Ilsevele smiled in the dim light. “That might be true, but I note that Starbrow here hasn’t answered my question. You’ve said before that you were from Cormanthor, but where exactly?”
“I thought the elves abandoned this place,” Maresa said, surprised.
“For the most part, we did,” Filsaelene told her. “Certainly no elves live near Myth Drannor any longer. But there are still a few small elven settlements in different places in this forest. Cormanthor stretches from the Thunder Peaks to the Dragon Reach, and from Cormyr to the Moonsea. It’s a big forest.”
“How did you come to meet my father?” Ilsevele asked. “Until he embarked on this crusade against the daemonfey, I never knew him to have visited Cormanthor.”
Starbrow remained silent for a long time. “You will have to ask your father about that,” he finally said. “It’s not a question for me to answer.”
“Now what does that mean?” Ilsevele asked, rather sharply.
“Ask your father,” Starbrow said again. Then he fell silent, and said no more.
Araevin finally stirred fully from his Reverie some hours later, and felt surprisingly refreshed. He ran his fingers over the blue moss of the cavern floor, and wondered what kind of healing magic the folk of Myth Drannor had imbued in it long ago. He found Starbrow sitting with his back to the wall, watching the secret door that led back out to the chapel. Ilsevele and Filsaelene were deep in their own Reveries, and Maresa was simply asleep, snoring softly.
Lying still, he closed his eyes and touched the Nightstar embedded in his chest, seeking the spells the selukiira stored as ably as his own spellbooks. He chose a simple spell of minor telekinesis first, the sort of thing that almost any apprentice could master, and concentrated on it until its mystic symbology and invocations were pressed into his mind, like a melody he could not get out of his head.
Then he sat up, moved his hands in the appropriate gestures, and muttered the words of the simple spell. To his great relief, he felt the magic, soft and familiar, streaming through his mind and his fingertips, as he picked up a small stone and carefully moved it over to drop into Starbrow’s lap.
The moon elf looked up. “You did that?”
Araevin nodded. “Yes. Sarya’s defenses simply emptied my mind of readied spells. They didn’t damage my ability to study and memorize more.”
“That’s a relief, then,” the moon elf said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Araevin replied. He focused his attention on the selukiira again, and began furiously memorizing spell after spell, rebuilding his repertoire from nothing. He felt as if his mind were humming with arcane energy, a sensation that he had become so accustomed to in centuries of practicing magecraft that he could not begin to guess when he might have stopped noticing it.
“How long will you need to ready your spells?”
“An hour, perhaps two,” said Araevin. “Then we will see about getting out of here.”
Sarya Dlardrageth stood by a ruined wall near the city’s old Burial Glen, and studied her handiwork with the mythal-weave. The dark bronze strands of her crafting drifted past her outstretched fingers, winding in and among the invisible golden net that comprised the city’s ancient magic field.
“Here,” she said. “He was here when the mythal’s defenses struck him.”
Xhalph waited nearby, towering over her. The daemonfey prince stood well over eight feet tall, with four powerfully muscled arms and just the slightest canine cast to his features—both inherited from his demonic father.
“The sun elf mage?” he asked. “The one who marred your weaving at Myth Glaurach?”
“Yes,” Sarya hissed.
In her long life she had learned to hate many adversaries, to nurse smoldering anger and cold fury for years upon years, but rarely had she been dealt such a reverse as Araevin Teshurr had dealt her in the heart of her own citadel. The very notion that he had somehow followed her to her new lair and had attempted to evict her from yet another mythal was enough to fill her with a wrath so hot and bitter than even Xhalph shied from meeting her eyes.
“Araevin was here,” she went on, “and he attempted to take this mythal from me, too.” She allowed herself a cold smile. “But my new defenses were more than he expected. I was ready for him this time. If I read the mythal right, he received a nasty little surprise when he started plucking at my threads.”
“Do you think he knows we are here?”
Sarya’s smile faded at once. “It is almost a certainty,” she admitted. “I want him caught before he carries word of our presence back to his friend Seiveril Miritar and the rest of Evermeet’s knights and mages.”
Xhalph glanced around the wooded glade. “Our fey’ri and baatezu have been scouring the area for hours, and the only sign they’ve turned up is a dead gelugon about half a mile from here. He has had ample opportunity to escape by now.”
“My mythal trap drained him of most, if not all, of his magic,” Sarya said. “Without his spells, he must flee on foot or hide somewhere until his magic returns. In either case, we can still catch him.” She looked up at Xhalph, and lightly leaped into the air, snapping her leathery wings until she hovered ten feet above him. “Take charge of the pursuit, Xhalph! Spare no effort to prevent the mage’s escape.”
The daemonfey swordsman bowed his head, and sprang into the air, arrowing off into the woods, calling for the fey’ri who attended him. Sarya wheeled and flew in the opposite direction, back to Castle Cormanthor. While she certainly hoped that Araevin was lying powerless and vulnerable somewhere nearby, it was clearly foolish to simply hope that he would be caught before he carried word of her tampering in Myth Drannor to her enemies. She would have to presume that he had already escaped, and that Seiveril Miritar and all who stood with him would soon learn of her new retreat.
She needed to speak to Malkizid.
Alighting on a high balcony, Sarya passed a pair of fey’ri who stood guard there. The proud daemonfey warriors knelt and spread their wings as she passed, grounding their long-headed spears in salute. She swept by them into the hallway beyond, and quickly made her way to the chamber of the mythal stone.
With the ease of long practice, Sarya whispered the words of a spell and woke the mythal’s magic to her hand.
“Malkizid!” she called out. “Answer me! I would speak with you.”
Her words reverberated in the dense magical fields dancing around the mythal stone. Then she felt Malkizid’s presence in the conduit, as the devil-prince responded to her call.
“I am here, Sarya,” he said in his melodious voice. “What is it you desire?”
“The mage Araevin Teshurr has visited us here,” she said.
“Ah! Did the spell trap I showed you snare him?”
“He triggered it, but he apparently made his escape on foot before my warriors could catch him. But it did empty him of spells, and he was completely unable to tamper with my mythal-weaving here.”
Even though she could not see him, she felt Malkizid nodding in satisfaction on the other side of the conduit.
“Good, good. You see what we can do when we combine my knowledge of these things with your special heritage and talent for sorcery?”
“Do not patronize me, Malkizid,” Sarya snapped. She paced anxiously in front of the stone, her tail twitching from side to side. She had had little use for confined spaces since escaping from her prison beneath old Ascalhorn three years ago, and even though the mythal chamber beneath the castle’s great hall was large and spacious, she still did not care for it. “If Araevin has discovered me here, he will certainly carry word to Evermeet’s army and anyone else who cares to listen.”
The devil-prince fell silent a moment.
“You fear Evermeet’s army will pursue you even here,” he said at last.
“Twice now I have been denied the realm that is mine to rule—once in ancient Siluvanede, and a second time at Myth Glaurach. This city is the seat of my third realm, Malkizid, and here I will raise
a mighty kingdom indeed. All I need is time, time to master more of your mythal spells, time to build my armies again.”
“You need not fear that possibility, Sarya,” said the demon-prince. “With the right mythal spells, you could stand a siege of centuries within Myth Drannor’s ruins.”
Sarya stopped her pacing and turned to face the mythal stone through which Malkizid spoke, even though she knew that he was not physically present.
“I have spent ages uncounted buried in traps and prisons! I am not going to simply sit within these crumbling ruins and allow my enemies to contain me here forever.”
“Then you must destroy Evermeet’s army. Since you cannot reach them where they are now, perhaps matters will turn to your advantage if they place themselves within your reach here.” Malkizid paused a moment, then asked, “Are you certain that Evermeet is your only foe? What of the Jaelre or Auzkovyn drow? Or the human lands near this city?”
Sarya barked in bitter laughter. “The drow have not seen fit to show themselves yet, and I doubt they will do so. Vesryn Aelorothi tells me that some demonic nemesis has all but harried them from the old Elven Court entirely. As for the humans … the humans have dreaded these woods for a thousand years or more. Why, the memories alone of old Cormanthyr have been sufficient to keep them from expanding into the forest.”
“A kingdom stands on four pillars, Sarya: magic, steel, coin, and allies. You can do without one pillar, but your realm will not survive long if you lack two or more. Here you have magical power, and soon an army to be reckoned with, when we bring more of my infernal warriors to your banner—under the terms of our existing bargain, of course. What of the other two pillars?”
“Commerce is for humans,” Sarya growled. “But allies … allies could be useful. Unfortunately, the nearest orcs or ogres of any number are in the lands of Thar, across the Moonsea.”
“I was speaking of the human powers that surround this forest. Or even the drow, for that matter.”
Sarya turned slowly to gaze into the aura of dancing golden light.
“I have no use for the drow,” she said. She was inclined to discount the rest of Malkizid’s suggestion, too, yet there was something in the archdevil’s words, wasn’t there? Even if she had no use for the humans, she certainly did not want to see Evermeet’s army ally with any of those powers against her. “But the humans … Sembia or Zhentil Keep have no interest in seeing Evermeet’s army in Cormanthor, do they? Perhaps these enemies could be turned against each other. But what would you gain from such a development, I wonder?”
“Your success is my success, Sarya Dlardrageth. You are the ally I have needed for five thousand years, the missing pillar in my kingdom. And I am the missing pillar in your new realm.” Sarya felt the archdevil’s keen hunger and ambition glinting through the mythal almost as if she were gazing into his eyes. “I have waited a long time for my freedom. You can help me gain it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
22 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms
Anticipating trouble, Araevin and Filsaelene wove a number of spells, wards, and abjurations over their companions in the safety of the hidden cave. Araevin warded them from blades and talons with his spell of stoneskin, and finished by once again weaving the spell of invisibility over the small band.
“The spells will not last long,” he said. “We should head straight for the portal glade, and avoid any delay.”
He nodded to Starbrow, and the tall moon elf set his shoulder to the hidden door leading out into Sehanine’s shrine, gently opening it a handspan to peer outside.
“No one in sight,” Starbrow said. “Follow me, and stay close.”
One by one they slipped out of the refuge. Daylight had long since faded, and the night was overcast with only a hint of moonshine glowing behind the clouds. Starbrow lingered a moment to slide the door shut behind them and quickly scuff up the signs of their passage.
“No sense letting the daemonfey find it,” he said in a low voice.
They set off at a quick jog along the old forest roads, heading back toward the jagged spires of the city that rose above the trees.
They hurried on through the night-black forest, until Araevin sensed that they were quite close to the portal glade. He started to whisper a warning to Starbrow, but the moon elf slacked his pace and raised one hand in warning before Araevin could speak.
He looked back to Araevin and whispered, “Do I go on ahead, or do we all go together?”
“Together,” Araevin whispered back. “My invisibility spell won’t work if we spread out too far.”
Starbrow nodded, and moved carefully out into the clearing, his hand on Keryvian’s hilt. Araevin followed him, peering into the dark shadows that gathered around the edges of the clearing. Nothing stirred in the small clearing. He felt Ilsevele a step behind, and Filsaelene and Maresa bringing up the rear.
“The portal,” Araevin said to his companions, and he hurried over to the blank stone face where the magical doorway opened. He checked it quickly, searching for signs of a sealing spell or trap, and found none.
“Just a moment,” he told the others, and he fished out the tiny white blossoms needed to open the gate.
A sinister voice hissed somewhere in the air above him, and Araevin felt his invisibility spell suddenly shredded into useless scraps of fading magic.
“Ambush!” he cried to his companions.
“I knew you would return to this door, paleblood!” cried a harsh, booming voice from above the glade. “You have troubled us for the last time.”
Araevin whirled and looked up. Descending from some unseen perch high above, a band of armored fey’ri appeared in the night sky and dropped down toward his small company. At their head flew a terrible scion of darkness, a huge, powerfully built demon-elf with four arms and a curving scimitar in each hand. His eyes burned like balls of green flame in the darkness.
“What in the black pits of the Abyss is that?” Maresa snarled.
Her crossbow snapped, and a stubby quarrel glanced from the huge swordsman’s breastplate. Ilsevele’s bow sang beside Araevin, and silver-white arrows killed in midair a fey’ri sorcerer about to cast a spell. The creature’s wings crumpled and he plummeted headlong into the clearing.
A stabbing bolt of lighting darted down from another spellcaster, but Araevin expertly parried the spell with a quick spell-shield, batting its baleful energy aside to detonate in the forest nearby. Then from another fey’ri a small knot of absolute darkness streaked down into the center of the glade. In the space of two heartbeats the black ball blossomed out into a wide cloud of roiling blackness, shot through with purple-white bolts of energy. Frigid, cloying darkness closed in around Araevin, and jabbing lances of unclean fire seared him across his limbs and torso, as if icy filth had been shoved under his skin. He gasped and staggered.
“Araevin, get the gate open!” Starbrow called.
Keryvian leaped from its sheath like a brand of white fire, burning away the foul blackness that had descended over the glade. He dashed forward and met the daemonfey swordmaster.
With a roar of fury, the four-armed monster dropped down on top of Starbrow, his two lower blades flashing in a vicious cross-cut, followed an instant later by a double down-cut from his upper arms. Yet somehow Starbrow, with his one blade, parried both cross-cuts with a single great shock, and quickly spun aside from the overhand attacks, finishing his turn with a whirling backhand slash that beat through the massive daemonfey’s right-hand guard and slashed a deep cut across the back of the monster’s calf. Keryvian gave off a shrill, high ring as it tasted demonflesh.
The huge swordsman roared again, then turned and sprang straight at Starbrow, unleashing a dizzying fusillade of slashes with his four blades. Then Araevin wrenched his eyes away from the furious duel as more fey’ri attacked, scouring the clearing with gouts of green sorcerous fire and deadly curses and blights. Filsaelene stumbled and fell to her hands and knees, blinded by a fey’ri spell, then Maresa swore
a vile oath and scrambled back away from a boiling nest of magical, ruby-colored scorpions that erupted from the ground all around her, each the size of a human hand.
“Damn it! I hate scorpions. I hate them!” she snarled.
Araevin spied a fey’ri warrior swooping down at the blinded Filsaelene. He snapped out the arcane words of a deadly spell and fired a bright emerald beam of magical power at the demon-elf. The spell caught the fey’ri on her right side, and with a terrible green flash of light, she disintegrated into sparkling motes that rained down over the clearing. He searched for another foe and found Ilsevele firing furiously at several fey’ri who swooped and dodged, trading magical blasts for her arrows. Already two black scorch marks smoked at her hip and left arm, but an arrow-feathered fey’ri lay crumpled in the clearing nearby.
Araevin calmly chanted the words of a spell that illuminated the whole clearing with lights of a dozen different colors. Yellow arcs of lightning incinerated one fey’ri, while another was turned instantly to stone and fell so close to Maresa that the genasi had to dive aside to keep from being crushed. She swore again and returned to her work of skewering scorpions on the point of her rapier.
Araevin turned to help Starbrow with his foe, but a battery of fiery bolts from an invisible spellcaster he had missed rained down all around him. Flames seared his chest, his thigh, and his outflung arms, just missing his eyes. He staggered back, flailing at the smoldering fires.
“Araevin! Is the door open yet?” snarled Starbrow.
His duel with the massive daemonfey swordsman continued unabated. He’d been wounded at least twice, with long lines of scarlet trickling down his fine elven mail, but he battled grimly on, somehow ducking and dodging and parrying blow after blow his opponent rained down on him. The hulking daemonfey bared his fangs in pure frustration, hacking his heavy scimitars one after another at the moon elf warrior.
Filsaelene scrambled to her feet, quickly chanting a holy verse that wiped away the blindness curse that had felled her before. She looked for a foe, and blanched.
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