“Someone went to a great deal of trouble to make sure that these telkiira would not be easily found or opened by the wrong people.”
“Exactly. Let’s see if I can open it.” Araevin peered very closely into the gemstone, and glimpsed a glyph similar to the one he had seen in the first telkiira when he had examined it in Seiveril’s sitting room. This one was subtly different. He spoke the words of his deciphering spell, hoping to identify the rune so that he might name it and thereby master it—but the glyph remained mysterious and unchanged, inscrutable.
“Well, that didn’t work,” he said.
“You can’t open it?”
“I didn’t say that. I’ll just need a different approach.” Araevin thought about the puzzle, and tried a spell of erasure, an enchantment designed to render glyphs and symbols powerless, but that failed as well. He followed that with an attempt to dispel the telkiira’s defenses and bypass them in that manner, but whomever had created the stone had been a wizard of no little accomplishment. Araevin could not begin to unravel even the least thread of the spell.
Frowning, he set down the stone and paced away, thinking hard. He had exhausted the spells most likely to be useful, though he hadn’t made the effort of preparing every spell his mind could hold that morning. With a few minutes’ study, he could press another spell or two into his mind. The only question was, which one would do the trick?
The only other option he could think of was a spell invoking a vision. It was difficult and not without risk, but he had no other ideas at the moment. He went over to his shelf of spellbooks and pulled down the appropriate tome, carrying it over to a reading stand and whispering the passwords needed to open the book safely. He flipped through its heavy vellum pages to the right spot, and began studying the spell intensely. In fifteen minutes, he decided he had impressed the spell into his mind as well as he could, and he straightened up.
“That should do it,” he said.
“What are you going to do?” asked Ilsevele.
“Provoke a vision.”
Araevin moved back over to the table on which he had set the telkiira, and rested his hand atop the small dark stone. Then he carefully intoned the words of the spell. The stones of the tower seemed to reverberate with the force of his magical words, and the theurglass windows hummed and rippled in response. Ilsevele watched with growing alarm, but Araevin finished the spell, and knowledge poured into his mind.
He saw the three telkiira, lying together in a velvet-lined case. An old moon elf wizard in ancient robes held the case, standing in the conjury of some unknown elven tower. He handed the stones one by one to three younger elves. Faint whispers of the long-ago names crawled through the shimmering, streaming view: Kaeledhin, Sanathar, Morthil, and the name Ithraides, the name of the moon elf mage who inscribed the telkiira long ago. He watched as the mage Ithraides drew glyphs in each telkiira, and he glimpsed the names of the second and third runes: xorthar and larthanos. Then the vision spiraled away from him, and his own true surroundings returned to him in a dizzying rush. Araevin gasped and sagged to his knees.
“Araevin! Are you well?” Ilsevele asked as she hurried to his side.
“A moment,” he said. He waited for the weakness to pass, then rallied. “The spell is strenuous, but I think I have what I need now.”
“Maybe we don’t need to see what is in this second stone,” Ilsevele said as she helped him to his feet.
“I have already cast the spell. I might as well use the names I have learned.” Araevin picked up the second telkiira again, and held it close to his eye. This time, as he studied the shimmering glyph hidden in its depths, he spoke confidently: “Xorthar.” The inscribed symbol gave off a flash of blue light, and the telkiira opened its knowledge to him.
Weird symbols and arcane formulae pressed themselves into his mind, the spells contained in the second stone. Araevin shunted them to the side for later examination, and plunged deeper into the loregem. Like a distant beacon he sensed the third stone, burning clear and bright, somewhere far to the east and north—Faerûn again, somewhere farther north than the spot where he’d found the second stone. He glimpsed a deep, moss-grown gorge through which an icy white stream rushed, and a dismal cave mouth hidden beneath the overhanging rock. And he saw again the proud sun elf with the hateful green eyes that he had seen during his exploration of the first telkiira, a mage of great power who meticulously scribed tiny runes on a large, purple gemstone the size of a thumb.
As the old thoughts faded, he looked at the spells in the stone. There was a spell of unweaving magic, which he knew already; a spell that produced a terrible blast of supernatural cold, which he did not; a spell that drained away enemy spell shields in order to strengthen the caster; a spell for destroying undead; and a spell of binding that could imprison its victims in a number of ways. And there was another segment of the mysterious spell that had appeared only as a fragment in the first stone. Clearly, he would have to examine all three telkiira at once to determine what it was and how it could be mastered.
“Well?” Ilsevele asked.
Araevin leaned wearily on his worktable, steadying himself after the effort of unlocking of the telkiira, and briefly explained to Ilsevele what he had discovered.
“If we return to Faerûn,” Ilsevele said, “the demon-elves will be waiting for us. They want those telkiira.”
“I know. But if they reach the third stone before me, I may never unravel this little mystery Philaerin left for me.” He looked out the windows, stained rose with the approaching dawn, and said, “Grayth will be rising soon; he never misses his sunrise devotions to Lathander. We should take counsel together and decide what to do next.”
The holy rites of Corellon Larethian, Lord of the Seldarine and ruler over the gods of the elves, were most often celebrated under the stars. But some rituals and observances seemed most fitting at different times of the day. Seiveril Miritar stood in the mist-shrouded Grove of Corellon, greatest of the elf god’s temples in Evermeet, and watched the rosy streaks of dawn coloring the eastern sky. Sunrise was a time of beginnings, of renewal and rebirth, and for the magic he contemplated that day, it was the only appropriate setting.
He closed his eyes, praying that he had read the signs correctly, that he understood Corellon’s will. What he prepared to do was so rarely done that he required absolute certainty in his faith and his purpose. On returning from Evereska to Elion he had spent many long hours praying for guidance in the sacred grove, consumed with the question of how to defeat an army of demons and sorcerers. And in time he’d heard an answer to his divinations and invocations. But was it the answer Corellon gave to him, or was it the answer he had fashioned in his own heart, thinking it the will of his god?
“It is time,” the priestess Thilesin said. She was the highest ranking cleric of the Seldarine among the crusade besides Seiveril himself, and he had decided to bring her into his confidence, simply to voice the thought that was in his heart and hear another’s opinion. “Are you certain of Corellon’s will in this?”
“As certain as I can be,” he replied. “I am convinced of its necessity. We are sometimes carried by our fates like leaves swept along a swift river. Whether we desire it or not, we will go where we must go. What does your heart tell you?”
“I have sought Corellon’s will as well, and I detect no disapproval.” Thilesin smiled thinly and continued, “Of course, many great evils have been wrought by those who failed to see the injustice of their acts, but … as long as he is willing, I cannot see the wrong in this.”
She stepped forward, bearing a long, flat bundle wrapped in heavy cloth. With care, she unwrapped the dark felt, revealing a gleaming silver broadsword, its enchanted steel marked by faint wavy patterns of green watermarks.
“Here is Keryvian,” she said.
“Hold it while I speak the rites,” Seiveril told her.
He drew a deep breath, and raised his arms to the rising sun. In a clear, strong voice, he began to declai
m the sacred prayers and passages of a mighty spell. Corellon’s holy power welled up from the center of his chest as a white nimbus, slowly spreading over his body until Seiveril’s face shone with divine power, and argent light streamed from his outstretched fingertips. Almost at once he felt the strain of the powerful rite, but the magic seemed to stream through his soul stronger and more deeply with each word, until it felt as if he was nothing but a hollow shell, a brittle casting, through which Corellon’s will and power flowed.
Between his raised arms a white door seemed to glimmer in the air, at first a lazy fountain of rising golden sparks, then growing clearer and more distinct as Seiveril continued his chant. Through the door Seiveril glimpsed a forest of silver and gold, a place of shining white skies and rushing perfect waters, and with all his heart he found himself yearning to step forward, to enter into the realm beyond and leave his empty shell behind. But he reminded himself of his duty, and held his place.
“Fflar Starbrow Melruth!” he called. “Hero of Myth Drannor! Come, come back! Your People need you again. Fflar Starbrow Melruth, rise and walk the mortal world once more.”
A shining figure began to coalesce in the doorway, an elf strong and sad and wise.
“Who calls me?” it whispered. “Who calls me?”
“I am Seiveril Miritar, the son of Elkhazel Miritar, your friend. Six hundred and sixty years have passed since you fought in Myth Drannor. Will you come back?”
“What is your need?” the spirit asked.
“An army of demonspawned elves and demons marches on Evereska. We will meet them in battle, but I do not know if we can prevail. Your deeds in the defense of Myth Drannor are legendary. You would be a mighty champion for our cause.”
“I failed, Seiveril Miritar. I died, and Myth Drannor fell.”
“Then this is your chance to join a new battle against the enemies of all elves, and triumph where once you fell.”
The spirit remained silent as Seiveril held the door open. He could feel the hand of Corellon steadying him, supporting him, filling him with the power to attempt such an audacious resurrection. Fflar had died far too long ago for such magic to work reliably, and yet his heart had told him to make the attempt. It was what was meant to be.
“I will come.”
The spirit seemed to move toward Seiveril. Like sunshine vanishing behind a cloud the liquid silver light dimmed and took on form, becoming a tall, broad-shouldered moon elf with russet hair and a broad, handsome face. He took one faltering step out of the door of light, and fell naked to the soft loam of the clearing, suddenly real and wholly in Evermeet, Arvandor a fleeting glimpse of bliss shining on his shoulders.
Seiveril swayed and reached out for Thilesin, who moved close to steady him. The coursing divine energy vanished so swiftly that he ached with the emptiness of it. For a long moment he could not speak.
Before him, the moon elf groaned and stirred, his strong fingers clenched in the soft earth, shaking with the chill of the morning air. He gasped once, sharply.
“Where am I?” he whispered.
“Corellon’s Grove, near the city of Elion in Evermeet,” Thilesin answered for Seiveril.
She hurried close with a warm robe, and threw it over the moon elf’s shoulders.
The fellow pulled the robe close over his shoulders and pushed himself up to his knees. Then he slowly stood, looking around in silent wonder.
“How long … I mean, when is it?”
“The year is 1374, by Dalereckoning,” Seiveril answered. He was a little more steady on his feet, and he squared his shoulders to look the elf in the face. “Myth Drannor fell more than six hundred years ago.”
“Who … who am I?”
“You are Fflar Starbrow Melruth, and you were a great captain of Cormanthyr in the final days of Myth Drannor.”
Fflar hugged his arms close to his chest and shivered.
“I am Fflar,” he said. “But I was not a great captain. I failed. Why would you bring me back?”
“Because an army of fiends threatens an elven realm again, and I thought you might know more about such a foe than anyone now living. Because my father gave Keryvian into my care, and it will answer no hand other than yours. This is why I called you out of Arvandor.”
“Arvandor … I was in Arvandor,” Fflar said quietly. He took a deep breath, and looked at the sacred grove around him, and the rosy mists of dawn, and the cloud-streaked skies overhead. “I do not recall it now.”
“Forgive me if I did not do as you wished, but you said you were willing to return,” Seiveril said. “If you had declined, I could not have brought you back.”
“I don’t remember,” Fflar said. His eyes fell on the sword Keryvian, lying on the altar-stone nearby, and he moved over to slide his hand onto its grip. “I remember you, though.”
Seiveril watched the moon elf lift the sword and carefully feel the weight of it.
“Do you remember Elkhazel Miritar?” he asked. “Yes,” Fflar replied. “He was a good friend. Did he escape the city’s fall?”
“Yes. I am his son.”
Fflar looked sharply back at Seiveril and said, “Yes, I think I see the resemblance. You have his hair and his frame, I think.” His lips twitched in a weak smile. “Well, Seiveril son of Elkhazel, I find that I am hungrier than I ever imagined possible, and I’d like to put on something more substantial than this nightshirt you picked out for me. If you could point me toward breakfast and a change of clothes, I would be in your debt.”
“Come with me,” Seiveril said. “My home is not far away, and we have much to talk about.”
An hour after Grayth had concluded his morning prayers, Araevin and Ilsevele invited the human and genasi to breakfast with them in Araevin’s apartments. Araevin had the kitchens send up the heartiest fare available, and while the four of them ate, Araevin explained what he had learned by opening the second stone.
“A cold, mossy gorge with a swift stream …” Grayth said. “That could be anywhere. I hope your sense of direction remains as sharp as it was with the second stone.”
“I’m not sure I want to get anywhere near that third stone,” Maresa said. “In case you’ve all forgotten, the competition brought a dozen demons with them to the forest tower. Clearly, they can find the stones, too, and next time they might choose to bring along two dozen.”
“I don’t believe they knew where the second stone was hidden,” Araevin said. “I’ve had a chance to look at it closely, and I think its magic wards it against being found or used by the wrong people.”
“Then how did the demon-elves and their pets know where to find the stone?” the genasi demanded.
“Simple,” said Grayth, watching Araevin. “They followed us. Remember when we were spied upon in the Ardeep? Araevin defended us against that attempt, but I’d wager that our adversaries succeeded on other occasions we didn’t detect.”
“You have done more than your mother could have expected of you already,” Ilsevele said. “You need not share this danger with us.”
The genasi snorted and replied, “You won’t cut me out of my share that easily. I’m not content with the few tarnished coins we grabbed in the wizard’s tower.”
Araevin met Ilsevele’s eye, and his betrothed winked at him. He covered a smile with his hand and reached for another apple from the breakfast tray. A soft knock sounded at his door. He rose and answered it, and found that it was Loremaster Quastarte.
“Glad homeagain, Mage Araevin,” the loremaster said. “Might I have a moment of your time?”
“Certainly, Loremaster. Please, come in.” Araevin replied.
He showed the loremaster into his sitting room, and introduced Quastarte to Grayth and Maresa. The old elf concealed his surprise with admirable skill, and even remembered to clasp Grayth’s hand in the human manner and offer Maresa a courteous bow.
Araevin motioned the loremaster toward an empty seat and asked, “What is on your mind?”
Quastarte glanced at Grayth
and Maresa, and said in Elvish, “My business concerns the attack on the Tower, and what we found near Nandeyirron’s Vault.”
“They know of the attack. In fact, we’ve seen the demon-elves again and fought them. You can speak openly.”
Quastarte nodded, and switched back to Common.
“We have learned a great deal about our attackers since you departed the Tower,” he said. “My colleagues and I have pored through all of our most ancient texts and cast many divinations in order to gain a glimpse of our enemy, and our efforts have not been entirely in vain. Tell me, have you ever heard of House Dlardrageth?”
“My father mentioned that name,” Ilsevele replied, “when we spoke to him before leaving Evermeet.”
“That makes sense,” Quastarte said. “Your father’s family came out of Cormanthor. Naturally, he might have heard the old tales of House Dlardrageth. They were a powerful sun elf House in ancient Arcorar, one of the elven realms that later united into the great kingdom of Cormanthyr, whose capital was Myth Drannor. As the legend tells, they did indeed breed with demons, seeking the strength to re-forge the long-fallen empire of Aryvandaar and reclaim the dark glory of the Vyshaanti lords.”
“They are that old?” Araevin asked. “Why have we never heard of them before?”
Quastarte steepled his fingers in front of his chin and said, “The very question I asked myself once I read the old accounts of the Dlardrageths, but I will get to that soon. The dealings of House Dlardrageth were eventually uncovered in ancient Arcorar, and the powers of that realm moved against these evil elves, sealing them within their own keep behind impenetrable wards. Their House was forsaken by all other elves, their dealings renounced, their titles and lands taken from them.
Forsaken House Page 19