Forsaken House

by Richard Baker

  Surprisingly, he was not at all nervous. He knew what he intended to say, and he was certain of his course. The low murmur of hundreds of voices filled the chamber. Seiveril could feel the eyes of the other council members on him, but he waited patiently for the queen.

  At the appointed hour, Amlaruil swept into the Dome, clad in a formal dress that seemed to cascade from her shoulders like a shower of silver. Her diadem tiara gleamed in the soft starlight of the chamber. With the rest of the council, Seiveril rose as she entered, and bowed respectfully before resuming his seat.

  Amlaruil took the golden scepter of her office and rapped it twice on the glassteel table.

  “I call the council to order,” she said, her voice carrying through the great chamber. “Lord Miritar has requested the opportunity to address the council before we consider our ongoing deliberations. I hereby yield the floor to Lord Seiveril Miritar.”

  Seiveril stood slowly and bowed to the throne. He had half-expected Selsharra Durothil to protest the breach of custom, but evidently she was not quite foolish enough to attempt to keep him from speaking out of order. Amlaruil would allow him to say what he wanted to say whether she protested or not, and the attempt would make her look petty and spiteful. He turned to face the crowded galleries ringing the chamber, and the crowd fell silent, awaiting his words.

  “Ten thousand years ago,” he began, “Evermeet was founded by our ancestors as a refuge from the perils and dangers of the rest of the world, a place where the People might exist apart from the savages and barbarians, the monsters and the dragons, who have always been envious of the beauty we bring into the world. Yet Evermeet has rarely been a perfect sanctuary. Early in our history we battled the evil creatures of the sea. Later we fought against enemies who came against us through extraplanar gates and hidden tunnels. And only three years ago we were faced with a terrible alliance of all our enemies, including traitors from within our own land who followed Kymil Nimesin in his war against the throne. With courage and the favor of the Seldarine, we have triumphed over all of these foes. Evermeet has not been the place of peace our forefathers dreamed of, but it is a place of beauty and strength.

  “Yet we are not the only elves who walk in this world. Across the sea lie the realms of our kinfolk, realms such as Evereska and the Yuirwood, the High Forest and the Wealdath. Just as we are one People, bound by one language, one history, one destiny, so are our realms all one. If an elf is slain in the High Forest, then Evermeet has lost a son. If a city is thrown down in ruin in the Gray-peaks, than Leuthilspar has been sacked. Some among this council do not recognize this essential truth. While our kinfolk in Evereska and the High Forest face war and devastation, our leaders refuse to aid them. I cannot find it in my heart to go along with this decision.

  “I have come before you today to announce my resignation from this council. It is with a heavy heart that I lay aside the duties and responsibilities King Zaor called on me to accept sixty years ago. But from time to time, we are all called to answer our own consciences. For many days now I have sought Corellon Larethian’s counsel, and this is the answer that the Seldarine have shown me: I must go to Faerûn.

  “I must go to Faerûn, and I call on each of you who feels as I do to join me. The council and the throne are unable to ask Evermeet’s People to accept the burden of fighting in the defense of distant lands we have long abandoned. Very well; I ask none but willing volunteers to join me. Our kinfolk in Evereska and the High Forest are threatened by terrible new enemies, and I mean to help them. Our ancient lands have grown wild and dangerous, and I mean to restore them.

  “If you believe that the time of our People is done in Faerûn, I do not want you. If you fear that your strength will be missed too much here, that your duties are too important to lay aside, then I do not ask you to abandon them. If you simply do not care what becomes of kinfolk who live thousands of miles away, then I despise you! But if you think, as I do, that it is an act of cowardice and complicity to name something evil, and refuse to oppose it with all your might and will and power, then I call on you to join me in this crusade.

  “Make your farewells, sons and daughters of Evermeet. Lay your affairs in order, walk with your children, your lovers, and your parents in the sacred glens of this blessed isle one last time. Then gird yourself in mail, and take up your bows, swords, and lances, and come to me at Elion. There I will gather my host. In ten days’ time we will pass out of Evermeet back to Faerûn, and we will show our enemies whether or not we have any strength left to do good in this world. But know this: Whether I lead a mighty host of ten thousand, a legion of a thousand, a brave company of a hundred, or none but myself, I will go.”

  “I will go, my friends. This is what Corellon Larethian has put in my heart.” Seiveril paused, and gathered his strength for a mighty cry. “Who is with me?”

  The Dome of Stars erupted into chaos, with hundreds of voices calling out at once. From the gallery came a chorus of “I am!” and “I will go!” and “My sword is yours!” But mixed in with the rousing cries of those willing to volunteer came catcalls and other voices shouting “Madness!” and “Treason! Treason!”

  At the table, all the rest of the high councilors were on their feet, every bit as agitated as the partisans in the gallery.

  “You have no right!” Selsharra Durothil screeched. “You have no right, Miritar. You cannot choose to launch a war because you, and you alone, think it is the right thing to do!”

  “I cannot be expected to defend Evermeet if half my soldiers go off to Faerûn,” Keryth Blackhelm snapped. “This is reckless, Lord Seiveril!”

  “I will go, and I will bring two hundred of my archers and scouts with me!” the wood elf princess Jerreda Starcloak cried. “Our people are fighting for their lives in the High Forest. I will not turn my back on them.”

  “Lord Miritar, I cannot allow you to take high mages away from Evermeet,” Grand Mage Olithir said. His calm manner was belied by his wide eyes and pale face. “We have too few left after Nimesin’s war and the fight against the phaerimm. We dare not risk the loss of any more.”

  Ammisyll Veldann kept her composure. She simply turned to look at Amlaruil, who remained seated in her high seat with her face impassive.

  “Surely, my queen, you will not permit this act of madness to proceed,” Ammisyll said in a dangerously quiet voice. “Or does Lord Miritar defy the will of this council with your blessing?”

  Amlaruil betrayed no emotion, but she stood slowly and set her scepter on the table. The lords and ladies fell silent, awaiting her words, and even the chaos in the gallery diminished as the crowds there realized that the queen was about to speak.

  “I do not condone this crusade,” she said. “Evermeet’s army will not leave this island unless I order it. Lord Miritar does not dictate policy for the throne or the council.”

  “You will put a stop to this nonsense, then?” Lady Veldann said sharply.

  “No,” Amlaruil replied. “I did not say that.”

  “Do you mean to say that you do not approve of Miritar’s ridiculous crusade, but you refuse to stop it?” Ammisyll Veldann fought to keep the disbelief from her face, but failed. “Is it the case that you are lying when you say you intend to enforce the consensus of the council, or do you simply lack the strength of will to govern as monarch?”

  “Watch your tongue!” snapped Keryth Blackhelm. “I will not tolerate such speech here.”

  Amlaruil drew herself up and fixed her piercing gaze on the noblewoman.

  “I am not lying, Ammisyll. As monarch I do not condone Lord Miritar’s call for a voluntary expedition, and any efforts he makes do not reflect the official policies of the throne. And I have no lack of strength, as you should well know. The reason I do not intend to interfere with Lord Miritar is simple: It is not my place to dictate to any citizen of this realm where he or she goes and what he or she does, provided they obey the laws of the realm and respect the authority of the throne.”

  “S
o I could gather a so-called voluntary army to go invade the Moonshaes, for instance, and you would not view it as the throne’s place to stop me?” Veldann snarled. She threw up her hands in disgust. “This is anarchy!”

  “That is a poorly considered example, Lady Veldann,” Zaltarish the scribe observed. “In that case, you would be taking an action that would provoke war with another state. That is indeed an affair of the crown, and you would be stopped. But Lord Seiveril proposes to go, as a private citizen and on his own cognizance, to fight in the service of an elven realm that has been attacked by the same enemy who has already assaulted us once. He would not be creating any state of war that does not already exist between Evermeet and another realm.”

  “Bah! My point remains the same. Miritar is circumventing the decision of this council. He cannot be allowed to do this.”

  “And how would you stop me, Lady Veldann?” Seiveril retorted. “Would you have me imprisoned, perhaps? For what offense? Stating my intention to leave Evermeet? Are we not each of us free to come or go from this realm whenever we like?”

  “I think I would begin with sedition,” Lady Veldann said. “Perhaps rebellion against the throne.”

  “So now you call it sedition when a free citizen of Evermeet chooses to leave and asks if others will follow?” Seiveril said. “You have a broad definition of the term.”

  “We may not have the authority to bar any who want to follow you on your fool’s errand from leaving,” Selsharra Durothil said, “but it is certainly a seditious act to seduce the defenders of this island into abandoning their duties. We will not permit you to strip our defenses bare, Seiveril. If you try it, you will be stopped.”

  “Now you are the one who presumes to speak for the throne, Lady Durothil,” Amlaruil said. “I am quite aware of what constitutes sedition, and I will decide if or when we must respond to Lord Miritar’s call. Do not issue threats in my name.”

  The queen turned to Seiveril. She frowned, considering her words.

  “Lord Miritar, I accept your resignation with sorrow. You must do what you are called to do. But I cannot allow you to leave Evermeet defenseless, and I cannot allow you to divide our citizens into two camps. Volunteers may follow you, and I will not stop them. But you are not to coerce any into coming with you, and if I ask some to remain to attend their duties here, you are not to encourage them to leave.”

  “I agree,” Seiveril said.

  He bowed, and descended from the council table to the floor of the great hall. Jerreda Starcloak followed him, sparing one daggerlike glance for Durothil and Veldann. Seiveril glanced out over the crowded gallery, and roars of approval greeted his ears along with jeers and insults.

  “I hope you know what you have started here, Seiveril Miritar,” the wood elf noblewoman said quietly into his ear.

  Seiveril drew in a deep breath and nodded.

  “I do,” he said. Then he strode out of the room, beneath the great archway, as first dozens, then scores and scores of elves in the council gallery detached themselves from their comrades and companions in order to follow him out into the night.

  After sheltering for the night in a ruined mill near the Trade Way, Araevin and his small company arose early the next morning and left the Trollbark behind them. The weather remained cold and gray, with a light but steady rain that left them miserable and sodden as they followed the Trade Way south. They soon came to the crossroads where the Coast Way split off to head south toward the city of Baldur’s Gate, while the Trade Way turned southeast toward Soubar and Scornubel. Araevin paused at the crossroads, eyes closed as he concentrated on the glimmering intuition the telkiira had planted in his mind, and he pointed toward the Scornubel road.

  “It’s almost due east of us now,” he said. “We’re definitely getting closer, but we’re not there yet.”

  “I hope somebody hasn’t pocketed the second stone and walked off with it,” Maresa observed. “We might follow the stupid bastard all over Faerûn.”

  Araevin shook his head with a wry smile. The genasi had an acerbic manner that reminded him of her mother, but she was quicker to laugh than Theledra had ever been. “It’s not moving, I’m pretty sure of that.”

  They followed the Trade Way south and east. Each day Araevin was careful to renew his defenses against scrying spells, and he kept a wary eye out for anyone or anything that seemed to take too much interest in their passing. On two occasions he felt the cold feather-touch of some enemy prying at his barriers, seeking to circumvent his defenses and spy on him again, but each time Araevin managed to parry the attempts.

  Late on the second day they crossed the Boareskyr Bridge over the Winding Water, and they came to the town of Soubar early on the fourth day. The spring mud slowed them considerably. Many merchants had abandoned the roads, waiting for drier weather before trying to move their heavy wagons. They passed a dozen or so parties of fellow travelers each day—pilgrims bound for some shrine or another, caravans who packed their wares on surefooted mules instead of heavy carts, far-roving patrols of soldiers from Baldur’s Gate and Scornubel, adventuring companies in search of ruins to loot, nobles and their entourages riding to visit distant kin, bands of dwarf smiths and ore cutters looking for work, troupes of acrobats and entertainers, imperious mages who often as not traveled on phantom horses or flying carpets, and more than a few gangs of ruffians, brigands, and highwaymen, some of whom thought to waylay Araevin and his friends, at least until Ilsevele shot a crossbow out of someone’s hands or Araevin used a lightning bolt or similar spell to scare them off. Meanwhile, the weather warmed a bit each day, until by the time they rode into Soubar the fields were a luxurious deep green and the sun no longer rose on thick frosts each day.

  In Soubar they rested for a day and a night at an inn called the Blue Griffon, drying out their clothes and re-provisioning. Then, on the morning of the twelfth of Ches, they set out again, following the cart tracks of woodcutters northeast toward the great dark verge of the Forest of Wyrms, fifteen miles from Soubar and the road. At first they passed through prosperous if well-fortified farms, homesteads with houses and barns made from thick fieldstone and guarded by small packs of wolfhounds. But the farms gradually thinned out as they drew closer to the forest, until finally there was nothing more than a wild, desolate moorland hard by the forest itself. The company crested a low rise and found themselves at the forest’s doorstep.

  “In there?” Maresa asked with a nod of her head.

  “Yes. Not more than fifteen or twenty miles, I think,” Araevin replied.

  “Why is everything in a forest?” the genasi muttered to herself. “First the Ardeep, then the Trollbark, and now the Forest of Wyrms. I’m getting damned tired of trees.”

  “These are the places where the elven empires of long ago raised their cities and towers,” Araevin replied. “The Ardeep was the heart of the ancient realm of Illefarn. The Trollbark was part of the realm of Miyeritar, which is what the High Moor used to be called before dark magic destroyed Miyeritar during the Crown Wars. In the long years since, the Trollbark has grown wild and savage, forgetful of the elves who once roamed its hills and valleys. Even the Reaching Wood and the Forest of Wyrms were part of the old realm of Shantel Othreier, which also fell during the Crown Wars.”

  “All this land was once forested,” Ilsevele added. “A single great forest stretched from the Spine of the World to the Lake of Steam.”

  Maresa gave her a skeptical look. Grayth glanced at her as well.

  “I knew the forests of the western lands were formerly much larger,” the Lathanderite said, “But one single forest? What could have happened to it?”

  “Vast reaches of the woodland were devastated in the ancient Crown Wars, or burned by dragons, or cleared during the rise of the human empires that followed the elven realms,” Araevin answered.

  “So the remaining forests mark the spots where the old elven realms once stood?” asked Grayth.

  “Yes, but I believe that the forests remain be
cause the elven realms were there, and not the other way around. My ancestors wove many great spells and sang powerful songs to strengthen and protect the woodlands they called home. Some small portion of that elven magic lingers still—strong in the Ardeep, almost forgotten in the Trollbark. As for the Forest of Wyrms, I am not yet sure.”

  Araevin closed his eyes and consulted the knowledge of the first telkiira. He could feel its sister close by, still east of them, but not far at all.

  “This way,” he said, and he led them beneath the mighty trees.

  The Forest of Wyrms quickly proved to be a place of tremendous majesty. Its trees were mighty redwoods, each hundreds of feet tall and twenty feet thick or more. Along the streambeds and steeper hillsides smaller trees crowded closer, but for miles at a time it seemed that they rode through a great green-roofed cathedral, the noble silver trunks pillars holding up the sky. The air was cool and damp, with drifting mists clinging to the ground, and the rich, pungent smell of the wet wood hung in the air like incense.

  Ilsevele rode close beside Araevin, her eyes wandering to the distant boughs above.

  “This woodland is beautiful,” she murmured to him in Elvish. “None of the People live here?”