When the high mages appeared to arrive at some consensus, they returned their attention to Araevin.
“We did not call you here to ask you to explain your travels among humans, Araevin,” Philaerin said. “We have been considering your request to take up the study of high magic for some time now, and we have arrived at an answer.”
Araevin steeled himself against the uncertainty in his stomach. He’d waited two years to hear the response of Tower Reilloch’s high mages. He was confident of his lore, and he’d proven himself in his service with the Queen’s Spellguard years before, but still … no one was made a high mage unless those who already held that exalted rank concurred in the decision.
This is where Aeramma puts me in my place, he thought bitterly.
“You have demonstrated competence and care with your Art in the years that you have studied at Tower Reilloch. Your skill rivals that of any other wizard in our circle who is not a high mage already, and your scholarship is even more noteworthy,” Philaerin continued. “All in all, we consider you an excellent candidate for the study of high magic.
“However, you are only two hundred and sixty-six years of age. We would like you to continue your studies here at the Tower for another fifty years or so before we will begin to share with you the power that has been placed in our care.”
“Fifty years?” I have been selected! he thought, with no small relief, but at the same time, he almost groaned aloud at the thought of the wait. He inclined his head to Philaerin and said, “Thank you, Eldest, for your confidence in me. But that is a long time, even by our measure. What am I expected to learn in that time that I do not know now?”
“To tell the truth, Araevin, I do not know,” Philaerin said with a sigh. “You have shown an excellent grasp of your studies in the Art, and I believe you could embark on the higher studies tomorrow and not fail. But you know as well as I that, questions of skill aside, we do not make high mages of those who are still young, or those whom we do not know well. Your passion does you credit, but you are so young, and you have spent so much time away from Evermeet. We do not think it unreasonable to see what Evermeet and time might teach you.”
Araevin did not attempt to conceal his disappointment, but he accepted the decision with a curt nod. Arguing his case would certainly not convince Philaerin to let him begin sooner. “As you wish, Eldest. I look forward to beginning my studies, when it is time.”
“We know you are nearly ready, Araevin,” said Kileontheal, not unkindly. “I do not know of a single high mage who began his studies before his three hundredth birthday, and many of us do not take it up until we are a full five centuries in age.”
“You are, of course, welcome to continue your studies in another Tower,” Philaerin added. “But I hope you will remain here. You have much you could teach our younger mages. Your time will come, sooner than you think. We will wait.”
Araevin could think of nothing else to add. He touched his hand to his lips and his brow, and bowed again.
“Of course, Eldest. Sweet water and light laughter, until next we meet.”
With his heart a turmoil of frustration and hope, he withdrew from the great hall.
Araevin left Tower Reilloch the next day, following the old track that led east along the steep headlands and forested hillsides of the rugged northeast coast. In the north, Evermeet was covered in dark pine forest, and the trail threaded its way above striking views of the rocky shore and the angry gray sea. Streamers of windblown mist clung to the hilltops and hid the higher slopes above him as he walked, a sturdy staff in one hand and a light rucksack over his shoulders. The seaborne wind was strong in his face, and the forest sighed and rustled with the gusts.
From time to time he found himself glancing up into the treetops, as if to surprise his old companion Whyllwyst. Every time he caught himself at it, he frowned and pulled his eyes back down to the path before him, trying to ignore the stab of sudden grief. It had been more than ten years since his familiar had died, and yet the small gray gyrfalcon still seemed a part of him. Araevin had thought once or twice about summoning another, but he was still not done grieving. For the time being, he preferred to be alone.
Late in his second day of walking, he came to a particularly rugged headland and turned off the track, following an overgrown trail above a precipitous drop to the rocky strand below. At the end of the path stood a battered lodge, a rustic place of fieldstone and carved cedar beams. Many of its rooms were cleverly sculpted balconies and open colonnades that rambled over the southeast side of the headland, open to the weather. Higher up on the hillside a living spring gave rise to a swift rill that rushed through the center of the house in a moss-grown waterfall. Humans might have built the place of similar materials, but they never would have managed to conceal it so well among the rock and the forest of the headland.
“Glad homeagain,” Araevin said softly, but the wind and the surf made no answer.
Araevin had not set foot in the House of Cedars for the better part of thirty years. When he was in Evermeet, he usually stayed in the apartments set aside for him at Tower Reilloch. The elements had been hard on the house. Water stains marked the woodwork, the cedar beams were gray and split, and some of the fieldstone walls had buckled and crumbled with thirty winters of freezing and thawing. He dropped his rucksack to the flagstone floor, and leaned his staff against the lintel with a sigh.
The house seems half a ruin already, he thought. Has it been so long? We are so changeless, but the world is so impermanent.
“Well, I can’t say I expected to find anyone here,” he said aloud.
Few of the Teshurrs remained, after all. His mother and father had passed to Arvandor a hundred years past, and his sister Sana lived in the open, sunny meadows of Dregala at the other end of the island with her husband, children, and grandchildren. Still, he would have hoped that someone—at least his cousins Eredhor or Erevyella, or their children—might have made the House of Cedars into a summer home, a hunting lodge, or simply a place to go to escape their daily cares.
Araevin spent the next few days repairing the place as best he could. He had no skill to replace the great timbers—ancestors wiser than he in the ways of living wood had crafted much of the house—but he was able to coax the ancient spells sleeping in the beams back to life, and he had some hope that they would slowly heal themselves in time. Cleaning out the house and redressing the fieldstone was a matter of simple physical labor, which he did not shy from. He opened several of the storage rooms and brought out a few of the old furnishings in order to make the place more comfortable, though he had to resort to magic to dry out and restore many of them. He also spent hours each day clambering all over the headland, wandering the paths he’d haunted as a child while he considered what he wanted to do next.
On returning to the house from one such walk, a tenday after he’d left the Tower, he found a fine gray destrier grazing on the thin grass just outside the house’s front door. A light saddle, blanket, and pair of saddlebags worked with a swan design lay nearby, alongside a large leather bow case.
“Well,” said a clear voice from behind him, “I was wondering if you were going to turn up.”
“Ilsevele!” Araevin exclaimed.
He turned and found her watching him from the doorway. She was lissome and pale, a sun elf with copper-colored hair and a graceful figure, and she wore a simple green and white riding outfit. Even among elves she was thought to be strikingly beautiful, and it had never ceased to amaze Araevin that her heart had turned to him. He had no gift for songs of love or dances beneath the stars, not compared to a dozen other noble-born lords and princes who had wooed her, and yet she had promised herself to him. The sun falling on her shoulders brushed away his melancholy, and he laughed out loud in pure, unintended delight.
“Ilsevele! What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, of course. You might have taken the trouble to tell your betrothed where you were going before vanishing from the
Tower without a word to anyone. Fortunately, my father divined your whereabouts for me. I really should be angry with you, I suppose.”
“I didn’t mean to be away for long,” he said. “Without even thinking about it I found myself here. The house needed caring for, so I tarried to do what I could.”
“And to escape some weighty matter of the Tower, I am sure.”
“Well … yes. I suppose I wanted to slip away for a while and think of something besides the affairs of Tower Reilloch.”
Ilsevele set her hands on her hips and said, “You needed to escape the Tower for a time, but you didn’t think to come visit me? Now I think I am growing angry.”
“I thought you would be busy with your duties in Leuthilspar. I did not want to trouble you.”
“We are to be married, in case you’ve forgotten. You are not a trouble to me … unless I find myself riding all over Evermeet looking for you, because you were not at your lonely little Tower when I chose to slip away from my post to surprise you.” Ilsevele poked a finger in his chest. “Next time, send word to me! For some strange reason, I sometimes wonder where you are when we are apart.”
Araevin bowed, spread his arms wide, and said, “Lady Miritar, I offer my sincerest apologies.”
“Hmph. Well, that must do for now, I suppose.” Ilsevele swirled away, gazing at the old house around her. “So this is the place where you were born, all those many ages ago?”
Araevin smiled. The difference in their ages was a standing jest between them. He was almost a hundred years older than she. Of course, among elves there was really no such thing as a winter-and-spring match, as his human friends might have called it. Once an elf was older than a century or so, age really did not matter much—except to high mages, he reminded himself. He stepped ahead of her and led her inside.
“You are gazing on the House of Cedars, ancestral seat of the Teshurr clan, my lady,” he said. “I suppose it is not much to look at right now.”
“You suppose wrong,” Ilsevele said. She ran her hand along a rich cedar balustrade centuries old, admiring the work. Sunlight and shadow dappled the waters of the broad cove below. “This place is beautiful. The sea, the cliffs, the forest … to sit in Reverie every night with the sound of the sea in your ears. It’s perfect, Araevin.”
“My family was content here for a long time.”
“Maybe they will be again,” Ilsevele said.
“Oh, we’ve all gone our different ways now. My sister lives in—”
“I wasn’t speaking of your sister, you dunderhead.” Ilsevele glared at him. “I thought mages of your rank were supposed to be brilliant, Araevin. Honestly, you’re as thick as a post sometimes. No, I was thinking of our family.”
Araevin glanced around the house, as if seeing it for the first time, and said, “I hadn’t ever thought of it that way.”
“We are to be married in only three years, Araevin, if you haven’t forgotten our promises. We will need a place to dwell, won’t we?” Ilsevele smiled at him. “I have no intention of taking up residence in an unused corner of your workroom in Reilloch. We will need a place that is ours, dear one, and with a little work, I think this might do quite well.”
Araevin stared at her in bemusement. They’d been promised to each other for almost twenty years, and of course their wedding was almost upon them. Yet when he was immersed in his work in the Tower, or traveling across Faerûn, the fact that he was betrothed to a beautiful and clever lady of high family had a way of escaping him. Ilsevele was right. He was thick as a post sometimes.
Ilsevele watched him as if she could follow the course of his thoughts. In truth, Araevin would not put it past her.
“Now—what dire challenge drove you away from the Tower, anyway?”
He started to wave off the question, but then thought better of it. Instead, he sat down beside her.
“The high mages met with me,” he said. “I will be permitted to study the high lore.”
“Araevin, that’s wonderful! I know you have hoped for this.”
“In fifty years.”
“Oh.” Ilsevele frowned. “Well, everyone knows that high mages must have a lifetime of experience before they can safely study the high magic spells.” She thought a moment, then her expression brightened. “Perhaps it isn’t so bad. That will give us plenty of time to get started on our family.”
“There is that,” he admitted.
“But?”
“But I find myself wondering what I am to do with myself between now and then.” Araevin stared at his hands. “For so long I have always felt that I needed to master one more spell, find one more old book and read it, learn one more secret of the Art, prove myself in one more way. I am afraid that I may find the waiting hard to abide.”
“I think you have spent too much time among your human friends,” she replied. “There is no hurry, Araevin. And I think you will find that I can demand your full and undivided attention if I so choose.”
She reached for him and drew him close, and Araevin was soon forced to concede that Ilsevele could do exactly as she threatened when she wanted.
Later, as the stars came out in the eastern sky and the last fiery glimmers of sunset burned in the clouds of the west, Araevin held her in his arms. Together they listened to the sea’s endless voice and the sighing of the breeze in the forest.
“I am going to Faerûn soon,” he said softly. “I know.”
“I may be gone for some time. I don’t know what I am looking for.”
“I know.”
“You are not angry with me?” he said.
“Of course not. I am going with you,” she replied. She snuggled deeper into his arms. “Some desire in your heart is set on things you cannot find in Evermeet. I want to walk beside you and see what those things are. You will never be wholly mine until I do.”
Araevin thought on that for a long time. He found, somewhat to his surprise, that he wanted more than anything to have her come with him, to share the things he saw, to meet the people he knew and visit the places he loved.
“We’ll leave in a month, maybe two. I have a few things to finish at the Tower. By summer at the latest, I think. There is no hurry.”
Araevin was deep in Reverie when the call came. He and Ilsevele had tarried at the House of Cedars for two more days, content with each other’s company, considering their plans to journey into the world beyond Evermeet’s shores. But an hour after moonset, when the night was black and heavy with the wet sea winds and Araevin lay dreaming of times long past, a brilliant white flame impinged on his trance.
A swift, frightened voice interrupted his dreams: Mages of Reilloch Domayr, rally to the Tower! Demons assail the circle, and many have been slain already. Arm yourselves for battle!
“Kileontheal?” he cried out, as he roused himself from Reverie.
He could feel the imprint of the High Mage’s personality on the sending, as if her pale face hung before him in the darkened room. Araevin leaped to his feet, his mind stumbling over the message.
Demons in the Tower? Impossible! he thought.
Evermeet was warded by mighty spells that prevented creatures of the lower planes from setting foot on the island of the elves. But Kileontheal would not be mistaken about something like that, would she?
“Araevin? Are you well? You cried out,” said Ilsevele, who stood at the door of the chamber, a dressing gown wrapped around her body against the cold breeze.
“Demons are attacking the Tower,” he said numbly. “The high mages have summoned the circle to its defense. I must go at once.”
“I will saddle Swiftwind,” Ilsevele said.
“No, it would be a ride of hours. I will teleport there immediately.”
“Can you take me?”
Araevin fumbled with his belt, sparing her a single glance. “Yes, but—something is very wrong, Ilsevele. I do not know what sort of danger is waiting there. Maybe you should—”
Ilsevele’s eyes burned as she said, “Don�
�t you dare suggest that it might be too dangerous for me, Araevin. I am one of the best spellarchers on this island and I am an officer in the Queen’s Guard. If you can take me, you will.”
She ducked out of the chamber, only to reappear with her belongings. Slipping out of her dressing gown, she shrugged a light arming coat over her shoulders and began to lace it up as quickly as she could.
Araevin quickly rummaged through the small chest he’d chosen to serve as his dresser and found a long vest of unusual cut. It was fitted with numerous pockets and a long bandolier filled with the ingredients and reagents he needed to cast many of his spells—carefully formed rods of crystal, spirals of copper, pinches of silver powder and dried blood, all the physical components needed to invoke his magic. Then he dashed out into the front hall for his cloak and staff. He was not as well-armed as he might like, since he had only two wands at his belt, but then he had not expected to be summoned into battle when he left the Tower.
“I am ready to go!” he called to Ilsevele.
“One moment!” she said. “I have to set Swiftwind loose. He can find his way back to my father’s house.”
She hurried past him out into the night, then returned, still lacing up her mithral shirt as she gathered her things. She slipped her feet into stout calf-high boots, threw the green cloak of the Guard around her shoulders, and uncased her bow. It was a powerful weapon of deep red yew, crafted from a rare and magical tree found only in Evermeet. She strung it with a single efficient movement.
“By the way,” Ilsevele said, “I hope you’re skilled with your teleporting spell. I don’t want to find myself a few miles out in the ocean if you miss.”
“Don’t be concerned.” Araevin paused to consider where he needed to go. Kileontheal’s call was no more than ten minutes old, but who knew what might have happened in that time? “I’ll take us directly to my workshop. It’s somewhat out of the way, so I should hope we wouldn’t appear in the middle of a battle. And I’ve a few things there that might prove useful, if matters are as desperate as the high mage indicated.”
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