CHAPTER NINE
28 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

They spent their last night at the Golden Oak much as they had the last time they left Silverymoon, enjoying a good meal, drink, and dancing beneath the lanternlit boughs of the great old tree. Then, in the morning, the three travelers returned to the Vault of Sages to pick up the copies Araevin had commissioned from Brother Calwern before leaving the city again. It was another warm spring morning, and flower beds all over the city were in bloom around them.
They climbed the steps to the Vault's entrance, and found Brother Calwern waiting for them with a new leather scroll case, secured for travel.
"The Untheric map you requested is ready," the aged Deneirrath told Araevin. "I wish you luck in your travels, Master Teshurr. Come back when you can and tell us about them."
"Thank you," Araevin replied, accepting the map in its leather case. "Until we meet again, Brother Calwern."
He bowed and turned to go, but then someone called his name from nearby. The voice was human, though raspy and somewhat deep. Araevin turned and found himself looking on a man who sat by one of the desks. The fellow stood slowly, pushing himself to his feet with a jangle of mail beneath his surcoat.
"I am Dawnmaster Donnor Kerth, of the Order of the Aster," he said. "I have been waiting for you."
The same order that Grayth served in, Araevin recalled. He inclined his head to the fellow.
"Well met, Dawnmaster," he replied, studying the Lathanderian. He was young—a -grown man, certainly, but no more than his mid-twenties, if Araevin was any judge of it—and he had a hard manner to him. His eyes were bright blue and intense, and his hair was hacked so short that it was little more than dark stubble covering his dusky scalp. He wore the rising sun symbol of Lathander on his breast, and a big-hilted broadsword hung at his hip. "What can I do for you?"
"You were the companion of Mornmaster Grayth Holmfast?" the human asked.
"Yes, I was," Araevin said. He frowned, taking the young man's measure. "We traveled together in the Company of the White Star some years ago, and again this very spring."
"Grayth Holmfast was my mentor in the Order. I understand you were with him when he was killed." His fierce manner grew even harder as his eyes narrowed, and a scowl crept across his features. "He was like a father to me, Master Teshurr. Tell me what happened to him."
Araevin searched Donnor Kerth's eyes. "Grayth was a true friend to me as well, Dawnmaster. I will do as you ask." He reached out and set a hand on the big human's shoulder. "But, I have to warn you—it will be hard to hear. He fought valiantly at my side through many perils, but in the end he was murdered in cold blood by the daemonfey."
"I mean to hear your tale, Araevin Teshurr, whether it is good or ill."
Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and Maresa, then nodded. "Give me a moment to finish my business here, and we will go somewhere to talk. Dawnmaster, this is my betrothed, Ilsevele Miritar, and our companion Maresa Rost, who has also shared many dangers with us. We all rode with Grayth."
Ilsevele offered her hand in the human way, and Kerth surprisingly did not seek to crush it in his mailed grasp. He drew off his gauntlet to touch her fingers, and bent down to kiss her hand.
"My lady Miritar," he murmured. Then he turned to Maresa, who made a show of daintily extending her hand for the same treatment. "Lady Rost."
"Dawnmaster Kerth," Maresa intoned gravely. The genasi regarded the serious Lathanderian with a solemn face, but Araevin caught a glimmer of humor in her eyes. Maresa was not used to such displays of courtesy, it seemed.
"Let us go outside," he suggested.
The human assented with a nod, and Araevin led him outside to the green boulevard that ran past the Vault. Many of Silverymoon's streets would have passed for parks in other cities. They found a row of cherry trees in full bloom, and sat on a pair of stone benches beneath the soft pink blossoms. Araevin related to Donnor Kerth the story of his return to Faerun and quest for the missing telkiira. From time to time, Ilsevele or Maresa interrupted with details of Grayth's valor and their adventures together.
Araevin went on to tell of their continued quest in search of the last telkiira, the battle against Grimlight the behir, and the daemonfey treachery that snared them all in Sarya Dlardrageth's clutches. Then he came to the end of Grayth's tale in the demon-haunted halls beneath Myth Glaurach.
"The daemonfey demanded that I lead them to the last of the treasures they sought, and so they threatened Grayth's
life if I did not comply." He paused, struggling with the words, as the grief of the moment welled up again in his chest. "I hesitated, because I did not want to put such a weapon in Sarya's hands. She ordered Grayth killed, and one of her fey'ri cut his throat. My resistance failed, and she caught me in a spell of dominion, commanding me to do as she asked."
Kerth's fierce eyes softened for a moment. "You did what you could, Araevin Teshurr. Your lives were forfeit from the moment such monsters captured you. As far as you knew, they would kill you anyway."
"I know. But if I had yielded sooner, they might have saved Grayth for later use against me, as they did Ilsevele and Maresa. In which case, I might have been able to rescue him as well."
"How did you escape the domination spell and free your comrades?"
Araevin frowned, and rubbed unconsciously at the Nightstar embedded beneath his shirt. Some things should not be lightly shared.
"Sarya's captain commanded me to attempt something that risked grave harm. That gave me the strength to break the spell. After that, I returned to Myth Glaurach, which had been mostly emptied, as the daemonfey were busy with their war against Evereska and the High Forest. I found Ilsevele and Maresa, and teleported away."
"He also managed to sabotage Sarya's control of the city's mythal, and banish a few hundred demons while he was at it," Maresa added. "Don't let Araevin convince you that he isn't at least a little bit heroic."
The human glanced at Araevin again, and leaned back to digest the tale, hands locked in front of his chest. After a long moment he sighed and looked up.
"Does Grayth's murderer still live?" he asked.
"No. I killed the one who wielded the knife," Araevin said.
"But as far as we know, Sarya Dlardrageth still lives," Ilsevele added. "She is the one who ordered Grayth's death. We think she is hiding in the ruins of Myth Drannor."
"Then, if you will permit me, I offer you my service in Grayth Holmfast's stead." The Dawnmaster bowed deeply, his arms spread wide. "These daemonfey, whoever they are, have made an enemy of the Order of the Aster, and I intend to see Lord Holmfast's work through to its end."
Araevin frowned, not sure what to make of the offer. He exchanged looks with Ilsevele and Maresa. The genasi shrugged, but Ilsevele studied the human closely, her green eyes narrowed in thought.
"Evermeet's army is marching against the Dlardrageths in Myth Drannor," Araevin finally said. "However, our path does not lead there yet. We are about to set out in search of some ancient lore that we need to defeat the mythal defenses Sarya is erecting around Myth Drannor. It is my intent to travel swiftly and return to the fight against the daemonfey as quickly as I can, but I can't say where my quest will lead me, or how long it will take."
"A long and difficult march may prove more important than a single glorious charge in deciding a war," the human knight said. "Honor is served equally by both. Until such a time as you know that you will have no need of my sword, I would like to aid you in whatever way I can. If Grayth would have followed you, I will follow you."
Araevin considered his reply. As far as he knew, he might be wandering in and out of libraries for months in search of the spells he needed. But Ilsevele answered for him. As a captain in the Queen's Guard, she understood a warrior's honor better than he did.
"For the sake of Grayth Holmfast's memory, we will accept your service," she told the human. "The only conditions I place on you, Dawnmaster, are these—if Araevin or I tell you that something you see or do is not to be spoken of to those who aren't elves, you will not do so, and you will not abandon us in danger. Other than that you are free to judge for yourself when honor has been served."
The human crossed his right arm over his heart. "I so swear," he said.
"Good," said Araevin. He stood and faced the Lathanderian. "If you have a bedroll and a pack, go get them
and meet us by the river gate. We need to get a mile or so beyond the city walls, and I will teleport us all to Myth Glaurach."
*****
Curnil Thordrim stood his ground, and prepared to meet his death shoulder-to-shoulder with five more Riders of Mistledale. He and his fellows crouched in the common room of a farmhouse, staring out through the open door and the half-shuttered windows. Skulking closer through the forest verge came shapes out of a nightmare—snarling, hissing devils with snakelike tails, wide mouths full of foul, jagged teeth, and huge saw-toothed glaives of rust-red metal. Fearsome yellow light glimmered in the fiends' eyes, and they cackled and snarled horribly in their terrible voices.
"Why don't they just get on with it?" muttered Rethold.
The tall archer stood beside Curnil, a silver-tipped arrow held on his bowstring. He had only three arrows left, and he was waiting until he was sure of a shot. For the better part of a tenday, the Riders of Mistledale had been embroiled in a deadly fight that worsened every day, defending their vale against what was first a marauding devil or two, then murderous gangs of the creatures. In the past few days a dozen of Curnil's fellows had died, torn apart by fiendish talons, skewered on hell-forged hooks or spears, or blasted to smoking corpses by devil-wrought hellfire.
"Be patient, and wait for your shot," Curnil told him. "If we are going to fall here, we have to take as many of these foul hellspawn with us as we can."
"What I'd like to know," remarked Ingra, who was keeping watch by the window, "is how these monsters got out of Myth Drannor."
She stood with a powerful crossbow in her hands, a highly enchanted quarrel laid in its rest. Curnil knew that she'd account for one of the devils, when the moment came. But that wouldn't be enough, would it?
"They're corning!" cried Ingra.
Curnil raised his paired short swords and crouche( by the doorway, ready to kill the first devil to enter th( room. Rethold's bow thrummed to his left, as the arche fired through one of the shuttered windows on that sid( of the house, and Ingra's crossbow snapped sharply or his right.
There was a sudden rush of footfalls, the clicking oi taloned nails on the floorboards of the porch outside—and a furious devil leaped in the door, eyes ablaze with battlelust. It was so quick and reckless in its rush that it nearly skewered Curnil with its barbed glaive before the swordsman could move. He cursed and threw himself aside, then parried two more jabbing thrusts as the monster pressed in, two more of its fellows crowding in close behind it.
"For Mistledale!" Curnil cried, and he heard his fellow Riders take up the call.
He slipped inside the glaive's point and launched a furious assault of his own, slashing and stabbing with his swords as the devil snapped at him with its fangs. The other Riders crashed into the doorway with him, and for a few moments the whole fight came down to a savage press right in the farmhouse's door, blades flashing, fangs sinking into flesh, hisses of anger, and sudden grunts or cries of pain.
Curnil roared in anger as the devil he battled sank its teeth into his forearm, snarling and worrying at him like a great fierce hound, but he managed to slip his right hand free and stabbed his enchanted blade into the monster's torso over and over again, until the devil finally slipped and went down in the doorway. He stumbled to the floor, saw Rethold killed by a glaive-thrust that burst the weapon's point half a foot out of the archer's back, and from all fours awkwardly parried the attack of yet another devil leaping through the press.
His new opponent hissed in savage glee and drew back its weapon for a killing thrust, even as Curnil tried to gain his feet—and a silver-white arrow sprouted from the devil's neck. Curnil took advantage of the devil's distraction to
gain his feet again and gut the creature with a wicked low slash under its guard. More silver arrows struck all around him, a deadly sleet of archery that took the devils in their backs until the creatures finally scattered and dashed away, seeking escape.
Curnil found himself standing with Ingra and two of the other four Riders, staring in disbelief at the evidence of the archery around them.
"Someone has an excellent sense of timing," he said. He ventured out onto the porch, looking to see who or what had just saved his life.
Arrayed around the farmhouse stood dozens of elf archers, some kneeling behind the undergrowth, others standing in the shadow of tree trunks. With easy grace they glided forward, loosing arrows at the fleeing devils as they came, until the skirmish line swept past the farmhouse and into the fields beyond.
"Who are they?" Ingra asked. "I thought I knew most of the wood elves of Cormanthor, but I've never seen these fellows before."
"Nor have I," Curnil said. He limped out into the open— somehow, during the fighting in the farmhouse door, he seemed to have been slashed across the leg without even noticing it—and raised a hand in greeting to the archers' captain, who trotted up to the house. "Well met, friend!" Curnil said in Elvish. "My companions and I owe you our lives!"
The captain—a wood elf whose silver-green garb seemed to shimmer and shift as it constantly adjusted for the green and dappled shadows the elf passed through—looked at Curnil in surprise.
"You speak Elvish!" he said. "And not very badly, either. You must know some of the Tel-Quessir!"
"I do. My name is Curnil Thordrim. I spent several years in the service of Lord Dessaer of Elventree."
"Are these his lands?" the elf asked.
Definitely not from around here, Curnil noted. "No, Elventree lies a hundred miles or more to the north and east. You are near the human settlement of Mistledale."
"Ah, I think I have heard of it," the elf answered. His eye fell on the dead or dying devils sprawled on the farmhouse's stoop and doorway, and he nodded. "I am glad we were able to help. You fought with great valor against more numerous foes."
"Not to seem ungrateful, sir, but-who are you? And what are you doing in Mistledale?"
The elf looked back to Curnil, and inclined his head. "I have forgotten my manners. I am Felael Springleap. My warriors and I belong to Lord Seiveril Miritar's host. We have come from Evermeet to destroy the daemonfey in Myth Drannor."
"Lord Seiveril? Daemonfey?" Curnil shrugged. "Do you mean to tell me that an army from Evermeet is in Cormanthor?"
"I mean that very thing." The elf-Felael, Curnil reminded himself—turned away for a moment to quickly confer with some of the others, who trotted off after the rest of the company. Then he turned back to the weary Riders. "Have you seen many of these hellspawn here, Curnil Thordrim?"
"For a tenday or more they've been raiding our settlements and slaughtering our people. We always knew there were creatures like this lurking in Myth Drannor, but they have never escaped to the larger forest to trouble us before."
"Then it may be that we can help each other," Felael said. "We are here to defeat these creatures and their masters, and it seems to me that you must know much about the lands and happenings nearby. Do you think your leader would be willing to meet with us?"
Curnil took in the skilled and graceful company with a glance. How many more companies of elf archers were roaming around Cormanthor, looking for devils to slay? he wondered. Whatever the answer, it was certainly the best news Mistledale had heard in quite some time.
"Yes," he said. "I think he would."
*****

Donnor Kerth seemed a grim and serious traveling companion, putting Araevin in mind of some dwarves he'd known in his day. But his gruff and fierce manner had a way of melting away whenever he addressed Ilsevele or Maresa. Donnor hailed from southern Tethyr, the son of a mid-ranking noble, and he had been brought up with an exacting sense of chivalrous behavior, particularly in regards to the opposite sex. Some of the more conservative sun elf houses embraced similar romantic ideals, but humans had a way of fixing their minds on something and carrying it to extremes that elves would never practice.
At Myth Glaurach, they joined in with the stream of elves passing from the Delimbiyr Vale to Semberholme. Since Araevin was perfectly capable of navigating the portal network by himself, they didn't have to wait for an elf mage to lead them through, as the rest of the warriors did. They rested for the night in the growing camp by the shores of Lake Sember, surrounded by the lanternlight and cookfires of Lord Seiveril's army.
Araevin and Ilsevele went to see Seiveril when they had settled on a place to camp. They found him sharing the evening meal with Jerreda Starcloak's wood elves, who sang and danced with abandon as if to show the elflord that their high spirits were sufficient for the whole army. The wood elves greeted both Araevin and Ilsevele warmly, and it was some time before the three sun elves managed to disentangle themselves from the songs, games, and bawdy wit of the wood elf encampment.
As they walked back to Seiveril's pavilion, Ilsevele took her father's arm. "Did you feel in need of some song and dance tonight?" she asked.
"A little music never hurt anyone," Seiveril replied. "I try to make it a point to take at least half my meals with the troops, choosing a different company each time. I want to know what's on their minds, and take some time to remind them why they're here. But I have to say, the wood elves don't give one much of a chance to talk, do they?"
Araevin smiled. Wood elves were notoriously garrulous,
but then again sun elves were supposed to be distant and reserved. He suspected that his wood elf friends went out of their way to act the part when he came to visit, simply because he was a sun elf.
"Their spirits seem high, anyway," he observed.
"It cheers me to pass an hour with them, I'll admit," Seiveril said. "So, you have returned much sooner than I expected. Did you forget something?"
"We're only passing through," Araevin told him. "We need to head south from here, toward the ports in Sembia or Cormyr. We'll be taking a ship to Aglarond."
"Aglarond?" Seiveril paused, his eyes thoughtful. "That makes sense. The People have lived there for a very long time, perhaps even as long ago as the dawn of Arcorar. But it is so far away! Do you really think you will find what you are looking for there?"
"I don't know," Araevin admitted. "But it is the best guess I have at the moment."
"What of you, Father? Have you found any sign of the daemonfey yet?" asked Ilsevele.
"We have companies already marching north and east toward the Standing Stone. I have heard from some of our scouts that they have met demons and devils of various sorts in the forest. Apparently the human folk who live in the forest verge have been greatly troubled in the last few tendays by the fiends that Sarya has released from Myth Drannor, or summoned on her own."
Ilsevele frowned. "I do not like the idea of bringing our own war into the middle of their homeland," she said.
"Sarya made that decision, not I," Seiveril said. "Even if we had chosen not to follow her here, the Dalesfolk would still have to reckon with the daemonfey army and Sarya's summoned hellspawn—and they would not have our swords and spells to help them." They reached Seiveril's pavilion, and the elflord stopped and kissed Ilsevele on the cheek. "I am afraid I have to set our marching orders for tomorrow, and make ready to meet with some human emissaries from the nearby lands who want to know why an army of elves has suddenly returned to this ancient
forest. If you like, I will have Thilesil provide you with mounts to speed your journey."
They thanked Seiveril, and Ilsevele kissed her father again. Then they returned to their camp.
The next morning, they found Seiveril's aide Thilesil and obtained riding horses for the four of them—not the elven coursers from Evermeet itself, of course, since they did not know if they would be able to embark the horses when they reached Cormyr's ports. Then they set off for the human lands south of Cormanthor.
From the wilderness of Semberholme, they made their way south for a day to the land of Deepingdale and its chief town Highmoon. The next morning, they rode to the town of White Ford at the northern end of Archendale, and passed along the length of the dale to the town of Archenbridge in a long, hard day of riding made a little easier by fine weather and good roads. Two more days of riding brought them across Sembia's broad farmlands and well-ordered hamlets to the great old city of Saerloon, on the shores of the Sea of Fallen Stars.
Saerloon had long ago over-spilled its city walls, and for miles outside the old city, inns, taverns, stockyards, and stables lined the road. The aroma of the place was overpowering, a mix of cookfires, animal dung, and industry such as tanning, papermaking, and smelting. Busy humans everywhere were noisily engaged in their trades with little regard for their neighbors. Few passersby took any notice of the four riders approaching the city, but those who did looked hard at Araevin and Ilsevele, saying little.
"Why do they stare at us so?" Ilsevele asked Araevin in Elvish.
"Not many human cities are as welcoming to our people as Silverymoon," he replied. "The humans who settled these shores learned little from elves, unlike the human lands you passed through in the North. The Sembians have long regarded elves as rivals, perhaps even enemies."
"Enemies? Why?"
"Long ago the Sembians were checked in their northward expansion by the might of elven Cormanthyr. Even
after the fall of Myth Drannor, elves remained in the forest for centuries, enough that the Sembians still did not dare to defy them. The last Houses of Cormanthyr abandoned the Elven Court only within the last forty years or so."
"Will the Sembians claim the forest, now that it has been abandoned?"
"I do not know. The Dalesfolk still stand in their way, even if they are no match for Sembia's strength." Araevin glanced at Ilsevele with a thin smile. "Besides, your father may have other ideas on the question now."
They finally reached the old gates, so deeply buried within the city that there seemed to be no difference between the districts outside the walls and the ones inside the walls, and rode through. Now that they were in old Saerloon, the city's native architecture became apparent. Great stone buildings centuries old rose high overhead, distinguished by needle-like spires, bladelike flying buttresses, high pointed arches, and an incredible wealth of statuary—crouching, leering gargoyles seemed to adorn every rooftop. It was magnificent in its way, but more than little sinister as well.
Araevin gazed up at the threatening, monstrous figures captured in stone, and wondered what had led the longdead sculptors to adorn their city so.
"Let's find a good inn," he suggested, "and we'll see what ships are in port and where they are bound."
*****

The waters of Lake Sember glowed with the golden sunset, and a dark line of storm clouds gathered around the distant Desertsmouth Mountains to the west, promising rain before long. Seiveril stood near the lakeshore, absently noting that the camp was smaller than it had been. Many of his companies were already well on their march to the north and east, and soon he too would be gone from there.
"Lord Miritar? The Dalesfolk emissaries are here," Thilesil told him.
The efficient sun elf was a priestess of Corellon Larethian, and one of the clerics subordinate to Seiveril in the hierarchy of Corellon's Grove. But more importantly she had proved to be an exceptionally competent administrator and secretary, helping him to attend to the myriad details of moving, feeding, and planning for an army numbering in the thousands.
"Excellent," Seiveril replied. "I will be there in just a moment."
He would have liked Starbrow or Vesilde Gaerth to be present for the council, but the moon elf warrior was leading the vanguard of the march, and Gaerth was behind him, in charge of the main body.
Seiveril turned his back on the sunset and found his way back to an old, stone colonnade beneath the trees. The slender white pillars had once ringed a great table where the old lords of Semberholme had feasted on summer nights. Like many of Semberholme's ruins, they were not really ruined at all, just abandoned for a time Since Seiveril's folk had had a few days to set things in order, golden lanterns hung once again from the branches overhead, and the table was set much as it might have been five hundred years ago. Three humans and a half-elf awaited him.
Thilesil stepped forward and announced, "Honored guests, the Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion. Lord Seiveril, this is High Councilor Haresk Malorn of Mistledale, Lord Theremen Ularth of Deepingdale, Lord Ilmeth of Battledale, and Lady Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale."
"Welcome, friends," said Seiveril. "I thank you for consenting to meet me here."
He bowed, and took a moment to study his guests. He'd sent couriers to all the nearby lands after discovering the troubles besetting Mistledale, even dispatching mages with teleport spells to speed their journeys if necessary.
Haresk Malorn, High Councilor of Mistledale, was a tall, balding human with a heavy body, dressed in garb Seiveril might expect of a small town merchant, which was exactly what Malorn was. For all his evident lack of martial bearing, he had a surprisingly direct and strong
look to his face, even if he seemed a little overwhelmed in the present circumstances.
Lord Ilmeth of Battledale, another tall human, was the second of Seiverirs guests. He had a thick, dark beard and a grim, almost sullen manner to him. He also shifted his feet nervously, his powerful arms folded across his broad chest.
His third guest was the half-elf Lord Theremen Ulath of Deepingdale. Theremen evidently had some moon elf blood in him. He was quite fair of skin, with dark hair and a build that was almost elf-slender. He seemed somewhat more at ease than the Malorn, but Seiveril would have expected that from a lord whose demesnes included both human towns and elf settlements in the southern margin of Cormanthor. It helped that Seiveril and Theremen had spoken several times already in the days since the Crusade had emerged in the forests not far north of Deepingdale.
"It has been a long time since an elflord has invited Dalelords to his table in Cormanthor," Theremen said. "I, for one, am honored to be here."
Seiveril inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment, and turned his eyes to the fourth of his guests—none other than Storm Silverhand, one of the Seven Sisters, Bard of Shadowdale, Harper, Chosen of Mystra, and a dozen other things more. She stood watching him, her eyes dark and thoughtful in a face of tremendous beauty. She wore a mail shirt and a leather jacket, and a long sword rode at her hip. Her silver hair, long and straight, gleamed in the lanternlight. Seiveril had not expected her, believing Shadowdale would send its lord Mourngrym Amcathra or another representative, but he was not about to tell a Chosen of Mystra that she was not welcome.
"Well, Seiveril Miritar, you've certainly stirred up a hornet's nest in Myth Drannor," Storm said. "I suppose I would like to know what in the world is going on there, and why a whole army from Evermeet has suddenly gated into this forest."
"I will explain," Seiveril said, glancing to Thilesil, "but first, I was expecting a representative from Archendale too."
"The Swords declined to come," Thilesil said. "They sent word that they are not concerned with 'elven matters,' but will not obstruct your movements in any way, as long as you do not approach their land."
Malorn shook his head. "Trust Archendale to look out for itself first. You won't get much from them, Lord Miritar."
"In all fairness, High Councilor, the Swords are mightily concerned by Sembia, which sits at their southern doorstep," Lord Theremen replied. "They do not want to give Sembia a reason to pick a quarrel with them."
Seiveril shook his head. The human ability to ignore their own common good always astonished him, but he supposed that if the rulers of Archendale wanted to be left alone, he could certainly leave them alone. He looked back to Storm Silverhand, sensing that she was the one he would have to convince. The legendary Bard of Shadowdale might not hold any titles or govern any lands, but her words went a long way in the Dalelands.
"I promised to explain our presence," he began. "We have spent the last three months marching and fighting in the Delimbiyr Vale, where we fought a bitter campaign against a legion of daemonfey—winged demons who wear the shapes of elves. They are an ancient evil long ago defeated and imprisoned in the High Forest. But earlier this year they mounted a raid on Evermeet itself, and freed a great legion of their kind to launch an attack against the elves of the High Forest and nearby realms."
"Evereska," Storm said.
Seiveril nodded. He hadn't wanted to name the city, not knowing the Dalelords with whom he spoke well enough to speak of such a secret.
"Yes, Evereska," he allowed. "In response, I gathered a host of warriors from Evermeet to go to the Delimbiyr Vale and destroy the daemonfey threat. We stopped them at the gates of Evereska and in the deep refuges of the High Forest, and broke their army on the Lonely Moor. But the daemonfey fled through hidden gates to Myth Drannor, where they are now rebuilding their strength." He faced Councilor Malorn and spread his hands in apology. "In
truth, we did not mean to drive an army of our foes into your lands. But now that they have fled here, we have come to finish what we started at the Lonely Moor."
"That explains your army's presence," Storm Silverhand said, "but perhaps you can also tell me why the forest is suddenly thick with creatures of the infernal planes. Have these daemonfey of yours broken the wards trapping those monsters inside Myth Drannor?"
"We think so, yes." Seiveril paused, to make sure that the Chosen understood him. "One of my mages, an expert on mythakraft and the daemonfey spells, surveyed Sarya's handiwork at Myth Drannor. He found that she has assumed control over the mythal, and is now working to twist it to her own purposes. In the High Forest she used the wards over Myth Glaurach to summon up a whole army of fiends. I fear she will do so again in Myth Drannor if we do not stop her."
"Damn." Storm turned away to stare out over the lake. "We've allowed Myth Drannor to fester for decades, and now it seems we'll have to pay the price for it."
Haresk Malorn looked to Storm and asked, "Can the Sage of Shadowdale do something about a demon queen tinkering with Myth Drannor's old magic? Or the Knights of Myth Drannor? They would not stand aside and let this happen, would they?"
The Bard of Shadowdale frowned, and her face grew dark. "Elminster took the Knights off through a magical gate months ago on some perilous errand. I haven't seen them since. My sister—the Simbul-grew so sick with worry that she appointed a regent in Aglarond and went seeking them. She said something to me about the Srinshee before she left, but now I haven't heard from her since. I would like to know where they are, too."
"I know that Elminster and the Knights have proven their friendship to the Dales many times over," Malorn said. "But still . . . what in the world is more important than what's going on right here?"
"The world is full of troubles, my friend, and we who are Chosen can only deal with a very few of them." Storm
looked up at the twilight skies overhead. "For my own part, I have always hated choosing which things to do and which to leave undone."
The high councilor frowned and looked down at his feet, perhaps regretting his words. The gathering fell silent for a long moment, as the other Dalesfolk chewed over Storm Silverhand's tidings.
Then Ilmeth of Battledale stirred and looked over to Seiveril. "So you're just going to march your army up to Myth Drannor, kick out the daemonfey, and ride off back to Evermeet?"
"As directly as we can, though the mythal wards may prevent us from an outright assault. We may have to invest the city and batter down its defenses, or work powerful magic of our own to contain the daemonfey." Seiveril hesitated, then added, "After that, many of us will likely return to Evermeet. But I intend to remain here and keep some strength in this forest. We have been surprised by threats originating in Faerun too many times. I cannot speak for all who march under my banner, but I at least have Returned."
The Dalelords did not attempt to conceal their surprise. Councilor Malorn exchanged looks with Ilmeth of Battledale, and both surreptitiously glanced to Storm Silverhand to see how the Bard of Shadowdale responded. Storm, for her part, was still staring out over the lake. After a long moment, she spoke over her shoulder.
"Turning back the march of years is rarely a good idea, Seiveril Miritar," she said. "It took the lords of the Elven Court nearly five centuries to decide on Retreat. Are you telling me that in a few short months they've suddenly decided otherwise?"
"The decision was not without debate."
Storm snorted softly in the twilight. "Sun elves make an art of understatement. Do you have any idea of the trouble that will come from this?"
"Whatever trouble comes, it must surely be less than that which will come to this land if we leave Sarya Dlardrageth in Myth Drannor," Seiveril answered.
"Lord Miritar, not all of the Dales hold to the old Dales Compact anymore," High Councilor Malorn said. "The four Dales represented here still abide by the promises made fourteen centuries ago by our forefathers to yours, but the Compact is not remembered with much fondness in Archendale, Tasseldale, or Scardale. Even Harrowdale is questionable."
"And there are powers encroaching on the borders of Cormanthor that never agreed to any Compact with the elves," Lord Theremen pointed out. "Realms such as Zhentil Keep and Hillsfar—or Sembia, for that matter-are not at all unhappy with the elves' Retreat. They might resist your Return to Cormanthor."
"I have no designs on their lands," Seiveril protested.
"No, Seiveril Miritar, but they certainly have designs on yours-and ours," Storm Silverhand said. The silver-haired bard turned back from Lake Sember and fixed her eyes on Seiveril. "Cormanthyr long shielded the Dales and the forest lands from the ambitions of kingdoms nearby. But since the final Retreat of the Elven Court thirty years ago, the realms surrounding the Dalelands and Cormanthor have been growing ever bolder. In the absence of the elves' strength and determination, the forest has become a great borderland, a frontier that all are eager to claim.
"Fortunately-" Storm smiled humorlessly as she spoke—"we live in interesting times. The Zhents would have overrun the northern Dales long ago, but they have murdered each other in at least two great bloody purges. They have now recovered from those feuds, stronger than ever. The Sembians might have bought Tasseldale and Featherdale and who knows what else lock, stock, and barrel-but Cormyr under King Azoun would have none of that. Well, Azoun is dead now. Hillsfar was a city friendly to the Fair Folk, respectful of the old Compact. Now it is ruled by the tyrant Maalthiir, a man known to hate elves.
"For a decade now, the only thing keeping the aspirations of these ambitious powers in check is the fear that should one of them move too quickly, the others would certainly join forces to drag down the leader from behind." Storm
frowned at Seiveril, her eyes narrow and thoughtful. "Now you tell me that there's an army of demonspawn in Myth Drannor, who no doubt plan to seize a realm to rule for themselves."
"That, at least, I mean to prevent," Seiveril replied. "As for the other realms, I recognize that the years have passed since the Standing Stone was raised, and that a new Compact may be necessary. But I see no human cities standing here on the shores of Lake Sember, or rising in the silver groves of the Elven Court. I will not be told that elves cannot raise a realm under Cormanthor's branches."
Storm sighed and looked over at the glimmering lanterns and campfires of the elven army, which were beginning to flicker into life as the twilight deepened.
"Before the Retreat, no one would have dreamed of challenging an elven army in Cormanthor," she said. "I do not think you can trade on that old fear and respect any longer. Whether you meant to or not, Lord Miritar, you have brought war to Cormanthor, and I cannot yet see who will take up arms against whom."

CHAPTER TEN
4 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

Saerloon was one of the busiest ports on the Sea of Fallen Stars. Two days after Araevin and his companions arrived in the city, they boarded Windsinger, bound for the city of Velprintalar on Aglarond's northern coast. Windsinger was a graceful three-masted caravel under the command of a captain named Ilthor, a wiry, sun-darkened Aglarondan. She had carried great tuns of wine, cords of fine hardwood, and small coffers full of rich amber from the Yuirwood to Saerloon, and was taking on Sembian pewter, ironwork, copperwork, and tooled leather to carry back home again.
The day was warm and the skies streaked with rain as two longboats pulled Windsinger from Saerloon's wharves. Once in open water the caravel let down her sails, and set her course
south-southwest for the whole day in order to clear the great southern cape of Sembia. Then, with a northwest wind at their back, they turned due east and made for the Isle of Prespur, sighting its town-dotted shores early on the third day of sailing. After that Ilthor turned Windbringer sharply to the northeast, striking across the mouth of the Dragon Reach for the city of Procampur, on the northern shore of the Inner Sea. It would have been far swifter to simply continue due east for Aglarond, crossing the center of the Sea of Fallen Stars, but the Pirate Isles and the dangerous shoals south of Altumbel lay astride that course, and Ilthor had no intention of trying his luck with either.
Araevin found the sea voyage an easy way to travel. There was little room to spare for passengers, and the deck was cluttered with cargo and stores, but the voyage offered ample opportunity to find a cargo hatch or coil of line to sit on, watch the sea or the distant shorelines, make entries in his journals, talk with his friends, or simply sit and reflect. Windsinger was too small to boast cabins exclusively for the use of passengers, so Ilsevele and Maresa shared the pilot's cabin in the sterncastle, while the pilot bunked in the forecastle with the other crewmen. Araevin and Donnor were given the best sleeping places on the open deck. Covered from the weather by the quarterdeck overhead, the after deck was actually quite pleasant in warm weather, if not particularly private.
By night Ilthor found various small anchorages along the coastlines, dropping anchor each night in a different cove or bay. Only once did he run at night, when he crossed from Prespur to Procampur.
"The sea is too cluttered with islands and shoals to sail in the dark," he explained. "Out on the Sword Coast or the Shining Sea, they'll keep their course by day and night. But here I drop anchor when it gets dark, unless I'm certain I've got an open pitch of water all around me or the moon is bright enough to sail by."
For the next few days they sailed eastward along the shores of Impiltur, passing cities such as Tsurlagol, Lyrabar, and Hlammach. Then Ilthor turned southeast,
striking across the mouth of the Eastern Reach for Cape Dragonfang.
On the seventh day of their voyage, Araevin found himself sitting with Ilsevele at the stern. He studied his spellbooks in the bright sun, puzzling over the notations and concepts of a spell he had recorded months before but had not yet mastered, while she gazed back at the green shores of Impiltur, slowly sinking into the sea behind them. Her ivory skin had acquired a golden bronze hue in the past few days, as sun elves often did in warm climes. Even the fairest tanned quickly and easily, unlike moon elves, who could never gain more than the faintest hint of color to their skin. After a time Araevin realized that Ilsevele had been staring out over the sea for a long while, her brow faintly furrowed, her eyes distant.
He set down his spellbook and reached to place a hand over hers.
"What is it, Ilsevele? You've been staring at the sea all morning. Where are your thoughts?"
She didn't reply for a long time, long enough that someone who didn't know her as well as Araevin might have wondered whether she had heard him. But finally she took her eyes from the bright horizon, and looked down at the slender white wake streaming from behind Windsinger's rudderpost.
"Where will we marry?" she asked.
"Where?" Araevin blinked, considering the question. In truth, he hadn't given a single thought to any sort of wedding preparations—and especially not since the night the daemonfey had raided Tower Reilloch. "Your father's palace at Seamist, I suppose. Everyone in Elion will want to come." He managed an awkward shrug. "I hadn't really thought about it."
"Do you think we will return to Evermeet in time for our wedding day? It is less than two years from nowGreengrass in the Year of the Bent Blade. That is the promise we made in the Year of the Prince."
"I remember," Araevin said. "Why wouldn't we return for our wedding day?"
"What if my father's army is laying siege to Myth Drannor? Or the daemonfey escape again, and we pursue them to some even more distant land? What if your search for high magic takes you to some realm on the other side of the sunrise, a road whose end you won't reach for years and years?"
"Even if all those things happen as you say, Ilsevele, I don't see why we could not stand in the arbor at Seamist and speak our promises before the Seldarine," Araevin said.
"So we would abandon our battles and our journeys for a day, in order to honor our betrothal?"
"If that is the way we must do it, then yes."
Ilsevele sighed. "And back to your studies, my father's battles, whatever desperate journeys and adventures we must face. That is not much of a marriage, Araevin, and not much of a life together."
Frustration hardened his words more than he intended, but Araevin spoke anyway. "If it is all we are to be permitted now, it will have to do. In time there will be years for us, Ilsevele. We won't always be called away."
"It isn't enough." Ilsevele glanced up at the cloudless sky overhead, her eyes as bright as emeralds in the sunshine. "When we met, Araevin, there was such passion in our hearts! There is nothing we would not abandon for an hour in each other's company, stealing away for a walk in the glades of the forest, an evening's dance in the wine rooms of Elion, a morning together in the woods by the sea . . . but when was the last time we did something like that?"
"You came to find me at the House of Cedars only a few months ago," he protested. "For a few days, at least, I certainly did not think of anything other than you."
"So you say. Yet even then you were aching to set out for Faerun again. I would catch you staring off to the east at sunset, looking out over the darkening sea toward Faerun wishing with all your heart to tread those roads and wander those lands again, even though your mind did not want to hear your heart's whispering."
"If you had asked me, Ilsevele, I would have stayed. You know that."
"If you had stayed, you would have wished I had not asked you."
Araevin looked away, gazing at the empty sea as the breeze played with his hair, listening to the soft sound of water slipping past the hull, the ruffling of the sails in the breeze, the rhythmic creaking of lines and tackle as Windsinger rode the waves.
"But you came with me," he said. "You have seen only a thimbleful of these lands, Ilsevele. We could roam the world for a hundred years, and still you would not have seen it all."
She smiled and said, "I am not a roamer, Araevin. I have enjoyed our travels—the parts that weren't difficult or deadly, anyway—and I am not done with them. But my heart turns to home, to familiar places, to the people I love. You, on the other hand. . . when you are at home, wherever that is, your heart turns to the things you have not seen. Tell me the truth: Can you close your eyes and imagine our life together? Can you picture fifty years in the House of Cedars, an end to your journeys, a life of being instead of a life of doing?"
He started to tell her yes, but Ilsevele held up her hand. "Try it before you answer."
"All right, then."
He closed his eyes, and did as she asked, imagining days of springtime sunshine in the House of Cedars, the sea storms of fall and the dark clouds of winter, the sound of the surf in his ears, nothing to do but pass his days a perfect and complete hour at a time. He might spend a hundred years there, two hundred perhaps, with Ilsevele and the children that might come. Yet he could not seem to envision Ilsevele in that house, or himself for that matter. He frowned and tried again. He was a high mage, and he wandered the halls of Tower Reilloch or the courts of Leuthilspar, while Ilsevele stood at her father's right hand or perhaps even sat at the council table in the fullness of years. But that left the House of Cedars empty again, and he could not fill it with all his imagination.
"You can't do it, can you?" Ilsevele said. "I can read it on your face."
Araevin opened his eyes and looked at his betrothed. There was strength and unflinching wisdom behind her eyes, so bright and perfect. She had changed in the years of their betrothal. Wisdom and confidence, poise and determination, had gathered around her since he had first met her. She was not the timid young woman who had once been content to lose herself in his love, swept away by his stories of far-off places and the restlessness he had learned from a century among humankind.
There, on the sun-bleached deck of Windsinger, it occurred to Araevin for the first time that Ilsevele perhaps held a destiny and a passion that might eclipse his own, even if she had not yet found it.
"Give me a year," he pleaded. "Let me walk a few more miles down the road I have to walk. When I know that the daemonfey have been dealt with, when I know that your father has done what he has set out to do, things will be different."
"How do you know?" Ilsevele said. She looked away from him, her red-gold hair gleaming in the sunshine.
"Because you are waiting for me, and I would have to be a fool to let you slip through my fingers." He pulled his hand away from hers, standing up slowly. "I have only a little farther to roam, Ilsevele. Then I will be coming back with you."
Ilsevele pulled herself to her feet, and searched his face for a long moment.
"I know," she said. "I know."
She leaned on the rail, gazing at the sea astern of them. Araevin followed her eyes. Nothing but empty ocean and sweeping sky surrounded them, and they remained there, looking at nothing for a long time.
"I can't see the land anymore," Ilsevele finally said. Araevin nodded. He had long since lost sight of Impiltur's capes.
"We're well in the Easting Reach now," he said. "We should sight the shores of Aglarond tomorrow."
*****

The street lanterns of Hillsfar glowed orange in a light evening smog of smoke from thousands of homes, the banked furnaces and forges that had burned all day long, and the cold sea mist from the dark Moonsea, less than two miles from the city walls. Sarya Dlardrageth contemplated the cluttered streets and ramshackle buildings as her hired coach clattered over the gleaming, wet cobblestones.
"What a stinking sty of a city," her son observed. The hulking swordsman wore the aspect of a tall, broad-shouldered human, but the daemonfey lord had little liking for hiding his true nature in a lesser guise. "Do all human cities reek so?"
"Mind your manners in the First Lord's Tower, Xhalph," Sarya said. "Maalthiir is a cold and arrogant man, quick to take offense. I want him as an ally, not an enemy."
Xhalph scowled, but nodded. Sarya glanced out the coach's window. The driver pulled up before the First Lord's Tower, set the brake, and hopped down to open the door for Sarya and Xhalph—two foreign nobles, as far as he knew. Sarya descended, Xhalph at her side, and they climbed the steps to the tower.
"I am Lady Senda Dereth," she told the guard captain. "Lord Maalthiir does not expect me, but I believe he will wish to see me."
The guard captain consulted his order book, then looked up sharply. "The first lord will be notified of your arrival," he said. "You will await him in the banquet room."
He gestured to four of the red-plumed guards, who led Sarya and Xhalph through the keep's winding passages and broad halls to a large room with a great table of oak and dozens of chairs arrayed neatly behind it. The windows were mere slits only a hand's-breadth wide, and the two sets of doors leading into the chamber were made of four-inch thick oak bound with iron bands.
"Do they think this will hold us, if we should choose to leave?" Xhalph muttered to her, as the door closed behind the guards.
"I doubt it," Sarya said. "Maalthiir at least knows that I am a mage. I suspect that the first lord simply wants to remind us of where we are."
To Sarya's surprise, Maalthiir did not keep her waiting. After only ten minutes, the first lord threw open the doors and strode into the banquet room, flanked as before by the four pale swordsmen with the dead black eyes, as well as two more Red Plumes. There was another lord with him, a heavyset man with an exquisitely trimmed mustache and goatee to go along with his long, curled locks of black hair and dark, narrow-set eyes. Sarya decided that he had the look of a warrior who'd let himself go. Despite his evident paunch, the man's shoulders were broad, and his hands were large and strong beneath the delicate lace cuffs of his tunic.
Maalthiir paused on entering, studying Sarya intensely, and motioned to more guards stationed in the hall. The thick oak doors swung shut, and the first lord smiled coldly.
"Good evening, Lady Senda," he said. "You left without answering my questions last time you visited my tower. I hope you will not do so again tonight."
Sarya inclined her head to the human lord. "I hope I will not need to, Lord Maalthiir," she said, ignoring the threat. "May I present my captain-at-arms Alphon? He advises me on military matters."
Maalthiir studied Xhalph for a moment, and his lips twisted into a small, humorless smile.
"Captain Alphon," he answered, then indicated the dark-bearded lord who had accompanied him into the room. "This is High Master Borstag Duncastle of Ordulin. He represents Sembian interests concerned with trade, settlement, and industry in the Dales and the Moonsea."
Sarya nodded to the Sembian lord—more likely nothing more than a jumped-up merchant, she reminded herself— and looked back to the First Lord of Hillsfar.
"I hope you have had an opportunity to confirm for yourself the incursion of Evermeet's army to these lands?"
"I have indeed. The elven army was exactly where you'd
said I would find them." Maalthiir crossed the room to the head of the large, empty table, kicked out the chair there, and sat down in an unconcerned slouch. The oddly pale swordsmen who accompanied the first lord moved to stand behind him. "My spies added some important details you neglected to mention, Lady Senda. They spoke with Dalesfolk who in turn spoke with emissaries of the elven army, and they learned that the leader of the elves—a Lord Miritar, I believe—has discovered that an ancient enemy of elf-kind has occupied Myth Drannor. Apparently these foes of the elves recently waged a furious war in the vales of the Delimbiyr, attacking elven kingdoms in the High Forest, but fled to Myth Drannor when they were defeated a month or two ago."
High Master Borstag folded his thick arms in front of his chest. "My own spies confirmed the first lord's report," he said in a deep, rumbling voice. "In fact, I learned a name for these adversaries of the elves: The daemonfey."
"You are well-informed, Lord Maalthiir."
"Perhaps more well informed than you think, Lady Senda." Maalthiir raised a hand and pointed at his own eyes. "I took the liberty of casting a spell of true seeing before I entered the room. You, dear lady, are not what you appear to be. Nor is your Captain Alphon, for that matter. In fact, were I to hazard a guess, I believe that I am speaking to a pair of Lord Miritar's daemonfey at this very moment."
Xhalph shifted beside Sarya, and his hand stole down to the sword at his side. The four mysterious swordsmen behind Maalthiir mirrored his move in unison, swiveling to direct their dark, dead gazes at Xhalph.
Sarya glanced up at him in irritation and said quietly, "Not yet."
Xhalph growled softly deep in his throat, but he took his hand from his sword hilt and subsided. Sarya looked back at Maalthiir, who still lounged in his chair at the head of the table.
"You are more astute than I had thought you would be, First Lord," she said. "I am Countess Sarya Dlardrageth,
of House Dlardrageth. This is my son Xhalph. I hope you will forgive me for taking steps to keep my identity a secret in order to avoid any undue alarm on your part."
"I am by nature a suspicious man," Maalthiir replied. "There is no such thing as undue alarm. Now, with all that behind us . . . what precisely do you want with Hillsfar, Lady Sarya?" -
"I want to drive Seiveril Miritar out of Cormanthor entirely. As I said in our previous meeting, it seems to me that you might share that desire. Hillsfar would not profit from an elf corona' in Myth Drannor."
"It is not at all clear to me that Hillsfar would profit from a demon-queen in Myth Drannor, either."
"Well, among other things, I certainly have no interest in guaranteeing the Dales against the natural and logical growth of Hillsfar's power . . . or Sembia's. On the other hand, Miritar will stand in your path. If you ever hope to raise Hillsfar's banner over Harrowdale or Battledale—or if the high master here ever hopes to see Featherdale or Tasseldale under Sembia's dominion—you would be welladvised to make sure that Lord Miritar does not establish himself in Cormanthor."
"Whereas you would gladly stand aside while we seized the Dalelands that lie all around your forest city?"
Sarya walked over to the banquet table and seated herself a few chairs down from Maalthiir, ignoring the flash of irritation in the human lord's eyes.
"I mean to rule over most, if not all, of the old realm of Cormanthyr. That means the woods of the Elven Court, Semberholine . much of the forest Cormanthor, in fact. But the Dales were never a part of Cormanthyr, and I could care less what becomes of them. In fact, to help secure your assistance against my foe, I am willing to help you arrange matters in the Dalelands as you see fit."
"An elflord in Cormanthyr—whether you or Miritar—is not something that Sembia wishes to see," said High Master Borstag. "The southern Dales are Sembia's in all but name anyway. What I need are furs, timber, game, lands to clear and to settle. . ."
"Trees are trees," Sarya said. "I won't let you cut the whole forest, but I see no reason why I could not sell you a concession for logging and clearing a good portion of it." She smiled coldly. "Trust me, High Master, no such offer will be forthcoming from Seiveril Miritar."
Borstag narrowed his eyes, and Sarya nodded to herself. She could almost see the human merchant prince counting coins in his head. Someone would have the right to exercise those concessions. Whether she permitted the Sembians to take as much as they wanted or at the price they offered was something she could determine for herself later, but she had little use for a few miles of forest on her southern border.
Maalthiir stirred in his seat. "So you want my Red Plumes to help you defeat Miritar's army," he said. "In exchange, you are offering me the northern Dales, and High Master Borstag the southern. I am afraid it is not so simple, though. You have omitted three important factors from your calculations: Cormyr, Zhentil Keep, and the Sage of Shadowdale."
"Cormyr is in no condition to contest aggressive moves in the Dalelands," Borstag pointed out. "Between the death of Azoun, the goblin incursions, and the Shades in Anauroch, Cormyr is as weak as it has been in a hundred years. Lady Sarya has chosen an auspicious time to reclaim Myth Drannor."
"And I can aid you against Zhentil Keep and the Chosen of Mystra," Sarya said. "I may lack in sheer numbers, but through my control over Myth Drannor I wield great magical power. I can dispatch hundreds of sorcerous warriors against my foes, striking anywhere within hundreds of miles, with dozens of powerful demons or devils to lead the attack."
"If that is the case, I find myself wondering why you need me at all," Maalthiir observed.
Sarya leaned back in her chair and studied the first lord. "I am not entirely certain that I do," she said with a deceptively pleasant tone. "I believe that I could hoard my strength inside Myth Drannor and defy Seiveril Miritar
forever. But I am not willing to take the chance that the powerful human lands surrounding Cormanthor might join forces with Miritar. That is why I have chosen to come to you, Lord Maalthiir, and through you your friends in Sembia. It is worth my while to make sure that you, at least, understand what you stand to lose from an elven Return to Cormanthyr. If you were to help Miritar overthrow me, I would simply melt away again, and you would be left with that army of elves to deal with. How many more centuries do you wish to spend under the shadow of elven power?"
Borstag glanced at Maalthiir, who simply studied Sarya in silence, a deep scowl etched on his face.
Then the Sembian looked back to Sarya and asked, "So how do you propose to go about removing Miritar's army from Cormanthor?"
"As you might expect, I have given that some thought." Sarya straightened in her seat, and focused her emerald gaze on Maalthiir of Hillsfar. The first lord brooded, leaning against the arm of his chair, one hand under his jaw. "The key, I think," Sarya began, "is the land of Mistledale."
*****
From the shores of Lake Sember, the Crusade marched north for three days on long-disused elfroads that few other armies could have found, let alone followed, through the heart of southern Cormanthor. The weather, which had been fine for the days of the portal transit, turned cold and wet, with sullen gray skies and a strong, gusty wind out of the north that seemed to carry the chill of the Moonsea down into Cormanthor's green, mossy heart.
Seiveril's army had come to include a small company of rangers and archers from Deepingdale, many of them moon elves or half-elves descended from those who had chosen not to Retreat from Cormanthor when the last leaders of the Elven Court had finally decided to abandon the great woodland thirty years ago. The Deepingdale elves knew Cormanthor intimately, the secret paths and lore of rock, water, and leaf, and they helped Jerreda's wood
elf scouts guide the army northward toward the Standing Stone and Myth Drannor beyond that. Lord Ilmeth of Battledale had no strength to spare for such work, and little inclination to do so in any event. The lord of Essembra had fewer than a hundred men under arms in his whole demesne. Lord Mourngrym Amcathra of Shadowdale had more strength than that, but his land was much closer to Myth Drannor, and Storm Silverhand informed Seiveril that Mourngrym would not bring any soldiers to join the army of Evermeet until Evermeet's soldiers were in sight of Myth Drannor.
Seiveril sent a company of bladesingers and battlemages ahead of his marching host to help the folk of Mistledale fend off the marauding demons and devils that harried their small land, and another company ahead to Shadowdale for the same purpose. He did not like to part with any of the Crusade's magical strength, especially when there was always the chance that hundreds of Sarya's fey'ri warriors might appear in the skies overhead at any moment, but the daemonfey lurked out of sight and out of reach, letting their conjured hellspawn do their work for them.
"I don't understand the point of harassing the Dalesfolk," Seiveril remarked to Starbrow on the morning of the third day. The sun elf lord and the moon elf champion stood on the banks of the Ashaba, which was running deep and swift after several days of rain, and watched the lead companies of Seiveril's host crossing the river on three bridges of glimmering magic, conjured by Jorildyn and the elf wizards under his command. "Shadowdale and Mistledale could lend us a couple of hundred trained fighters at best. Sending devils to harry them takes almost nothing away from our strength, and makes my quarrel with Sarya Dlardrageth their quarrel too."
"The demons and devils who have been prowling about in the forests around Mistledale and Shadowdale might not be a part of Sarya's army," Starbrow replied. "Lord Theremen of Deepingdale says that monsters of the infernal realms have haunted the ruins of Myth Drannor for centuries now.
Sarya's seizure of the city's mythal might have damaged the wards that held them trapped in the city, which would mean that this might be an unintended consequence of Sarya's actions, not a deliberate act on her part."
"Or. . . she might be doing nothing more than testing the strength of the humans who might ally with us," Seiveril said, thinking out loud. "If Sarya doesn't know these lands well, she might be worried about whether the folk of the Dales can give us as much help as Silverymoon's knights did in the High Forest."
Starbrow glanced up at the clouded sky above the river, then sighed and looked back to the elflord. "If you're right, it's a bad sign," he said. "It suggests to me that Sarya doesn't think she needs to hoard her demons for battle against our army. Either she's got an inexhaustible supply of the monsters, or she doesn't think we're going to be able to do anything about her stronghold in Myth Drannor. I don't know about you, but I certainly wonder why she'd think that."
The vanguard made camp for the night in the shadow of Galath's Roost, an old abandoned keep that stood little more than a mile from the Moonsea Ride. The rocky heights on which the old keep had been built offered a commanding view of the northern end of Mistledale and the great green sea of trees that rolled north, east, and south from the end of the open dale. Starbrow had the Crusade's companies set out a double guard, fearing a sudden attack of marauding fey'ri or yugoloths, but no enemies showed themselves.
Seiveril greeted star rise with the customary devotions to Corellon Larethian and the Seldarine, celebrating the rites he had observed for so many years as a high priest of the elven faith. He spent an hour praying for guidance, trying to catch a glimpse of what waited if he continued on his way north. Myth Drannor was only three days' march away, and he would soon test the strength of his host against Sarya's demonic power. But Sarya's mythal wards obscured his efforts to scry her fortress, and he had to content himself with minor auguries that promised little besides danger and uncertainty.
As he descended from the hilltop, still grappling with the incomplete visions he had seen, Seiveril found Thilesil waiting near his pavilion.
"Lord Seiveril," the cleric said with a small bow. "An emissary from the human city of Hillsfar is waiting for you."
"Hillsfar?" Seiveril said. He knew of the city, having walked in Cormanthor many years before, but from what he had heard, the city of Hillsfar wanted nothing to do with elves since the final Retreat from Corthanthor. "Very well, show him into my pavilion."
Seiveril stepped into his personal quarters, doffed his ceremonial mantle, and washed his hands in a basin of water. Then he emerged into the pavilion's sitting area, which doubled as his reception room. He did not have long to wait. Two of the guards standing watch by his door—both seasoned veterans of Vesilde Gaerth's Knights of the Golden Star-showed the human ambassador into his room, and unobtrusively took up their posts just inside the door.
The human was a surprisingly short man, so stocky and thick-shouldered that Seiveril found himself wondering whether the fellow had any dwarf blood in him. His head was shaven, but he wore a long, pointed goatee under his wide mouth, and his eyes were sunk deep beneath beetling brows. The Hillsfarian wore the elegant dress one might expect of a courtier in a lordly palace, a well-tailored garment of scarlet that did not conceal the supple links of golden mail he wore beneath his shirt.
"Welcome, sir," Seiveril said. "I am Seiveril Miritar, lately lord of Elion and high priest of Corellon's Grove. I speak for the host of Evermeet."
The human offered an obsequious grin that struck Seiveril as more than a little false. "And I am Hardil Gearas, High Warden of Hillsfar. I speak for my master, the First Lord Maalthiir."
Seiveril deliberately set aside his dislike of the high warden's facetious manner, and gravely offered his hand in the human fashion.
"Would you care for any refreshment, High Warden? Wine, or something to eat?"
"Not necessary, Lord Seiveril. I am anxious to get to business."
The elflord nodded. "As you wish, then, High Warden. What can I do for the First Lord of Hillsfar?"
The human crossed his powerful arms and looked up at Seiveril. "The first lord would dearly love to know what you intend to do with this army, Lord Seiveril. It does not escape Lord Maalthiir's notice that you are drawing closer to Hillsfar with every march."
Human diplomacy may take different forms than I am used to, Seiveril reminded himself. I must be patient, even in the face of discourtesy. "Lord Maalthiir need not worry, High Warden. I am bringing my army to Myth Drannor in order to finally root out the evil that has taken hold there. I do not expect to come within thirty miles of Hillsfar."
"Some things are better left alone," Hardil Gearas answered. "Your people haven't seen fit to do anything about Myth Drannor for six full centuries, but now you seem to have stirred up much evil in a land you abandoned thirty years ago. Evermeet might be far enough from Myth Drannor to ignore the depredations of the city's fiends, Lord Seiveril, but Hillsfar is not."
"You have the course of events confused, High Warden. We are here to deal with the evil that has stirred in Myth Drannor. We did not cause it to stir with our approach."
The human snorted. "So you say now, anyway."
Seiveril studied the human emissary. If this is the way humans conduct their diplomacy, the elflord thought, it is no wonder that they get into so many wars. "Did Maalthiir of Hillsfar have anything else to say to me?" he asked.
"In fact, he did," Hardil Gearas replied. "The first lord instructed me to advise you of three important facts. First, in conjunction with our allies in Sembia, we are moving strong forces into place to safeguard the upper stretch of the Moonsea Ride and Rauthauvyr's Road. We are concerned that your reckless marching about and warmongering may jeopardize our crucial, legitimate commercial interests in
this vital route, and the various minor settlements and communities that lie along the way.
"Second, Hillsfar and Sembia recognize no other power as sovereign over the forest of Cormanthor. Your people gave up any claim to ownership over the woodlands when you left some three decades ago. Hillsfar now claims all lands within fifty miles of the city's walls. We will clear, settle, log, or otherwise use these lands as we see fit. We will regard the presence of any foreign soldiers within this area as nothing less than an invasion of Hillsfar itself.
"Finally, the first lord offers this for your consideration: In Myth Drannor's day, the elven realm of Cormanthyr was surrounded by human states too small and weak to do anything other than what the coronal told them to do. That is no longer true Humans have grown strong in the centuries since Myth Drannor's fall, Lord Seiveril. We were not party to the Dales Compact, and we see no reason to abide by an agreement made centuries ago by people who had no right or authority to speak for us." Hardil Gearas bared his teeth in a cold, reptilian smile. "It is in the nature of humankind to grow, to expand, to become more numerous and more powerful with the passing of a few short years. You might as well shout at the incoming tide as try to check our natural increase. We need room to grow, Lord Seiveril, and we will have it."
Seiveril folded his arms in front of his chest, and consciously made himself wait a full minute before he responded, in order to keep his anger in check.
"I wish no quarrel with Hillsfar or Sembia, High Warden, and I should hope they wish no quarrel with me. But your First Lord Maalthiir must understand that I will not countenance the occupation of Dales who have no interest in being ruled from Ordulin or Hillsfar, and I will not surrender a claim to the Elven Court. If Hillsfar needs room to grow, I hope that we could reach some agreement over the responsible use of the woodlands in question. As for your master's third point . . . well, it may be human nature to expand, but you should not assume that it is in an elf's nature to Retreat. With the host of Evermeet in
this forest, there is a greater strength of elf warriors in Cormanthor today than there has been at any time since the Weeping War."
"Elven armies stronger than your own failed to stop the Army of Darkness in the Year of Doom, Lord Seiveril," the High Warden said, not even bothering to conceal a smirk.
The elflord watched the sneering Hillsfarian. What was his purpose in coming here? he wondered. Is he trying to provoke me with these threats and demands? Or is this simply a façade, a ploy of bravado to mask true fear?
"I mean to save my arrows for the daemonfey," Seiveril told the first lord's emissary. "Whether you know it or not, they are your enemies as well as mine. For all our sakes, do not interfere with my work in Myth Drannor."
"For your own sake, think long and carefully before you attempt any work at all in Myth Drannor," Gearas growled. "You will not be warned again."
The stocky human inclined his head a bare inch and glowered at Seiveril before turning on his heel and stomping out of Seiveril's presence, waving aside the door guards with a curt gesture.
Seiveril stared after the Hillsfarian lord.
"Corellon, grant me patience," he whispered into the night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
12 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

Windsinger dropped anchor in the round bay of Velprintalar, surrounded by the steep green hillsides and graceful, airy buildings of the city. Araevin could see the elven influences in the city's flower-covered verandas, tree-shaded boulevards, and elegant palaces high above the bay. High up on the slopes above the city's center stood the palace of the Simbul, the ruler of Aglarond, a rambling structure of beautiful green stone that gleamed like emerald in the sunshine.
"Is this truly a human city?" Ilsevele wondered aloud. She stood beside him at the ship's rail. Smiling, her eyes were warm when she looked at him, but there was a distance hiding in her thoughts, a searching quality to her gaze that he could not miss. "I didn't know humans could be so . . . elven . . . in their work."
"Aglarond is the union of two lands under one crown," Araevin answered, glad of an opportunity to speak without addressing the anxiety he knew was growing in his own heart. "Centuries ago the young human kingdom of Velprin settled the northern coasts of the Aglarondan peninsula, while a race of forest-dwelling humans, half-elves, and wood elves held the woodlands of the interior. Velprin tried to bring the whole of the peninsula under its rule, but the forest folk defeated Velprin's ambitious rulers. The lords of the forest folk governed both the forests and the coastlands from that day forward."
"My homeland has a similar history, but a more tragic outcome," Donnor Kerth said. Araevin glanced at him in surprise. Their new companion had proved more than a little taciturn, a fellow who rarely used two words when one would do. "In Tethyr elves and humans fought for centuries. Elves still roam the deeps of the Wealdath, or so I am told, but they have nothing to do with the human lands beyond their forests, and humans do not venture very far into their woods." He dropped his gaze from Araevin and Ilsevele. "I am sorry to say that I have known very few elves. And I believed things that were said about your kind that I have since learned are not true."
Ilsevele reached out and set her slender hand atop the Lathanderian's. "I have spent most of my years on Evermeet, Donnor, and I have known very few humans. I, too, am learning that not all that I have heard is true."
Maresa laced up her crimson-dyed leather armor, and adjusted her sword belt. "I thought you said you hadn't been here before, Araevin," she said. "You seem to know a lot about this place for a stranger."
"I haven't. But I've had a long time to pick up odds and ends about a lot of places I haven't been." Araevin picked up his pack, and quickly checked to make sure he had everything he needed. "Come, let's go ashore."
The four travelers thanked Master Ilthor for their passage and paid him handsomely. Then they were rowed ashore in Windsinger's longboat. They landed along the city's stone quay, and climbed up the seawall's steps
to the harborside streets. For all Velprintalar's elven grace, the dock district seemed human enough, filled with carts and longshoremen, and dozens of workshops, warehouses, and merchant's offices, all crowded together in buildings faced with white stone.
"Well, where now?" asked Maresa.
"We'll find a place to stay then we'll ask after sages, colleges, wizards' guilds, and such things," Araevin said. "Someone will have an idea of who I can ask about star elves and ancient Yuireshanyaar."
They found a comfortable but expensive inn within an hour of landing, a fine establishment called the Greenhaven, high up on one of the hillsides overlooking the harbor. Araevin asked the proprietor about sages or libraries he could visit, and the inn's proprietor directed him to several locales where he might confer with learned folk.
With his companions in tow, Araevin spent much of the next two days visiting Velprintalar's houses of learning. He visited the temple of Oghma and spoke with the high loremasters there. He conferred with a local wizard held in high regard by the Oghmanytes. And he also found a small chapel dedicated to the Seldarine, where he and Ilsevele were able to speak at length with the presiding priest. Several times Araevin confirmed that the ancient realm of Yuireshanyaar had indeed stood within the Yuirwood, and that some at least of its ruins might still be found there, but no one knew anything about star elves or a mage named Morthil who had lived long ago in that realm.
At the end of their second day, Araevin returned to the Greenhaven, resigning himself to a long and arduous effort to unearth the knowledge he sought. He suspected that some at least of his inquiries had simply been evaded, and he was wondering how he could proceed if that turned out to be the case. But as he and his companions ate a light supper on the Greenhaven's veranda, drinking watered wine and watching the shadows lengthen over the city, a dark-haired, deeply tanned half-elf dressed in an elegantly embroidered doublet appeared at their table, flanked by a
pair of human guardsmen who wore the green-and-white tabards of the Simbul's Guard over coats of mail.
"Araevin Teshurr and company?" he asked pleasantly.
Araevin sensed his companions exchanging puzzled looks behind him, but he stood slowly and nodded to the fellow.
"I am Araevin Teshurr," he said. "To whom am I speaking?"
"I am Jorin Kell Harthan. I serve the Simbul." Harthan's manner remained easy, but Araevin did not miss the keen alertness in his eyes, nor the businesslike demeanor of the two guards who accompanied him A long sword was sheathed at the half-elf's hip, and a long dagger was tucked into his left boot. "You have been inquiring after things that few people ask about, Master Teshurr. We would like to know more about the nature of your interests. Would you kindly accompany me to the Simbul's palace?"
"Careful, Araevin," Maresa whispered under her breath. "I don't like the looks of this."
"I assure you, I mean no harm to Aglarond or anyone in it," Araevin told the half-elf.
"If we did not believe that to be true, Master Teshurr, our invitation would leave you little opportunity to decline," Jorin Kell Harthan said. He bowed and gestured toward the door. "You may find answers in the palace that you will not be given outside it. If you please?"
Araevin could see the alarm in Maresa's face. From what he knew of her, she had reason to be suspicious of city guards and officials of the court. Ilsevele, on the other hand, was herself an officer of the Queen's Guard in Leuthilspar.
She glanced up at the half-elf and asked, "May we accompany Araevin?"
The Simbul's servant considered for a moment then said, "Very well."
They rose and followed Harthan to an open carriage waiting outside the inn. Araevin had half-feared a sealed coach that would double as a cell in a pinch. They climbed in—the half-elf sat opposite Araevin, with Donnor beside
him, while the guards stepped up onto the running boards—and clattered off through the winding, dusk-dim streets. In a few minutes they rolled into a small courtyard below one of the palace's green stone towers, and followed the half-elf past more guardsmen into the tower.
The palace of Aglarond's queen was not so large or ethereally beautiful as Amlaruil's in Leuthilspar, but it was easily the grandest and most elegant building Araevin had ever set foot in outside of Evermeet itself. Despite his two and a half centuries and familiarity with the uses and exercises of power, he could not entirely quell the uneasy awe that settled over him. Maresa was positively petrified, marching stiffly as if she expected to be arrested on the spot, while Donnor Kerth lapsed into a silence so deep and sullen that Araevin feared he might try to fight his way out of the place given the least provocation to do so. Ilsevele, though. , . . She strode along confidently, her chin high, her eyes straight ahead, refusing to be intimidated by the setting. She was the daughter of a lord of Evermeet, after all, and she had been born to palaces.
Jorin Kell Harthan led them to a comfortable hall with a great fireplace and a large banquet table. He spoke a quiet word to the guards walking with them, and the two warriors withdrew to flank the door.
"There's wine on the table," the half-elf said. "Help yourselves, if you like."
"Well, if we are being arrested, it's starting well enough," Maresa muttered. She went over and poured herself a goblet.
"Are we under arrest?" Donnor Kerth asked the halfelf.
"Most likely you are not, Dawnmaster. We will see soon." Harthan leaned against a credenza, and spoke no more.
They all waited anxiously for a short time, but just as Araevin was about to question the Aglarondan again, the door at the far end of the hall opened, and a regal woman swept into the room. She was tall and dark-haired, with striking green eyes as bright and keen as a serpent's. She wore a gown of deep green, and Araevin noticed at once that
she was quite skilled in the Art, girded with subtle spells and enchantments he would be hard-pressed to match.
"Greetings," she said in a cool voice. "I am Phaeldara, apprentice to the Simbul. I am currently serving as regent in her stead. Now, do not be alarmed, but I am going to cast a spell. Be still."
With no more warning, the enchantress skillfully cast a powerful divination that Araevin recognized, a spell that would give her the ability to reveal false things and unearth magical deceptions. Phaeldara studied Araevin and each of his companions for a long moment, taking their measure, and she allowed the spell to fade away.
"Forgive me for that. We have learned that we must be careful of strangers. The zulkirs of Thay have tried to slip assassins in magical guise into the palace before."
"What is this all about, Lady Phaeldara?" Araevin asked. "If we have given offense to you or your people in the last two days, we sincerely apologize."
"It has come to my attention that you have been making inquiries throughout the city about Yuireshanyaar and star elves. I would like to know why you are interested in such things."
Araevin studied the Simbul's apprentice for a moment, considering his answer. He could see no reason not to be reasonably forthright with the Aglarondans. They did not need to know about the selukiira embedded over his heart, but it certainly would not hurt for more people to know of the threat posed by Sarya Dlardrageth and her fey'ri legion.
"An old enemy of the People returned to Faerun this year, Lady Phaeldara," he began. "They are known as House Dlardrageth—or the daemonfey, a family of sun elves tainted by demonic blood. Long ago they were driven out of Cormanthyr, in the early days of that realm. Later they and their followers caused the Seven Citadels' War between Siluvanede, Sharrven, and Eaerlann. They were imprisoned for thousands of years by high magic, but they have escaped. The daemonfey raided Evermeet itself, and launched a war against the High Forest and Evereska."
"We heard of war in the High Forest," Lady Phaeldara said. "But what does this have to do with Aglarond, Master Teshurr?"
"Ilsevele's father-Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion— gathered a host in Evermeet to battle the daemonfey. His army drove the daemonfey out of Myth Glaurach, but they fled to Myth Drannor and began to fortify the ruins of that city as their new stronghold. More importantly, Sarya Dlardrageth, the queen of the daemonfey, has learned how to manipulate the wards and powers of mythals, so she has surrounded Myth Drannor in magical defenses of great power. Lord Miritar's army followed the daemonfey to Cormanthyr, but I fear that they will be unable to defeat Sarya unless we find a way to contest her control of Myth Drannor's mythal."
"And you think that this can be found in Aglarond?"
"I hope that what I seek exists in Aglarond," said Araevin. "We have come to believe that the key to unlocking the high magic secrets Sarya Dlardrageth now wields might lie somewhere in your realm. Specifically, we know that a great mage of early Cormanthyr carried away many Dlardrageth spellbooks when the coronal and the court mages first drove the Dlardrageths out of that realm. That mage was a star elf named Morthil. We are attempting to trace his footsteps."
Phaeldara said nothing, but her eyes flicked to Jorin Kell Harthan.
The half-elf straightened and said, "So you came to Aglarond in search of star elves?"
"We were unfamiliar with that kindred of the People, but in researching the question, we learned that their realm was known as Yuireshanyaar, and that it stood in the Yuirwood long ago."
"How long ago did this Morthil leave Cormanthyr?" Phaeldara asked.
"Five thousand years, give or take," Araevin said.
"Five thousand years?" Jorin Kell Harthan said, his voice incredulous. "You can't seriously expect that any spellbooks have survived that long!"
"It is an immense span of time, I know. But time means less to elves than it does to humans. I do not hope to find the original spellbooks, but I hope to find more durable records such as telkiira stones, or mages who have studied a tradition that is founded on this missing lore without even knowing where it once came from, or possibly even books that were copied from copies made from the original tomes." Araevin spread his hands helplessly. "I admit that I have little prospect for success, but there is no telling what horrors Sarya Dlardrageth will inflict on the lands around Myth Drannor if we do not find a way to stop her."
Ilsevele addressed the Simbul's apprentice. "Do the star elves still exist? Can they be found in Aglarond?"
Phaeldara turned away without answering. She paced over to a row of elegantly arched windows, gazing out over the glimmering lamps and lanterns that were coming to life all over the city below, sparkling like a sea of fireflies.
"I wish the Simbul were here," she remarked. "She would be a better judge of this than I. But she has left the realm in my hands for better than a month now, and I do not know when she will return. I suppose I must decide as best I can."
She looked back to Araevin and his companions. "It seems that your need is pressing, so I will share a secret that few know, and trust that two of the ar Tel-Quessir and anyone they trust enough to call friend know the value of keeping secrets. Yes, the star elves exist, but they are not exactly in Aglarond."
"Great," Maresa sighed. "I suppose we'll have to sail off to Kara-Tur or Selune itself to find them, right?"
"You won't find them in any other land, either," Jorin Kell Harthan said.
Donnor Kerth frowned. "Are they ghosts, then?"
"Nothing like that, Dawnmaster," Phaeldara said. "Their kingdom lies entirely within the Yuirwood, but it is not of this world. You could crisscross the peninsula a hundred times, but you would never set foot in it. Only a few of us outside its borders have been entrusted with Sildeyuir's secret." The Simbul's apprentice looked over
to Jorin Kell Harthan, who still lounged by the door. "But Master Harthan knows the way. He can take you there."
The half-elf frowned. "The paths to Sildeyuir have grown wild and strange in recent years, Lady Phaeldara. And the star elves might not welcome the Dawnmaster and the genasi."
"We will answer for them, if need be," Ilsevele said. "Maresa has walked in Evermeet and Evereska, and Donnor Kerth has sworn by Lathander to accompany us wherever our quest takes us. They will not betray your trust."
Phaeldara nodded. "I believe you, Ilsevele Miritar."
Jorin shrugged and stepped forward to clasp Araevin's hand. "I'll meet you at the Greenhaven an hour after sunrise. Be ready for a couple of days of walking."
*****

The city of Yulash had been a ruin for decades. It sprawled atop a great, shield-shaped plateau overlooking the fertile lower vale of the Tesh, with the Moonsea a dark shadow in the eastern distance. From its battered walls a sentry could see the black towers of Zhentil Keep a little more than twenty miles to the north and the white-tipped peaks of the Dragonspires a hundred miles past that on a clear day.
The mountaintops floated like a distant phalanx of blunt spears in the sky, but Scyllua Darkhope ignored the view. She stood, sword in hand, beside her lord and master Fzoul, vigilantly watching the ruins around them. The two Zhents stood amid the foundations of a ruined tower that had once been the home of Yulash's greatest wizard. That mage was long dead, assassinated in the early years of the fierce civil war that had eventually consumed the city, and his tower had the distinction of being the largest and most prominent structure located between the Zhent-fortified districts remaining around Yulash's old citadel and the Hillsfarian-held districts located in the vicinity of the city's great eastern gate, and the fortifications there.
Fzoul Chembryl, on the other hand, stood near a gap in the wall, gazing northward at the city he ruled, small and distant at the mouth of the Tesh. Half a dozen of the Castellan's Guard, the most dedicated and skilled warriors of Zhentil Keep, stood watch around the clearing, and Scyllua knew that other unseen guardians hovered nearby, cloaked by magic.
"You may put up your sword, Scyllua," the Chosen of Bane said amiably. "This is a parley, after all, and we are supposed to show some small sign to indicate that we won't fall on our guest the minute he sets foot in the door."
"This place is dangerous," Scyllua replied. "I do not like to take chances with your life, my lord."
"It's neutral ground, Scyllua. It's the best we could do." Fzoul glanced at his zealous captain, and Scyllua submitted, sheathing her blade.
The air in the center of the broken tower rippled, and half a dozen figures materialized out of thin air: Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, his four black-clad swordsmen, and the stocky High Warden Hardil Gearas. Scyllua kept her hand on her sword hilt, but took care to remain still, unwilling to provoke a fight without her lord's express permission.
Maalthiir gazed around the ruined tower, and snorted. "Trying to impress me, Fzoul?" he asked.
"Not at all," the Lord of the Zhentarim answered. He turned away from broken walls and the view to the north, arms folded confidently across his black breastplate. He studied the first lord, his expression mild enough, even though his eyes glittered with the avid hunger that Scyllua knew burned within him. "Since I judged that you would be unwilling to come to Zhentil Keep, and I found myself unwilling to call on you in Hillsfar, I deemed Avandalythir's Tower a good middle ground."
"Indeed," the first lord said. "It does not escape my attention that your army still occupies half of Yulash to deny Hillsfar control of this place."
"I might say the same thing about your Red Plumes, Maalthiir. And I'll add that Wash lies much closer to
my city than it does to yours." Fzoul held up his hand to forestall Maalthiir's retort, and continued, "Let us agree to disagree about Yulash for the moment. I did not ask you here to discuss this dilapidated ruin, First Lord. I wished to speak to you about Cormanthor and the Dalelands."
"I am a busy man, Fzoul, so make your point quickly."
Fzoul smiled humorlessly. "You are busy these days, Maalthiir. I have learned that a strong force of your Red Plumes is even now marching down the Moonsea Ride toward Mistledale and Battledale. And your Sembian friends are moving whole armies of mercenaries up Rauthauvyr's Road through Tasseldale and Featherdale. I take it you have decided to seize those lands before the elven army in Cormanthor contests your actions?"
Maalthiir scowled. "I am simply taking steps to defend our commercial interests in these lands, Fzoul. I can't have the elves throw humans out of the forest for another thirteen hundred years."
"I certainly wonder what possible interests you might have in Mistledale or Battledale," said Fzoul, "but I suppose your exact motives are not as important to me as the facts of your military movements."
"The last time I looked, there weren't any Zhentish outposts in those lands," the first lord said. "I do not have to justify myself to you, Fzoul!"
"If you intend to build yourself an empire in the Dalelands, you certainly do," Fzoul said. "Why should I stand aside and let you seize for yourself a prize that I have long desired?"
"Do you think you can take those lands from me?" Maalthiir demanded.
"Whether I can or I can't, I am fairly certain that I can make sure you don't get them, Maalthiir. If I can't have them, you and your friends in Sembia can't either."
The lord of Hillsfar gave Fzoul a look so black that Scyllua took half a step forward, prepared to draw her blade in Fzoul's defense. But Maalthiir controlled his anger with a visible effort.
"The Dales are incidental to my first purpose, Fzoul. I intend to drive the elven army out of Cormanthor. Neither you nor I will benefit from the return of elven power to the forest."
The lord of Zhentil Keep nodded. "On that point I do not disagree. Do you really believe you have the strength to beat an elven army in Cormanthor?"
"I have acquired some useful allies lately." Maalthiir shrugged. "They have a long and bitter quarrel with the elves."
Fzoul measured the first lord, and he grinned fiercely. "Why, you have struck a deal with those fiendish sorcerers who have appeared in Myth Drannor! That is why you think you can risk a battle against the elves."
"And you, if need be," Maalthiir said.
"Do not threaten the Chosen of Bane!" Scyllua snapped, stepping close to Maalthiir.
The pale, silent swordsmen who stood beside the first lord fixed their cold gazes on her, hands dropping to sword hilts as one.
"Enough, Scyllua," Fzoul said. "I must consider this."
"As I said, Fzoul, I do not need your approval to act in Hillsfar's best interests." Maalthiir sketched a small bow, and without any other cue or command, his swordsmen gathered close around him. "I agreed to a parley because you have never troubled me with such a request before. Do not expect me to come at your beck and call in the future."
"A moment, Maalthiir," the high priest of Bane said. Fzoul raised a hand, palm outward. "If Hillsfar and Sembia insist on fighting Evermeet's army to seize Cormanthor and the Dales, then I will have no choice but to make sure you fail. If I must choose Hillsfar or an elf coronal to be master of the Dales, I will choose the elves."
The first lord glared at Fzoul. "Then I suppose it is a good thing that I have not put the choice in your hands," he grated. "If that is all. . . ?"
Fzoul swept an arm at the ruins around them and said, "Consider these ruins, Maalthiir. Is the lesson of this
place lost on you? Two factions vying for rule over this city accomplished nothing but their own destruction, and neither side won."
"Make your point swiftly, if you have one!"
"I will not let you have Cormanthor and the Dales to yourself. But I am willing to collaborate with you and your newfound friends in return for a share of the prize." Fzoul stepped forward, and allowed ambition to creep into his voice. "For thirty years we've been waiting to carve up the Dales, but no one has made a move because of the threat posed by the other powers. Now Cormyr's attention has been drawn westward by the Shadovar of Anauroch, and you have reached an understanding with Sembia. The two of us are now in the position to apportion these lands as we see fit, are we not?"
"Perhaps," the first lord admitted. "Your proposal?"
"You take the eastern Dales, I'll take the western, and Sembia can have the southern Dales. The great human powers of this land acting in concert present a threat that the elf army cannot hope to overcome. None of us gets all of what we want, because the others would not stand for it. But we could all wind up with significant gains, and more importantly we'd send the elves back to Evermeet empty-handed."
Maalthiir hesitated, studying Fzoul. "Even if events fall out as you suggest, I think we will have a difficult time in sharing the Dales."
"That is a problem for some other day." The Chosen of Bane grinned again, his red mustache framing a predatory smile. "But that is a problem for the two of us to decide between us. We do not need any elven armies to complicate the question."
The first lord nodded slowly and said, "Very well. I must confer with my allies, Fzoul, but in principle I agree to what you suggest. If you wish to help in our campaign, you should plan on marching against Shadowdale and Daggerdale as soon as possible. Your armies on the western flank of the Dales will draw crucial strength away from the center, where the decisive blow must fall."
"Excellent. High Captain Darkhope and her army can march with a day's warning. I am eager to know more about your plan for the campaign, and what Zhentil Keep can do to help." Fzoul motioned to the guards who stood nearby, and two of the soldiers brought up a folding camp table and a couple of large chairs. "Now, why don't we see if we can agree on which Dales clearly fall in whose sphere of influence, and how we can bring them under civilized rule?"
*****

As promised, Jorin Kell Harthan met Araevin and his friends at the Greenhaven an hour after sunup. The halfelf had replaced his well-tailored tunic with leather armor studded with copper rivets and a long gray-green cloak he wore thrown over his shoulder. He had his long, dark hair tied back in a simple ponytail, and he carried a curved bow and a quiver-full of green-feathered arrows on his back. Jorin took one glance at Araevin and his friends, arrayed by the inn's courtyard, and nodded.
"I see you're no stranger to travel," he observed. "Good. The Yuirwood can be difficult."
The half-elf looked over to Donnor Kerth, and frowned. The Lathanderian wore his mail shirt over his thick arming-coat, keeping his heavier plate armor on a pack horse.
"Are you sure you want to wear all that iron?" Jorin asked. "You'll be swimming in sweat within an hour. Once we enter the forest, you won't have the sea breeze to cool you off."
The Lathanderian shrugged. "I grew up in Tethyr," he said. "I'm accustomed to wearing armor in warm
weather." -
"Suit yourself," Jorin said. "We may have to set free your pack horse before we cross to Sildeyuir, though. Do you want to leave the rest of your armor here?"
"If I have to, I'll wear it," Donnor said.
Araevin opened his own tunic another handspan, thankful that the mail shirt he wore was made of elf-wrought
mithral, so light and fine that he hardly noticed its weight or its warmth. In bright sunlight it sometimes grew hot, but he did not expect much of that within the Yuirwood's bounds. Ilsevele's armor was somewhat heavier than his, since she wore a more complete suit, but it was also made of elven mail, and she was more accustomed to the weight of her armor than he was to his.
They followed the coastal road south and west out of Velprintalar, marching for an hour before they reached the River Vel. There they turned aside onto a dusty carttrack that followed the river south, toward its headwaters in the forest beyond. In a long, hard day of marching, they reached the small town of Halendos, hard under the eaves of the Yuirwood, and stayed the night in a comfortable roadside inn.
In the morning, they resumed their march, but Jorin soon led them away from the Vel, turning eastward on a narrow footpath that soon vanished into the warm green gloom of the Yuirwood. It was hot and still in the great forest, and Araevin was surprised to find that the undergrowth was exceedingly dense and difficult. It embarrassed him to admit it, but he would quickly have become lost without a track to follow or Jorin Kell Harthan as a guide.
For all its difficulty, the forest possessed a green and wild beauty. Colorful birds soared and chattered in the higher branches, and from time to time the trail wandered into sun-dappled clearings free of the thickets and underbrush, or stone-bounded forest pools of cool, inviting water. The old forests of the North that Araevin knew were distant, in some ways reserved, majestic but deeply asleep. The Yuirwood's slumber was not deep at all, and Araevin could feel its watchfulness, its wild wariness, lurking as close as the brambles that scratched their faces and the vines that seemed eager to trap their footsteps.
"This forest is restless," Ilsevele said as they rested beside a forest pool, eating their midday meal. "I do not think I have ever walked in a forest so wakeful."
"There are parts that are even more wild," Jorin said. "Many of my people live within the forest, but even those
of us with elf blood avoid the truly wakeful places. And I think things have been growing worse over the last few years."
"Worse? How so?" asked Araevin.
"There have always been fierce beasts in the wood, things like barghests and gray renders, ettercaps and sword spiders, even a few bands of gnolls in the eastern parts, but the unnatural creatures have been growing more prevalent. . . and bloodthirsty." Jorin gazed off into the woods, frowning. "I would give much to know what dark power is stirring in these woods."
"Maybe the star elves know something," Maresa remarked.
Jorin shrugged. "I suppose it's possible," he said. "But they do not walk in the same forest that we do. It might be different for them."
"They don't walk in the same forest? What does that mean?" the genasi asked. "Are they here, or not?"
"They're here, all right. I can't easily explain it, but you'll see for yourself soon enough," Jorin said. He stood up, brushing off his hands, and looked up at the forest canopy overhead. "We should keep moving-I want to get a few more miles behind us before it gets dark. We're going to find ourselves in some of the more perilous parts of the forest before we reach Sildeyuir."

CHAPTER TWELVE
16 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

Company after company of Sembian soldiers marched over the Blackfeather Bridge, a disorderly river of steel-clad warriors, horses, and creaking wagons that stretched for miles over Rauthauvyr's Road. The day was warm and heavy, drowsy under the morning sun. The summer was still young, and though the days were long and bright, the air held only a dim promise of the stifling heat and great thunderstorms that would come to the southern Dales in a few tendays.
Sarya Dlardrageth stood by the shaded porch of a large stone inn on the bridge's northern end, with a small band of her fey'ri beside her: Teryani Ealoeth, one of her closer relations among the fey'ri Houses, and four more fey'ri who served Teryani as guards, spies, or messengers. Sarya wore her
guise as the human Lady Senda, while the fey'ri had all likewise assumed human appearance. Borstag Duncastle certainly had half an idea of Sarya's true nature, but none of the other Sembians did. The daemonfey queen deemed it best to let them continue in ignorance.
Teryani Ealoeth watched the marching soldiers with studied disinterest. She was short and slender, with a dark-eyed, heart-shaped face of exceptional beauty. One of the first spies Sarya had sent out into the human lands surrounding Cormanthor, Teryani's task had been to insinuate herself into the councils of those Sembian lords who were most concerned with Cormanthor and the Dalelands. Unlike other fey'ri, who saw no reason to hide their heritage behind shapechanging tricks unless they had to, Teryani delighted in deceit as an end in and of itself. More than a few of the human soldiers passing by the inn yard leered at her or offered various lewd suggestions, which she simply ignored with a cold, scornful smile.
"Are these really worth the trouble, my lady?" Teryani asked Sarya. Her voice was girlish and sweet.
"They are," Sarya said. "Remember, Teryani, I could hardly care less whether the army of Evermeet scatters them in an hour of fighting. The important thing is to set Sembia against Evermeet. If Miritar's host butchers this army like bleating sheep, we will have our Sembian friends gather more swords and throw them at Miritar. Evermeet's soldiers are precious, but I have no shortage of Sembians, do I?" She paused, and added, "In fact, it might not be bad if these companies blundered into an utter disaster in Cormanthor. Sembia is too strong for my liking, and I'd like to see it bled dry in these little flyspeck lands they call the Dales."
"I will see what I can do," Teryani promised, and she returned her attention to the human soldiers marching past.
The Sembian army wasn't Sembian at all, really. Companies of Chondathan crossbowmen, Chessentan swordsmen, and Tethyrian cavalrymen in half-plate armor made up most of the army's fighting power. All had been hired by
a league of Sembian noble Houses with interests in the Dales and the Moonsea trade routes, headed up by House Duncastle. In fact, some of the mercenaries had been in the employ of Duncastle for years, engaged in such tasks as the occupation of Scardale and the protection of House Duncastle's Moonsea caravans. Others had been quickly hired under the authorization of Sembia's Great Council of merchant lords, ostensibly for the purposes of restoring good order and protecting Sembian investments in the Dalelands.
Native-born Sembians themselves were not very common among Duncastle's soldiers, but then again, Sembia didn't really have an army. Instead, the largest and most powerful of the land's various noble merchant Houses each fielded their own private army, some numbering many hundreds in strength. Any Sembian city or town had a small civic guard and town watch, of course, and the Overmaster of Sembia—the elected leader of Sembia's Great Council— commanded the loyalty of the Ordulin Guard, a small but well-equipped army that defended the capital and served to check any unreasonable ambitions on the part of the more powerful noble Houses. But by and large, any Sembian lord was free to raise and provision an army, if he saw the need for one. The troops of House Duncastle were the largest Sembian contingent in the whole army, and they made up no more than five hundred of an army whose strength was more than ten times that number.
"Mercenaries," Sarya Dlardrageth murmured, not bothering to conceal her disdain.
She glanced over at the shade of a nearby oak, where Lord Duncastle stood beneath the broad branches, consulting with the chief captains of his army.
The merchant prince Borstag Duncastle finished with his captains, and sauntered over to watch the army pass by with her and Teryani. Sarya wrinkled her nose, unable to ignore the stink of his human blood so close to her, but with an iron effort of will she smoothed her face. Like it or not, humans were allies she needed to entice and persuade. In her war against the High Forest and Evereska she had
been able to simply intimidate and browbeat the wild orcs and ogres of the Nether Mountains into marching at her command, but humans required more subtlety. Until she managed to bring them to blows with Miritar's army, she needed to consider her words and actions carefully. Long ago in ancient Siluvanede she had learned how to whisper a word in one ear, begin a rumor somewhere else, plot a skillful murder in another place, bringing one elven House after another into her growing web of influence. Her work among the human powers of Cormanthor was not very different, really . . . except in this case she regarded her tools as eminently disposable.
Duncastle glanced at her, let his gaze linger on Teryani's slender form for a moment, and looked back to Sarya.
"Good afternoon, Lady Senda," he said in his deep voice. "You will be pleased to know that I have come to value Lady Terian's counsel quite highly in the last few tendays, especially in martial matters. For such a delicate creature, she has a mind of steel."
Sarya forced a smile to her face. "She enjoys my full confidence, Lord Duncastle. And in turn I am pleased by Terian's reports of your army's progress. I did not expect you to assemble such a large force in so little time."
"As they say, my lady, he who hesitates is lost." He looked at Teryani again, and his eyes glittered. "While I am personally delighted by Lady Terian's company, I must say, I am concerned that an army marching into battle is no place for a young lady of such high breeding. Are you certain that you wish her to accompany our army on this campaign?"
"I am confident that you can look after me, Lord Duncastle," Terian said, inclining her head to the Sembian lord. "And I have my guards, as well. I will be safe, I think."
Sarya couldn't help but smile at Teryani's winsome manner. In truth the Ealoeth noblewoman was a deadly swordmaster, skilled in the arts of stealth, subterfuge, and poisoning. Even if Duncastle was half the swordsman he might once have been, she wouldn't have been surprised if Teryani Ealoeth could have carved him like a trussed
pig in any kind of swordplay-or more likely, killed him in any of a dozen other ways that the human lord never would see coming.
She decided to change the subject before Teryani carried on her coquettish little act any further.
"You need to increase your pace, Lord Duncastle. Events are moving quickly in Battledale and Mistledale. I would not want you to miss out."
"Do not fear, Lady Senda," the Sembian lord said with a broad smile. "We've already got five full squadrons of cavalry in Essembra. We won't miss our date in Mistledale."
"The sooner your whole army reaches Essembra, the better," Sarya answered. "We have to halt Miritar's host and draw them into a fight in open ground. You are in a race, Lord Duncastle."
In Essembra, the Sembian force would threaten Miritar's right flank. If the elven army continued north from Mistledale's borders toward Myth Drannor, Duncastle's Sembians could move west on the Essembra-Ashabenford trail and cut Miritar off from his base in Semberholme, as well as any aid from his human allies in Mistledale and Deepingdale. In fact, Sembia's army would be ideally positioned to crush those allies if Miritar chose not to meet Duncastle's threat. Meanwhile, the Red Plume army from Hillsfar descending the Moonsea Ride could come in to block him from a move to the north. And Fzoul Chembryl's Zhentish army was sweeping far to the west, marching from Voonlar toward Shadowdale to seal the western side of the trap as Duncastle's Sembians sealed the eastern side.
Sarya had been absolutely enraged to find that the first lord of Hillsfar had presumed to allow yet another petty human tyrant to ally with him, but she had made herself wait one full day before attacking the First Lord's Tower with a hundred devils and fiends and a thousand fey'ri. After considering exactly how to raze Maalthiir's tower and execute the first lord of Hillsfar in an appropriately gruesome manner, a few hours for thought had helped
her to see that Fzoul Chembryl's grandiose ambitions and Maalthiir's underhanded dealings played perfectly into her hands.
Maalthiir is too clever for his own good, she reflected. Either he is foolish enough to think that dealing with another power proves that he is not beholden to me, or he thinks himself prudent in providing himself with an ally whom he might turn against me if we should have a falling out. The question, of course, is who will betray whom first?
Sarya was an old and practiced hand at that particular game.
"Bane's brazen throne," Borstag Duncastle muttered, disturbing her from her ruminations. "What is he doing here?"
Sarya followed the direction of the Sembian lord's glance, and spotted a small party of well-appointed horsemen riding over the bridge alongside the columns of Duncastle soldiers. The man at the head of the company was a handsome lord with hair of close-cut black ringlets, attired in a fine doublet of dove-gray under which mail glinted. A score of armored riders followed him, all wearing surcoats or doublets that featured at least a splash of the same dove-gray.
"Who is this?" she asked, intrigued by Lord Duncastle's reaction.
"Miklos Selkirk and his accursed Silver Ravens," Duncastle growled. "He is the overmaster's son, and his chief agent and defender in any enterprise that catches his eye." He looked at Sarya, and scowled. "He'll be here to spy on our every move and carry tales back to his father, mark my words."
"Does this overmaster have the power to recall your soldiers, Duncastle?" Sarya asked with icy calm.
"He can certainly call my actions into question, and perhaps persuade the Great Council to issue such an order."
"Then I suggest you avoid giving this Selkirk offense." Sarya folded her arms and watched the riders in gray approach.
Miklos Selkirk and his company passed abreast of the inn. The overmaster's son caught sight of Borstag Duncastle and turned his horse aside. He dismounted with easy grace and handed his reins to one of his Silver Ravens.
"Ah, there you are, Duncastle!" he called. "I've been riding all up and down this column looking for you."
"Selkirk," Duncastle said. He made a shallow bow, never taking his eyes from the younger lord's face. "I was not expecting you, or else I would have left word that you were to be brought up to me."
"No matter. The ride gave me a good opportunity to size up your army." Miklos Selkirk turned to Sarya and Teryani, and he offered a deep flourish and bow. "I am afraid I have not had the pleasure, dear ladies. I am Miklos Selkirk, of the House Selkirk."
"Lady Senda Dereth," Sarya answered. "This is my lady-in-waiting, Terian."
Sarya offered her hand, and despite her deep-rooted loathing of humans and all their works, she had to admit that Miklos Selkirk was a handsome fellow, gifted with almost elven grace and self-possession. She looked into his eyes, and saw nothing but keen steel there.
Here is a worthy adversary, Sarya thought. She would have to amend Teryani's instructions, if Selkirk was going to be near the head of the Sembian army for any time at all.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Senda," the human said. A flicker of interest crossed his face—a moment's glance as Selkirk fixed her face in his mind, perhaps, and reminded himself to find out more about her later—then he looked back to Lord Duncastle.
"My father asked me to accompany you for a while, Lord Duncastle," he said. "As you know, the council has expended no small sum in adding to the forces at your command, and they want to make sure that their investment is in good hands." Selkirk glanced toward the south and shrugged, as if to imply that he thought it was all nonsense, but Sarya did not mistake the sharp calculation in his eyes. "The expedition is entirely in your hands, I assure you.
My only function is to ensure that accurate and timely reports reach Ordulin."
Duncastle's scowl deepened, but he held his temper in check. "Very well," he rumbled. "You are, of course, welcome to observe as long as you feel necessary, Selkirk."
"Good," said the younger noble. "I knew you would be reasonable about this, Duncastle. Now, if I may be so bold . . . might I ask you to explain your plan of march? I see thousands of Sembian soldiers invading the Dalelands, and I find that I am not at all sure I understand why."
Duncastle fumed, thunder gathering on his brow, but Sarya intervened. "The plan, Lord Selkirk, is to bring three armies against one, and demonstrate to Seiveril Miritar and the rest of Evermeet's army that the days of elves dictating terms to human kingdoms are over. Now, do you have the steel for the game, or not?"
Miklos Selkirk's easy manner froze on his face. He looked back to Sarya, and studied her more closely.
"You are playing with dangerous powers, Lady Senda," he said in a more serious voice. "I don't pretend to know what sort of old elven spells might still be sleeping in Cormanthor, or what the heroes who defend the Dalelands might do about a concerted threat such as that we're offering them now, and so I fear the remedying of my ignorance. But yes, I agree that the stakes are . . . enticing."
"I do not know what to tell you about any heroes defending these lands," Sarya said, "but I can tell you this, Miklos Selkirk: I wield Cormanthor's magic, and as long as Sembia's army is moving against my enemies, you need have no fear of old elven spells."
*****
Jorin Kell Harthan's prediction proved uncannily accurate. Araevin and his comrades passed a cold and rainy night in the ruins of an old elven tower buried deep in the forest, and when they pressed forward from the place in the morning, the drizzle followed them, soaking the party in a dripping fog that quickly became a bright, steaming
bath when the sun burned through the clouds overhead. The normal sounds of the forest died away over the course of the first three miles of walking, replaced with the insistent dripping of water from countless branches and leaves. Soon it seemed they were passing through a world of emerald and silver-gray, a silent world that resented their presence.
They hiked on in single-file, following the Aglarondan along the narrow trail. Araevin fell into the rhythm of the walk, his thoughts drifting. How long will it take Sarya Dlardrageth to detect the approach of Evermeet's army? he wondered. And what will she do when she does? Sarya might attempt to sabotage the army's march by striking at the portal nexus in the frozen fortress. He frowned, wondering if he should have advised Seiveril and Starbrow to keep the windswept mountaintop guarded against a sudden demonic assault. Or was there some other way for Sarya to strike at the host of Evermeet? He paused in mid-stride, examining the thought.
"Araevin! Look out!" Ilsevele reached forward and jerked at his arm, dragging him back from his reflections. Something crashed through the dense underbrush not more than a dozen yards from where he stood, a hulking gray mass of hairless flesh that grunted and thrashed furiously through the thorn-studded vines, snapping arm-thick saplings in half as it charged toward the small company.
"Wesel Seldarie ! Where did that come from?" Araevin gasped.
He quickly backstepped, trying to keep out of the thing's reach while he considered the spells he held ready.
It went on two thick legs, with a hunched-over posture and a blunt snout that held row after row of sharp black teeth. A double row of small, yellow eyes dotted the front of its head, and its forelimbs were long, powerful arms that ended in strong crushing claws. The thing snuffled loudly, and roared in bestial rage.
No one offered an answer to his question, but beside him Ilsevele's hands blurred as she sent a pair of arrows winging at the monster. The arrows sank into the side of
its thick neck, but there was nothing but muscle there— the creature swatted at the arrows like they were insect bites, and bellowed with such anger that the leaves shook overhead.
"It's a gray render!" Jorin called from up ahead. The monster had broken onto the trail between the Aglarondan and the rest of the small company. "Be careful, it can crush an ogre with those arms!"
The creature hesitated an instant, then turned its back on Jorin and thundered up the trail at Ilsevele and Araevin. The spellarcher fired several more times, trying for its eyes, but the front of the beast's head held a mass of bone so dense that her arrows simply glanced away. The creature reared up, drawing back one huge taloned hand to crush Ilsevele—and Araevin barked out the words of a simple teleport spell and caught hold of the back of her tunic, whisking them both twenty yards aside.
The render's claws stripped a foot-wide row of furrows four inches deep through the trunk of a cedar next to the spot Ilsevele had been standing, and the beast screeched in frustration. Ilsevele stumbled, unprepared for the spell, but she looked back at him, eyes wide.
"Good timing," she managed.
Jorin Kell Harthan sprinted down the trail behind the render, and skidded to a halt behind the monster, slashing at its hamstring with his long sword. The render howled again as its leg buckled beneath it, but it whirled with astonishing speed and batted the Aglarondan ranger into the underbrush with a single off-balance swing of one claw. Then Donnor Kerth, who had been behind Araevin and Ilsevele on the trail, charged the monster from the other side, mail jingling and armor rattling, his face hidden behind his heavy helm. He landed a heavy cut on the back of the monster's shoulder, grunting with the force of his swing. The gray render wheeled drunkenly back toward the Lathanderian, and clubbed him with its other arm. Kerth caught the blow on his sturdy shield, but the monster was so strong that it drove him to his knees, and began to rain down mighty blows like the pounding of some berserk smith's hammer.
"Donnor's in trouble!" Ilsevele snapped. She scrambled to her feet and drew her own long sword, gliding toward the fight with a rapid but balanced advance, ready to dart forward or give ground as she needed.
"I see it!"
Araevin snatched for the zalanthar-wood wand at his belt, and leveled the device at the monster, pausing only long enough to make sure none of his companions were in the way. The wand erupted in a hazy blue bolt of sonic disruption, blasting the render's flank with a terrible crack! that echoed in the dripping wood. Behind Kerth, Maresa pointed her own wand at the beast over the shoulder of the kneeling human warrior, and scorched the monster with a jet of flame that caught it full in the face.
The gray render hissed and reared back, raising its head and turning its face away from the searing flame-and Donnor uncoiled from beneath his shield and brought his heavy broadsword up under the render's jaw, sinking the point of the weapon deep into the base of its throat. The Lathanderian warrior surged to his feet and wrenched his blade free, ripping open a terrible wound across the render's throat.
The render's hissing rage drowned in a horrible gurgle of dark gore. It wheeled around and bolted back down the trail, away from Kerth and Maresa. Blood splattered the leaves and left a crimson trail in the creature's wake. Ilsevele quickly backed away, giving the render plenty of room to flee, while Jorin Kell Harthan, who had been circling back in to attack again from behind the monster, literally threw himself into a dense briar bush to avoid being trampled.
The creature went thrashing its way down the trail, burbling its misery, and vanished into the gloom of the forest.
Donnor Kerth climbed to his feet and watched the monster flee. He shucked his helmet, and looked down at his sword, clotted with the render's gore for a full two feet from its point. He stared in amazement, as the crashing and pained howls of the monster receded into the distance.
"It's still running," he muttered. "By the Morninglord, what does it take to kill one of those things?"
Jorin slowly picked himself up and began extricating himself from the briars. "Maybe a big dragon could manage it, but other than that, there isn't much in the forest that a gray render fears. It's best to avoid them."
Maresa blew out her breath, and sheathed her wand at her belt. "I'll keep that in mind. Are there a lot of them around here?"
"It seems there have been more of them about in the last year or two," Jorin replied. "I used to go two or three years at a time without hearing of anyone running into a render, but I've heard of seven attacks already this year—not counting this one."
"Is that what you meant when you said that parts of the forest were growing more wild?" Ilsevele asked.
"In part, yes." Jorin spotted his sword lying under the briars, and with a grimace he knelt and reached his arm through the thorns, groping for the blade. "Gray renders aren't natural beasts, really. They're dimly intelligent, and foul-tempered beyond belief. They'll tear down cabins and rip up trails on a whim, but then they can be devilishly patient when stalking prey."
The Aglarondan reached his blade and pulled it out of the briars, but not without a good armful of scrapes.
"Are there more gray renders in the forest than before, or are the ones that were always here just growing more aggressive?" asked Ilsevele.
"There are more of them, I'm sure of it. But I certainly wonder where they're coming from. Some infernal plot of Thay, I suppose." Jorin wiped his sword on the mossy trailside, and sheathed it. "I am sorry that I failed to spot that one before we wandered into its path. I won't let it happen again."
"Make sure you don't!" Maresa said. "I don't ever need to see a gray render any closer than that."
Donnor Kerth tended their injuries—mostly Jorin's and his own-with a few healing prayers, and they continued on their way. They pressed on through the afternoon,
encountering no more gray renders, though on one occasion Jorin pointed out troll-sign on the trail, and led them on a long, circuitous detour by a streambed to skirt the trouble if they could. The detour evidently worked, for they saw no trolls and ran across nothing else dangerous.
They camped for the night in the high branches of a great shadowtop overlooking a swift, cool stream. Some of Jorin's folk had built a small, railless platform in the tree's middle branches, a good sixty feet above the forest floor, and a tug on a well-hidden lanyard brought down a rope ladder to reach the lower branches, from where other concealed ladders led up to the hiding place. Kerth's packhorse they had to leave on the ground, but Araevin wove a skillful illusion to hide the animal's makeshift corral and keep any forest predators from finding it.
The next morning dawned hot, still, and clear, the forest sweltering in the humidity left by the previous days' rain and mist. They descended from their aerial camp, found the packhorse unmolested, and set off again. But only a couple of hours into the march, the trail broke out into a large, grassy glade in the heart of the forest, a clearing the better part of a hundred yards wide. Bright sunlight flooded the open spot, and the air hummed with darting insects. In the center of the clearing stood an old ring of standing stones, each almost ten feet tall, arranged in a lopsided circle. Thick moss mantled the ancient stones, and Araevin sensed at once the presence of old and potent magic in the clearing.
"What is this place, Jorin?" he asked.
"The doorway to Sildeyuir," the half-elf answered. He led them between the leaning menhirs, into the center of the old ring, where a large square block stood like a great altar. "This is your last chance to turn aside, all of you. Once I take you through the door, there is no guarantee that you will be permitted to return. The folk of Sildeyuir are not cruel, but they do not tolerate intrusion, and they will not permit a stranger to carry their secrets back to the realms of humankind. Araevin and Ilsevele will likely have little trouble, since they are both ar Tel'Quessir. But
this is a perilous journey for Donnor and Maresa."
Maresa gazed at the old stones leaning in the sun. Despite the warmth of the day, it was cool and quiet within the circle.
"I've walked in Evermeet," she said, her manner serious. "I think I want to see what's on the other side of this stone ring."
Donnor Kerth stood holding the reins of his packhorse. He glanced up at the bright sky, shading his dark face with a hand, and nodded once to the half-elf.
"Donnor, you don't have to follow us here," Araevin said in a low voice.
"If you go, I'll go," the human rasped. He glanced back at the dense wall of green behind them, then looked back to Araevin and flashed a startlingly bright smile. "Besides, it's a long, hot walk back from here."
Jorin indicated the square stone altar in the center of the circle and said, "All right, then. Everybody set a hand on the stone and keep it there. Donnor, hold your mount's reins in your other hand, there. Now be still a moment."
The half-elf hummed a strange tune under his breath, and Araevin felt the magic of the place waking, stirring, shaking off its sun-drowsed slumber as cool shadows began to grow within the ring.
He looked across the altar stone at Maresa, who stood with her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth bared.
She still doesn't trust magic of this sort, he thought with a smile. You would think that she'd become accustomed to it sooner or later.
Then strange silver shadows seemed to burst out of the great old stones, whirling and darting all around the company, and the sunny clearing in the Yuirwood whirled away into nothingness.
*****
Seiveril Miritar stood in the heart of a grove of mighty shadowtops at dusk, and prayed earnestly to the Seldarine for guidance, as he had every night at star rise since
he had embarked on his great crusade against the foes of the People. He was distantly aware of the ring of vigilant guards who stood nearby, watching in case his enemies tried to strike at him while he walked alone in the forest. But the knights of the Golden Star respected his communion with Corellon Larethian and the Seldarine. They waited a short distance out of sight, giving Seiveril the silence and privacy to speak to his gods with his whole heart.
Here, in the heart of old Cormanthor, Seiveril felt the presence of Corellon Larethian almost as clearly as he did when he stood in Evermeet's sacred groves, but at the same time, doubt darkened his heart. His divinations whispered of disaster and warned him that a narrow way indeed threaded the perils that lay before him.
Three days now, and the same shadows of danger hover in my auguries, Seiveril thought. Our army stands motionless while our enemies move against us, and still Corellon warns me that to march on Myth Drannor now courts terrible danger. "I cannot remain in Galath's Roost while my enemies encircle me, Corellon, and yet you warn me against marching from this place," Seiveril said aloud, speaking up at the silver starlight that glimmered in the treetops far above. "I am afraid that I do not see what it is you want me to do."
A soft breeze sighed in the high branches, but no answer came to Seiveril. The gods of his people had bestowed many blessings upon the elf race, but they wished for the elves to find their own path through life. While Corellon and the rest of the Seldarine were unsparing in the divine magic they placed in the hands of priests such as Seiveril, they had the habit of keeping their silence even when great matters were at hand, so that elves' hearts and minds might reach their full flowering and growth by striving to set right the griefs of the world and overcome the challenges life offered. To do otherwise would be to diminish the People, to make them something less than they otherwise could be, and that the Seldarine-wise even among gods, or so it was said—would not do.
"I am reaching the point at which I wouldn't mind a little help," Seiveril said.
At his order, the Crusade had held its position near Galath's Roost and the Standing Stone for several days. Myth Drannor lay only forty miles to the north, not far beyond the Vale of Lost Voices, but as long as the auguries against marching onward were so dark and dire, Seiveril hesitated to advance, or to even share with his captains the reason he chose not to march.
One more day, he decided. If nothing changes, then I will have to confide in Vesilde and Starbrow, at the very least.
With a weary sigh, he bowed before the glimmer of early stars, then shrugged his chasuble from his shoulders and rolled it carefully, slipping it into his tunic.
"Corellon, if there is something I am supposed to be doing, I hope you will find a way to tell me," he said to the dusk. Then he straightened his shoulders and strode back toward the place where his guards waited.
To his surprise, Seiveril found several of his guards hurrying up the path to meet him, led by Starbrow.
"Seiveril?" called the moon elf. "I apologize for disturbing your prayers, but Storm Silverhand has returned with news from Shadowdale. She wants to speak with you at once."
"It is fine, my friend," Seiveril answered. "I have just concluded my devotions for the evening anyway. Please, take me to her." He fell in alongside Starbrow as they hurried back to the camp. "Did she say anything more?"
Starbrow nodded. "She told me that we've got a new enemy to deal with."
Is that why you wanted me to wait here, Corellon? Seiveril wondered. To hear what Storm Silverhand has to tell me tonight?
There was no answer within his own heart, but Seiveril still felt comforted by the thought, even as he dreaded whatever dire new development had brought Storm back to his encampment with such urgency. Perhaps there is a design at work here after all, he thought. I was meant to
be here at this hour, whatever trials await me, and all who followed me from Evermeet as well.
Starbrow led him back to the large pavilion that served Seiveril as both headquarters and personal quarters, and held the tent flaps aside as the elflord strode in. Two guests waited inside: Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale, dressed in gleaming mail and dark leather with her long, silver hair bound from her brow by a slender circlet, and a tall, stern-looking human lord of middle years with dark silver-streaked hair.
"Ah, there you are," Storm said. She indicated her companion with a curt nod. "This is Mourngrym Amcathra, the Lord of Shadowdale."
"I am honored to meet you, Lord Miritar," said the Lord of Shadowdale. Mourngrym offered his hand to Seiveril, who remembered to take it in a firm clasp.
"And I, you, Lord Amcathra," Seiveril answered. He glanced at Storm. For all her years, she hasn't lost the human habit of haste, he noted. Still, if Storm Silverhand was in a hurry, that was good enough for him. "What it is, Lady Silverhand? What has happened?"
"We've got trouble," Storm said. "Zhentilar are marching on Shadowdale. A strong army out of Zhentil Keep started moving south yesterday, making for Voonlar. The companies garrisoning Wash have joined them, as well as mercenary bands of ogres and orcs from Thar." Storm's anger glittered in her eyes. "Better than five thousand soldiers are no more than five days from the Twisted Tower."
"Aillesel Seldarie," Seiveril breathed. His stomach ached with cold dread.
Behind him the Sembian army from the south was pressing up Rauthauvyr's Road and had closed to within twenty miles of his camp, occupying Battledale in the process. Ahead of him, Red Plume soldiers from Hillsfar descended the Moonsea Ride, building their strength on the far side of the Vale of Lost Voices. And the Zhentarim were moving to close him on the west. Two armies he might hope to avoid through maneuver in the green fastness of Cormanthor,
but three? Even his elves' skill and swiftness in woodland marches would not suffice to avoid battle for long.
"Sarya Dlardrageth had a hand in this, I know it," he murmured. "Why do they aid her? Don't they understand that if they help the daemonfey to repel Evermeet's army, she will destroy them in turn?"
"Maalthiir and Fzoul will turn on each other sooner or later, never you fear," Storm promised. "It's in their nature. But that doesn't mean they won't lay waste to half the Dales before they're done."
Starbrow looked to Mouragrym Amcathra and asked, "How much strength do you have in Shadowdale, Lord Amcathra? Can you halt the Zhents?"
"Three hundred men under arms, plus a thousand stout archers when I call out the militia. And I have no small amount of help from friends of the Dale such as Storm, here, or Those Who Harp." Mourngrym sighed and shook his head. "But this is the strongest Zhentarim army we've seen since the Time of Troubles, and I don't know if I can stop them."
"It certainly doesn't help that Sembia and Hillsfar have decided to move at the same time," Storm added. "If only one threatened the Dales, the Dalesfolk would set aside many of their quarrels and band together against the threat. But Harrowdale won't do anything with Maalthiir's army on the march The folk of Tasseldale, Battledale, and Featherdale might have mustered against the Sembians given a little help, but Mistledale is sorely pressed by the fiends out of Myth Drannor, and Archendale is content to let the rest of the southern Dales hang." She shook her head. "I'd never realized the extent to which the great powers bordering the Dalelands kept each other in check, but with Cormyr so weak now, the old balance of power is gone. The Dales Compact is dead as the stone it's carved on."
Starbrow studied Seiveril, his strong arms folded across his chest. "Like it or not, Seiveril, we are going to have to bring these human armies to battle, or they will certainly bring us to battle at a time and place of their choosing. They simply aren't giving us any choice. You can't let them bring
all three armies, along with whatever fiends and fey'ri Sarya Dlardrageth can muster, against us at the same time. That is a fight I do not think we can win."
"I do not want to spend our strength fighting humans instead of Sarya Dlardrageth's daemonfey," the elfiord answered. "And I do not want to fight humans at all unless we absolutely must. Bloodshed between elf and human will stain these lands for centuries."
"Abandoning the smaller Dales to foreign occupation won't win you many friends, either," Storm pointed out. "I know."
Seiveril turned away, staring out into the lanternlit dusk that lay over the elven camp as he considered his path. He wanted nothing more than to take to the forest and simply march directly on Myth Drannor, leaving the Sembians behind him and circling the roadblock Hilisfar had thrown up ahead of him—but he could see at a glance that the Sembian army could turn west and fall on Mistledale behind him as soon as he marched, and he could not abandon Shadowdale to the Zhents. At least the Sembian army had simply marched through Tasseldale, Featherdale, and Battledale without devastating those lands. The Sembians were not so foolish as to provoke the southern Dalesfolk into full resistance against their army and its vulnerable lines of supply. But he had no such hopes for how the Zhentilar would treat Shadowdale, if Lord Amcathra's warriors failed to stop them.
Storm is right, he realized. Refusing to help Dalesfolk defend their homes against tyrannical powers such as Hilisfar or Zhentil Keep is just as bad as refusing to help Dalesfolk standing against Sarya Dlardrageth and her hell-born marauders. This is the task I shouldered when I called for a Return to Cormanthor.
He sighed and turned back to the others.
"We cannot remain here and allow our enemies to gather against us while they subjugate the free Dales. If we have to fight, then it is clear that we must attempt to defeat our foes in detail. So which enemy do we confront first? Hilisfar, Sembia, Zhentil Keep, or Sarya Dlardrageth?"
"If we attack Hillsfar in the Vale of Lost Voices, we'll have to deal with Sembia too," Starbrow said. "They'll turn west behind us and cut across our lines of communication, which will bring Mistledale under their fist as well."
Seiveril replied, "The same is true if we try to avoid Hillsfar's army and march straight against Myth Drannor, except we might be dealing with Sarya Dlardrageth, too. So we have to turn against Sembia's army in Battledale or Zhentil Keep's army in Shadowdale."
"The people of Battledale will fare better with the Sembians than the folk of Shadowdale will with the Zhents," Storm said.
"There is likely a better chance to negotiate a settlement with the Sembians, too," Mourngrym added. "Their adventurism might reverse itself if they see that no one else is still in the game."
"That leaves the Zhents, then," Seiveril said. He glanced at Starbrow, and smiled crookedly. "For what it's worth, I think that a fast march to the west is the last thing our enemies expect. We'll leave Hillsfar and Sembia miles behind us."
"They'll certainly join forces by the time you can march back," Starbrow warned. "And Mistledale will be exposed to attack."
"We'll leave at least some strength here, to help the folk of Mistledale repel any attack. As for the combination of our foes, well . . . maybe turning west will give us an opportunity to bring more of the Dalesfolk to our banner."
Storm nodded slowly. "We might be able to talk sense into the Swords of Archendale, once they open their eyes and see the danger that Sembians in Battledale poses for their own independence. And we might raise Tasseldale, as well."
"Then it is settled," Seiveril said. He looked back to Mourngrym. "We will march before sunrise, Lord Amcathra. You can expect Evermeet's soldiers at your side in three days' time."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
18 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

The stars of Sildeyuir were brilliant and strange, so bright that the shadows beneath the great old trees were silver and luminous. The land beyond the stone circle's mystic gate existed in a perpetual twilight, a magical hour of pale dusk that was cool and perfect. The sky above the tree crowns was a soft pearl-gray, as if the sun had set a short time ago and still brightened the world somewhere beyond the horizon, but in Sildeyuir there seemed to be no west or east. In any direction Araevin looked, the skies glimmered along the hilkrests and forest-tops with that same sourceless illumination But as the eye roamed upward into the sky and approached the zenith, the skies darkened into true night, and countless brilliant stars danced in the firmament.
He stood motionless for what seemed to be
hours, drinking in the eldritch beauty of the place, his companions likewise silent beside him. Jorin Kell Harthan simply waited with a small smile on his handsome face, allowing them to sate their wonder.
Araevin didn't need his magesight to tell that they stood on another plane, a world that lay beyond the world he knew, and yet somehow remained bound to it. The starry realm's forests and hills matched the landscape he remembered from the Yuirwood's sunny glade almost perfectly. The forest was not as dense, taller and more majestic, but they stood in a starlit clearing instead of a sun-warmed one, and the ancient ring of standing stones seemed exactly the same. He looked again at the forest; the trees were tall and silver-trunked with very little undergrowth, a great living colonnade that stretched as far as the eye could see. Strange phosphorescent lichens clung like shelves to the trunks, and a sweet, rich odor hung in the air. The trees reminded Araevin of the mighty redwoods of the Forest of Wyrms, but how could they grow so tall and perfect with no sunlight?
He finally found his voice, and glanced at Jorin. "I never suspected . . ." he managed "It's extraordinary. Not even Evermeet itself compares. How far does this realm extend?"
"Sildeyuir is about the size of the Yuirwood, though direction and distance are a little hard to judge here." Jorin tilted his head to one side, thinking. "Perhaps two or three hundred miles from end to end?"
"End to end?" Maresa glanced up at the pearl aura of dusk above the treetops. In the twilight, her pale white skin seemed to shine like the moon. "It just stops somewhere?"
"Not really. At the borders the forest grows thicker and thicker, and any track you care to follow—or make for yourself, for that matter-simply bends back on itself. There isn't an edge you can fall off" Jorin paused, and added, "I know that it is eldritch and wondrous and beautiful, but I must warn you all: Sildeyuir is not as safe as it looks. Strange monsters wander these forests, creatures
that you do not find in the sunlit world. Do not relax your vigilance here."
"Have you been here often?" Ilsevele asked Jorin.
The Aglarondan shook his head. "Only a couple of times, and the last was ten years ago or more. Finding a stone circle that will let you reach this place is hard, because not all circles work all the time." He gazed into the woods, but beneath his bemusement there was wariness in his eyes.
"Now I understand what was meant by the note on my map," Araevin told Ilsevele. " 'Here of old was Yuireshanyaar, which now is hidden.' The star elves removed their kingdom from the Yuirwood to this twilit plane alongside the forest. " He turned to Jorin. "Are they still here? Can you take us to them?"
"Yes, they are still here. But it is a wide land, and not many star elves remain, and I do not know where we are." Jorin shrugged, a look of embarrassment on his face. "I am afraid I have no better plan than to pick a likely direction and start walking."
"I may be able to help," Donnor Kerth said. He handed the reins of his warhorse to Ilsevele, and drew a golden medallion out of his tunic. He raised Lathander's holy symbol in his powerful hand; the gold gleamed softly in the shadows. "Pick a direction, Jorin."
The Aglarondan studied the forest for a moment then indicated a trail that led away from the stone circle into the shadows of the trees.
"I suppose I'm inclined to head that way first," the guide said.
Kerth peered down the path, and closed his eyes as he
carefully spoke the words of a prayer to Lathander. Araevin
felt the warm glow of divine magic suffusing the air, and
the human opened his eyes and held up his holy symbol.
"Lord of the Dawn, aid me! Will this path lead us to those
whom Araevin must find, or should we go another way?"
The members of the company watched as the holy symbol
in Kerth's hand grew brighter, warmer, until it seemed
almost as if a small sun was caught in the cleric's grasp,
throwing out dazzling rays of radiance that lit up the dim
forest around them. Then the magic faded, the golden sunburst symbol becoming nothing more than a piece of metal again. Donnor shook himself slowly, closed his eyes, and murmured a prayer of thanks.
"Well?" asked Maresa. "Will it?"
The Lathanderian nodded and replied, "Yes. My divination indicates that this path will serve. But as Jorin warns, we must be careful. We will meet with danger on this road."
The small company set off down the broad path into the forest, passing into the eerie gloom beneath the gleaming silver trunks. The cool air was a welcome change after the warmth and humidity of the Yuirwood, and the absence of dense undergrowth made for good visibility and long, open views from the trail. At times it was so still and solemn that Araevin felt almost as if he was simply lost in some enormous temple, wandering among the works of dreaming gods. At other times they caught sight of the forest's creatures: white owls high in the branches above, silver-gray deer that vanished quickly into the gloom, black squirrels that darted along the pale trunks, and once a great gray-furred bear that snuffled and snorted at something that had caught its interest on the forest floor, a good eighty yards off the path.
Araevin soon came to realize that travel within the realm of Sildeyuir would be more than a little deceptive. The opalescent twilight that pervaded the woodland offered no hint as to how long they had traveled—it might have been an hour, or it might have been four. Gradually he noticed that the day, such as it was, had darkened somewhat, so that the purple velvet of the sky overhead had deepened into pure inky darkness, and in time a soft rain began to fall, so fine and thin that he did not even bother to draw up his hood.
After a long spell of marching, they came to a mossgrown bridge of stone that spanned a gloom-filled ravine through which swift white water rushed forty feet below.
"That's a good sign," Ilsevele remarked. "Someone built this bridge. I was beginning to wonder if this whole place was empty."
"We've been walking for quite a while," Araevin said, "and we began our day with a march in the Yuirwood. Maybe we should find a place to rest, and make camp for the night."
"The night?" Maresa asked.
"Such as it is," Araevin said. "We'll halt a few hours, long enough for you and the others to get a good sleep. Ilsevele and I can keep watch. We need less rest than you."
"I won't say no," the genasi said.
They walked a short distance past the bridge before they found a good clearing away from the path. Jorin built a small fire in order to prepare a hot meal from their stores, and Donnor unloaded his packhorse and brushed it down while Araevin took a few minutes to weave some magical wards around their campsite—spells of concealment and protection. So far they had seen nothing dangerous in Sildëyuir's forests, but he remembered Jorin's warning and decided to take no chances.
While Donnor, Maresa, and Jorin slept the deep and helpless sleep that Araevin had always both envied and pitied in his non-elf friends, the two sun elves sat and talked softly in Elvish or simply waited together in the comfort of each other's company, leaning back-to-back against a young tree so that they could watch all around the small camp After a long silence in which Araevin had actually started to slip into Reverie, Ilsevele reached back to set her hand on his.
"I am glad I came here, Araevin," she said. "Regardless of what comes next, I do not regret the circumstances that brought me to Sildeyuir, even for a day."
"Nor do I," he agreed. He started to say more, but then Ilsevele squeezed his hand twice, hard and quick. Araevin froze, peering into the shadows under the trees.
"On your left, sixty yards," Ilsevele whispered. "It will be almost behind you. Move slowly."
"What is it?" he whispered back, slowly turning his head and letting his eyes slide farther and farther over his left shoulder.
"I don't know."
Carefully, Araevin allowed himself to lean just a little, getting a better look behind him—then he saw what Ilsevele had spotted. It was wormlike in shape, with a dark, glistening hide of blue-black skin, but smaller tendrils or limbs branched from its body. It slithered through the forest, passing along the path they had been following, moving with a rolling corkscrew gait that brought different limbs to the ground at different times. Three golden orbs projected from its blunt, bulbous head, if it was a head. Behind the monster came a pair of hulking, snakelike monstrosities, pale worms whose beaked maws were surrounded by four strong, barbed tentacles. Araevin couldn't say what gave him the impression, given the startling alieness of all three creatures, but something in the motions of the corkscrew monster suggested purpose and intelligence.
"What do we do?" Ilsevele asked.
"Let's see if it will pass by. I'll watch, and you be ready to rouse the others."
The creatures' progress had brought them from Ilsevele's side over to Araevin's, and he had a good view of all three. Carefully he eased his lightning wand into his hand, and reviewed the spells held in his mind just in case.
The sinister creatures continued on their way, the forest silent around them, but then the dark corkscrew creature halted, right at the spot where Araevin and his comrades had left the path to set up their camp off the trail. It seemed to feel around, groping like a caterpillar seeking the next place to set its feet, and it gave voice to a strange, shrill whistling sound. It began to sway and weave its limbs in a strange, coiling motion.
Araevin peered closer, trying to discern what it was up to—and he saw the magic at work.
Corellon preserve us, he thought in horror, it's casting a spell! The thing is a sorcerer of some kind.
"What is it, Araevin? What's going on?" Ilsevele hissed.
"Ready your bow," he said. "When I give the word, you must shoot the dark one."
He couldn't see it, but he felt her nod of assent. She
moved softly behind him, drawing an arrow and laying it across her bowstring.
Has it found my spell wards? he wondered.
He watched for ten terrible heartbeats as the monster sniffed at and studied the concealing spells he'd woven around the camp, and for one moment he felt certain that the thing had detected his illusions—but then it whistled again, and curled itself away, resuming its serpentine progress along the forest path. The large pale tentacled things snuffled and followed, undulating after the first one. In a few moments, they disappeared from view, and Araevin breathed a sigh of relief.
"You can relax," he said to Ilsevele. "They're gone now." "What were those things?" Ilsevele sighed and leaned around the tree to meet his eyes.
"I have no idea," Araevin said. "Whatever they were, they were intelligent, and one at least could wield magic." He stared off into the gloom after the monsters, still trying to make sense of the whole scene. "Let's give the others another hour of sleep if we can then get moving. I don't like the idea of waiting here for those creatures to return."
*****
Three days of swift marching put Mistledale and Galath's Roost nearly eighty miles behind the Army of Evermeet, as Seiveril and Starbrow led their host westward toward Shadowdale. Seiveril rode at the head of his troops, his spirits lifting as they left the Sembians and Hillsfarians behind. Regardless of what might come, the days of indecision had passed, and the shadow of disaster in his divinations had retreated for a time. His course was not without risk—he weighed that much every day with his auguries and prayers—but events were once again in motion, and Seiveril was content with that for the time.
Despite the fact that he knew better than to divide his forces in the face of more numerous enemies, Seiveril had decided to leave a strong force behind him in Mistledale. Six full companies of infantry remained near Ashabenford,
under the command of Vesilde Gaerth and a small contingent of the Knights of the Golden Star—two companies from Seiveril's own Silver Guard, one from Evereska, and three companies of the volunteers who had mustered at Elion and had been forged into real fighting units by the furious battles at Evereska and the Lonely Moor. Seiveril did not expect Vesilde to repel the Sembians or Hillsfarians if they moved on Mistledale in strength, but he hoped that the elven infantry would deter the Sembians from attempting to follow his main body to the west, and perhaps convince them that Mistledale would not be yielded without a fight. If matters came down to it, Vesilde was to retreat southwest down the Dale, covering the Dalesfolk as best he could and giving up land rather than meeting a stronger enemy in battle—but Seiveril hoped that the Sembians and Hillsfarians would be slow to attack a resisting Dale outright.
The army's track followed a human-cut footpath along the river's north bank that linked Ashabenford and Shadowdale-town. In other times it might have been a picturesque journey, with the broad, shallow ribbon of the river close to Seiveril's left hand, its waters often swift and boulder-studded, so that the river's voice filled the forest nearby. But Seiveril urged his captains to march long and quickly each day, exhorting his host for more speed. The warriors who followed him responded with swiftness that no human army could hope to match, often trotting for hours at a time to make better speed. Seiveril was not sure if he could reach the northern borders of the dale before the Zhentilar, but forty miles lay between Shadowdale's northern border and the Twisted Tower. He was certain that he'd have his army waiting in the village of Shadowdale for the invaders if he failed to meet the Zhents before they entered the dale.
Seiveril rode at the head of the army among the Silver Guard, the cavalry who had served House Miritar in Evermeet. The Silver Guard was the largest body of mounted soldiers in Seiveril's host, three full squadrons of lightlyarmored knights who rode under the banner of Edraele
Muirreste. Edraele was a young and slightly built moon elf, so small that it seemed ludicrous that she should have taken up the sword. Edraele might have been young for her command, but she was also the single finest equestrian that Seiveril had seen in his four hundred years, and she possessed a fiery charisma that her warriors adored. He'd placed her in command of the vanguard on leaving Galath's Roost, and she and her Silver Guard had vigorously patrolled ahead of the army, searching for any sign of the enemy.
In the evening of the march's third day, they fought their first skirmish against the Zhentarim's soldiers.
The track broke out of the forest Cormanthor proper, crossing a narrow neck of open land along the southern border of the Dale, less than twenty miles from the town of Shadowdale. As the glittering elven cavalry rode between fields of chest-high grain straight and still in the calm hour before sunset, a pair of scouts appeared from behind a stone farmhouse, riding hard for the banner.
"What is this?" muttered Captain Edraele from beside Seiveril.
She stood up in her stirrups and cantered forward to meet the scouts. Seiveril restrained his impulse to go and see what news the scouts brought, and made himself wait. He didn't want Edraele to think he lacked confidence in her.
As it turned out, he did not have long to wonder. Edraele wheeled away at once and spurred back to the company of Golden Star knights and Silver Guard officers who rode by Seiveril.
"Zhentarim cavalry!" she snarled as she pulled up abreast of Seiveril and Starbrow. "A large company, about a mile off on our right front. They're chasing after a scouting party of our own warriors."
"The Zhents are here already?" Seiveril said.
He glanced back at the twilight woods behind him, thinking of the miles-long column of marching elves who followed behind the cavalry. The forest wouldn't stop him from deploying from the march into a line of battle, but still
. . . he'd thought he would have two days more, at least.
Starbrow read the concern in his face, and shook his head. "It won't be the main body, Seiveril. The Zhentarim likely have bands of marauders and scouts ranging all over the open dale, looking for us and causing trouble where they can. It's what I would do in their place."
Edraele pranced her horse around, and looked to Seiveril. "They likely don't have any idea that we've got the vanguard of the army at our backs, Lord Seiveril," she said. "Unless you object, I'll take the Silver Guard and drive them off."
"I agree," Starbrow said. "I don't see any reason why we shouldn't teach them a hard lesson about getting too close to us."
Seiveril hesitated. Somehow, he found that he had been hoping that it would not prove necessary to meet Zhentil Keep in battle. He felt Starbrow and Edraele waiting on his words, and frowned. Regardless of his wishes, the Zhentarim had picked a fight, and the fact that they were willing to employ orc, gnoll, and ogre mercenaries spoke volumes about the sort of realm they would raise over northern Cormanthor if he avoided battle.
"Very well," Seiveril answered. "Drive them off, but be wary of ambushes, Edraele."
Edraele did not wait an instant longer. She plucked the standard from her bearer's stirrup-rest and waved the banner in a fluttering circle.
"Silver Guards, follow me!" she cried, and she dashed off into the dusk. All around, the Silver Guards spurred their own mounts after her, thundering away across the fields.
Seiveril looked at Adresin, the sun elf knight who commanded his personal guard, and said, "Let's follow after them. I want to see what we're up against."
Adresin winced. "Lord Seiveril, I can't risk losing you to a chance arrow in a simple skirmish-" he began, but Seiveril decided to make it easy on the poor fellow. He simply spurred his own horse after the Silver Guard, making sure to leave a good space so that no one could accuse him of riding right into the fray on their heels.
He felt Starbrow close up beside him, and looked over to see the moon elf champion grinning broadly. "That was not fair, Seiveril," he called over the drumming of the hooves. "He is only doing his duty!"
"I'll be careful," Seiveril promised.
He slowed his pace a little, and allowed Adresin and his bodyguards to close up around him. To the young knight's credit, he did not bother to argue the point any longer. He simply slammed the half-visor of his bright helmet closed, and stayed close to Seiveril.
They passed through a broken line of wind-stunted poplars and scrub, then emerged into a broad field. The Silver Guard galloped away, lances lowered, charging at a ragged line of human riders dressed in surcoats of black and yellow. The numbers seemed equal, or close to it, and the Zhentilar did not waver. They couched their own spears and turned to meet the elf riders who flashed over the field toward them. For one terrible moment they thundered toward each other in the bright field, stained crimson by the setting sun, and the skirmish lines met with shrill ring of steel and the terrified whinnying of wounded horses. Riders in black and yellow fell, but so too did elves in silver and white, and the charge disintegrated into a furious, swirling, spurred melee as any kind of battle order failed.
"They've got courage," Starbrow said. "I'll say that for them. And that's at least two full companies over there."
"I see them." Seiveril watched the battle for only a moment before glancing back to Adresin. "Captain, let's see if we can lend a hand. This looks to be a closer thing than I'd thought."
Adresin nodded behind his visor. "We'll do what we can, sir," he said.
He motioned for two of his soldiers to remain close to Seiveril then he gathered the rest of the guards and raced off to join the skirmish. Seiveril approached more cautiously, anxious to lend his guards' help to the battle, but not sure of where he could make himself most useful.
The fight raged on. The Zhentarim cavalrymen fought
furiously, keeping their heads and working to cover their allies as best they could. Their armor was substantially heavier than the elf knights', but the elves were faster and more nimble, and they fought with a skill and élan that the humans were hard-pressed to match. Time and again, elf riders danced close to their foes to slash with silver sabers or lash out with long-pennoned lances, only to parry the cuts of heavy broadswords or spur away from hard-driven lance-thrusts. Elf warriors with some skill at magic peppered the skirmish with darting blasts of golden magic or confused the human horsemen with shifting illusions and quick enchantments, confounding the Zhentilar's efforts.
That's a season of fighting the daemonfey, Seiveril thought with a fierce burst of pride. Our warriors have become a well-tempered blade indeed! He angled toward the right flank, drew his silver mace, and spurred forward to join the fight, shouting a wordless battle cry.
He crossed the last hundred yards in the blink of an eye, his mount's hooves flashing like silver fire in the dusk, and Seiveril found himself in the fray. He batted aside a Zhentish lance and hammered the warrior out of the saddle with a great overhand swing, then wheeled his horse to meet another Zhentilar behind him in a furious rain of ringing blows as their weapons met with shock after shock, their horses stamped and whinnied, and cries of anger, pain, and triumph filled his ears. Seiveril dueled his swordsman to a standstill and was about to hammer down his guard, but an elf lancer took the man from behind and knocked him out of the saddle. The elflord spun around, searching for the fight. Starbrow battled close by, cutting an awful swath through the Zhentilar ranks with Keryvian's pure white blade.
A shrill, terrible sound tore through the twilight, and the black earth around Seiveril erupted in a great blast His horse was thrown sideways and fell, but Seiveril managed to hurl himself clear of the saddle before the animal rolled over him. Ears ringing, he found his feet and looked up.
Overhead a sinister, bat-winged shadow swooped down low over the battlefield. The monster's long, blunt snout
held a blind, gaping smile, and a long lashing tail twisted behind it. Between its humpbacked wings a black-clad human wizard sat in an ornate saddle, hurling down blasts of scorching fire as the huge monster winged over the fight. It opened its mouth again, and another shrill shriek flayed a pair of elf riders with an awful blast.
"What kind of abomination is that?" snapped Starbrow. He ducked away from a fiery bolt, and turned against another horseman nearby.
Seiveril didn't have an answer for Starbrow, but he quickly intoned the words of a holy prayer to Corellon, invoking the divine power with which he was entrusted. Holy power seethed around his hand, and he hurled a blast of supernal light up at the monster. The brilliant white ray chewed into the flying monster's flank, charring it, and the creature croaked in pain and awkwardly reeled away. But then a second flying monster appeared, also with a battlemage riding between its wings. The wizard hurled a great blast of fire down at Seiveril.
Seiveril threw himself flat as the fireball burst over him and searing heat washed across his body. His cloak and surcoat smoking, he slowly picked himself up. All around him Zhentilar and elves alike had been scorched and scoured by the attack of the wizards on their flying beasts. With heavy, slow beats of their vast wings, the creatures circled for another pass, spurred on by their riders.
"Archers!" called Edraele Muirreste. "Get some arrows on those accursed wizards!"
The Silver Guards were outfitted for lance-work and sword play, but they were elves; every one of them carried a shortbow in a saddle holster, and knew how to use it. Many of the guards were still busy with the melee, but dozens quickly spurred clear of the fighting and drew their bows. As the flying monsters turned back toward the fray, elven bows began to thrum, and white arrows soared up into the crimson sky—at first a few, then a heavier and more accurate storm.
With another great croaking cry, the flying beasts turned away and flapped off, but not before their riders
raised a long line of green fire across the trampled fields. Behind the leaping wall of magical fire, the Zhentilar horsemen quickly mustered, and retreated from the field, leaving dozens of dead and wounded behind.
Edraele rode up beside Seiveril, and took in his scorched clothing with a quick glance. "Lord Seiveril, shall we pursue?" she asked.
Seiveril watched the flapping beasts drawing away. "No, I think we've done enough for tonight. We'll need to keep some Eagle Knights nearby from now on, just in case the Zhents have more of those flying wizards. And more archers among our troops would be a good idea."
Starbrow also rode up, his eyes fixed on the departing wizards. "I am thoroughly tired of fighting flying creatures armed with magic," he declared. "I had enough of that with Sarya's daemonfey legion and their demons."
"I agree," Seiveril said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair "At least this is a threat we know how to face—one more thing that Sarya Dlardrageth has taught us this year." He looked around at the field of the skirmish, and frowned. Many of the Zhentilar had fallen, but so too had more than a few of the Silver Guards. "See to the army's camp tonight, Starbrow. I will join you after I have done what I can for the wounded."
*****
Curnil leaned against the gray wheel of an old oxcart, exhausted beyond all endurance. The farmyard was littered with dead gnolls, but two of his Riders lay still on the ground. One band of bloodthirsty raiders would slay no more, but his squad was down to himself and Ingra. He looked over to Ingra, who sat holding a blood-soaked bandage to an arrow wound in her left arm.
"I hope to all the gods that things are better somewhere else," he said. "We're getting butchered out here."
"Tell me something I don't know," Ingra replied. "So what do we do now?"
"Damned if I know." For half a tenday, Curnil and his
Riders had battled across the forest north of Mistledale, fighting their way right up to the very eastern edge of Shadowdale. He'd meant to turn back for home an hour ago, but the smoke of burning homesteads had caught his eye. The fighting had been fierce, but they'd saved the folk of one freehold from a death too terrible to contemplate. "Ride for Ashabenford, I suppose. We've done all we can here."
Ingra started to nod in agreement, but then she looked up sharply. "Riders coming," she hissed.
Curnil straightened and looked over the side of the cart. At first he couldn't see anything through the green cornstalks, but then he glimpsed sunlight glinting on spear points. A double column of mailed horsemen came trotting into sight, led by a tall, slender woman whose long white hair was gathered in a single braid that trailed down to her waist.
"Grimmar," he told Ingra. He raised one arm to catch their attention, and stepped out into the open.
The cavalrymen turned toward Curnil and rode into the farmyard, taking stock of the dead gnolls and fallen Riders. Their captain studied the scene for a moment, and doffed her helm, shaking the sweat and dust from her face.
Curnil looked up, and blinked. "You're Storm Silverhand!"
"So I'm told," the woman replied. She dismounted with an easy motion, hung her helm on the saddle horn, and turned to size up Curnil. "Riders of Mistledale?"
"Yes—though there were more of us a few moments ago."
"So I see," Storm said with a sigh. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"
"We've been watching for Red Plumes or fiends from Myth Drannor passing north of Mistledale," Curnil answered. He waved a hand at the dead gnolls. "We found their sign this morning, and followed them here. I ... I didn't know if any Grimmar were nearby to deal with these marauders, so I decided to take care of them."
"I wish we'd been here a few minutes sooner," Storm said. "I guess you couldn't have known we were near. My thanks for what you and your companions did here, friend."
"What else could we do?" Curnil sighed. He ran a hand through his grimy hair. "If you don't mind my asking, Lady Silverhand—what are you doing out here? Aren't the Zhentarim marching on Shadowdale?"
Storm gave him a sharp nod, and glanced off toward the west. "Yes. They're not far off now. In fact, I should have turned back already, but I wanted to see for myself how things stood in the eastern part of the dale. I don't like to leave such as these—" she toed a dead gnoll—"free to pillage and plunder in the east just because our eyes are fixed on the Zhentilar coming down from the north."
"Will you be able to stop the Zhents, Lady Silverhand?" Ingra asked.
"We're facing a hard fight tomorrow or the day after, but we've beat them before," Storm said. Cold steel danced in her eyes as she gazed off toward the smoke-stained skies to the north. Then a weary smile crept back across Storm's face. She held out her hand, and took Curnil's arm in a warrior's clasp. "Well, Riders of Mistledale, you might as well come back to Shadowdale with us. We'll have work for you soon enough."