“With the humans?” one of her fey’ri asked. “Have they no sense of dignity?”
Sarya frowned. “Understand this: the world has changed while we slumbered. In our day the humans were crude barbarians who sometimes aped our cities and our speech. Humans are not the savages they once were. Their squalid cities and ramshackle empires cover the land like an infestation of locusts.” Her face twisted into a snarl. “They have stolen our ancient lands, driven off our folk, desecrated our sacred places, destroyed the great forests. Of all the wrongs we have suffered at the hands of the Eaerlanni and their allies, this may be the greatest: In our absence they permitted the shining cities and high kingdoms of the People to fall beneath the stinking tide of humankind. Elven Faerûn has been dying for centuries, and they have done nothing to save it.”
“If humans have become so numerous, and the Tel’Quessir so rare, are they not our most dangerous enemy?” asked Breden Yesve.
“In time they will be,” Sarya replied. “But, as it turns out, no human realms now stand between the High Moor and the Graypeak Mountains. Other than the league of the Silver Marches, there are no human settlements larger than a small town for many hundreds of miles. We will have little interference from human kingdoms at first. By the time they think to intervene, we will have strengthened our position to the point where we can dictate terms to our new neighbors, or destroy them if they prove unmanageable.”
Lord Yesve nodded, and returned his attention to the map.
“Good. Now attend, all of you. We are surrounded by three enemies: the wood elves of the High Forest, Evereska, and the human cities of the Silver Marches. I suspect they will object to my creation of a new Siluvanede in the lands they mistakenly regard as theirs. And rather than argue with them about the matter, I mean to retake what is rightfully ours. This is how it shall be done.
“Jasrya, you are to lead the Ilviiri against the High Forest. The Aelorothi and Dhaorothi are also under your command. Your mission is to wipe the wood elf realm from the face of the forest. Destroy their villages, slay their warriors, enslave the young and the weak. Strike quickly, and without mercy. The wood elves are scattered throughout the forest, so keep your warband together, and give them no chance to gather a force large enough to threaten you. I will send Xhalph with you to assist you in your work. These are the descendants of our ancient enemies. Visit on them the vengeance they have earned.”
“Thank you, Mother,” the daemonfey swordsman growled.
“Lord Mardeiym, you are to take House Reithel; with Floshin, Ulvaerren, Ursequarra, and Almyrrtel; and march on Evereska. I will join you when I am able. It is your task to take the city by whatever means are necessary. You have nearly fifteen hundred fey’ri warriors under your command since I expect you to have the harder fight. I will also dispatch with you a strong force of our demonic allies.
“Lord Breden, you are to lead House Yesve to the eastern end of the Rauvin Vale and keep Silverymoon at bay. I will also give House Ealoeth to you. Your force is the weakest of our three armies, so I do not want you to attack unless you find the humans weaker than I thought. You are simply a screening force to make sure that Silverymoon does not interfere with our capture of Evereska or the scouring of the wood elves from the High Forest.”
“As you command, my lady,” Breden said with a bow.
“I have laid the groundwork for alliances with orcs, ogres, and such rabble that dwell in the nearer reaches of the Nether Mountains,” Sarya continued. “Unfortunately, the phaerimm drove many of these creatures to their deaths against Evereska only a couple of years ago, so the tribes of the mountains are not as strong as I might have hoped. Do not trust these stupid creatures with anything important. Use them as skirmishers and raiders, or, if a chance presents itself, drive them into battle before your fey’ri in order to die in place of our own soldiers. We are strong, but our numbers are not inexhaustible, and we don’t want a fey’ri to die when an orc will do.
“When Evereska falls, we will turn Reithel’s army back to the north and repel any assault mustering in Silverymoon—or invade that city and raze it, if it lies within our power.”
“Do we have sufficient strength to contemplate fighting three foes at once?” Mardeiym Reithel asked. He was a crafty old fighter, veteran of many fiercely fought campaigns in the Seven Citadels’ War, and a fervent devotee of the dark powers the daemonfey worshiped.
“If we strike only at one of these enemies, the other two will come to their aid anyway,” Sarya replied. “I am confident that we can triumph over the wood elves and Evereska quickly. Once we have won our battles in those places, I believe that the humans of Silverymoon will see little reason to continue fighting.” She studied the rest of the fey’ri, noting the glowing eyes, the feral grins. After five thousand years of magical slumber, her legions were eager to fight for her again. “Go back to your Houses and ready your warriors to fly. I mean to march at once.”
CHAPTER 6
1 Ches, the Year of Lightning Storms
Araevin decided to wait at Daggerford for two days, on the chance that Theleda or even Darthen might turn up, or at least send word. In the early hours, while the humans slept, he and Ilsevele braved the bitter weather to ride or walk the countryside around the settlement. The afternoons and evenings they spent in the common room of the Dragonback, trading tales with Grayth or digesting news of distant lands from the caravan masters and traders who passed through the town.
Late in the evening of the second night, as the Dragonback’s evening crowd was beginning to disperse, Araevin and his companions looked over a map of the Sword Coast over steaming goblets of mulled wine. He intended to set out on his quest soon, and he was taking the opportunity to study the roads leading south. He could feel the second telkiira in that direction, tugging at the back of his mind like something he had forgotten.
“Which one of you is Araevin Teshurr?”
Araevin and the others looked up, and found a young woman standing at the end of their table. She was a strikingly unusual person, her skin as pale as snow, almost a frosty blue in places. Her eyes were large and violet, and her hair was silver-white and long, streaming softly from her head as if she stood in a gentle breeze—though the smoke simply hung in the rafters of the tavern without so much as a hint of motion. Tall and graceful, she wore high leather boots, black breeches, and a soft quilted doublet over a shirt of white silk.
“Well?” she asked.
“I am Araevin Teshurr,” Araevin replied. “And you are—?”
“I am Maresa Rost. Theleda Rost was my mother.” Without awaiting an invitation, the pale woman dropped herself into a seat beside Ilsevele, and fixed her startling purple eyes on the others in the company. “You must be Grayth Holmfast. I don’t know who you are, or you,” she said, looking at Ilsevele and Brant in turn.
“Theleda’s daughter?” Araevin could not keep the surprise from his voice.
Theleda had a daughter? he thought.
Theleda had been the first to leave the company, a couple of years before their last travels, so there might be as much as twenty years during which she could have had a child.
“Yes, we went over that already,” Maresa said. She poured herself a large helping of their wine. “My mother told me a few stories about her old adventures. You were two of the Company of the White Star, weren’t you?”
Araevin studied the young woman closely. She had Theleda’s pointed chin and heart-shaped face, but her coloration was so odd …
“Excuse my surprise,” Araevin said, “but Theleda is human, and you are—I hope you will forgive me, I am not sure what kindred you belong to. I do not think I have ever seen someone like you.”
The young woman snorted softly and replied, “Well, there are not many like me. I am a genasi. Theleda was human, of course. My father was a being of the elemental planes. The plane of elemental air, or so I understand, which is why I look as I do. It was an unusual romance, I suppose, and I understand it did not last lo
ng.”
Araevin shook his head. Who would have thought? Then something Maresa had said resurfaced.
“One moment. Theleda isn’t—?”
“Theleda was murdered last summer,” Maresa said. “One of her business rivals had her assassinated.”
Araevin sat back, his heart aching. First Belmora, then Theleda too? She had always been abrasive, arrogant, armed with too sharp a wit, perhaps. But they had shared many dangers together.
“Our company is growing smaller by the day, Grayth,” he said softly.
The cleric replied, “I am sorry to hear it, but the news does not surprise me. Such things happen in Theleda’s line of work.” He looked over to Maresa. “I am sorry for your loss. Are you well? I mean, are you in any danger from those who killed Theleda? We may be able to help.”
Maresa smiled thinly and answered, “No, I am not in any danger. I found the assassin who murdered my mother and killed him. And I found out who had hired him, and killed his employer as well. I went back to Waterdeep after I saw to that.”
Araevin was not sure if one should congratulate a young human—well, half-human—woman on having successfully killed the murderers of a parent.
“I see,” he managed, and decided to change the subject. “How did you receive my summons?”
Maresa reached into her tunic and drew out a small pendant in a star-shaped design.
“This little keepsake of my mother’s,” she said. “I wear it to remember her by.”
Araevin nodded. He had given the tokens to his companions when they parted in order to serve as conduits for his call, if he should ever need them again.
“So what business did you think you had with my mother?” the genasi asked.
“I have just returned to Faerûn after a long time in Evermeet,” Araevin answered, “and I find that I have need of some trustworthy comrades to assist me in the recovery of some relics of my people. Theleda was an expert at traps and locks and such things, and I had hoped I might persuade her to travel with us again. But it seems we will have to do without her.”
“I might be able to help you. Mother taught me everything she knew.”
“It might be dangerous, and there may be little reward in it,” Araevin said.
“I have reasons to leave Waterdeep anyway, and as long as I get an equal share of the profits—or am reasonably compensated for my time, if there are none—I might be interested.”
“Maresa, I don’t think you understand,” Grayth said. “You may not have much regard for whether you yourself are in danger, but we may have to trust our companions with our lives. You are young, and we don’t know you.”
“I told you that I dealt with my mother’s murderers myself,” Maresa said flatly.
“Which we only have your word on,” Grayth replied.
“Fine. Allow me to demonstrate,” Maresa snapped. She stood up quickly and rested one hand conspicuously on the hilt of a rapier at her belt, a graceful weapon with a guard of gleaming silver. A slender wand of dark wood rested in a small holster next to the blade. “Who’s the best swordsman among the four of you?”
Grayth folded his thick arms across his chest and said, “I don’t know if that would—”
“Afraid to try your luck, priest?”
The Lathanderite stopped in mid-sentence, his face expressionless. He leaned back in his seat.
“She’s her mother’s daughter, all right,” said the priest. “If my eyes were closed, I would swear that was Theleda speaking. And the gods know Theleda never had a good eye for picking a fight.”
Maresa bridled, but Ilsevele set a hand on her arm and said, “In all seriousness, you know something about traps, and glyphs, and such things?”
“I already said so!”
“All right, then. Open this.”
Ilsevele reached into her pack for her spellbook. As a spellarcher, she studied wizardry in order to enchant her arrows. She had nothing like Araevin’s skill in the Art, but she was no novice either, and as many wizards did, she had protected her spellbook with abjurations designed to prevent anyone from pilfering her spells. It was a small, slender volume bound between thin sheets of laspar wood, with clasps of silver.
“There’s nothing deadly here,” Ilsevele explained, “but you definitely won’t like it if you open the book without passing my signs safely.”
Maresa bristled.
“An audition? Fine!” she muttered under her breath.
She sat down again, peering at Ilsevele’s spellbook without touching it.
Araevin sat up straight and looked to Ilsevele. He knew what sort of protections Ilsevele had on her spellbook, and they were formidable even if they weren’t deadly.
He said in Elvish, “Ilsevele, do you think this is wise? If she fails, she will be shamed, and if she succeeds, she is likely to insist on going.”
Ilsevele shook her copper hair, met his eyes with her sharp gaze, and answered in Elvish, “She came in her mother’s place. I have a feeling about her, Araevin. I am willing to give the girl a chance, if you are.”
Araevin acceded. He returned his attention to Maresa, who had finished looking over the book. The genasi whispered the words of a seeing spell, and the spellbook began to glow with a soft azure radiance. She carefully studied the book again for a few moments, examining the spells that lay over it.
“All right, then,” Maresa said as she reached into a vest pocket in her doublet and retrieved a small leather folio, opening it on the table by the book. “Your glyph will be damaged.”
“We will see,” said Ilsevele. “Do what you need to, as long as you don’t damage the book itself.”
“It’s your book,” Maresa replied.
She found a small paper packet in the leather case and opened it, shaking out a purple-colored powder over the spellbook. Then she laid a thin piece of parchment over the powdered book. With a stick of charcoal she carefully colored the parchment, making a rubbing or etching of the spellbook’s cover.
On the parchment, a string of mystic symbols appeared in her rubbing. No such symbols had been visible on the book’s cover beforehand. Maresa left the parchment in place and fished a strange styluslike instrument from her case. Muttering the words of a counter charm, she picked out the symbols on her charcoal rubbing one by one and pressed each out with the stylus, changing it to a different symbol by erasing one stroke. Carefully she negated or altered each symbol in the arcane phrase, then straightened up and shook her flowing white hair. Araevin noticed that she still had not broken a sweat. With a smug smile, she removed the parchment, picked up the book and shook off her powder, and promptly opened it. “Satisfied?” she asked.
“Damn. That was nicely done,” Grayth said. “All right, so you’re better than I thought.”
“You can come,” said Ilsevele. She took her spellbook back from Maresa with a rueful look. “I suppose I need better runes to protect my book.”
Araevin set down his mug and looked up at Maresa. “There is a little more to this than striking out spell traps,” he said. “It’s not wise to seek out dangerous places in the company of people you don’t trust implicitly, and to put it plainly, you don’t know us very well, nor do we know you.”
“You knew my mother, didn’t you?” Maresa riposted. “She carried your pendant until the day she died, elf. She would have answered your call, so I am here in her place.”
Neither Araevin nor Grayth replied.
“I thought so,” Maresa said. “In that case, where are we going, and when do we leave?”
Gaerradh knelt easily in a well-disguised tree stand overlooking the village of Rheitheillaethor. The moon was hidden behind the overcast, leaving little more than a silver patch in the darkness overhead, but an elf’s eyes needed little light. She could clearly make out the simple shelters and fieldstone storehouses on the ground below, with the gleaming patches of white snow lingering around the boles of the broad weirwoods and shadowtops sheltering the village.
Rheitheillaethor w
as home to nearly five hundred of the wood elves, but few of them lived in the buildings and shelters on the ground. Instead their homes were hidden high in the branches above the forest floor, a cunning arrangement of disguised platforms and narrow catwalks that was nearly invisible to anyone below. Even knowing they were there, Gaerradh had a hard time picking out other stands and platforms at any distance, but here and there she caught glimpses of resolute wood elf warriors crouching in stands like hers, waiting for the enemy to appear.
She shifted her position, craning her head for a better look. Her platform was near the center of the village, away from the pickets where she would have liked to be, and she was impatient to get a look at her foes. Three days before she had brought news of the breaking of Nar Kerymhoarth to the elders of Rheitheillaethor. The next day news had followed of orc bands on the move in the forest, accompanied by winged elves, cruel and proud, armed for war. Gaerradh had no idea who the elfkin might be, but the fact that they marched in the company of orcs spoke for their intentions. Wood elf scouts had shadowed the invaders since sunrise. There could be no doubt that they were coming to Rheitheillaethor.
“The waiting is not easy, is it?” whispered a voice behind her.
The Lady Morgwais, sometimes known as the Lady of the Wood, shared the large platform with her. She was beautiful and graceful, with long auburn hair and a copper-red complexion that made her seem half a dryad. She had asked Gaerradh to stay close by her in the large tree near the village’s center, along with half a dozen more sharpshooters and mages. In better times their perch served as the hall of the village elders, the largest structure in Rheitheillaethor’s canopy, but the wood elves had fitted new screens and camouflaging panels to make the hall into a hidden redoubt high above the forest floor.
Gaerradh did not take her eyes from the woodlands to the northeast.
“I don’t like meeting them in the village, Lady Morgwais,” she replied. “I do not mean to question your judgment, but I can’t help but think we would be better off in the open forest, where we could ambush and melt away from pursuit. I fear being trapped.”
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