to arms, when the council and the crown are willing to consider formalizing what you have done?" Amlaruil shook her head in disbelief. "Seiveril, I have been won over by the persuasiveness of your arguments so far, but I simply don't see how this can be true."
"I know," Seiveril said, "but I have given it a great deal of thought over the last few days."
The queen rose, and regarded him for a long moment. "The council meets again in a little less than a tenday, my friend. I am inclined to lend my support to Selsharra's suggestion. It would place you in an awkward position if the council appointed a different lord to go to Faerun and assume command of those in your army who would prefer to serve under the Crown."
"I will have an answer for you and the council," Seiv-
eril said.
Amlaruil nodded. She took his hand, and smiled. "Then I suppose I will go. Thank you for hearing me out."
"You are welcome in my stable any time you care to visit it, Your Majesty," Seiveril replied.
Amlaruil laughed, and turned to go. Her gown glittered like starlight in the gathering dusk. But at the moonstone archway marking the garden's entrance, she paused and looked back at him
"One other matter I meant to mention," she said. "I have heard that one of your captains wields Keryvian, the last of Demron's baneblades. I knew the sword was in your possession, but I thought that it had answered to no hand since the fall of Myth Drannor."
"Yes. I gave Keryvian into the keeping of my captain,
Starbrow."
"I do not know him," Amlaruil said with a frown. Seiveril could understand her confusion. Any champion with skill and experience enough to merit such trust would have been known to her in Evermeet. "You must hold him in high regard indeed."
"He is not who he seems to be."
Amlaruil studied him for a moment, and her eyes widened.
"It can't be Fflar," she whispered. "Not after so many years."
"Please, do not speak of this," Seiveril asked. "He prefers to remain just Starbrow for now."
"Seiveril, you can't simply resurrect dead heroes when you need them! And he died so long ago."
Seiveril glanced up at the darkening skies. "It wasn't entirely my own idea."
Amlaruil measured him, her expression stern. "You spoke of my mandate earlier. I sincerely hope you have the mandate you think you do. If you are wrong about what you're doing, the consequences would be disastrous."
She swept away into the dusk, leaving Seiveril alone in his garden.
The cleric sat down on the bench again, and watched the first dim stars emerging overhead.
"I hope I do, too," he murmured.
*****
Five days of hard travel brought Araevin, Ilsevele, Maresa, and Filsaelene from Silverymoon to the ruins of Myth Glaurach. Spring rains drenched them for several days, until Araevin began to wonder whether it would be better to seek some form of magical travel to speed their journey. But he disliked teleporting unless he felt that he absolutely had to do so—sometimes teleportation magic went awry, after all.
Fortunately, they found villages and inns for much of their journey—first along the road from Silverymoon to Everlund, then at Lhuvenhead and Jalanthar. From Jalanthar, at the east end of the Rauvin vale, they struck out south and east through Turnstone Pass, and arrived at the ruins of Myth Glaurach an hour after sunset. As before, the ancient city was ringed with the lanterns and modest campfires of the elven army, a cheerful sight after days of riding.
Araevin and his companions left their horses at a large camp corral where the cavalry companies of the Crusade housed their steeds, and climbed up Myth Glaurach's winding old footpaths, which circled steadily as they ascended the forest-covered hilltop on which the city stood. Small encampments of elf warriors and patrols of vigilant guards filled the old city, calling out friendly greetings as they passed by. With a few questions Araevin and his companions learned that Starbrow and Vesilde Gaerth were currently in charge of the army, since Seiveril Miritar was away on Evermeet, and that the commanders were headquartered in the city's old library.
They found Starbrow and Gaerth poring over supply and equipment records, wrestling with the question of how to feed and arm not only the warriors of the army—elf warriors in a forest could get along for quite some time with few stores, and most had brought their own weapons and armor—but also the thousands of horses and the more exotic creatures that accompanied the army.
The two commanders made an odd pair. Starbrow was nearly six and a half feet tall and about as burly as a moon elf ever got, while the sun elf Vesilde Gaerth was a full foot shorter and slight of build. Starbrow looked up as they entered, and grinned.
"I was wondering where you were," he said. "I was about to have Jorildyn cast another sending for you."
"It's a long ride from Silverymoon," Ilsevele replied. She wrung out the hem of her cloak, leaving a puddle of cold water on the floor, and glared at Starbrow. "You had better have a good reason for sending for us."
Vesilde Gaerth raised his hand in greeting. "Mage Teshurr, Lady Ilsevele, welcome back! I am glad to see you. Not to speak for Captain Starbrow, but I think we have a sound reason for seeking Araevin's expertise. Our mages have had no luck with opening the portals the daemonfey left behind."
"I'll have a look first thing in the morning," Araevin promised. "Right now we're all tired, cold, and wet, and I
wouldn't say no to a hot meal and a mug of mulled wine, if anything like that can be found around here."
"That's the best idea I've heard in a tenday," Maresa added.
"Of course. I'll see if our quartermasters can find something for you."
Vesilde called for an aide, who then headed off in search of some food and good accommodations for Araevin and his companions.
"We heard that my father went to Evermeet," Ilsevele asked Starbrow. "Do you know when he will return?"
"Three or four days, most likely. He said there was one more council meeting he wanted to attend before he came back—but if you find something in the portals, he'll return at once."
Araevin and his friends dined with Vesilde and Starbrow, listening to the commanders' accounts of the Crusade's fruitless search for any sign of the daemonfey and the discovery of the hidden portals in Sarya's buried vaults. Then they were shown to an old ruined chapel, its long-vanished roof replaced by well-secured canvas to make a reasonably warm and dry room in which to camp.
In the dark hours before dawn, Araevin roused himself from Reverie, found his spellbooks, and chose a small alcove of the old temple to illuminate with a pale light spell while he studied his spells of portal lore. When the sun came up, he joined the others for a breakfast of dried fruit and porridge provided by the quartermasters of the army.
"Arm yourselves for battle," Araevin told them after they ate. "If we try our luck with an unknown portal, we might step through into the fight of our lives."
While they were arming themselves, Starbrow appeared in the chapel's old doorway. He wore a long green cloak over his shoulders with Keryvian belted to his waist, and he carried a large rucksack. The moon elf looked them over, and grinned.
"You certainly look ready," he said.
Araevin looked at Starbrow in surprise. "You're coming with us?"
"Unless you tell me not to."
"Aren't you needed here?" Ilsevele asked. "My father left the army in your hands, after all."
"Actually, he left Lord Gaerth in command. I'm just his second. Besides, we've been sitting here for days. If there's even the slightest chance that we might sniff out the daemonfey, I want to be a part of it."
"I've seen his work with that sword of his," Maresa observed to Filsaelene. The genasi set her hands on her hips, her crimson leather armor gleaming darkly. "I'm not going to tell him we don't need him "
"Very well," Araevin answered. "Let's have a look at these portals you found. It may be a short trip if I can't open them."
Starbrow laughed out loud, then he led the small company into the streets of Myth Glaurach. A short walk brought them to the onetime palace of the city's rulers. It was an impressive ruin, with great gaping arches and broken towers reaching to the gray skies.
"The grand mage's palace," Starbrow said. "The daemonfey used it as their stronghold."
They climbed up the shattered steps to the open foyer, passed through into a courtyard within the overgrown walls, and there found a stone stairway deep in the palace, descending into the darkness below. Araevin frowned, and steeled himself. He knew all too well the vaults and passages beneath the palace, as did his companions.
Starbrow's soldiers had illuminated the dark passageway with small lanterns, and they followed the string of lanternlit hallways and stairs as they descended deeper and deeper into the cold rock of the hillside. They passed several contingents of guards, vigilant elves who stood watch in case some undetected evil emerged from a hidden depth of Sarya's dungeons.
"Have you had any trouble down here?" Araevin asked.
"We've found a couple of magical traps—spell glyphs, symbols, things like that," Starbrow replied. "But we haven't found any fey'ri assassins lurking in the cellars,
or demongates to the Abyss, or dragon lairs, or anything truly dangerous. I think Sarya simply didn't have the time to cover her tracks as well as she might have liked."
The moon elf turned aside into a long, narrow gallery that Araevin recognized from his cursory exploration of the place a few tendays ago. Statues of grim-looking gargoyles crouched near the ceiling, leering down at them. The gallery ended in a blank stone wall, a single featureless block contained within a stone lintel carved in the shape of a winding vine climbing a trellis,
"Here it is," Starbrow said.
"That's not daemonfey work," Araevin said at once. He pointed at the decorative stonework. "They have no use for carvings like that."
Starbrow looked sharply at him "You mean this is a dead end?"
"No, I didn't say that. There's no reason that Sarya and her vultures couldn't have used a portal like this."
Araevin studied it, searching for any markings or lettering to read.
"Can you open it?" Filsaelene asked.
"Possibly," Araevin replied. "Let me try a spell first."
He whispered the words of a simple detection spell, and carefully examined the flickering auras that glimmered around the ancient doorway.
"It has the right sort of magic," he decided. "And it's certainly strong and well-woven enough to have lasted for quite a long time."
He spoke another spell, one that would divine many of the secrets of the portal. In his eyes the magical Weave ghosted into existence, bright and many-colored, each strand hinting at work done well and carefully long ago.
"It's a keyed portal," he said.
"Which means?" Starbrow asked.
"It won't open unless we take the right action or present the right device—a token of some kind, a password, some specific thing that would keep just anybody from opening the doorway."
Araevin examined the blank gateway for a few minutes longer, and he began to chant the words of a longer and more difficult spell, seeking to wrest from the portal itself the knowledge of what key would activate it.
He finished the spell, and in his mind's eye he caught a glimpse of a small white flower, a tiny bell only the size of a thumbnail, really.
"That makes sense," Araevin said with a soft laugh. "What? Have you figured it out already?" Starbrow said.
"It's only a matter of knowing the right spells. They're somewhat rare, and I suppose not all that many wizards have studied them." Araevin straightened, and reached out to tap the carving of the vine surrounding the doorway. "This vine—it is rellana, isn't it?"
Starbrow and the others exchanged blank looks, but Ilsevele nodded.
"Yes," she said. "I think it is."
"That's all we need. Each of us must carry a petal of a rellana blossom and speak a short password-nesyie alleisendilie—and the portal will activate."
"I'll send for some," Starbrow said at once. He quickly trotted out of sight and called out to the nearby guards. In a few minutes, he returned with a handful of tiny white blossoms. "Here you go," he said. "What would they do if they needed to use the portal and these weren't in bloom?"
"The builders probably kept a small jar of old petals somewhere near this place," Araevin said. He helped himself to a small petal, and held it pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "Now, how do we want to do this? It might be best if I went ahead alone, in case there's some trap I didn't expect—"
"Nesyie alleisendilie!" Maresa said.
She touched the blank stone of the archway, and disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing but a small white petal drifting down to the floor.
"Maresa!" Ilsevele snapped, but the genasi was nowhere in sight. The noblewoman snarled. "Now what do we do?"
"She doesn't like to waste time, does she?" Starbrow observed. "Well, let's hope that Araevin can get us out of wherever we wind up."
He plucked a single petal out of the handful he held, dropped the rest into Araevin's hand, and followed Maresa into the portal. With a sigh, Ilsevele snatched up a petal and hurried after him, followed by Filsaelene a moment later.
Araevin took a moment to scoop up the whole handful of rellana flowers, just in case there were multiple portals on the far side that made use of the same key. Then he followed his comrades into the unknown.
*****
Sarya Dlardrageth studied the founding-stone of Myth Drannor's mythal, dreaming of the things she could do with its power. Unlike the stone in Myth Glaurach, which was a massive natural boulder, Myth Drannor's was a well-shaped obelisk of deep rose-colored stone on a plinth of granite. Golden light seemed to glimmer in the translucent stone, hinting at power waiting to be harnessed.
The daemonfey queen carefully swept the rest of the chamber with the most acute detection spells she could manage, making absolutely sure that she knew precisely what was or wasn't enclosed in the mythal chamber. It was a relatively large and airy room, a spacious vault with a high, graceful arch to the ceiling. By some ancient artifice six bright columns of sunlight shone down into the room, relayed through Castle Cormanthor's upper floors by hidden shafts. The floor was a complex design of intersecting circles rendered in several different varieties of marble, covered in a thick coat of dust from centuries of disuse.
Satisfied that no scryings or magical traps awaited her, Sarya returned her attention to the mythal stone. "I am ready," she announced.
"Excellent," replied someone from within the mythal's living fountain of magic. Melodious, even beautiful, the voice was masculine and perfect. "Open your gate, then, I will join you there."
Sarya raised her hands and began to declaim the words of a very powerful spell, one of the most dangerous she knew, a spell designed to breach the barriers between the planes and create a magical bridge into another realm of existence. The mythal thrummed in response, the intangible pulse of the old device taking on a new and different note. Sarya ignored the mythal stone's change and pressed on, finishing her gate spell with skill and confidence.
"The gate is open!" she cried. "Malkizid, come forth!"
Before Sarya a great ring or hoop of golden magic coalesced from the air. Through it she glimpsed the realm of Malkizid, an infernal wasteland of parched desert, windswept rifts, and black, angry skies torn by crimson lightning. Then, through the gate, the archdevil Malkizid appeared. With one smooth step he crossed from his infernal plane into the mythal chamber.
He was tall, well over six feet, and sturdy of build. His skin was marble-white, even paler and more colorless than that of a fair-complexioned moon elf. His hair was long, black, and straight, and his eyes were large and absolutely black, with no hint of pupil, iris, or white. He wore a long crimson robe embroidered with gold designs, and he carried a large silver sword point-down in one hand, keeping it close by his side. A small trickle of dark blood ran down his face from some unseen injury in the center of his forehead, but Malkizid paid it no mind.
"I am here," he said.
"So I see," Sarya replied.
She let her gate lapse, and immediately spoke the words of a second spell. Beneath Malkizid's feet a complex summoning diagram flared into existence, encircling the powerful devil with a barrier of impenetrable magic.
Malkizid glanced down, and his mouth twisted in a cold imitation of a smile.
"What is this, Sarya?" he asked.
"A binding diagram that should hold even you, Malkizid. Simply a precaution in case you were not forthright about aiding me once summoned."
"It is hardly necessary, I assure you. I have come to help you, after all. What could I possibly gain by betraying you now?"
"I have no idea, but I see no reason to invite treachery." Sarya watched Malkizid carefully, a spell of dismissal only an instant from her lips.
Malkizid shrugged. Blood dripped from his wounded forehead.
"As you wish, then," said the devil. "I can instruct you just as well from within this diagram. Now, will you speak the spell of mythal reading? You will need to make visible the threads that bind this artifice together."
Sarya hesitated. "Is there any chance of warning the mythal's creators by casting that spell here? Several of those who raised this mythal are still alive. I can think of at least one who wields Mystra's silver fire."
"I know of whom you speak," Malkizid replied. He did not name the wizard Sarya was thinking of, for it was well known that Mystra's Chosen could hear their names spoken anywhere in the world, and any words that the speaker uttered after the name. "I do not fear him, but then again, I am protected inside this exceedingly thorough summoning circle. However, the first thing we will do is silence the mythal's alarms and prevent it from sending out any kind of warning to its creators. I will show you how."
"Can you be certain that it will work?"
Malkizid's dark eyes flashed, and a frown creased his noble countenance.
"Sarya Dlardrageth, I forgot more about mythalcraft ten thousand years ago than those who raised this stone managed to accumulate in all the time since. This mythal was raised by mere novices. Long ago I taught the Vyshaanti how to build wonders you could not conceive of! In the days of Aryvandaar's glory mythals were weapons of war, and mythalcraft was the grandest and most terrible of the martial skills. Of course I know how to conceal my presence from such a device!"
Despite herself, Sarya took half a step back. For just a moment she glimpsed the ancient anger that Malkizid hoarded beneath his calm demeanor, and demon queen that she was, she still took note.
"You have had access to this mythal for nearly twenty years," she observed. "If you are so knowledgeable, why haven't you subverted it already?"
Malkizid grounded the point of his silver sword in the smooth stone floor and glowered at her. "First, I am not an elf, nor the recipient of any special blessing of Mystra's. You still possess enough elf blood in your veins to deceive some of this mythal's defenses, Sarya, while I do not. Second, I dare not set foot in the bounds of this mythal through any use of my own power. The wards raised by the Zhents two decades ago trap devils within the mythal's bounds. I will show you how to modify that stricture soon, but until I found you, I had no one to bring me to this place who would not instantly trap me here."
"You could be trapped here now," Sarya said, nodding at her binding circle.
"Only if you wished to betray me," Malkizid replied, "and I would advise you to carefully consider any such course of action, for the consequences would be severe. If nothing else, you would find me much less forthcoming with my secrets of mythalcraft if you thought to coerce me."
Sarya weighed the devil's words, comparing them with what she thought she knew.
"I will not betray you, Malkizid. I only seek to protect myself." She indicated the mythal stone with a flick of her wing and asked, "Now, how do we proceed?"
"First," said Malkizid, "I will show you how to inspect the mythal's very structure and identify the properties that are useful, those that are dangerous, and those that you can modify with some work. Then, we will make you the mistress of this mythal, so that no one else can contest your mastery of the device or sever you from it in the way Myth Glaurach's mythal was taken from you. Now that we have learned that your enemies can do such a thing, I see no reason to allow it to happen again."

CHAPTER FIVE
19 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

The first portal led to a ruined chamber high on the shoulders of an icy, windswept mountain. The bitter cold struck Araevin the instant he stepped through the magical gate, and the sting of wind-driven snow and the roar of the storm left him barely able to see or hear at all in the first moments after he arrived. He threw up one arm to shield his eyes, and peered at the old stonework around him.
"Araevin!" Ilsevele shouted to make herself heard above the wind. "Where are we?"
"I don't know!" he called back.
Araevin finally blinked his eyes clear. The others stood around him, backs to the wind, holding cloaks close around their throats as the garments flapped and fluttered. Narrow window slits looked out over a scene of magnificent desolation, a cloud-wracked
sea of black peaks and deep valleys. The chamber—and presumably, whatever structure it was a part of-actually stood well above the cloud layer. Sunlight streamed into the room, painfully bright.
About the same time of day as before, Araevin noted. We haven't moved terribly far to the east or the west. What mountains of such size stand near Myth Glaurach? The Nether Mountains, but they are not so tall. The Spine of the World, or maybe . . . ?
"I think these are the Ice Mountains," he told his companions. "Two hundred miles north of Myth Glaurach, perhaps? It's only a guess, though."
"We can't stay here long," Starbrow replied. "Can we return through the portal?"
Araevin turned to examine the blank stone face of a gateway, framed by a similar rellana vine device.
"Yes," he replied, "but we'll need rellana again. I've got the rest of the blossoms if we need to go back."
"It's not so bad here," Maresa observed. The genasi seemed more at home in the frigid air and howling wind than Araevin could believe. Her cloak hung from her shoulders, ruffling gently in the wind that streamed the others' cloaks like pennants behind them, and her long white hair drifted gently. She was a creature of the elemental air, and she was well suited for high places and strong winds. "So what do we do now?"
"Explore," said Araevin. "See if we can find any other portals the daemonfey might have used, or a trail or path leading away from this place."
Starbrow shifted Keryvian so that the heavy sword's hilt was close to his hand. He looked out the window slit at the steep slopes beyond.
"There might not be a road, Araevin. All the daemonfey have wings—maybe they just flew off from here."
"We'll consider that possibility when we have to." Araevin looked around the tower. The row of windows overlooking the mountain slope below stood to his left. To his right a broad swath of the chamber's wall was simply gone, as if something had cleaved the old building with a titanic axe stroke. The stonework had an elven look to it—somewhat heavier than elves might normally build, but given the evident remoteness and difficulty of the location, he could hardly blame the builders for using whatever materials were close at hand.
Was the place a watchpost of some kind? he wondered.
They made their way through an empty archway in the intact wall to another room, this one a large rectangular hall or banquet room, also brightly lit by the dazzling sunlight on the snow. Most of the roof was absent, lying in piles of rubble and debris on the floor of the chamber. Deep snowdrifts clung to the corners of the room.
It could have been a watchtower, Araevin decided. The elves of ancient Eaerlann would have wanted to keep an eye on the Spine of the World for dragon flights or armies of orcs and giants.
"What a miserable post this must have been," he muttered.
"Yes, but the view would have been worth it," Ilsevele replied. A gust of wind slammed into the stonework hall, kicking up high plumes of blowing ice and snow. She shivered and pulled her cloak as tight as she could. "For an hour, anyway."
At the far end of the hall, they found a stairway leading down into a dim chamber below. Filsaelene spoke a brief prayer to Corellon and imbued a slender wooden rod with magical light, and they followed her down into the rooms below. There they found a set of chambers with thicker, sturdier walls, broken only by a couple of thin arrow slits less than a handspan wide. The roar of the ever-present wind diminished to an eerie moaning as they descended into the shelter of the lower floor.
Filsaelene raised her light rod higher then took a step back.
"There's a body," she said.
"Undead?" Starbrow demanded, unsheathing Keryvian. The sun elf cleric hesitated then replied, "No, simply dead."
Araevin and Ilsevele moved up to stand on either side of Filsaelene, looking down on the corpse. The fellow had died sitting with his back to the wall, and had remained more or less in that position, his chin slumped down to his chest as if he had dozed off. The cold or the dry air had preserved him remarkably. He was human, dressed in the robes of a wizard, with a wooden staff clasped in his icy fingers. His eyes, dark and half-lidded, stared blankly into his lap.
"He just froze like that?" Ilsevele asked. "Who was he? How did he get here? Did the daemonfey kill him?"
Starbrow glanced at the dead mage and said, "Look at him. He might have been here for a hundred years, just like that. I doubt the daemonfey had much to do with it."
"I can try to question his spirit," Filsaelene said. "But I must prepare the proper invocations to Corellon Larethian first, and that I cannot do until moonrise tonight." The sun elf girl frowned then added, "On the other hand, if he's been here for a long time, this husk will hold no memory of the spirit. He might have been dead too long for my spell to work."
"We'll try to question him if we find nothing else here," Araevin decided. "He isn't going anywhere for now."
From the chamber at the bottom of the stairs, an archway led into a long, barrel-vaulted gallery or redoubt of some kind that was illuminated by a row of shuttered arrow slits looking out over the steep mountainside. Araevin wondered who the builders regarded as enemies. The place was in such a lofty locale that it seemed hard to believe that any conventional army, the sort of enemy who might be stopped by stonework and arrow slits, would be able to reach the watchpost, let alone attack it. Then, along the back wall of the room, they discovered no less than five portals, each framed in its own stone archway, the lintels worked in the designs of various flowering plants and vines. Araevin recognized felsul and holly; the others he could not name.
"What is this place?" Ilsevele asked as the wind moaned eerily in the ruins above them.
"A portal nexus," Araevin said. "Many portals are simple two-way devices, but sometimes portal builders wanted to link several destinations together in a network of portals. This is clearly such a place. You could step through one of those portals, and in a few moments use any of the others, choosing from a number of destinations."
"In other words, the daemonfey could be behind any of those doors," Starbrow said. He frowned. "Damnation. What if they lead us into a whole daisy-chain of magical doorways? We might be at this for days."
"Or longer," Araevin answered. "This explains the dead mage outside the room. He was probably a portal explorer, who used one of the doors leading into the nexus but then lacked the key to open another door to leave by. Without the right key, any or all of these doors would be nothing more than empty stone arches."
Maresa shuddered. "Gods, what a lonely way to die. It just goes to show you that you should never break into a place you can't break out of."
"Well, I anticipated that I might have to decipher several portals today, so I have prepared a few of the right sort of spells," Araevin said. "Give me a few moments, and I'll see what I can divine about these doorways."
The rest of the company stood watch, while Araevin chose the first portal on his left and spoke the words of his seeing spell. He realized at once that at least that one was damaged beyond repair. Only a fraying remnant of its magic remained, not even enough to guess at where it might have once led. He suspected that simple time and decay had been enough to ruin it. The second portal was still working and he divined its key-a small token of wood, marked with a few Elvish letters. Anyone who carried or wore such a token could use the portal, but no one else could.
I'll wait on that one, he decided. If he needed to, he could attempt to manufacture a proper token to awake it, but first he wanted to examine the other possibilities.
The third portal was functional. Its key was a simple spell—inscribing an arcane mark on the door would open it for a short time. Many, if not most sorcerers or wizards knew that particular spell. But perhaps the dead mage in the other room hadn't known it, or had been caught without the right spell ready. Araevin moved on to the fourth portal, and he found that this one had something close to the same key that the portal beneath Myth Glaurach had used, a rellana-blossom and a short phrase in Elvish.
He turned his attention to the last of the portals in the gallery, and he recoiled at once. It was an insidious trap. It was keyed to a simple pass phrase that was actually carved in the stone lintel above the arch, but Araevin observed that its magical strands were designed to unravel after conveying the user to some unknown destination.
"Stay away from the portal on the right," he warned his companions. "Don't say the word that's carved there, and don't touch the stone. I don't know where it leads, but it is designed to strand you there for a tenday or more."
Maresa happened to be nearest the trapped portal. She glanced at it suspiciously, and carefully stepped away from the device.
"Not that one, then," she said. "Which door did the daemonfey use?"
"The third or the fourth, I think—maybe the second, but I doubt it," Araevin answered. "Take your pick."
"One moment, then," Filsaelene said. She pressed her hands together before her chest, and looked up at the blank stone overhead, murmuring the words of a prayer to Corellon Larethian. "Which door did the daemonfey use?" she asked.
The others watched as the slender sun elf waited for a long moment, eyes closed. Then Filsaelene shook herself with a small start.
"Go left," she said. "The third door is the one the daemonfey passed through."
"Very well," Araevin said. "Everybody, be ready to pass through the portal quickly after I activate it. Portals opened by spells normally remain open for only a few moments, so you will have to hurry after me."
His companions gathered close around the portal.
Araevin checked to make sure they were ready, and he whispered the word to the spell and traced on the stone surface the mark he used as his own sigil. Blue fire awoke in the ancient gate, rippling around its perimeter, and Araevin was snatched away to somewhere else.
He found himself in deep, near-total darkness, with only a faint glimmer of light spilling down from somewhere overhead. Despite the lack of illumination, Araevin took three quick steps away from where he had arrived, knowing that his friends would be arriving right on his heels. He barked his shin hard on something, stumbled and caught himself on a stone pedestal in front of him. Muttering a human curse—and any human tongue was much more suited to profanity than Elvish, after all—he managed to call a light spell from his staff and see where he was.
The room was a vault or cellar below a large stone building, evidently in ruins. A stairwell leading up stood across the room to his right. The soft glow of daylight filtered down, the glimmer he had seen when he first entered. He looked down, and discovered that he had very nearly tumbled headlong into a deep stone well in the center of the room. The knee-high lip surrounding the shaft was what he had walked into in the darkness.
"Damn," Araevin breathed. He might have managed a quick spell of flying while falling in darkness—or he might not have.
Blue light crackled behind him, and Araevin turned to guide Starbrow away from the doorway. The moon elf had Keryvian out, and looked around, anxious for any sign of a foe.
"Are they here?" he hissed.
"I don't know. Now, step aside, the rest are coming," Araevin said. One by one Ilsevele, Maresa, and Filsaelene arrived in the same manner, simply appearing in the air next to the blank stone archway marking that end of the portal.
Araevin carefully studied the chamber of the well. It was another heavy stone room, built in the form of two intersecting barrel-vaults made of large stone blocks. At the end of three vaults stood empty stone slabs, perhaps meant to hold sarcophagi, but no such crypts were in evidence. The stairs climbed up at the end of the room's fourth arm. The vault opened out in the center, providing a little space around the well. The portal was set in one curving wall ringing the well, with another old portal opposite. He couldn't begin to guess what the place might once have been.
"Another portal," Ilsevele observed.
"Let's check the stairs and see what's above before we try the next portal," Araevin said. "Or for that matter, the well shaft. It might lead somewhere, too."
Maresa leaned over to look into the dark well. A cold breeze faintly sighed up from below, musty and damp.
"There's some light down there," she said in surprise.
Araevin frowned. He didn't remember seeing any such thing before. He leaned over to look, and he saw it too, a faint silver phosphorescence that danced far below them. It glimmered and swirled for a moment—then it started to rise, climbing swiftly toward them. For a moment, he continued to peer at it, trying to figure out what he was looking at, but then he decided that anything in such a place that was moving toward him and moving fast was not likely to be friendly.
He recoiled from the well, and called out a warning to his comrades. "Watch out, it's coming up!"
Maresa retreated from the edge, too, just before a swirling stream of spectral silver light exploded up out of the well. In the baleful glow Araevin could see the misshapen form of a person, a human face with an oddly dark and downcast gaze, the suggestion of regal robes hanging in tatters, and a shining silver staff clutched in ghostly fingers.
"It's the wizard!" Filsaelene gasped. "The one from the mountainside!"
The apparition hovered in the air above the well, its features cruel and proud. It fixed its empty gaze on Maresa and snarled out something in a tongue Araevin did not recognize.
"Hai zurgal memet erithalchol na!" it said, its voice imperious and demanding. "Memet na irixalnos nairhaug!"
"Araevin, what's it saying?" Starbrow asked in a low voice. He kept his sword raised before him in a guard position.
"I can't even begin to guess," Araevin replied. The elves exchanged looks with each other. "I have heard stories of travelers dying in portal networks, which their ghosts then haunt. Let's just leave it alone, and try the stairs. Move away slowly."
Maresa carefully backed away, feeling her way along the wall toward the stairs leading up out of the vault. Filsaelene followed close behind her. But before the two had moved more than ten feet toward the door, the ghostly wizard muttered something else in its incomprehensible tongue, and attacked. It flung out one spectral arm, blasting at Maresa with a sickly purple-white bolt of crackling lightning.
The genasi cried out and dived away from the bolt, which gouged a fist-deep scar across the stone wall behind her. Smaller side-bolts stabbed out at Filsaelene and Araevin. Araevin managed to parry the lightning bolt before it struck him, grounding it with his staff and a quick defensive spell, but Filsaelene was spun around and knocked off her feet.
"That was a stupid idea!" Maresa shouted.
The genasi scrambled to her feet and snapped off a quick shot from her crossbow, which passed clean through the center of the ghost's chest without leaving the faintest mark—though it made Starbrow curse and duck on the other side of the well.
Ilsevele whispered a spell as she put an arrow on the string of her bow. The arrowhead burst into cold silver flame as she loosed it. The missile tore a dark hole in the ghost's torso. The ghost howled in its forgotten tongue, but it did not recoil or crumple as a living person might have done. It simply ignored the wound, even as streamers of mist blossomed from the ragged hole and faded into nothingness.
The ghost seemed to gather itself for a moment, glaring at Ilsevele, and its eyes flashed with a pale and terrible light. Ilsevele screamed and raised her arms to shield her face, but her hands and arms turned dead white and smoked under the ghost's awful gaze. Her bow clattered to the floor.
"Ilsevele!" Araevin shouted as he wheeled on the ghost.
He hurled a spell of his own, riddling the spectral figure with a barrage of glowing blue darts. Like Ilsevele's arrow, the magic punched black holes in the silver image. More missiles followed an instant later, repeating the attack as Araevin threw his best effort at the specter. But the ghost, though hurt, kept its baleful eyes fixed on Ilsevele, searing her with its chill gaze.
"I can't reach it!" Starbrow snarled.
Keryvian glowed in his hand, a shining blade of holy fire, but the ghost hovered over the center of the well, outside any conceivable sword-reach. The moon elf reversed the enchanted sword in his hand, cocking his arm as if to throw the blade, but he hesitated. Ilsevele wailed again, writhing under the ghost's cold-burning stare, and Starbrow muttered a curse and straightened up.
With calm deliberation, he walked over and interposed himself between the ghost and Ilsevele, turning his back on the apparition and shielding his face.
The pale glow surrounding Ilsevele faded at once, only to spring into existence on Starbrow's back. He groaned, but keeping his back to the monster, he seemed to avoid the worst of it.
"Araevin ... somebody . . . kill this damned thing!" he gasped.
"Maresa!" Araevin cried. "Use your wand!"
Then he seized one of the wands at his own belt and snatched it out, blasting the ghost with dart after dart of glowing energy. Maresa dropped her useless crossbow and did the same, pelting the ghost from the other side.
The ghost howled again, and wrenched its gaze away from Starbrow and Ilsevele. The moon elf crumpled to his knees, collapsing on top of her. Then the specter intoned
another spell, and blasted Araevin into senselessness with a mighty word of power. Araevin staggered back and tumbled to the hard stone floor, eyes seared white, ears ringing, blood streaming from his nose. He could see nothing, hear nothing, could scarcely even move as his thoughts reeled drunkenly.
His vision cleared a little, and he looked up through unfocused eyes as Filsaelene picked herself up off the floor. She steadied herself with one hand on the wall, and presented the star-shaped holy symbol of Corellon Larethian, shouting out a prayer that Araevin couldn't hear through the ringing in his ears. A great ring of golden light burst from her raised hand, racing through the chamber. When it touched the ghost, the apparition's substance simply boiled away into nothing. The same golden glow washed over Araevin and the others, bringing vigor, strength, and renewal.
Buoyed by the cleric's spell of healing, Araevin climbed to his feet as his eyes focused again and his ears stopped ringing. He groped for the magic wand he had dropped, closed his fingers around it, and hammered the ghost again with more of the magical darts. The spirit's whole form flickered and danced uncertainly, as if it was having trouble keeping itself together.
"Keep after it!" Araevin cried. "We can destroy this thing!"
The ghost drifted down toward the floor of the chamber, reaching out with one spectral claw for Filsaelene. The cleric quickly recoiled, backing up as the apparition drew closer.
"Shield me, Corellon!" she cried, and she spoke a prayer, guarding herself with a shining golden radiance that the ghost could not seem to reach past.
She whirled her long sword in front of her, but the weapon simply passed harmlessly through the ghost.
Araevin tried another spell-a bolt of fire—but the ghost's otherworldly body simply wasn't affected.
Think, he told himself. What other spells do I have that might destroy a ghost?
Before he could determine the next attack to try,
Starbrow scrambled to his feet and charged at the ghost's back, Keryvian in his hands. The ancient sword burst into brilliant white flame as lie slashed at the specter. Unlike Filsaelene's sword or Maresa's crossbow bolts, Keryvian proved quite capable of damaging the spirit. One slash dragged Keryvian through its torso from shoulder to hip, and Starbrow's spinning follow-up drove the point of Demron's last and greatest blade through the center of the ghost's forehead.
The ghost groaned horribly, a sound that chilled Araevin to the bone, and it slowly dissolved into nothingness. Starbrow held his sword ready, in case it re-formed, but the phosphorescent mist simply dimmed and vanished.
"Thank the Seldarine that's over," the moon elf breathed. He looked around. "Is everybody all right?"
"Thanks to Filsaelene's spell, I am unhurt," Araevin replied. He hurried over and knelt by Ilsevele, who still crouched by the floor, broad swaths of her flesh dead-white and ice-cold to the touch. "Ilsevele is injured!"
"Sso c-cold," Ilsevele gasped.
She locked one of her hands around Araevin's forearm, pulling herself close. Araevin hissed with the cold of her touch. Then Filsaelene hurried over and knelt beside them. The cleric spoke the words of a healing prayer and set her own hand over Ilsevele's injuries. Beneath the warm golden glow of her touch, the pallor of Ilsevele's wounds faded, and her shivering stopped.
Ilsevele shook herself and stood up slowly.
"Thank you, Filsaelene," she said. She rubbed her arms vigorously, and the color returned to her face. She retrieved her bow, and looked over at Starbrow. "And thank you, too, Starbrow. You risked your life to shield me from the ghost. I don't know what to say."
Starbrow said with an awkward smile, "It just seemed like the best thing I could do, since I couldn't reach the ghost as long as it hovered up there. I couldn't stand there and do nothing."
Ilsevele stepped over and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. "Thank you, again."
Araevin couldn't help but smile at the sheepish look that came over Starbrow's face.
"Well, come on, then," the wizard said. "Let's see where we are and where the daemonfey went from here."
*****

Curnil Thordrim stalked something terrible through the forest gloom a few miles from the old Standing Stone. He didn't know for certain what it was, but it had killed two of his fellow Riders of Mistledale in their simple camp a few hours before, and they had died badly indeed: bodies marked by odd punctures surrounded by swollen, blueblack flesh, limbs broken and twisted, and awful bites gouged out of faces and skulls. He knew all the dangerous animals and most of the deadly monsters that haunted the depths of old Cormanthor, but he had never in his thirtyfive years seen anything in the woodland that killed in that manner.
Curnil was a burly man with thick black hair on his forearms and a heavy black beard. Despite his size, he glided through the underbrush without sound, his dark eyes flicking from sign to sign as he followed the trail of something that stood as tall as an ogre and had long, narrow feet with small claws at the toe. He was not entirely sure he wanted to catch up to it, if he was to be honest with himself.
He came to a small stream trickling through the woods, and looked and listened for a long time before breaking out of the ground cover. Curnil had learned his woodcraft from some of the best, the moon and wood elves of Elventree, a hundred miles to the north. Nothing but the burbling of the stream greeted his ears. Curnil drew a deep breath, and slipped out of the bushes to the stream bank, looking for a print that might show whether his quarry had continued on or turned aside there.
It only took a moment for him to find the end of the track. The creature's footprints simply ended in the wet sand, as if it had taken to the air or just vanished outright.
"That's impossible," he muttered, brow furrowed in confusion. "What in the Nine Hells vanishes into thin air?"
He grimaced—the Nine Hells indeed. The pieces fit together all too well. Something wicked, something strong, something that disappeared without a trace. Myth Drannor was not far off, and he'd heard plenty of stories about the horrible devils that haunted the ruins. But they were supposed to be trapped within the old elven mythal, weren't they?
"Some idiot set one of those things loose," he decided.
Some cruel new plot on the part of the drow who lived in the shadows of the forest? Or a stupid blunder by some glory-hunting adventurers in Myth Drannor. Who would set such a creature free?
For that matter, why assume that only one was loose in the forest?
Curnil looked around at the silent woods, and shuddered. He was sure that he had not seen the last of the monster he'd just tracked to the empty streambed, and he didn't look forward to finally meeting it. He didn't look forward to that at all.
*****

The structure above the chamber in which they fought the ghost turned out to be a mausoleum of some kind, buried deep in a forest unfamiliar to Araevin. Starbrow believed it might be one of the woodlands near old Myth Drannor, possibly the old realm of Semberholme in western Cormanthor. Araevin had never visited the eastern forest, but the fact that it was near dusk when they emerged gave him reason to believe that the portal had carried them a fair distance to the east of the mountaintop stronghold.
"Why would the folk of Myth Glaurach or Semberholme have built that mountain stronghold we first explored?" Ilsevele asked Araevin. "Are you certain the portal-builders were elves?"
He nodded. "All the portals we've seen so far have shown the same workmanship and design. I suppose it's possible
that someone carved newer portals and attempted to match the workmanship of the older ones, but the spells that bind the portals together all seem to be about the same age, too. I favor the simpler explanation that the whole network was constructed at one time—most likely by mages of Myth Glaurach who wanted to join their city to several distant destinations."
Starbrow studied the forests, rubbed at his jaw, and said, "You know, it might have been mages of Myth Drannor who built this portal network. They were masters of such magic, and created portals to many distant places. Myth Glaurach might have been a destination, not an origin."
Eventually they all decided that it didn't matter very much, since Filsaelene's divinations revealed that the daemonfey had not emerged from the portal network there. Instead, their adversaries had fled through the second of the two portals in the chamber below. They rested for the night in the forest above the mausoleum, and returned to the vaulted chamber beneath the empty tomb.
Araevin cast his spells of portal sensing again, and studied the doorway they had passed by before. As he suspected, it was another keyed portal, requiring nothing more than a simple phrase in Elvish. However, the magic guarding it was intermittent. Once opened, the portal would not work again for hours.
"All right, I am opening the portal," he told the others. "The portal will remain open for a short time, just a few moments likely, and it won't open again for hours. You must follow me quickly."
He spoke the pass phrase, and watched the old lichencovered lintel glow brightly. He reached out and tapped the blank stone of the door, and felt the familiar dizzying sense of moving without moving. All went dark for an instant, and Araevin found himself looking on a small forest glade. One side of the glade ended in a stone wall, in which the portal's archway stood. The morning was young there as well, the sky pale gray and streaked with high, rose-colored clouds.
"Neither east nor west this time," Araevin observed.
He stepped away from the doorway, and studied the dark forest looming around him. The broken fingers of slender stone towers rose a short distance away, glimmering softly in the coming dawn over the treetops.
Behind him, Starbrow emerged from the portal, followed by the others in short order. The moon elf warrior halted in surprise, a look of consternation on his face.
"I know this place!" he said. "We're near the Burial Glen, only half a mile or so from Myth Drannor."
"Myth Drannor! Are you certain?" Ilsevele said. She quickly drew an arrow and laid it across her bow, scanning the vicinity for any enemies.
"Trust me," Starbrow said. "I know this place."
"Aren't the ruins supposed to be overrun by devils and dragons, monsters and ghosts of the worst kind?" Maresa asked, obviously uneasy.
"So it is said," Ilsevele replied.
"Myth Drannor . . . of course," Araevin said.
Where else would the daemonfey go? Saelethil Dlardrageth and the rest of his accursed House had arisen in the ancient realm of Arcorar, which had become Myth Drannor. He'd already seen that Sarya knew how to use mythals to anchor demons to Faerun and compel their service—and there was a mythal here, one even more powerful than the mythal that had stood over Myth Glaurach. And mythals often served to absolutely block scrying, which would explain why no one had been able to divine the whereabouts of Sarya's defeated army.
"Be careful," he told the others. "I think there is a very good chance we have found Sarya's hiding place."
"So what now?" Ilsevele asked. "Make certain that they're here, or return and report what we've found so far?"
"Press on," Araevin said at once. "If nothing else, I need to get a look at the mythal spells and see if Sarya is manipulating this mythal as she did the other one."
"The mythal stone is in the heart of Castle Cormanthor," Starbrow said. "I can't imagine how we can reach it, if the whole fey'ri army is here."
Araevin looked at Starbrow. "You know Myth Drannor well. Mythal stones are usually hidden with care."
"I've spent some time here." Starbrow shrugged and looked away, searching the trees for danger, Keryvian's hilt in his hand.
"I don't need to see the stone itself, at least not right this moment. I just need to be within the bounds of the mythal's influence."
"That's easier, then," the moon elf said. "We need only walk a couple of hundred yards in that direction-" he pointed toward where the old spires could still be seen over the trees-"and we'll be within the mythal."
"We might be walking into the middle of Sarya's legion," Maresa said. "Anything could be in there. Hells, even if she isn't here, I've heard enough stories about Myth Drannor to think twice about setting foot in that place."
"I'll conceal us, at least for a short time," Araevin promised.
He drew out a tiny pinch of spirit gum from his bandolier of spell components, and plucked out one of his eyelashes, wincing. Pressing the lash into the gum, he carefully spoke the words of a spell. The forest around them seemed to grow dimmer, more distant.
"Araevin, what did you do?" Filsaelene asked.
"A spell of invisibility. It covers all of us, but you must remain close to me. If we run into enemies, do not strike unless you're sure it can't be helped, because you'll break the spell if you do." He looked over to Starbrow. "Lead the way, since you know where we're going."
Starbrow nodded grimly and took the lead. They followed an old, winding path that led from the portal glen toward the city, taking pains to move quietly and avoid talking. Many things could pierce a spell of invisibility, but if they were quiet and careful, they might be able to avoid trouble of that sort.
They reached the outskirts of the city, and took cover behind a low stone wall. Araevin sensed the moment they entered the mythal. His skin tingled with the power of the ancient magic.
"Let's stop here. I have a couple of spells to cast, now that we're inside the mythal. Keep watch for me."
Ilsevele crouched beside him, an arrow on the string of her bow. Starbrow stood behind a tall pile of stones, sword in hand, watching the ruins with his face set in an unreadable expression. Maresa and Filsaelene guarded the other side.
Satisfied that they were ready, Araevin first cast one of his divinations. Myth Drannor's magical aura made scrying impossible, but he hoped that a different sort of divination might work. He spoke the words of the spell that conjured up unseen drifting eyes, hovering above his head like a halo.
"Spread out and search for the daemonfey," he instructed them. "Return when you sight any."
The intangible sensors whirred away out of sight, each dodging and darting its way into the ruins and the forests around him
He waited patiently for several minutes, as his spellcreations went about their searches. Then they began to return, one by one. Araevin caught each in his hand as it came back, closing his eyes to see played out in his mind's eye the things the magical eyes had seen. He glimpsed buildings with broken windows, fallen-in roofs, and piles of masonry inside; streets overgrown with vines and wild trees; proud old manors and schools still surprisingly intact, though their windows were dark and empty. And he also found the daemonfey-glimpses of fey'ri companies bivouacked in whichever buildings were best preserved. The demonspawn were hard at work in repairing their weapons and armor, forging new weapons, drilling with spell and blade, or simply patrolling the ruins, fluttering from building to building like oversized bats.
"Well?" Maresa asked.
"Yes, they're here," Araevin said. "This is the fey'ri army, I'm certain of it."
"We have to leave, then," Starbrow said. "I have to get word of this back to Gaerth and Seiveril."
Araevin nodded. "In a moment," he said. "There is one more thing I want to see here." The others shifted nervously, watching the ruins for any sign of approaching enemies, but Araevin moved his hands in arcane passes and murmured the words of another spell, the spell of mythal-sight that Saelethil had taught him.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he perceived Myth Drannor's ancient and mighty mythal as a golden vault filling the sky, a huge dome of drifting magic threads that slowly orbited the whole city. The beauty and power of the thing astonished him. Araevin trained his vision closer in, studying carefully to see what the mythal's effects were. He glimpsed protections against scrying well, he knew about those already, didn't he?—and wards to suppress spells of compulsion and domination. There seemed to be no modifications to the drifting strands of magic.
Sarya hasn't figured out how to manipulate this mythal yet, he decided. Maybe it takes her a while to determine how to attune herself.
He allowed himself a confident smile, and spoke the words of a spell that would allow him to gain access to the mythal so that he could raise defenses against Sarya. But even as he spoke the last syllable and reached out to grasp at the magical strands he saw around him, he realized that he had made a mistake.
From the drifting golden strand hovering in arm's reach, a shimmering red-gold thread suddenly emerged, appearing from nowhere. Araevin yelped and stumbled back, but not before the new strand hummed angrily. A scarlet veil descended over him, dancing across his body in a thousand motes of painful pinpricks, jabbing and sharp. With each pinprick, a spell vanished from his mind, draining away at a horrendous rate.
"Araevin!" Ilsevele cried.
She sprang to her feet and backed away as he jerked and flailed in his crimson cocoon of light motes.
The great golden dome of Myth Drannor's mythal wavered and faded from Araevin's view. He desperately tried to speak a counter-spell, but before he had even said
the third word of the enchantment, the spell was sucked out of his mind in mid-casting. He tried to quickly think of another, but then there was no more time—every spell he held prepared in his mind was gone, drained away.
I am powerless, he realized. Sarya set a trap for me!
"Araevin! What's wrong? What has happened?" Ilsevele asked. "Are you hurt?"
"Not physically," he managed. He steadied himself against the wall. "But I've been drained of magic. I have no spells. We have to flee, before the daemonfey come for me."
Starbrow drew back from his post, and glanced at Araevin.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"I don't know," Araevin answered.
He hugged himself, feeling a strange ache in the center of his body, as if something had been torn out of him. He wasn't sure exactly how he'd been injured, but he prayed to Corellon that it wasn't permanent. He couldn't imagine being powerless for the rest of his days.
He forced himself to look up at Starbrow and say, "Yes, I can walk. But I think we ought to run."

CHAPTER SIX
21 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

Lord Seiveril Miritar, Your Highness," the major domo announced, ringing her ceremonial staff once on the stone floor.
Seiveril inclined his head to acknowledge the courtesy, and strode into the Dome of Stars amid the golden glow of the fading daylight. The dark marble of the floor caught the pale rose sky and mirrored its serried colors, so that the council table drifted in the darkness between gold-glowing floor and brilliant sky, a white ship adrift in the shadows between the two. Seiveril almost hesitated to set foot on the floor before him, as if he might disturb the sky's reflection with a careless step, but he continued without a pause and approached the high table where he had sat in council for so many years.
Amlaruil greeted him with a cool smile. The
queen wore a silver gown, and her face shone like moonlight in the shadows.
"Welcome, Lord Miritar," she said. "We did not expect you this evening; what brings you before us?"
"I am afraid something has come up, my queen," Seiveril replied. He halted two paces before the outswept arms of the council and bowed to Amlaruil. "I must conclude my business here in Evermeet and return to Faerun immediately."
Amlaruil met his eyes, and her brow creased. "What news from Faerun, my friend?" she asked.
"I have received a sending from Lord Vesilde Gaerth, Your Highness. He tells me that a hidden portal network has been found under Myth Glaurach, portals through which Sarya Dlardrageth's army may have made their escape."
"Portals?" said Keryth Blackhelm. The stern-faced marshal frowned. "Why, the daemonfey might be anywhere by now!"
"The portals are being searched even as we speak. Rest assured I will not give up until we have destroyed the daemonfey root and branch," said Seiveril.
"The daemonfey have been defeated, have they not?" Ammisyll Veldann asked. "How much longer will you persist in this interminable folly, Miritar? While you chase after ghosts and garrison gloomy old ruins, Evermeet itself remains vulnerable to attack!"
"Clearly, Evermeet was vulnerable to attack before I called for my Crusade," Seiveril replied. "My efforts in Faerun are your best defense, Lady Veldann."
Veldann scowled and began to frame a response, but Amlaruil interceded.
"The Dlardrageths are the enemies of all the elf race," she said. "I will pray to the Seldarine for your success." The queen did not glance at Ammisyll Veldann, but the highborn sun elf frowned and subsided, leaning back in her seat. Instead, Amlaruil studied Seiveril. "Have you given more thought to Lady Durothil's proposal, Lord Miritar?"
Seiveril glanced up at the pale sky overhead. An empty chair stood at the foot of the left-hand side of the table, opposite the seat occupied by the high admiral.
It would be easy to take my place there, he thought. I would certainly wield power at least equal to the power I held as Lord of Elion—perhaps even more, since I would hold a high office indeed, with no one within three thousand miles to countermand my commands. I could do a great deal of good, if I chose to take that seat.
But how long would that good last? he wondered. Evermeet might set a shining example for the young human lands of Faerun to follow, but ultimately Evermeet is a refuge, a retreat. All the troubles that were foremost in his mind—the daemonfey, the phaerimm, the assaults on Evermeet, even the fall of the realms of Eaerlann and Cormanthor hundreds of years ago—seemed inextricably linked with the pattern of Retreat and flight that had been established for a dozen elf generations.
The empty seat at the table was inviting. It was familiar, comfortable. And it might undo everything he had accomplished so far.
"Lady Durothil's suggestion has great merit," he finally said. "I wholeheartedly endorse the notion of appointing a minister or a marshal to sit on this council and speak for those of the People who remain in Faerun. But I respectfully decline to hold any such office, or to answer to anyone who does."
"I don't understand," Keryth Blackhelm growled. "You tell us to raise up a councilor for the east, and you say you will pay no heed to him? What is the point?"
"If I accepted the seat you offer, I would be honorbound to answer to Evermeet's authority and conform my actions to the will of the throne and the council. I do not have confidence in this body's ability to take the actions I deem necessary in Faerun. Therefore I must decline to be so bound."
"Isn't it arrogant of you to decide that you, in the solitude of your own heart, are better suited to make such decisions than anyone else?" High Admiral Elsydar asked.
"Perhaps, but I have work that is not yet done in Faerun," Seiveril said. "I will remain until I know that I have done all that I can, and I will not let Evermeet's isolationists to tell me otherwise."
"Wander around in Faerun's dying forests as long as you like, Miritar," Ammisyll Veldann hissed, "but send home the sons and daughters of Evermeet you have inveigled with your promises of glory!"
"Each elf who followed me into Faerun is free to return to Evermeet whenever he or she chooses," Seiveril said, standing as straight as a fine blade. "I compelled no one to follow me to Faerun, and I will not allow you to compel anyone to return, Veldann. If I have to, I will found a realm of my own to prevent it."
The council fell silent for a moment, astonished. Even Amlaruil's eyes widened.
The queen said, "Seiveril, think of the People who follow you. You are not the only one who must accept the consequences of your crusade."
"By what authority?" snapped Selsharra Durothil. "By what authority do you name yourself a king, Seiveril Miritar? Where is your realm?"
"By what authority?" Seiveril repeated. "By the authority of each elf who chooses to follow me, Lady Durothil. I claim no crown. All who remain with me shall have a voice in choosing who we name as our lord and how we do so."
He looked at each of the councilors and went on, "As far as our realm . . . how many of our lands lie empty now? Who would argue with me if I raised a city in the High Moor, where Miyeritar once was? Or the wild lands west of Tun, where the towers of Shantel Othreier stood? The Border Forest, where once the sylvan realm of Rystallwood lay? Or the Elven Court, or Cormanthor itself?" He paused, and said again, "Why not Cormanthor itself?"
Seiveril looked up at the sky overhead, where the first stars were beginning to glimmer in the darkening sky.
Corellon, guide me, he prayed silently. Hold me to the course you have set for me.
Then he turned his back on the council, and strode from the Dome of Stars, leaving Evermeet behind him.
*****
The portal near the Burial Glen failed to work, as Araevin knew it would. The spells that had powered the device for centuries were designed to allow intermittent functioning only—once used, the portal could not work again for hours. He knew a spell or two that might suspend that particular property and allow the instantaneous use of the gate, but with all his spells drained, he did not have a chance of opening it.
"I am sorry," he told his companions. "We can't escape through this portal. It will be hours before it opens again."
"Damn! Why build a magical door that's nothing more than a dead stone most of the time?" Maresa snarled.
"Among other things, it makes a portal much harder to sneak an army through," Araevin answered. "We'll have to wait for it to activate again."
"We certainly can't wait here," Starbrow growled. The moon elf looked around the clearing, his hand on Keryvian's hilt. "Let's keep moving. There's a lot of forest to hide in, and maybe we can circle back in a few hours to try it again."
"Agreed. The farther we are from this place, the better," Araevin said. If she were in Myth Drannor, Sarya would certainly have sensed his attempt to manipulate her mythal defenses and the pounce of her spell trap. He couldn't believe that she would not order her fey'ri to hunt him down, especially if she knew that her trap had drained away all his spells. "Starbrow, you know this place. Take the lead."
The moon elf nodded curtly and set off at once, leading the small party away from the portal clearing along a small footpath. Ilsevele followed behind him, her bow in her hand, and Araevin trotted behind her, his disruption wand clenched in one fist. He was fairly sure that the wand would still work for him-wands didn't draw on any spells held in the mind, they simply contained spells of their own that any competent mage could make use of. It was a good weapon, and he had two more wands at his belt with equally destructive spells. But he normally held dozens of spells in his mind, many of which were significantly more powerful than any he could build into a wand. Without the power and versatility of his normal repertoire, he was in no position to invite a battle against Sarya's fey'ri or any of their infernal allies.
How did she do it? Araevin wondered. If she knew a spell to secure the mythal-weave from another mage's examination or touch, why didn't she guard the mythal at Myth Glaurach in the same manner? He could only think of three possible answers: Sarya Dlardrageth was simply careless at Myth Glaurach, which seemed scarcely credible; there was something different about Myth Drannor's mythal; or Sarya Dlardrageth had learned something new about mythalcraft in the relatively short time since he had bested her at Myth Glaurach.
But she doesn't have the Nightstar. Where could she have learned the necessary spells? Is there another selukiira she might have access to? Or . . . did Sarya find a tutor? Araevin's frown deepened, and he rubbed at the gemstone in his chest.
"This way," Starbrow said. He turned from the path, striking off into the forests. He slid down a leaf-covered slope, muddy and wet with the spring, and splashed across a small stream at the bottom of the dell. But before they scrambled up the far side of the stream bank, Araevin sensed a terrible, icy cold in the air, and a crawling wrongness that turned his stomach.
He looked back up the short hillside they'd just descended. A pair of nightmarish monsters bounded down after them. They were a pale bluish-white in color, the hue of dead flesh, and they were big—each easily the size of an ogre, with insectile features, clacking mandibles, and long, lashing tails studded with terrible barbs. They carried great spears of black iron frosted with supernatural cold.
"Behind us!" he cried. "Ice devils!"
The devils hissed and clicked at each other, slowing and spreading apart as they realized their quarry had been brought to bay. Araevin and his companions turned to face them.
"We have to kill them," Starbrow said. "Don't let them teleport away, or they'll be back with more of their kind in a matter of moments."
"Right," said Ilsevele.
Her hands blurred and her bow sang its deadly song, thrumming deeply. A silver arrow struck the first devil just above its cold, faceted eye, splintering against its chitinous hide, and a second arrow stuck in the tender joint between its armored torso and its bony arm.
The two fiends halted, gathering their infernal power. Araevin started to shout a warning, but even as he drew breath the monsters let loose with a terrible, scathing blast of unearthly cold. The stream iced over at once, and tree and fern alike turned white and died under the deadly frost.
Araevin ducked down under his cloak, hoping its enchantments would help protect him. Cold so fierce that it felt like a white-hot poker seared his hands, his feet, and soaked through his cloak, wrenching away his breath and burning in his nose and mouth. He heard Ilsevele cry out in pain. Then the cold eased, and he threw off his cloak, shaking off a mantle of deadly white hoarfrost as he stood again.
The whole hillside was white and frozen from the ice devils' wintry blasts. The monsters stalked forward, iron spears smoking with cold. Before him, at the bottom of the dell, Filsaelene stood frozen. She had been in midstream when the devils attacked, and the ice on the creek held her immobilized at the knee.
"I'm stuck!" she cried.
Araevin leveled his disruption wand at the nearest of the two devils and barked out the command word. A bolt of azure energy, shimmering and crackling, lanced out from the wand to knock the devil off its feet. The second devil approached Filsaelene, who stooped down to smash the edge of her shield against the ice covering the creek, trying to free her feet from the ice. But then Maresa suddenly slipped out from behind a tree, leveled her crossbow, and shot the ice devil in the side of its thick neck. Blue-black gore spattered the frost-covered ground, and the monster whirled on her, moving with impossible speed for something so large and powerful. Maresa yelped and gave ground, ducking back into a young stand of alders and trying to keep as many of the slender white trees as possible between her and the devil.
"Is there a good way to kill these things?" Maresa called.
"Holy weapons!" Filsaelene replied. "You need a holy weapon to really hurt them!"
"Anything else?" the genasi demanded.
The ice devil stalked closer and rammed the point of its black spear through the trees, missing Maresa by a hand's breadth.
Araevin blasted that devil with his wand, staggering it for a moment, then he risked a quick glance back at Ilsevele. He found her fumbling to pick up her bow again with frozen hands. Starbrow knelt by her, trying to help.
"I can't shoot!" she said.
The first devil regained its feet and charged at Filsaelene, who finally managed to pull her feet free of the ice. She parried the first strike of its spear with her shield, twisted out of the way of the second, but then the monster's barbed tail came sweeping in fast and low, lashing her across her knees. Her feet flew out from under her, and Filsaelene fell on her back in the icy stream, her sword clattering out of her grasp. The monster straddled her, one clawed foot on either side of her torso, and raised its great black spear in both hands.
Then Starbrow came dashing down the slope, Keryvian alight in his hands. The sword gleamed in one perfect arc that took off the ice devil's leg at the knee. The creature let out a high-pitched, whistling shriek, and toppled into the creek, even as it slashed and gouged at Starbrow. The big moon elf followed the monster to the ground, blocking its claws and mandibles with lightning-swift parries. Then he set one foot on its chest and rammed Keryvian's point through the monster's mandibles, pinning its head to the streambed Keryvian's pure white fire flashed from the ice devil's eyes. The thing shuddered once and lay still.
The second ice devil whirled at the cry of the first, and abandoned Maresa to rush toward the others. But when Starbrow killed its companion, the ice devil halted, its eyes glittering with cold malice. It abruptly vanished, teleporting away.
"Damn," Starbrow said. "It's gone for help!"
"Quickly, then. We must be away from here before it returns!" Araevin replied. He turned and helped Ilsevele to her feet, shivering at the icy touch of her flesh. "Can you walk?" he asked her.
She winced with pain, but nodded. "Yes. Let's go."
They scrambled up the other side of the dell, and ran at their best speed through the woods beyond, following Starbrow as he dashed ahead. He led them for several hundred yards, through tall groves of magnificent trees that resembled nothing so much as the pillars of a great cathedral above a floor of green ferns, into tangled thickets and past old ruined walls and roads, before they reached a small shrine or chapel half-hidden by the hillside it was built against.
"In here," Starbrow said. "I think we'll be safe."
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Ilsevele asked. "Wouldn't it be better to stay out in the woods, where we can try to keep ahead of the pursuit? If they track us to this place, we'll be cornered."
"The fey'ri have wings," Starbrow answered. "If they find us in the open, we won't be able to outrun them. Hiding is probably our best option. And if I remember right . . . " The moon elf warrior moved into the ruined shrine, and studied the floor carefully.
"Whatever you're doing, do it quickly! The fey'ri are coming," Maresa hissed. She flattened herself beside the door, watching the path along which they'd just come.
"There are at least a dozen of them back there."
Starbrow swept aside a small bare patch, then knelt to flip up a flagstone and open a hidden catch. Behind the altar, a hidden door slid open.
"Into the passage," he said, and stood aside to motion Araevin, Ilsevele, and Filsaelene through. Maresa followed, hurrying across the chapel, and Starbrow stepped in and slid the door closed.
The chamber beyond was absolutely lightless, but then Filsaelene spoke the words of a minor prayer and summoned up a magical light. Araevin looked around and saw that they were in a natural cave hidden within the hillside. A small pool of clear, still water lay in the center of the cave, and soft moss that glowed faintly blue-green covered the floor. "What is this place?" he asked.
"A secret refuge, hidden beneath the shrine of Sehanine Moonbow. There are a few such places scattered around Myth Drannor and its outskirts," Starbrow said. "Once they were also guarded by spells designed to keep them concealed, even against magic, but I don't know if those work any longer. The moss has healing properties, if you are hurt."
He set Keryvian down on the ground, and lowered himself to the moss, stretching out as if on a bed.
"How did you ever find this place?" Ilsevele asked. She sank down onto the mossy floor nearby.
Starbrow shrugged and looked over to Araevin. "How long before we can use that portal to return to Myth Glaurach?"
"Several hours, I think," Araevin replied. "Of course, Sarya may be guarding it now. For that matter, we'll have to figure out a way to reach it without fighting our way through her entire legion."
"Can you prepare any spells that would help us reach the portal unseen?" Filsaelene asked.
"Not until I rest. Then, I could ready the invisibility spell again," Araevin said. He frowned, and added, "That is, assuming that I can commit spells to my mind at all. I think that Sarya's trap only depleted my mind of the spells
I knew at the moment, but if she somehow drew out my ability to cast spells at all. . . ."
"Aillesel Seldarie," Ilsevele breathed. "Araevin, I didn't realize how the mythal had affected you."
"Well, we will cross that bridge when we come to it, as my human friends say." Araevin looked over to Starbrow. "If we were thinking of hiding here for several hours to allow the portal to recharge, we might as well remain here long enough for me to prepare spells, if I can. It will make things much easier if we have trouble getting back to the portal glade."
They settled down to rest from their exertions, lying quietly in the moss-filled cave. Filsaelene used her spells to heal the worst of their injuries, though her healing spells could do nothing for Araevin's magic. Stilling his thoughts to silence, Araevin stretched out and let himself drift into Reverie, trying very hard not to dwell on what would happen if he found he could not wield magic. While he composed himself to rest, he listened to his companions conversing in low voices.
"When did you explore this place, Starbrow?" Ilsevele asked the moon elf.
"A long time ago."
"It can't be that long ago. You're not more than a hundred and fifty or so, are you?"
"That's about right," Starbrow said.
"That is certainly long by my standards," Maresa observed. "Because you elves live so damned long, you have no idea of the value of time."
Ilsevele smiled in the dim light. "That might be true, but I note that Starbrow here hasn't answered my question. You've said before that you were from Cormanthor, but where exactly?"
"I thought the elves abandoned this place," Maresa said, surprised.
"For the most part, we did," Filsaelene told her. "Certainly no elves live near Myth Drannor any longer. But there are still a few small elven settlements in different places in this forest. Cormanthor stretches from the
Thunder Peaks to the Dragon Reach, and from Cormyr to the Moonsea. It's a big forest."
"How did you come to meet my father?" Ilsevele asked. "Until he embarked on this crusade against the daemonfey, I never knew him to have visited Cormanthor."
Starbrow remained silent for a long time. "You will have to ask your father about that," he finally said. "It's not a question for me to answer."
"Now what does that mean?" Ilsevele asked, rather sharply.
"Ask your father," Starbrow said again. Then he fell silent, and said no more.
Araevin finally stirred fully from his Reverie some hours later, and felt surprisingly refreshed. He ran his fingers over the blue moss of the cavern floor, and wondered what kind of healing magic the folk of Myth Drannor had imbued in it long ago. He found Starbrow sitting with his back to the wall, watching the secret door that led back out to the chapel. Ilsevele and Filsaelene were deep in their own Reveries, and Maresa was simply asleep, snoring softly.
Lying still, he closed his eyes and touched the Nightstar embedded in his chest, seeking the spells the selukiira stored as ably as his own spellbooks. He chose a simple spell of minor telekinesis first, the sort of thing that almost any apprentice could master, and concentrated on it until its mystic symbology and invocations were pressed into his mind, like a melody he could not get out of his head.
Then he sat up, moved his hands in the appropriate gestures, and muttered the words of the simple spell. To his great relief, he felt the magic, soft and familiar, streaming through his mind and his fingertips, as he picked up a small stone and carefully moved it over to drop into Starbrow's lap.
The moon elf looked up. "You did that?"
Araevin nodded. "Yes. Sarya's defenses simply emptied my mind of readied spells. They didn't damage my ability to study and memorize more."
"That's a relief, then," the moon elf said.
"You don't know the half of it," Araevin replied. He
focused his attention on the selukiira again, and began furiously memorizing spell after spell, rebuilding his repertoire from nothing. He felt as if his mind were humming with arcane energy, a sensation that he had become so accustomed to in centuries of practicing magecraft that he could not begin to guess when he might have stopped noticing it.
"How long will you need to ready your spells?"
"An hour, perhaps two," said Araevin. "Then we will see about getting out of here."
*****

Sarya Dlardrageth stood by a ruined wall near the city's old Burial Glen, and studied her handiwork with the mythal-weave. The dark bronze strands of her crafting drifted past her outstretched fingers, winding in and among the invisible golden net that comprised the city's ancient magic field.
"Here," she said. "He was here when the mythal's defenses struck him."
Xhalph waited nearby, towering over her. The daemonfey prince stood well over eight feet tall, with four powerfully muscled arms and just the slightest canine cast to his features—both inherited from his demonic father.
"The sun elf mage?" he asked. "The one who marred your weaving at Myth Glaurach?"
"Yes," Sarya hissed.
In her long life she had learned to hate many adversaries, to nurse smoldering anger and cold fury for years upon years, but rarely had she been dealt such a reverse as Araevin Teshurr had dealt her in the heart of her own citadel. The very notion that he had somehow followed her to her new lair and had attempted to evict her from yet another mythal was enough to fill her with a wrath so hot and bitter than even Xhalph shied from meeting her eyes.
"Araevin was here," she went on, "and he attempted to take this mythal from me, too." She allowed herself a cold smile. "But my new defenses were more than he expected.
I was ready for him this time. If I read the mythal right, he received a nasty little surprise when he started plucking at my threads."
"Do you think he knows we are here?"
Sarya's smile faded at once. "It is almost a certainty," she admitted. "I want him caught before he carries word of our presence back to his friend Seiveril Miritar and the rest of Evermeet's knights and mages."
Xhalph glanced around the wooded glade. "Our fey'ri and baatezu have been scouring the area for hours, and the only sign they've turned up is a dead gelugon about half a mile from here. He has had ample opportunity to escape by now."
"My mythal trap drained him of most, if not all, of his magic," Sarya said. "Without his spells, he must flee on foot or hide somewhere until his magic returns. In either case, we can still catch him." She looked up at Xhalph, and lightly leaped into the air, snapping her leathery wings until she hovered ten feet above him. "Take charge of the pursuit, Xhalph! Spare no effort to prevent the mage's escape."
The daemonfey swordsman bowed his head, and sprang into the air, arrowing off into the woods, calling for the fey'ri who attended him. Sarya wheeled and flew in the opposite direction, back to Castle Cormanthor. While she certainly hoped that Araevin was lying powerless and vulnerable somewhere nearby, it was clearly foolish to simply hope that he would be caught before he carried word of her tampering in Myth Drannor to her enemies. She would have to presume that he had already escaped, and that Seiveril Miritar and all who stood with him would soon learn of her new retreat.
She needed to speak to Malkizid.
Alighting on a high balcony, Sarya passed a pair of fey'ri who stood guard there. The proud daemonfey warriors knelt and spread their wings as she passed, grounding their long-headed spears in salute. She swept by them into the hallway beyond, and quickly made her way to the chamber of the mythal stone.
With the ease of long practice, Sarya whispered the words
of a spell and woke the mythal's magic to her hand. "Malkizid!" she called out. "Answer me! I would speak with you."
Her words reverberated in the dense magical fields dancing around the mythal stone. Then she felt Malkizid's presence in the conduit, as the devil-prince responded to her call.
"I am here, Sarya," he said in his melodious voice. "What is it you desire?"
"The mage Araevin Teshurr has visited us here," she said.
"Ah! Did the spell trap I showed you snare him?"
"He triggered it, but he apparently made his escape on foot before my warriors could catch him. But it did empty him of spells, and he was completely unable to tamper with my mythal-weaving here."
Even though she could not see him, she felt Malkizid nodding in satisfaction on the other side of the conduit.
"Good, good. You see what we can do when we combine my knowledge of these things with your special heritage and talent for sorcery?"
"Do not patronize me, Malkizid," Sarya snapped. She paced anxiously in front of the stone, her tail twitching from side to side. She had had little use for confined spaces since escaping from her prison beneath old Ascalhorn three years ago, and even though the mythal chamber beneath the castle's great hall was large and spacious, she still did not care for it. "If Araevin has discovered me here, he will certainly carry word to Evermeet's army and anyone else who cares to listen."
The devil-prince fell silent a moment.
"You fear Evermeet's army will pursue you even here," he said at last.
"Twice now I have been denied the realm that is mine to rule—once in ancient Siluvanede, and a second time at Myth Glaurach. This city is the seat of my third realm, Malkizid, and here I will raise a mighty kingdom indeed. All I need is time, time to master more of your mythal spells, time to build my armies again."
"You need not fear that possibility, Sarya," said the demon-prince. "With the right mythal spells, you could stand a siege of centuries within Myth Drannor's ruins."
Sarya stopped her pacing and turned to face the mythal stone through which Malkizid spoke, even though she knew that he was not physically present.
"I have spent ages uncounted buried in traps and prisons! I am not going to simply sit within these crumbling ruins and allow my enemies to contain me here forever."
"Then you must destroy Evermeet's army. Since you cannot reach them where they are now, perhaps matters will turn to your advantage if they place themselves within your reach here." Malkizid paused a moment, then asked, "Are you certain that Evermeet is your only foe? What of the Jaelre or Auzkovyn drow? Or the human lands near this city?"
Sarya barked in bitter laughter. "The drow have not seen fit to show themselves yet, and I doubt they will do so. Vesryn Aelorothi tells me that some demonic nemesis has all but harried them from the old Elven Court entirely. As for the humans . . . the humans have dreaded these woods for a thousand years or more. Why, the memories alone of old Cormanthyr have been sufficient to keep them from expanding into the forest."
"A kingdom stands on four pillars, Sarya: magic, steel, coin, and allies. You can do without one pillar, but your realm will not survive long if you lack two or more. Here you have magical power, and soon an army to be reckoned with, when we bring more of my infernal warriors to your banner—under the terms of our existing bargain, of course. What of the other two pillars?"
"Commerce is for humans," Sarya growled. "But allies .. allies could be useful. Unfortunately, the nearest orcs or ogres of any number are in the lands of Thar, across the Moonsea."
"I was speaking of the human powers that surround this forest. Or even the drow, for that matter."
Sarya turned slowly to gaze into the aura of dancing golden light.
"I have no use for the drow," she said. She was inclined to discount the rest of Malkizid's suggestion, too, yet there was something in the archdevil's words, wasn't there? Even if she had no use for the humans, she certainly did not want to see Evermeet's army ally with any of those powers against her. "But the humans . . . Sembia or Zhentil Keep have no interest in seeing Evermeet's army in Cormanthor, do they? Perhaps these enemies could be turned against each other. But what would you gain from such a development, I wonder?"
"Your success is my success, Sarya Dlardrageth. You are the ally I have needed for five thousand years, the missing pillar in my kingdom. And I am the missing pillar in your new realm." Sarya felt the archdevil's keen hunger and ambition glinting through the mythal almost as if she were gazing into his eyes. "I have waited a long time for my freedom. You can help me gain it."

CHAPTER SEVEN
22 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

Anticipating trouble, Araevin and Filsaelene wove a number of spells, wards, and abjurations over their companions in the safety of the hidden cave. Araevin warded them from blades and talons with his spell of stoneskin, and finished by once again weaving the spell of invisibility over the small band.
"The spells will not last long," he said. "We should head straight for the portal glade, and avoid any delay."
He nodded to Starbrow, and the tall moon elf set his shoulder to the hidden door leading out into Sehanine's shrine, gently opening it a handspan to peer outside.
"No one in sight," Starbrow said. "Follow me, and stay close."
One by one they slipped out of the refuge. Daylight had long since faded, and the night was
overcast with only a hint of moonshine glowing behind the clouds. Starbrow lingered a moment to slide the door shut behind them and quickly scuff up the signs of their passage.
"No sense letting the daemonfey find it," he said in a low voice.
They set off at a quick jog along the old forest roads, heading back toward the jagged spires of the city that rose above the trees.
They hurried on through the night-black forest, until Araevin sensed that they were quite close to the portal glade. He started to whisper a warning to Starbrow, but the moon elf slacked his pace and raised one hand in warning before Araevin could speak.
He looked back to Araevin and whispered, "Do I go on ahead, or do we all go together?"
"Together," Araevin whispered back. "My invisibility spell won't work if we spread out too far."
Starbrow nodded, and moved carefully out into the clearing, his hand on Keryvian's hilt. Araevin followed him, peering into the dark shadows that gathered around the edges of the clearing. Nothing stirred in the small clearing. He felt Ilsevele a step behind, and Filsaelene and Maresa bringing up the rear.
"The portal," Araevin said to his companions, and he hurried over to the blank stone face where the magical doorway opened. He checked it quickly, searching for signs of a sealing spell or trap, and found none.
"Just a moment," he told the others, and he fished out the tiny white blossoms needed to open the gate.
A sinister voice hissed somewhere in the air above him, and Araevin felt his invisibility spell suddenly shredded into useless scraps of fading magic.
"Ambush!" he cried to his companions.
"I knew you would return to this door, paleblood!" cried a harsh, booming voice from above the glade. "You have troubled us for the last time."
Araevin whirled and looked up. Descending from some unseen perch high above, a band of armored fey'ri appeared in the night sky and dropped down toward his small company. At their head flew a terrible scion of darkness, a huge, powerfully built demon-elf with four arms and a curving scimitar in each hand. His eyes burned like balls of green flame in the darkness.
"What in the black pits of the Abyss is that?" Maresa snarled.
Her crossbow snapped, and a stubby quarrel glanced from the huge swordsman's breastplate. Ilsevele's bow sang beside Araevin, and silver-white arrows killed in midair a fey'ri sorcerer about to cast a spell. The creature's wings crumpled and he plummeted headlong into the clearing.
A stabbing bolt of lighting darted down from another spellcaster, but Araevin expertly parried the spell with a quick spell-shield, batting its baleful energy aside to detonate in the forest nearby. Then from another fey'ri a small knot of absolute darkness streaked down into the center of the glade. In the space of two heartbeats the black ball blossomed out into a wide cloud of roiling blackness, shot through with purple-white bolts of energy. Frigid, cloying darkness closed in around Araevin, and jabbing lances of unclean fire seared him across his limbs and torso, as if icy filth had been shoved under his skin. He gasped and staggered.
"Araevin, get the gate open!" Starbrow called. Keryvian leaped from its sheath like a brand of white
fire, burning away the foul blackness that had descended
over the glade. He dashed forward and met the daemonfey
swordmaster.
With a roar of fury, the four-armed monster dropped down on top of Starbrow, his two lower blades flashing in a vicious cross-cut, followed an instant later by a double down-cut from his upper arms. Yet somehow Starbrow, with his one blade, parried both cross-cuts with a single great shock, and quickly spun aside from the overhand attacks, finishing his turn with a whirling backhand slash that beat through the massive daemonfey's righthand guard and slashed a deep cut across the back of the
monster's calf. Keryvian gave off a shrill, high ring as it tasted demonflesh.
The huge swordsman roared again, then turned and sprang straight at Starbrow, unleashing a dizzying fusillade of slashes with his four blades. Then Araevin wrenched his eyes away from the furious duel as more fey'ri attacked, scouring the clearing with gouts of green sorcerous fire and deadly curses and blights. Filsaelene stumbled and fell to her hands and knees, blinded by a fey'ri spell, then Maresa swore a vile oath and scrambled back away from a boiling nest of magical, ruby-colored scorpions that erupted from the ground all around her, each the size of a human hand.
"Damn it! I hate scorpions. I hate them!" she snarled.
Araevin spied a fey'ri warrior swooping down at the blinded Filsaelene. He snapped out the arcane words of a deadly spell and fired a bright emerald beam of magical power at the demon-elf. The spell caught the fey'ri on her right side, and with a terrible green flash of light, she disintegrated into sparkling motes that rained down over the clearing. He searched for another foe and found Ilsevele firing furiously at several fey'ri who swooped and dodged, trading magical blasts for her arrows. Already two black scorch marks smoked at her hip and left arm, but an arrow-feathered fey'ri lay crumpled in the clearing nearby.
Araevin calmly chanted the words of a spell that illuminated the whole clearing with lights of a dozen different colors. Yellow arcs of lightning incinerated one fey'ri, while another was turned instantly to stone and fell so close to Maresa that the genasi had to dive aside to keep from being crushed. She swore again and returned to her work of skewering scorpions on the point of her rapier.
Araevin turned to help Starbrow with his foe, but a battery of fiery bolts from an invisible spellcaster he had missed rained down all around him. Flames seared his chest, his thigh, and his outflung arms, just missing his eyes. He staggered back, flailing at the smoldering fires.
"Araevin! Is the door open yet?" snarled Starbrow.
His duel with the massive daemonfey swordsman continued unabated. He'd been wounded at least twice, with long lines of scarlet trickling down his fine elven mail, but he battled grimly on, somehow ducking and dodging and parrying blow after blow his opponent rained down on him The hulking daemonfey bared his fangs in pure frustration, hacking his heavy scimitars one after another at the moon elf warrior.
Filsaelene scrambled to her feet, quickly chanting a holy verse that wiped away the blindness curse that had felled her before. She looked for a foe, and blanched.
"There are devils coming! A lot of them!"
"Closer!" Araevin called back. "Everybody, move closer!"
Then he waited for an awful moment, afraid to activate the portal if one or more of his companions could not reach the door in time, yet dreading any spell or attack that might make it impossible for them to escape. Filsaelene was close by. She backed toward the door, sword point weaving in front her. Ilsevele and Maresa fell back as well, Ilsevele still firing arrows at enemies who swooped and dodged in and among the trees. Starbrow tried to back away from his ferocious opponent, but the daemonfey lord roared in answer and followed him closely.
"Araevin, the portal!" Ilsevele cried.
"A moment," he said, watching Starbrow and his foe.
The moon elf danced back three steps to the side as the swordsman launched a furious assault, and Araevin saw his opportunity. He quickly chanted a spell, even as he felt enemy magic lashing against his spell-shield, and raised up from the ground a great arching dome of white frost. In the blink of an eye the frost thickened and spread, making an impenetrable barrier of pure white ice that shut their enemies outside.
"We have only a moment," he told his companions. "It won't take them long to dispel or destroy the ice. Follow me through the portal as quickly as you can!"
Then he turned and barked the words of the ancient Elvish pass phrase, waking the portal from blank gray
stone to a glowing silver door in the side of the hill. Without another word he leaped through, trusting to his own example to encourage his comrades to hurry after him.
He stumbled into the barrel-vaulted mausoleum chamber, his ears ringing from the sounds of the battle he had just left behind. Automatically he moved away from the portal, making sure that he was not in the way for the next to follow. The portal flashed silver, and Ilsevele and Filsaelene tumbled through together, followed by Maresa, and finally Starbrow. The moon elf picked up Filsaelene by one arm, and waved Keryvian toward the far end of the room.
"Stand back!" he cried. "The ice wall gave out, and they are on our heels!"
"Not if I can do something about it," Araevin muttered.
The portal was intermittent and unreliable, but there was always the chance that the daemonfey might get lucky, and succeed in activating the portal again. Fortunately, he knew a spell to shut down a portal, at least for a time. He retrieved a pinch of spidersilk and mortar dust from his bandolier of spell reagents, and quickly spoke the words of a sealing spell.
It might have been because he hurried the spell, or simply because the magic of the portal was so old, but whatever the cause, Araevin shattered the ancient spell of the portal. The blank stone face of the doorway cracked like a thick pane of glass struck by a hammer, creating a jagged spiderweb of fractures. He staggered back, hands and arms burning with the shock of the broken spell, and bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood.
"Damn!" he gasped.
"That," said Starbrow, "seems to be a very well-sealed door. I don't think they'll follow us through that."
"I ruined it," Araevin groaned. "The portal's gone."
"Right now, I don't count that a loss," Filsaelene said. "They're on that side, and we're on this side. I don't know if we could have held them off for much longer."
"You don't understand," Araevin said. "I stopped them from following us, yes, but when we want to use this doorway again, we won't be able to." He sighed, furious with his own clumsiness. All questions of practicality aside, he hated to be the mage responsible for wrecking a work of magic that might have been a thousand years old. It made him feel like a vandal.
"I don't know if that is a loss worth regretting, Araevin," Ilsevele said. She stood up and gingerly looked down at the scorch marks on her armor. "After that fight, the daemonfey are certain to guard that portal exit heavily. We probably couldn't have used it again, even if we wanted to."
"So, what now?" Maresa asked.
"Back to the mountain fortress, and Myth Glaurach," Starbrow said at once. "We have to tell Seiveril and the others where the daemonfey are hiding."
"Agreed," Araevin said. "And Sarya has found herself another mythal to twist to her own purposes. We have to stop her before she gathers a new army here."
Ilsevele looked over at Starbrow, and offered him a small smile. "For what it's worth, Starbrow, that was some of the finest swordplay I've ever seen. I can't believe you're still in one piece after standing in front of that four-armed monster."
The moon elf winced, looking down at the slashes he hadn't turned aside. "It's not the first time I've fought such as him," he remarked. "Now, let's get going before they think to gather some teleporting demons and come here looking for us."
*****

The Citadel of the Raven stood on a high, windswept hilltop many miles to the north of Zhentil Keep itself. Legend had it that the forbidding walls and deep-delved halls beneath the ground had been made by giants, and Scyllua had never managed to think of a better explanation for stairs better than two feet tall and doorways sixteen feet in height. She climbed through the glowering black ramparts, taking the wooden risers that had been fitted between the fortress's cyclopean stairways. It was bitterly
cold, despite the weak spring sunshine. The citadel was dozens of miles north of even the northern shores of the Moonsea, and the high elevation and lack of cover seemed to invite cold, shrieking winds from the vast wilderness beyond.
She paid little attention to her own discomfort. She rarely did, after all. Her mind was fixed on other things, and she had long ago discovered that clarity and determination could overcome any bodily weakness, such as fatigue or hunger or pain. Purpose was all one needed, and that was something that Scyllua Darkhope had in abundance.
She reached the gates to the Stone Court, the inmost bailey of the great keep, and swept past a dozen mailed guards who wore the black-and-yellow surcoats of Zhentil Keep, not even noticing their nervous salutes. Within the high court stood several large, strong towers, armories and barracks and banquet rooms fit for a royal seat, but Scyllua walked past these to a squat round bulwark at the far end of the keep. This sturdy tower housed the Temple of the Black Lord, the citadel's shrine to Bane, the fearsome patron of the Zhentarim and Scyllua's absolute lord and master.
Temple guards in black and green stared straight ahead as she climbed the steps, refusing to acknowledge her presence—as was only right and proper. As warriors of Bane entrusted with their sacred post, they bowed to no one. Scyllua passed into the fane beyond, where a towering idol of black stone carved in the shape of a mighty armored lord stood. Without hesitation, she threw herself down on the cold stone floor and abased herself.
"Great lord," she murmured, "Favor your worthy servant, and destroy any who displease you. At your word the heavens tremble and the earth groans. I am a sword in your hand. Let me be the instrument with which you smite your enemies."
"You stand high in the Black Lord's favor, Scyllua," came a voice from above her. "Some mouth the words of that prayer and secretly hope that our dread master never takes them up on the offer. You, however, possess true zeal. The Black Lord has plans to do just as you ask, I am sure of it. Now, what brings you to the Citadel of the Raven? The last I heard, you were busy fortifying the
vale of the Tesh."
Her prayer finished, Scyllua easily climbed to her feet
despite the heavy armor she wore, and turned to face the speaker. He was a tall, powerfully built man, with thick arms and a broad, square jaw. A mane of deep red hair framed a pale face dominated by a long, drooping
mustache.
"I crave an audience with the Anointed Hand of the
Black Lord, Lord Fzoul," she said, bowing deeply.
Fzoul Chembryl smiled coldly, an expression that failed
to warm the measuring malice in his hooded eyes.
"Such formality is hardly necessary between us, Scyllua.
You are no mere novice or underpriest, after all."
"We are all novices before the Great Lord Bane, Lord
Fzoul."
"Yes, of course. But you must take care, Scyllua, to avoid
the sin of humility. The Great Lord demands abasement in the face of one's betters, true, but he also requires us to govern absolutely those who stand below us in the grand hierarchy Bane has prescribed for mankind. To suggest that any novice or initiate is your equal in the eyes of the
Mighty King of All is to deny Bane's will."
Fzoul inclined his head to the idol that towered over the
shrine, and descended to the chapel floor.
"Yes, Lord Fzoul. I submit myself for correction."
"I deem no more necessary—this time. Now, I doubt that you came here to seek my instruction on minor matters of the Black Lord's tenets. I am going to take some air on the walls. Consider your audience granted, and join
me on my walk."
Fzoul strolled out of the temple into the citadel's court-
yard, pausing in the doorway to hold his arms outright while a pair of attendants quickly draped a heavy mantle over his garments to keep him warm. He paid them no mind, nor did Scyllua. "There is something very odd going on in Myth Drannor," she began.
"There is always something odd going on in that dreadful elven wreck. It's the nature of the place."
Fzoul climbed slowly up a nearby stairway to the top of the wall, ignoring the fiercely cold wind. In the distance, long, knifelike peaks still held flanks full of snow. The High Priest of Bane paused to survey the view.
"I would not report a routine occurrence to you," Scyllua said. "A few days ago, the wizard Perestrom of the Black Network came to me in Wash. He told me that the ruins of the city are now occupied by an army of demonspawned sun elves. He guessed that better than a thousand of these creatures occupy the ruins, and he also said that a great number were competent sorcerers as well as swordsmen."
"Demonspawned sun elves?" Fzoul asked. He pulled his gaze from the distant peaks.
"I rode to Myth Drannor to see for myself, leading a small company of trusted soldiers." Scyllua possessed an unusual steed, a nightmare of ghostly white. The demonhorse could gallop through other planes at need, and gave her the ability to ride fast and far by strange roads indeed. "Perestrom's observations were accurate. There is an army of these fellows gathering in Myth Drannor. I took the liberty of instructing the clerics and mages in my command to scry and divine what they could of this, and they gave me a name: the daemonfey."
"Now that is interesting," Fzoul said. He pulled on one side of his mustache, thinking. "You may not have heard, yet, but I have just learned that the elves fought some kind of fierce campaign in the Delimbiyr Vale over the last couple of months. Soldiers of Silverymoon were sent into the High Forest to confront orcs led by demonic sorcerers, and an army of demons appeared near the ruins of Hellgate Keep and marched south into the trackless mountains where the elven city of Evereska is reputed to lie. A great battle was fought on the Lonely Moor only a few tendays ago."
Scyllua nodded. The Delimbiyr Vale was more than five hundred miles distant, but Zhentarim spies and merchants were firmly established in the towns of Llorkh and
Loudwater, which were not too far away. And Zhent agents had a way of gathering rumors from the savage races of the North, the orcs and goblins and such. If elf armies were marching around in the wilds of the Graypeaks, the orcs would have noticed.
"Were these daemonfey involved with that, my lord?"
"Our sources passed on stories of demon-elves and such, but I had frankly discounted them. But now . . . hearing of demonspawned elves twice in the course of only a few days, I am much less inclined to treat this as groundless rumor." Fzoul resumed his pacing, his hands clasped before his chest. "So you say they are in Myth Drannor. What is the significance of an army in Myth Drannor?"
"It menaces any of the northern or central Dales," Scyllua replied. "It serves as a check on any designs that Sembia or Hillsfar might have in the region. And it certainly might constitute a threat to our own holdings on the south shore of the Moonsea."
"They are enemies of the elves. That suggests they are no friends of the Dalesfolk."
"There is something more. Perestrom also claimed that these daemonfey had the allegiance of the devils of Myth Drannor."
Fzoul frowned deeply, and continued his walk along the ramparts, passing guards posted along the imposing walls. No enemy was likely to approach the citadel unseen, so the sentries were little more than ornamentation, but Scyllua approved. Discipline and regimentation were the foundations of an army's strength, and soldiers inured to onerous duties in times of peace would not balk at them in times of war.
"How many devils are there in Myth Drannor?" he wondered aloud. "One hundred? Two hundred?"
"There could be many more than that, if they have been keeping their true strength a secret. And baatezu are certainly clever and patient enough to conceal their numbers if it suits their purposes."
The lord of Zhentil Keep halted suddenly, looking sharply at his high captain. "I had not considered that
possibility." He glanced off toward the south, as if he might catch a glimpse of the distant elven towers, forest-mantled. "Could this herald the beginning of a fiendish invasion of the Dales? Infernal hordes have brought down more than one kingdom in Faerun."
"Myth Drannor itself was destroyed by such an invasion six hundred years ago," Scyllua observed. "At least, powerful fiends captained that army. If they appeared in Cormanthor once, it could happen again."
Fzoul grinned fiercely and struck one gauntleted fist into the other. "North of Myth Drannor lies Hillsfar. South, east, and west lie sparsely settled Dales. Any way a fiendish army in Myth Drannor turns, one of our enemies stands in the way. If we stood by and did nothing, we could hardly help but to profit from our enemies' discomfort. How much more could we gain if we actively sought to turn events to our advantage?"
"You have a plan, my lord?" Scyllua asked.
"I will soon," Fzoul promised. "I want you to march an army to Wash, and be prepared to strike east toward Hillsfar or south toward the Dales, as events demand. In the meantime, I must seek Bane's will in this matter. Opportunities such as this do not come along every day, and I want to be certain of the mark I'm shooting at before I loose my bolt."
*****

Araevin protected the portal in the mountain fortress with a powerful spell of sealing, just to make sure that the daemonfey would find it difficult to make use of the portal nexus even if they managed to somehow repair or restore the damaged gate at Myth Drannor. Then they gathered up for burial the body of the dead human mage whose ghost had attacked them, and returned to Myth Glaurach, four days after they had set out to chart Sarya's portal network.
Starbrow went at once to report their findings to Vesilde Gaerth and the other captains of the Crusade. Weary and
wounded, Araevin and the others trudged back to the ruined shell that had been set aside for their campsite, shucked their packs and armor, and tended to their injuries with spells of healing and restoration. Then they went in search of hot baths, eventually finding the city's old bathhouse down in the main body of the elven camp. Though little more remained of the building than its pools and its crumbling walls, the forest that had grown up in and around the city roofed the bathhouse well enough, and elves had arranged several screens for privacy. The pools had been cleaned and filled with fresh water, well-heated by stones kept warm in a big brazier nearby. Araevin parted from his female companions and enjoyed a long, hot soak in the pool set aside for men.
When he returned to the company's campsite, he found a messenger awaiting him, a young moon elf who wore the colors of a squire in the Eagle Knights.
"Mage Araevin?" the fellow asked. "I have been sent to bring you to Lord Seiveril's quarters. He has returned from Evermeet, and wants to see you and your companions."
"Seiveril's back?" Araevin sat up, shaking off his fatigue. "I'll be there soon. You'll find Ilsevele and the others at the bathhouse."
In a little less than an hour, Araevin, Ilsevele, Maresa, and Filsaelene found themselves back in the old library that served as the headquarters of Seiveril's army in Myth Glaurach. Starbrow reappeared as well, still dripping wet from a hurried bath to clean the grime and blood from his body.
"Sorry to keep you from resting now," he said to Araevin and Ilsevele, "but Seiveril wants to hear this straight from you."
"I simply want to make sure that I understand the tale as best I can." Seiveril Miritar came into the room, dressed in simple traveling clothes. Vesilde Gaerth followed him. Seiveril embraced Ilsevele, and took Araevin's hand in a strong clasp. "Welcome back. I understand you have been busy while I was away on Evermeet."
"We have, Father," Ilsevele said. "We followed the daemonfey to Myth Drannor. They're encamped in the ruins
of the city, gathering their strength again."
"Worse yet, Sarya Dlardrageth has another mythal to pervert," Araevin added. "This one she has guarded more carefully than the last. I attempted to wrest control of it from her, and discovered that I could not contest her authority."
Seiveril's eyes darkened. "Start from the beginning, and tell me everything. I want to hear this story in its fullness."
Together, Araevin and Ilsevele described how they navigated the chain of portals to Myth Drannor and what they found in the ancient capital of Cormanthyr. Maresa and Starbrow added details as they came up. Then they answered question after question put to them by Seiveril and Vesilde, until Seiveril finally nodded.
"All right," he said, "I have heard all I need to hear. If you are confident that Sarya has hidden her army in Myth Drannor, I am as well, We will pursue them without pause, and put an end to the daemonfey once and for all."
"Are you certain that is a wise idea?" Vesilde Gaerth asked. "You may have trouble persuading Evermeet's sons and daughters to go a thousand miles farther east and fight another campaign in a place where there are no living elven realms to defend."
"The daemonfey are our enemies. If we drive them into the middle of peaceful human kingdoms and leave them alone to turn their evil against non-elf neighbors, how will the humans and other folk of Faerun thank us?" Seiveril asked. He paced away from the others to gaze out at the snow-capped mountains, gleaming in the morning light beyond the forests that surrounded the old city. "Besides, Vesilde, consider this: Sarya Dlardrageth has already demonstrated that she can and will attack Evermeet from Faerun I think the warriors of Evermeet who march under our banner will be willing to fight some more to make sure that doesn't happen again."
"Cormanthyr is a long march indeed. It would be many hundreds of miles on foot, and we would have to cross Anauroch as well," Vesilde said. "I doubt the phaerimm
have forgotten their defeat in Evereska. For that matter, the Shadovar might not permit our passage."
"There are elfgates leading to Cormanthyr from Evermeet, aren't there?" Ilsevele asked. "Return to Evermeet by means of the gate in Evereska, and go from Evermeet to Cormanthyr."
"I do not think that will be possible," Seiveril said. He turned from the window with a small frown, his hands clasped behind his back. "The council will not permit me to launch another crusade from Evermeet's shores."
Seiveril fell silent, and no one else spoke for a time. Maresa fidgeted, but for once the genasi kept her opinions to herself. Finally Starbrow looked up and addressed Seiveril.
"Presuming that our warriors are still willing to follow you in sufficient numbers that we can field an army," Starbrow said, "there is still the question of how to get them from here to there. Is the march across Anauroch possible, or not?"
"I don't know," Seiveril replied. He looked to Araevin. "Can we bring an army through the portals you explored?"
"The portal leading to Myth Drannor's Burial Glen was destroyed when we fled," Araevin answered. "You cannot bring your warriors to Myth Drannor through that door."
"It would have been impossible to force our way into the daemonfey stronghold through that portal, anyway," Starbrow added. "It only worked once every few hours."
Ilsevele glanced over at Araevin. "What of the portal before the one leading to Myth Drannor? Starbrow said that the mausoleum stands in Semberholme or somewhere in western Cormanthor."
"Cormanthor is a very large forest," Starbrow said. "That portal might be a hundred or more miles from Myth Drannor."
"Still, it would save you the march across Anauroch," Ilsevele said.
"It won't go quickly," Araevin cautioned. "The portal in the mountain fortress requires the casting of a spell, and
each casting would only permit a handful of soldiers to pass through. You'll need a mage to activate the portal for each four or five soldiers, and even a competent mage won't be able to activate the portal more than a dozen times in a single day. If you have twenty wizards in your army who can cast the proper spell, it would take you at least four or five days to pass your army through the portals."
"That assumes perfect organization and timing," Ilsevele added. "Better count on twice that time, to be safe."
"But there is no enemy waiting for us in the Semberholme portal?" Seiveril asked.
"No, Father. At least, we spent the night in the woods outside the mausoleum two nights ago, and no one troubled us."
"Then it doesn't matter if it takes us two days or a tenday. The Semberholme gate is clearly the best choice available to us." Seiveril fixed his eyes on the unseen dangers ahead, looking away to the east as if he could see the spot where he meant to move his army despite the intervening mountains, deserts, and forests. "Summon the captains, Starbrow. I must explain to them what I propose to do—all of what I propose to do—so that those who choose to come with me can begin to march as quickly as possible."

CHAPTER EIGHT
24 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

After resting a night in the company's improvised quarters, Araevin spent the next two days instructing the half-elf mage Jorildyn and several other high-ranking wizards of the Crusade in the pass phrases and spells necessary to use the old portal network. The mages retraced Araevin's steps through the mountain fortress and the forest crypt to the woods of Semberholme, and confirmed that the door leading to Myth Drannor was beyond repair.
"A shame," Jorildyn muttered as they stood in the vault beneath the mausoleum. "It would have been useful to be able to slip spies directly into the city through that door."
Araevin shook his head. "The daemonfey were waiting for us when we sought to return. If the portal was working, they would guard it heavily with spells and infernal monsters." He thought for a moment then added, "Also, I would not discount the possibility that Sarya might prepare deadly spell traps in the city's mythal. When my friends and I entered the city before, there were spells to prevent me from inspecting the mythal. If Sarya could do that, she might be able to weave other spells into the mythal-for example, curses to afflict anyone who isn't a daemonfey."
"Lord Miritar means to move on Myth Drannor and attack the daemonfey in their lair, if they don't come out to fight," Jorildyn said, frowning. "How will Sarya's control of the mythal effect a battle in Myth Drannor's streets?"
"Consider the effect that Evereska's mythal had against the phaerimm a couple of years ago, once the city's high mages repaired it. Certainly the daemonfey army didn't attempt to enter the mythal during their attack two months ago, but they probably just didn't have the opportunity."
The battle mage looked at Araevin, his face troubled, and asked, "Does Sarya have sufficient skill and ability to do that with the mythal?"
"I don't know," Araevin replied. "I don't believe she has the ability to sculpt the mythal as she pleases, at least not yet. But a month ago I was able to best her at Myth Glaurach, and three days ago I could not do so at Myth Drannor. Either she was simply careless the first time I attemped to contest her access to a mythal—something that doesn't really seem to be in her nature—or she has learned something new about mythakraft in a very short time. That possibility terrifies me."
"I don't care for the idea of marching our army into Sarya's mythal and hoping for the best," Jorildyn said. "Nor do I."
Araevin narrowed his eyes, thinking. The magical might and lore of the Crusade was formidable indeed, but would it be enough if things came to a battle for Myth Drannor?
He set aside the question for a time, as he and Jorildyn charted out the other portals from the mountain fortress. First they blocked the trapped portal and marked it as such, so that there would be no mistakes while moving
soldiers through. Then they examined the other two functioning portals. One led to a sunlit glen in a warm, southerly forest, with thick moss hanging from the trees and the humming of countless insects in the air. The other opened into a ruined wood elven watchtower, a great tree that had once been a living fortress. Araevin guessed that that portal likely opened in the forests of the Great Dale, though none of the other wizards assisting in the task knew for certain.
Within hours of their return, Seiveril summoned all the captains of the Crusade to his headquarters: Jorildyn, master of the battle mages; Edraele Muirreste, the captain who had succeeded the fallen Elvath Muirreste as leader of the Silver Guard of Elion; Ferryl Nimersyl, commander of the Moon Knights of Sehanine Moonbow; Daeron Sunlance, ranking Eagle Knight of the small company of aerial warriors; and Rhaellen Darthammel, the Blade-Major of Evereska, who led a stout company of Evereskan Vale Guards in order to repay the warriors of Evermeet for their stand on Evereska's behalf. They were joined by Keldith Oericel, who had taken over as leader of the infantry of Leuthilspar after Celleilol Fireheart's death at the Battle of the Cwm. A dozen lesser captains from smaller companies, orders, clans, houses, and societies came as well, each the leader of anywhere from a couple of dozen to a few hundred elf warriors Finally, Seiveril also invited a score of the most prominent heroes and champions. Even though they led no companies of soldiers, powerful wizards and noted bladesingers wielded great influence over the opinions of many warriors in the Crusade.
The commanders and heroes filled the great hall of Myth Glaurach's ruined library, gathered together beneath soft lanternlight. The night was clear, cold, and breezy, with stars glimmering above the roofless white ruins, and a constant cool murmur of wind in the branches of the surrounding forest. Araevin and his companions stood near an open arch leading out to the overgrown balcony beyond.
When the leaders of the Crusade stood assembled, Seiveril strode to the front of the room and climbed three steps
up the remains of the grand staircase that had once swept down into the room from the missing upper floors.
"Welcome, friends," he began. "I have summoned you here because our next campaign is at hand. As you have no doubt heard by now, we have learned that the daemonfey legion has retreated to the ruins of Myth Drannor in ancient Cormanthor. I propose to bring our might against the Dlardrageths there, and finish the daemonfey once and for all.
"You may wonder how we will get to the forests of Cormanthor from the ruins of Myth Glaurach without months of difficult and dangerous marches. There is a simple answer: We will pursue the daemonfey through the same portal network they used to make their escape. We cannot follow them into Myth Drannor itself—that last portal has been destroyed—but, thanks to the efforts of Mage Araevin Teshurr and his companions, we can move our army swiftly and safely to Semberholme, which is only a hundred miles or so from our destination.
"My friends, I hold no one here sworn to join me in Cormanthor. You and your warriors came to Faerun to defend Evereska and the High Forest from invasion, and we have succeeded in doing that. But I want you to consider the question of whether we should content ourselves with having defeated one daemonfey attack, or should seek to eradicate forever the threat they pose to realms of the People here in Faerun, as well as Evermeet itself—for we should not forget that this war began when the daemonfey attacked Tower Reilloch."
"Leuthilspar is with you, Seiveril!" called the moon elf Keldith Oericel. "We will not allow the daemonfey to escape unpunished!"
Seiveril conceded a hard, thin smile, and nodded toward Keldith. "Do not be too quick to answer, my friends," he cautioned the others. "You must lay this choice before all who serve under your banner. I asked Evermeet's warriors to follow me to Evereska, but I will not take them farther without asking again."
"I, for one, do not like to leave a job half-done," said a
sun elf swordsman that Araevin didn't know by name. "You have my answer, Seiveril."
"For those who choose to follow me to Cormanthor, then, I have another question to ask you," Seiveril said, raising his hands to still any more outbursts. "So far you have regarded this campaign as a Crusade, a war against the daemonfey. I want you to consider this: Are we engaged in a Crusade, or a Return? For myself, this is my Return. I will remain in Faerun even after the daemonfey are defeated, and seek to rebuild a realm on this shore that will prove strong enough to prevent threats such as House Dlardrageth from rising unchallenged for generations to come."
The assembled captains and heroes looked to one another, as if to confirm that they had heard Seiveril's words right. Some shouted out their approval, raising fists and bared blades in the air. Some remained silent and thoughtful, weighing the meaning of Seiveril's words. Others were openly troubled, frowning or whispering to their neighbors.
"Has the queen given her blessing to this?" called a bladesinger who stood near Araevin.
"The Council of Evermeet frankly opposes it," Seiveril said, "but Amlaruil has not forbidden me from asking you—each of you—whether you would consider aiding me in rebuilding a lasting elven presence in Faerun."
"Where will you raise this realm?" asked the Eagle Knight Daeron Sunlance. "Here, in Myth Glaurach?"
"If it proves the wisest course, then yes, I will come back to Myth Glaurach to found a realm here," Seiveril said. "But first we have unfinished business with the daemonfey in Cormanthor. Once we have driven them out of our fathers' lands, we might find that old Cormanthyr is the place to which we will Return."
"What of the humans? Their kingdoms surround Cormanthor. They may fight to keep us from our ancient homelands," Sunlance said.
"We would be better neighbors than the daemonfey, wouldn't we?" More than one elf laughed at Seiveril's words. The sun elf lord raised his arms again. "As I said before, I ask for no one to swear allegiance to a new realm tonight.
The Crusade has work to do before the Return can truly begin. But I hold this dream in my heart, my friends, and it is long past time for me to share this vision with you, in the hopes that it will kindle the same passion and determination in your hearts that it has kindled in mine.
"Now, go back to your warriors, and tell them what you have heard here tonight. Starbrow, Thilesil, and I will begin to order our march through the portal to Semberholme under the assumption that most or all will follow us against the daemonfey, if no farther. Sweet water and light laughter, friends."
Seiveril descended from his steps, and was promptly surrounded by several of the captains, besieging him with questions or demanding to march first.
Araevin, Ilsevele, and their companions moved onto the balcony nearby as the captains and commanders walked out into the starlight, many already engaged in arguments about whose company should march first, how and when to break camp, or whether it was even possible to contemplate a march on Myth Drannor. The sun elf mage looked over to where Seiveril, Starbrow, and Vesilde stood, besieged by others who were unwilling to leave without seeking more answers.
"Your father has a talent for making trouble, doesn't he?" Maresa asked Ilsevele, with a mischievous grin. "Didn't any of it rub off on you?"
"It's a skill he's learned late in life," Ilsevele retorted. She looked up to Araevin, who simply stared off into the dark skies to the east, his hands on the ruined balustrade. She moved up beside him, and laid her hand on top of his. "Something troubles you?"
"I think my path lies elsewhere, Ilsevele." Araevin glanced back at his companions, and touched his hand to his breastbone, feeling the hard form of the Nightstar beneath his robes. "I have to decipher the last of Saelethil's lore in this selukiira. If Sarya turns the mythal into a weapon, Saelethil's magic may be the only answer we have."
"What do you propose, then?" she asked, her voice small against the sounds of the night.
"To find out who the star elves were, and where they lived, and whether some record of what Morthil brought back from Arcorar still exists. There is a rite I must master before the Nightstar will open the rest of its knowledge to me."
"That might be the work of years, Araevin! You are speaking of secrets that were hidden five thousand years ago. That is a terribly long time, even by our standards."
"It might also be the work of months, or days," he replied. He looked back up at the starry sky, watching the dance and flicker of lanternlight bobbing in the breeze. "I can always seek to invoke a vision if I turn into a blind alley. My heart tells me that Saelethil's lore will be the key to any battle in Myth Drannor. There are many skilled wizards marching in your father's army, but I am the only one who can do this. Even if it proves to be fruitless, I have to make the attempt."
She sighed and looked down at her hand atop his. "Are you asking me to choose between going with you or going with my father?"
"I do not mean to." He allowed himself a small smile. "But there is more of Faerun to see, if you haven't gotten your fill of it yet."
Ilsevele pulled her hand away from his, and drifted away across the cracked and weathered stone of the old balcony. She stared off into the green shadows beneath the trees, hugging her arms against her body. Araevin gazed at her back, waiting. Finally she seemed to give herself a small shiver, and turned back to him.
"All right. Now that I have seen Myth Drannor with my own eyes, I find that I cannot argue against doing everything in our power to sever Sarya Dlardrageth from the city's mythal. But I fear for you, Araevin. I think it is a perilous path you intend to walk. I will come, if only to guard you from yourself."
Araevin started to reply, but then he thought better of it, and kept his argument to himself.
Instead he looked over to Maresa and asked, "What of you?"
Maresa leaned against the old wall, her arms folded. Her hair drifted softly against the breeze, glimmering like silver in the starlight.
"I see no reason to walk toward a battle when I've got an excuse to head away from one," she said with a snort. "And I like the idea that your magic might be a stiletto we can stick in Sarya's back while she's watching Lord Seiveril march his army at her fortress. I'm with you, Araevin."
Araevin looked over to Filsaelene and asked, "And you?"
The sun elf girl shook her head. "I think I should march with the Crusade. If Evermeet's soldiers are heading into battle against the daemonfey, many will have need of healing. Lord Miritar needs every cleric he can find." She frowned and raised her eyes to meet Araevin's. "But .. . if you ask me to help you in this new quest, I will do so gladly. I can never repay you for saving me from captivity in Myth Glaurach."
"You helped us in the mausoleum of the ghost and in the fight at the portal glade," Araevin pointed out. "I'm inclined to think you have little left to repay."
Ilsevele looked at her and smiled sadly. "Follow your heart, Filsaelene. You should serve as you think best, and I am afraid you are right about where you will be needed." She stepped forward and embraced the young cleric. "Be careful. And do not be afraid to send for us if we are needed in Cormanthor. We will come if we can."
Maresa turned back to Araevin. "So, more portals leading into the godsforsaken wilderness? Maybe a dragon's lair this time?"
The sun elf mage shook his head. "No, no portals this time. If you're willing, I will teleport us to where we need to go."
*****
Sarya climbed the steps of the First Lord's Tower, and tried not to allow crawling disgust to mar her composed features. Hillsfar was a city of humans, a hundred miles
north of Myth Drannor, on the shores of the Moonsea. It was filled with the reek and clamor of humankind, and everywhere she looked humans carried on with their senseless commerce, bickering, squabbling, and bullying each other.
She was shrouded in a magical disguise, a simple spell of appearance-changing that made her resemble a human woman—perhaps somewhat slighter of build than normal, but graceful and beautiful nonetheless, with hair of deep auburn and eyes of bewitching green. She wore a pleated emerald dress of human design, decorated with delicate gold embroidery. She had entered Hillsfar in a small coach driven by disguised fey'ri, and passed through its crowded streets unnoticed until her carriage clattered to a stop before the stern, tall citadel that stood at the heart of the city.
She glanced up at the banners and pennants snapping overhead, and frowned despite herself. In her day the humans had known their place. None dared challenge the power of the great elven realms They had been a race of simple barbarians, suitable for use perhaps as mercenaries in the wars of greater races. Yet it was an inescapable fact of the age in which she found herself that humankind must be reckoned with.
That can be set right, she told herself. Soon I will be able to hurl an army of devils, yugoloths, and demons at any foe who dares to challenge me. I will lay this city under tribute—or have it torn down stone by stone and its people driven away from the borders of my new realm.
Six stern warriors in heavy armor with red-plumed helmets stood by the archway leading into the tower. It was more properly a small keep, really, with an interior courtyard and high, strong walls.
"Halt and state your business," the guard sergeant demanded.
"Why, I seek an audience with First Lord Maalthiir," Sarya said, her voice and smile cold and dripping with contempt. "I am Lady Senda Dereth. I believe he expects me."
The man-at-arms—actually a woman-at-arms, though one could hardly tell beneath the heavy armor—turned her back on Sarya and glanced at an orders book on a standing desk in a small alcove by the doorway.
After consulting the book for a moment she grunted and said, "You're to be shown to the Conservatory, and await the first lord there. Come with me."
Sarya inclined her head without allowing her cool smile to slip, though the ill manners of the guard sergeant deserved a sharp rebuke indeed. She followed the stocky woman as she clomped along in her armor, passing through barren, cheerless halls that were almost devoid of decoration. Another guard followed at her back, a good three paces behind her.
"Is this truly necessary?" she asked.
"No one goes into this tower without a Red Plume escort," the guard sergeant replied. "The first lord has made that absolutely clear. It is a standing order."
She came to a tall, paneled door, and opened it for Sarya. Inside was a large parlor or sitting room, with several empty bookshelves along the periphery, and a number of old portraits hanging from the walls-mostly of elves, it appeared, though with the crude human artistry it was hard to be sure.
"Wait here," the sergeant said, and withdrew to the hallway, closing the door behind Sarya.
Sarya composed herself for a long wait, and she was not disappointed. It was well over an hour before she heard measured footfalls in the hall outside, and the rough clatter of the guards coming to attention. She turned to face the door as Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, strode into the room.
He was a human of middle years, tall but thin, with a heavily lined face and a scalp shaved down to gray stubble. He wore a long goatee of iron gray, and dressed in a high-collared tunic of gleaming black, chased with dragon designs. In one hand he carried a short staff or long scepter of dark metal, with its head in the shape of a draconic claw. Four more guards followed him into the room, pale and silent warriors who seemed human at a glance, but
positively reeked of planar magic to Sarya's keen sense for such things.
"Well, you must be Lady Senda," Maalthiir rasped, his voice completely humorless. "I've never heard of any Dereths around here. Who are you, and what do you want with me?"
"Who I am does not much matter," Sarya said. "And I want nothing more than to give you a warning, First Lord."
Maalthiir's scowl deepened. "I react poorly to mysteries and threats. Choose your next words carefully."
"You have a new enemy on your doorstep, Maalthiir."
The first lord snorted and crossed his arms, tucking his scepter under his arm. "Oh, do I? And I suppose you have come to tell me all about my new adversary. Very well, then-who is this dreadful new foe?"
"Evermeet, my lord," Sarya said.
Whatever the first lord might have been expecting her to say, that was not it. Maalthiir glared at her for a long moment, measuring her.
"What in the world does Evermeet want with me?" he demanded.
"An army from Evermeet is returning to Cormanthor. They mean to recapture Myth Drannor and restore the kingdom of Cormanthyr. I wonder what they will think of a neighbor who purged his city of elves years ago, having them slaughtered in bloody games?"
Sarya's eyes glittered like green ice as she delivered the barb. She had not yet managed to insinuate many fey'ri spies into the lands around Myth Drannor, but it had not taken her long to learn that Maalthiir had come to the throne of Hillsfar many years ago by deposing a council dominated by elves.
A momentary uncertainty glinted in the human lord's face before he bared his teeth in a fierce grin.
"Cormanthyr is dead," he stated. "The elves have Retreated. It took them five hundred years to reach that decision, Lady Senda. They will never overturn it in only fifty years."
"Do not take me at my word, Maalthiir. Investigate for yourself. You are reputed to be a mage of no small talent. Scry the woods of Semberholme and see what you find there. Or send for your spymasters and ask them what passes in the western Dales of late. You will find an army of elves better than five thousand strong—sun elves, moon elves, bladesingers and champions, mages and clerics, making ready to march north," said Sarya. "It is a formidable array."
"Assuming for the moment that you are telling me the truth—who are you, and why tell me?"
Sarya glided forward a step, and glanced at the expressionless guards with their black eyes.
"Do you wish me to speak freely here?"
The first lord did not even look at the black-clad swordsmen.
"Oh, yes," he said. "Do not mind my guards. They will not repeat anything they hear, and they are completely incorruptible. I see no one alone, Lady Senda. Ever."
"As you wish, then." Sarya glanced at the impassive guards again, wondering exactly what they were, then dismissed them as unimportant. "Who I am is not important. As far as why I am carrying tales to you of an elven army in Cormanthyr, it is simply a matter of self-interest. The elves are my enemies. Since it seems that I must deal with them, I naturally thought it wise to consider who else might regard an elven Return to Cormanthyr as less than desirable."
"Now it becomes clear," Maalthiir snorted. "You picked a fight with the elves, and now that they have come for you, you hope to hide behind Hillsfar's army."
"Do you really wish to see a Coronal in Myth Drannor, Maalthiir? A power in the forest to shield the weaker Dales against you, to bar you from the timber and resources of the woodland at your very doorstep, and perhaps to restore elves to the rule of this city?"
"You will have to do better than that, if you hope to frighten me," the first lord said.
"I do not expect to frighten you. I expect you to examine
the situation for yourself and act in your own interests as you perceive them." Sarya turned her back on him and paced away, pretending to admire the portraits on the walls. "You have designs on the northern Dales, do you not?"
"It is none of your business if I do," Maalthiir snapped.
"And your ally Sembia has interests in the southern Dales," Sarya glanced back at the mage-lord. "An elven army in Myth Drannor would make both of those goals immeasurably more difficult. I submit to you, First Lord, that you would be well advised to think of how you could encourage the elves to Retreat once again, and leave you to the business of ordering this region as you see fit."
"I tire of this verbal fencing, my lady," Maalthiir said. "You still have not explained who you are and why you are in my tower. I will have answers, real answers, now."
Sarya inclined her head. "Not until you verify that I have told you the truth so far, First Lord. See for yourself the army of Evermeet, marching to your doorstep. I will return in a few days to resume this conversation when you have had an opportunity to confirm the truthfulness of my words."
"I have not given you leave to go," Maalthiir said. He made no motion or sound, but the pale swordsmen beside him set hands to sword hilts in unison and fixed their dead gazes on Sarya. "You will answer my questions one way or another, Lady Senda."
"Another day," Sarya said, and she teleported away from Maalthiir's parlor, vanishing in the blink of an eye.
The last she saw of the first lord, his face was set in a scowl of displeasure-but not surprise.
*****

On the morning following Seiveril's Council of War, Araevin, Ilsevele, and Maresa gathered their belongings, armed themselves with swords and spells, shouldered their packs, and drew their traveling cloaks over their clothes.
Then, as Filsaelene stood by to see them off, Araevin incanted his teleport spell and grasped the hands of the two women. The ruins of Myth Glaurach faded away into a golden, sparkling haze, only to be replaced a moment later by the cool green shadows of the old hillside shrine overlooking Silverymoon-the same hillside where he had met Ilsevele before. Silverymoon's graceful Moonbridge glimmered in the sun below them.
Maresa glanced down and patted at her torso and arms, as if to make certain that all of her was present.
"I've always thought that was an extremely useful spell," she observed. "Why bother to walk anywhere once you know it?"
"In the first place, it's somewhat inappropriate to use magic of that sort on a whim," Araevin replied. "More than a few wizards have managed to forget that their feet must serve when their magic won't do. Secondly, the spell is not particularly easy. I have a difficult time holding more than one or two teleport spells in my mind at a time without giving up other spells that are equally useful Finally, it's wise to never use the last teleport spell you have in your repertoire unless you are in dire peril. You never know when you might earnestly wish to be somewhere else."
"There is also the chance of a mistake," Ilsevele told Maresa.
The genasi shot a sharp look at her. "Mistake? What sort of mistake?"
"It would not ease your mind at all if you knew, Maresa." Ilsevele patted her arm and walked past her, following the path down to the city below.
The three travelers found their way back to the Golden Oak, and took rooms there again. Then, after shucking their packs and traveling gear, they went straight to the Vault of Sages.
"I left Calwern with a list of references and texts to search for me," Araevin explained as they walked through the tree-shaded streets of the city. "Before we do anything else, I want to see if he has learned anything important."
"What will you do if the knowledge you seek has simply been lost?" Ilsevele asked. "It has been a very long time. The spells you need may not exist any longer."
"Spells rarely vanish all together, at least in my experience. The gods of magic often intervene to ensure that knowledge does not disappear from the world." In truth, Araevin dreaded that very possibility, but he did not want to dwell on it until he had to. "If Morthil has been forgotten by history, it may be that his spells remain. Clerics of Mystra, Oghma, or Denier hold many old spellbooks in their libraries. And if all else fails, I can attempt to reinvent the spells myself, though that would take many months, perhaps even years, of research. I think I am in too much of a hurry for that."
They arrived at the Vault. The great library's gray stone turrets and narrow windows made it seem more like a castle sitting in the center of Silverymoon than a place of learning, but the library's doors stood open. They mounted the worn stone steps to the wood-paneled foyer inside. Bright dust motes drifted in the yellow sunlight that slanted through the windows.
"Why, Master Teshurr, you have returned! And Lady Miritar, too-how good to see you again!" Brother Calwern straightened up from his desk, a broad smile creasing his seamed face. "You concluded your out-of-town affairs to your satisfaction, I trust?"
"Not entirely. I dealt with the question I was called away to look into, but I fear it only led to more questions."
"In my experience, difficult questions are like hydras' heads," Calwern said. "Each one you vanquish leads to two more. If it's any help, I have set aside those tomes you asked me to look for. Do you want me to bring them out for you?"
Araevin nodded. "Yes, please, Brother Calwern."
"The second reading room is open. Make yourselves comfortable, and I will bring them out directly."
Araevin bowed to the human cleric, and led Ilsevele and Maresa to the reading room. In a few minutes Calwern appeared, wheeling a small cart stacked with musty old texts and scrolls.
"Here you are," the human said. He handed Araevin a parchment letter, a list of the tomes with cryptic notes and marks accompanying it. "The list you requested. You'll find some notes about what is here and what isn't, as well as a few sources I added as I thought of them."
Maresa eyed the stack of books with suspicion. "I like reading as much as the next person, but that is a formidable stack of paper. Are you going to read all of those, Araevin?"
"As many as I need to," he said. "Make yourself comfortable, Maresa. Or, if you'd like to help, I'll explain what I'm looking for, and you can try your hand at it too." He looked over to Brother Calwern. "Thank you, Brother Calwern. This should be an excellent start."
They spent the rest of the day plowing through the collection of ancient texts and histories compiled by dozens of different authors, some human, some elf, and even a couple written by dwarves or halflings. Then they returned to the Golden Oak, ate, rested, and returned the next morning to resume their efforts, and again on the following day.
By the morning of the third day, Araevin had learned some things he hadn't known before. Morthil, the star elf wizard, was said to live in a realm named Yuireshanyaar. Araevin had never heard of any such land, and so he broadened his search, looking for anything he could find about a realm so old or so far off that even the sun elves had forgotten about it. He asked Calwern to look into it as well, and resumed his reading.
Late in the afternoon, Brother Calwern brought Araevin a heavy ancient tome bound in dragon hide.
"Good afternoon, Master Teshurr," he said warmly. "I believe I may have found your missing kingdom."
Maresa looked up from an old tome she had been examining. "Thank Akadi," she muttered. "My eyes can't stand another hour of this."
The Deneirrath cleric set the heavy book on the reading table, and opened it with care. It was an ancient atlas with page after page of old maps, all marked in script Araevin could not read.
"Is this Untheric?" he asked.
"Yes, it is. The atlas dates back almost two thousand years. Fortunately its makers protected it with spells of preservation long ago." The white-haired Deneirrath carefully paged through the atlas, finally settling on a spread that showed, in fading ink, a long peninsula jutting into an island-studded sea. "The Yuir forest, where the realm of Aglarond now stands," the cleric said.
Ilsevele leaned over Araevin's shoulders. "Aglarond's forests hide many secrets, but a fallen kingdom no one has ever heard of? That stretches credulity."
Araevin studied the ancient map and said, "I see no realm or cities marked on the map."
"Ah, but look at the Untheric caption, here." Calwern pointed with one stubby finger. "It reads, 'Here of old stood Yuireshanyaar, which is now hidden from the world.' "
Araevin glanced up to the Deneirrath. "Do you have any older maps of the Aglarondan peninsula here?"
"No, I checked already. The ancient empire of Unther was the first human realm to settle the peninsula's shores, and this is the oldest Untheric text we have in the library." Calwern rubbed his chin. "But there is something here that puzzles me, Master Teshurr. Why does the map say that Yuireshanyaar used to be here, but has been hidden? If one hides something in a certain place, it is still there, isn't it?"
"That is odd," murmured Araevin. "I might expect it to say 'Here of old stood Yuireshanyaar,' which would imply that the realm was there and has now fallen. Or I might expect it to say, 'Here is Yuireshanyaar, which is now hidden.' Which interpretation is correct?"
Calwern shrugged awkwardly. "I fear my understanding of Untheric may be insufficient to the task."
"It could be an error on the part of the cartographer," Araevin offered. He stood up from the desk and paced around the room, thinking. Morthil, the star elf—whatever that was—inherited the spellbooks and magical devices of Grand Mage Ithraides, hundreds of years after the coronal of Arcorar moved against the Dlardrageths. The last
anyone recorded, Morthil returned to his people, taking Ithraides's lore with him. The star elves lived in Yuireshanyaar, and here was a map claiming that Yuireshanyaar might once have stood in the forests of Aglarond.
"Does anything of Yuireshanyaar survive in Aglarond?" he wondered aloud.
"Tel'Quessir have lived in Aglarond for a long time," Ilsevele observed. "It is said that many half-elves still live in the Yuirwood."
"I have heard stories of old ruins and strange magic in Aglarond's forests," Calwern offered. "It is entirely possible that better records of Yuireshanyaar are preserved in the Simbul's realm."
"I am inclined to think so too," Araevin said. He looked to Calwern. "Can I have a copy made of that map, and translations of the captions and names? By tomorrow?"
The cleric nodded. "Of course, Master Teshurr. I will set our scribes to the task immediately."
Ilsevele looked over Araevin's shoulder at the map with some interest. "So, how far is Aglarond from here?" she asked.
"It is quite far—two thousand miles, perhaps more," said Calwern.
Ilsevele's eyes widened. "That is two months' journey, at the least!"
"It is not as bad as it sounds," Araevin said. "A long part of that would be over water. We can hire a ship in one of the Dragon Coast ports and cross the Sea of Fallen Stars in a tenday or so. So, the question is how to reach the Sea of Fallen Stars quickly and easily." Araevin leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling in thought. "The portals we found under Myth Glaurach might serve. One led to the Chondalwood, another one to the forests of the east-"
"What of the portal to Semberholme?" Ilsevele interrupted him, tracing a path on Araevin's map. "That would bring us within a few days' ride of the ports in Sembia or Cormyr, wouldn't it?"
Araevin allowed himself a small grimace. He was supposed to be the veteran traveler and the expert on portals,
but Ilsevele had found the answer before he'd even started to consider the question.
"I think you're right," he said. "The other portals might get us closer to our goal at the first step, but then we would have to find our way to a port on strange shores. Riding from Semberholme to Suzail or Marsember seems much easier than finding our way out of the Chondalwood."
Ilsevele patted his shoulder. He could feel her smirking behind his back.
"What are Cormyr and Sembia like?" she asked. "And how likely is it that we will find a ship bound for Aglarond in their ports?"
Araevin shrugged. "I haven't been to that part of Faerun before, but I know they're both regarded as civilized lands. Sembia is a land where gold is king, a league of cities governed by merchant princes. They're suspicious of elves, I hear, but as long as we have coin to spend, we should have no trouble there. Cormyr is a smaller realm, but well spoken of by many travelers I've encountered. As far as passage to Aglarond, well, I suppose we will learn more when we reach the Sea of Fallen Stars. If nothing else, it seems likely that we could take passage to Westgate or Procampur, and go from there to Aglarond."
"The quicker, the better," Ilsevele said. "I have a feeling my father will need us in Cormanthor before too long. I do not want to tarry an hour longer than we need to."
Maresa shut the ponderous tome in front of her and smiled crookedly. "I've never been to Aglarond," she said. "I wonder if their wine's any good."
*****
They returned to their rooms at the inn, making ready to depart on the following day. Araevin left the details in Ilsevele's hands. He had something to do, and the time had come to do it whether he wanted to or not. At sunset he left the city's gates and retraced his steps to the shrine of Labelas Enoreth, seeking quiet and solitude. The night was cool and breezy. Spring in the North faded fast once
the sun set, and the woods around the old temple sighed and rustled in the wind.
Araevin seated himself cross-legged, looking out over the lights of the city below. Then, drawing a deep breath, he began to chant the words of a powerful vision spell. Before he set off for a kingdom as distant and exotic as Aglarond, he wanted to know that he could find what he sought there.
He focused on the tale of Ithraides and his allies, conjuring the images he'd seen preserved in the ancient telkiira stones: Ithraides, the ancient moon elf, with his younger apprentices around him. Morthil, he thought. Star elves. Yuireshanyaar. The telmiirkara neshyrr, the Rite of Transformation.
"I wish to know!" he called to the wind.
The vision seized him at once, powerful and immediate. Araevin felt himself flung out of his body, his perception hurtling eastward across land, sea, and mountains. He glimpsed a palace of green stone, a great woodland, a circle of old menhirs in a sun-dappled clearing in the forest. Then his vision lurched and leaped. He reeled, dizzy, setting a hand on the cold flagstones to steady himself.
When he looked up again, he saw that he stood in a great, lightless hall. Wrecked balustrades of stone lined the walls, the remnants of high, proud galleries that once encircled the place. In the center of the hall a drifting spiral of white magic hovered in the air, turning slowly. Araevin gazed at the odd apparition, trying to make out what exactly it was—and his vision leaped again, diving into the white spiral.
He stood in a strange room of gray mist and shining light, gazing at a great old tome of golden letters, lying open on a stand.
"Ithraides's spellbook," he gasped.
All at once the vision whirled away from him, and Araevin was left cold and hollow on the windswept terrace above Silverymoon.
He climbed shaking to his feet, only to give up and sink back down to the ground. The spell was neither easy nor
forgiving, and he would not be himself for quite some time. But the vision was usually truthful.
A silver door of mist in a black hall, he wondered. Ithraides's lore has not been lost.
With a sigh, he climbed again to his feet, and started back toward the city and his companions below.