Araevin surveyed the rest of the court carefully, and found a blank trapezoidal archway a short distance to his left. A portal like the one above, he realized. That might be useful later.
“The Pale Sybil comes,” whispered the dead warrior.
From another passageway leading into the courtyard, a ghostly pale light grew. Selydra drifted into the courtyard, still dressed in the raiment of silver and white in which she had first greeted her guests. Two of the hunched giants followed behind her, stooping to fit in the hallway. She paused, studying Araevin and his friends, her face set in a look of smooth, cool bemusement.
“Welcome, travelers,” she said. “I trust your sleep was restful?”
“Nothing tried to kill us,” Maresa said. The genasi made a show of gazing around the courtyard, admiring the stonework and the barren white tree. “What a strange tree that is! We don’t have any like that back in Waterdeep.”
“It is a sussur tree,” Selydra answered her. She seemed amused by Maresa’s insincerity. “It is rare indeed, growing only in those places where Faerzress exists in sufficient strength to nourish it. The tree subsists on the magical emanations of the Underdark.”
“Interesting,” Araevin murmured, feigning a calm he did not feel. “I have never seen anything quite like it.”
“I have found that Lorosfyr is full of unsuspected wonders,” Selydra said. She approached the company, and the sussur tree whispered softly as she came near. “So, Araevin, you have said that you have an urgent need for the gemstone in my possession. What is so pressing that you would leave the surface world and come here to find my shard?”
“I must sunder a very old and powerful mythal,” Araevin said. “Demonspawned sorcerers have seized the ruins of Myth Drannor for their stronghold and are protected by its ancient spells. Thousands of people will die or fall into slavery if I fail to stop them. No place in—or below—Faerûn will be safe.”
“I am not unmoved by your plea, Araevin,” Selydra said. She descended into the court by the tree and sat on a stone bench, brushing her midnight hair away from her face. “But the artifact that has found its way into Lorosfyr could be gainfully employed here. You have no doubt noticed the swordwights who attend me here. There is an entity in this lightless place that consumes life and magic. These poor wretches were devoured by the hungry power in this old city. I think that the device you describe may hold enough magical power to finally slake the slayer of this city.”
“You have escaped harm so far, my lady,” Nesterin observed.
“Only because I have learned to … shield myself from its attentions, you might say.”
Araevin found himself glancing up at the impenetrable darkness over their heads. The courtyard was open to the sky, as it were. The vast and airy reaches of the monstrous vault soared for unseen miles above his head, and the darkness pressed down on him with a weight that was almost tangible.
“The Maddening Dark….” he murmured.
“It is alive, and it hungers,” Selydra said. “It devours its victims so slowly that they never even know they are being consumed. Truly, it is a wonder you made it down the Long Stair alive.” She folded her feet under her, and returned her attention to Araevin. “It would seem that we are at an impasse, then. I have need of your shard, and you have need of mine.”
“I will return you a shard as soon as I can,” Araevin said. “The Gatekeeper’s Crystal separates after each use, but I am reasonably confident that I can locate at least one of its pieces not long after I employ the device. I will bring it to you as soon as I can.”
“But if I have understood what I have learned from the shard in my possession, there is at least some chance of a much more violent separation, is there not? The three pieces might literally be scattered across the cosmos.” Selydra pursed her lips. “Even a mage of your skill might find it difficult to locate a piece after such an event.”
“If I cannot bring you a shard after I use the device, perhaps there is something else you might want? Some means of paying you for the use of the device?”
“The shard is virtually unique, Araevin. It is priceless. What might you offer?”
“What would you want?”
“Something of similar magical power, at the very least. Some artifact that I could use to content the hunger and keep it at bay for decades, perhaps centuries.”
“I am afraid I don’t have any such artifact to give you, Selydra,” Araevin said.
“Ah, but I know where you might obtain one on my behalf,” the Pale Sybil said. She smiled, stroking her chin with her fingers. Her nails were pale lavender. “In the Buried Realms under Anauroch lies a vault created by the unliving thaluuds, the so-called tomb tappers. I have reason to believe that a magical scepter was collected by a thaluud and taken to this vault. Bring me that scepter, and I would relinquish the shard I now hold.” The dark-haired sorceress paused, thinking. “I would prefer to have the scepter before surrendering my shard, but I suppose I might relinquish my shard first if you were willing to accept a geas to ensure your return with the scepter.”
Araevin was certain he did not want to give Selydra the power to command him through a magical geas. He remembered all too well Sarya Dlardrageth’s domination over him only a few short months ago. Mind-enslaving magic was something he had no desire to subject himself to. “No, I am not willing to accept a geas.” Selydra stood and paced away, her mouth turned down in a subtle scowl. “As I said. We are at an impasse. Neither of us will be the first to part with a shard.”
“A single shard is not of much use to me. I suspect yours is not much use to you. Only in combination does the Gatekeeper’s Crystal achieve its full potency.”
“But we still must answer the question of whose problem we address first.” Selydra folded her hands in her sleeves, and studied Araevin for a long moment with her dark eyes. Not a hint of white showed. There might have been the faintest suggestion of a violet iris around a large, black pupil, but otherwise her eyes were as cold and featureless as Lorosfyr itself. “You intrigue me, Araevin,” she finally said. “Why don’t you join me at my table tonight? I am eager for news of the world above, and I will be happy to hear you out at greater length. Your companions can rest and enjoy the hospitality of my palace, while you and I perhaps find some common ground in our appreciation of the Art. In turn, I may persuade you to consider my own … needs.”
Araevin thought he knew what sort of persuasion Selydra had in mind. The Pale Sybil watched him considering her offer, her lips pursed in a subtle smile. He felt the eyes of his companions on him as they awaited his answer, but there really was no alternative. He could not openly spurn her.
“Of course, my lady,” he said. “I will await your summons. In the meantime, my friends and I wish to see more of Lorosfyr. I am eager to read with my own eyes the stories this forgotten city might tell.”
“As I have told you, Araevin, Lorosfyr is most perilous. You and your companions would do better to remain in my care.”
“The apartments you have provided us are quite comfortable, my lady, but we are prepared to take our chances,” Nesterin answered. “Some mysteries invite the traveler onward, regardless of the danger.”
“So they do,” Selydra breathed. “I must insist that you proceed with an escort of my warriors, and you must not go where they tell you not to go. But if this is your wish, I will not deny it.” She folded her hands before her waist, and turned her dark eyes back to Araevin. “I will send for you when you and your friends return.”
Five days passed after the defeat of the daemonfey raid against Semberholme, and still Seiveril waited for some word from Ilsevele. He could feel the tides of summer turning, the forest’s subtle hints that the hottest days were already behind them. He dared not march against Myth Drannor while there was still any possibility that the Sembians might rediscover their allegiance to the daemonfey cause, but he could not wait much longer. Time was not on his side, and so he prayed to the Seldarine for guidance while h
oping for his daughter’s return. He was deep in prayer when his guards summoned him to the lakeshore.
“What is it, Felael?” he asked the captain of his guard.
“The moonset, Seiveril,” Felael replied. Somber and serious for a wood elf, Felael had become the leader of Seiveril’s bodyguard after Adresin’s death. He was not quite serious enough to put much stock in titles and honorifics, though, and rarely called Seiveril by anything other than his given name. “Watch the waters across the lake.”
Selûne’s silver light threw a soft, shining path leading toward the dark shore of the western side of the lake. It was a peaceful scene, and Seiveril wondered what was wrong with it. Then he saw what had caught Felael’s attention. A white-winged ship followed the moonlight’s path across the water, sailing gracefully through the silvery medium as if wind, water, and night were all one and the same.
“A ship of Evermeet,” he breathed.
The ship seemed to meet the lake’s waters, and its sails shifted to catch a breeze that rose up to greet it. Seiveril waited on the shore as the vessel glided toward him. As it drew closer he could make out the beautifully garbed lords and ladies of the court, so radiant it was hard to look on them.
Do we all look like that when we come so swiftly from the Emerald Isle? he wondered. Then he saw Amlaruil standing by the rail, dressed in silver and white, her long, dark hair untroubled by the ship’s passage. She saw him awaiting her, and raised a hand in greeting. The ship glided to a stop, and the elves who crewed it quickly set out a slender ramp to the shore.
“Welcome to Semberholme, my lady,” Seiveril said, bowing.
The Queen of Evermeet descended the silver ramp and set foot on Cormanthor’s soil. As her foot touched the ground, her radiance dimmed noticeably, and a faint frown flitted across her face. But she set it aside at once, and greeted Seiveril with a warm smile.
“Lord Miritar,’ she said, “I am glad I found you here. I am afraid I cannot tarry long.”
“Are you certain? I would like nothing better.”
Amlaruil smiled sadly. “Evermeet misses me already, Seiveril. I must return this night.”
So it is true in part, Seiveril thought. It was said that Amlaruil could not leave the isle. Though her appearance in Semberholme was proof that she could, it seemed that she could not remain away for very long.
“What can I do for you, then, my lady?”
“I have brought you a warning and a gift, Seiveril. First, the warning: A great and terrible battle draws near. I have seen it. Here in this ancient forest the fate of our people is to be decided, and it will be decided in a matter of days. You must not fail in your crusade, and yet I have also seen that you cannot triumph in Myth Drannor.”
The elflord shrugged. “I will make the attempt anyway.
I have to.”
“You hold all of our fates in your hands, my friend. If you should fail …”
“If I fail, you must destroy every gate remaining in Evermeet, Evereska, and any other realm of the People that you can find. And you will have to Retreat absolutely and forever from these lands. You will have no other choice.”
Amlaruil gazed on him for a long moment. “You have seen what I have seen, then,” she said.
“I have.”
“Then there is nothing more I can warn you against. You will succeed, or you will fail. But before you march on Myth Drannor, there is the gift I mentioned.”
She looked up at the ship and nodded. A moment later a young elf maiden descended to the shore, carrying a small silver sapling swaddled carefully in its own earth.
Seiveril looked on the tiny new tree, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Is that—?” he whispered.
“A sapling of the Tree of Souls, yes. Only one other exists in the world, and that one is in the keeping of my son in his hidden realm.” Amlaruil took the sapling from the girl and placed it in Seiveril’s hands. “It is my fondest hope that you will have the opportunity to plant this in Myth Drannor. Until that day, guard it carefully—for it will guard you in turn.”
“Guard us? How?”
“Carry it with your army as you march. It exerts a powerful influence for many hundreds of yards, keeping demons and other fiends at bay, guarding our own People against their attacks. The sapling will not utterly bar a demon’s approach, but it will not be able to teleport itself anywhere nearby.”
Seiveril looked at the fragile plant. He could feel something in the young tree, but he was not sure what. “This small sapling has such power?”
“In a way, it is a living mythal. But you must treat it with great care, Seiveril. No one can say when or if the Tree of Souls will bud again. Each sapling may be the last.”
“It seems far too precious to carry into battle, Amlaruil.”
“It is, Seiveril. But if you are to have any hope for victory, then I think you must have it. Guard it with all your care.”
“I will,” Seiveril promised.
“Good.” Amlaruil glanced over her shoulder at the setting moon. Its lower limb already touched the dark treetops across the lake. She sighed and looked back to him. “I must go now, Seiveril. I fear that we will not meet again.”
“That is not true,” he told her. “If we do not meet again in this world, then perhaps we will walk together in Arvandor.”
“In Arvandor.” The queen smiled again, and she leaned forward and kissed Seiveril’s cheek. She turned away and hurried back up to her ship. “Sweet water and light laughter for the rest of your days, Seiveril Miritar.”
“And to you,” he replied.
He watched as the white ship began to move away, its sails sighing as they caught a new breeze and filled out again. Dancing away across the silver moonpath, the shining hull rose higher and higher in the water until finally it broke clear altogether, speeding westward toward the moonset and far Evermeet beyond.
Seiveril watched the ship until it disappeared from sight. He looked down at the precious silver sapling, still in his cupped hands. So fragile a vessel for the hopes of our people, he mused. Then he carried it back into the warm shadows of the forest.
“Felael, send for Thilesin,” he said to his guard captain. “I have a task I cannot trust to anyone else.”
The wood elf gazed on the sapling, his eyes wide with wonder. “She is already here, Seiveril,” he finally said. “She arrived while you were speaking with Amlaruil. She said she has urgent tidings for you.”
Seiveril looked up, and found Thilesin waiting for him. A priestess of the Seldarine, she was a serious and quiet sun elf who had proved herself indispensable as Seiveril’s adjutant and secretary, helping him to keep track of the countless details and tasks necessary to wield the Crusade against the enemies of the People. He carried the young tree to her.
“I can think of no better steward for Amlaruil’s gift,” he told her. “You must see to it that this tree is well guarded at all times. Ask each of our companies for a true and faithful warrior to help you. This is an honor and a duty that all of our folk should have a hand in.”
Thilesin took the sapling, her eyes shining. “I will see to it,” she whispered.
“Now, what news did you have for me?”
The cleric lifted her gaze from the small sapling, the taut frown of worry returning to her face. “There has been an attempt on Ilsevele’s life, Lord Seiveril. She was not seriously injured, but several of our people died. No one knows more than that right now. There are whispers of drow assassins, Sembian conspiracies, and even treachery on the part of our own emissaries. In any event, Ilsevele and the others are now being held in the Sharburg under guard.”
Seiveril took a step back and threw out a hand to steady himself against the trunk of a shadowtop. Were the Sembians so full of hate that they could not abide the idea of sharing Cormanthor with elves? Or was this some machination of the daemonfey, an effort to make sure that Ilsevele’s mission failed? He felt his knees growing weak. Five years ago he had lost his wife, a
nd he knew he did not have the strength to bear another loss. “Who died?” he managed.
“We do not know, my lord. But Lord Theremen’s people were certain that Ilsevele survived, if nothing else.”
Seiveril looked down at the silver sapling in Thilesin’s hands. There lies our hope, he mused. In Myth Drannor lies my destiny. But not yet, it seems.
“Call for the captains,” he said wearily. “We march on Tasseldale before the sun rises.”
CHAPTER TEN
10 Eleasias, the Year of Lightning Storms
Fflar opened his eyes in a small stone room, illuminated only by a single slitlike window. He hurt all over, and there was a febrile tremor in his arms and legs that left him feeling as weak as a kitten. Where am I? he wondered. What happened?
For a time he couldn’t put anything together, and simply stared up at the brilliant daylight pouring through the window. Then his brow furrowed in recollection. There was a fight, he remembered. A lonely manor house on a hill, arrows in the dark … the banquet! The dark elf assassins!
“Ilsevele!” he gasped.
“Peace, Starbrow. I am right here.”
Fflar turned his head and found Ilsevele sitting on a wooden chair by the head of the bed on which he lay. A rough abrasion scored one of her cheekbones, and she’d cut away some of her beautiful copper-red locks—most likely because they’d been singed beyond repair, he supposed. But she regarded him with a soft, shy smile and set one cool hand on his forehead. “I think the poison has run its course. We feared the worst, but Lord Selkirk sent a cleric of Tyr to tend to our wounded, and he spoke powerful healing prayers over you while you lay senseless. For that, at least, I am grateful.”
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