Farthest Reach lm-2
Page 2
“If the Nightstar had overthrown my mind, Loremaster, why did it then permit me to strike against Sarya Dlardrageth and bar her from the mythal of Myth Glaurach?” Araevin demanded. “For that matter, why did it not hide its identity, and invent a more innocuous origin? It could have used me to subvert one of you if it had concealed its true origin.”
“Sometimes half a truth is the best way to cover a lie,” the moon elf Anfalen said. “Still, I agree that your Nightstar would probably not have allowed you to tell us so much about it, if it really controlled your mind.”
“Even if you are not shackled to the stone’s will, you may be under a more subtle influence,” Kileontheal said. “If you are right, the Nightstar is the handiwork of a monster. Selukiira hold much of their maker in them, and it seems to me that you might be wise to put it away somewhere for safekeeping and never handle it again.”
“Better to destroy the thing outright,” Haldreithen added.
“I understand your concerns,” Araevin replied. “But consider this: The Nightstar holds spells of mythalcraft that no elf has known for five thousand years. Secrets as old as ancient Aryvandaar remain inside the selukiira. I do not understand all of them now, but in time I will.”
Kileontheal gazed on the stone for a long time, then looked up at Araevin and asked, “Is the selukiira capable of instructing you in high magic?”
Araevin hesitated. He felt the other high mages awaiting his answer. He did not want to speak the truth, but he dared not attempt to deceive them.
“Yes,” he said at last. He heard soft intakes of breath and sensed widened eyes and sharp sidelong glances around him. It was not often that high mages were surprised. “The spell I used to sever Sarya Dlardrageth from the mythal of Myth Glaurach was a spell of high magic. There are a number of even more powerful high magic spells in the Nightstar, as well as a great store of lore on mythalcraft and similar works. I have only scratched the surface of the selukiira ’s contents.”
“Have you embarked on the study of the other high magic spells contained in the lorestone?” the diviner Isilfarrel asked.
“Not yet, High Mage, but it is my intent to do so.” Araevin felt the consternation of the others, but he did not look away. “Sarya Dlardrageth did terrible things with the mythal of Myth Glaurach. What else might she do, given the chance? Who else might be able to do such things, now that the daemonfey have demonstrated that they are possible? Faerun is littered with the remnants of elven wards, vaults, and gates.” He paused, allowing the high mages to consider his words. “I fear that things are stirring in Faerun, things that our forefathers buried and forgot long ago. Our ignorance may prove deadly.”
“The impudence!” growled Haldreithen. “Kileontheal, you erred gravely with this one.”
Kileontheal’s eyes flashed, but she kept her voice calm. “Araevin, you have no way of knowing what perils might sleep in that ancient lorestone. Even if you succeed in your efforts, we may all have cause to regret it later. If nothing else, your defiance of our will in this matter speaks poorly of your readiness to become a high mage.”
“I understand, High Mage. I have weighed all these factors in my decision. Whether you believe it or not, I am the best judge of the perils of the Nightstar.”
“You will not study that lorestone here,” Kileontheal replied.
“I know,” Araevin said. He offered a deep bow. “That is why I have chosen to depart the tower. As I said, the time has come for me to follow another path.”
Deliberately, he stepped forward and closed his hand around the selukiira as the high mages watched. He slipped the lambent gemstone beneath his tunic, and pressed it to his breastbone again. Then he turned his back on Kileontheal and the others, and strode out of the great hall.
Patches of snow still lingered beneath the green branches of the evergreens that mantled Myth Glaurach’s rocky shoulders. Despite the bright sunshine that had lingered all day, spring did not come early to the Delimbiyr Vale. The air was damp and cold with the snowmelt, and not far from the ruined walls and broken domes of the ancient elven city, the Starstream-second of the four Talons that fed the mighty Delimbiyr-roared and rushed with white, cold floodwaters, so loud that its roar filled the air miles from the river’s course.
Fflar Starbrow Melruth pulled his cloak closer around his broad shoulders, and gazed over the jagged stumps of a long-abandoned colonnade on the city’s southern heights, watching the last embers of daylight painting the snow-covered mountaintops and high, wooded hills with soft splashes of gold and orange. He was a moon elf, tall and strongly built, with the strong hands and long arms of a born swordsman.
“A clear night coming,” he remarked. “The stars will be out, but I think it will be cold.”
Lord Seiveril Miritar looked up from the large map he was studying on a table nearby. He was a noble sun elf with red hair showing silver streaks at his temple, a high cleric of Corellon Larethian who wore a surcoat emblazoned with the star and sword of the elven god he served.
“I think I’ve come to like the spring here,” said Seiveril. “I find it… bracing.”
As High Captain of the Crusade-even Seiveril had come to think of Evermeet’s expedition as “the Crusade,” despite the fact that he’d resisted the appellation for some time-he had chosen the ruins of Myth Glaurach’s library for his headquarters. Though the empty shell of white stone was mostly open to the sky, the building still possessed strong walls that were easily enclosed with light screens and rugged canopies. Nearly six thousand elf warriors were encamped in the city’s ruins or in the forest nearby. An elite guard of twenty Knights of the Golden Star stood watch within a stone’s throw of the old library, along with dozens of officers and aides who helped Seiveril and Fflar to keep order in the elven army.
“A couple of months ago you might have thought differently,” Fflar said. “The wood elves of Rheitheillaethor told me how bitter the winters are in these lands. Do you know the ice broke on the Delimbiyr only a tenday ago?”
Fflar was more than he seemed, an ancient hero of fallen Myth Drannor whom Seiveril had called back into life with a powerful spell of resurrection. Together the sun elf cleric and the moon elf champion had led Evermeet’s Crusade in a fiercely fought campaign to defend Evereska and the High Forest from the daemonfey legions of Sarya Dlardrageth.
“Will we still be here in midsummer? Or the fall, perhaps?” he continued.
Seiveril straightened up from his map table and looked at Fflar. “There’s more on your mind than the weather, my friend. What is it?”
“How much longer can you keep this army together, Seiveril? Araevin banished Sarya’s demons, we destroyed her orcs and giants, and her fey’ri have fled the field. It seems to me that you have accomplished your goal: Evereska has been preserved, the folk of the High Forest are safe. Your army has no enemy to fight.” Fflar turned from the open colonnade and climbed a couple of weathered stone steps to the empty shell of the library, lowering his voice. “For that matter, have I now accomplished the purpose for which you summoned me from Arvandor? What am I supposed to do now?”
Seiveril frowned. “I do not know that I have an answer to your second question, Fflar. What are any of us supposed to do?”
“You called me back from Arvandor to beat an army of demons. Now that Sarya’s demons have been defeated-through no doing of my own, I’ll add-I find myself wondering whether I am supposed to, well, go back.” Fflar looked at Seiveril and shrugged. “Do I just discorporate when I’m ready to go this time, or do I have to go throw myself off a precipice or something?”
“Is that what you want to do?”
Fflar looked at his hands for a long time. “I don’t think so. I feel alive enough right now. I miss Sorenna, I miss her terribly. But I know she is waiting in Arvandor for me, and time does not mean much there, Seiveril. In the meantime, there seems to be more of the world for me to see and more things for me to do. I just don’t know if it is wrong for me to linger now.”
Fflar looked up, a crooked smile on his face. “Well, good. I would hate to leave again without finding out where in Faerun the fey’ri legion has gone to ground.”
“You and I both,” Seiveril murmured. He returned his attention to the map spread out on the table. “You asked me a moment ago how long I intend to keep the army here. My answer is this: I will stay here until I am convinced that Sarya’s legion won’t return, and cannot be found. I don’t expect all of our warriors to stay that long, but I certainly hope that some number of them do. We have unfinished business with her.”
Fflar joined him at the map. “We fought her at the Lonely Moor eighteen days ago. As recently as ten days ago, she and her fey’ri were here at Myth Glaurach.” He tapped on finger on the Delimbiyr Vale, thinking. “Some of her fey’ri can teleport, but not many. They would have used that tactic in combat, if it was available to them. But they do fly. How fast could a flying army travel? Fifty miles a day? Sixty?”
“They didn’t seem to be tremendously strong or fast flyers, not like an adult dragon or a giant eagle. And they must carry some equipment with them. I expect they’ve abandoned anything like a supply train. Sixty miles a day, ten days… that would be six hundred miles from here.” He looked more closely at the mountains and forests depicted before him, and frowned. Within that distance lay tremendous swaths of the great desert Anauroch, most of the wild backcountry of the Nether Mountains, the Gray-peaks, the southern High Forest, the High Moor and the Evermoor, as well as the forbidding Ice Mountains north of Silverymoon, and even the Spine of the World and the High Ice. “She could be anywhere.”
“Have you been able to divine any clues?”
“I have been casting divinations every day, with little luck. I suppose I must redouble my efforts, and ask Vesilde Gaerth and Jorildyn to have their own clerics and mages begin the search, too. Perhaps if enough of our spellcasters search at once…”
“I suppose it’s the best chance we have. But Seiveril-if we do not find some sign of the fey’ri soon, you will have to give thought to how much of this army you can send home.”
“Excuse me, Lord Seiveril?” Both elves turned as the priestess Thilesil entered the hall. She was also a cleric of Corellon, junior to Seiveril, who had joined Lord Miritar on his quest and served as his adjutant and chief assistant. “Lord Keryth Blackhelm of the High Council is here to see you.”
“Keryth, here?” Seiveril frowned. Keryth was the High Marshal of Evermeet, leader of the island’s armies, and one of Queen Amlaruil’s most valuable advisors. “Show him in.”
Thilesil nodded, and beckoned their guest in. “This way, sir.”
She stood aside to permit Keryth to enter, and followed him in, anticipating decisions to record or orders to issue.
Keryth Blackhelm was a moon elf of middle years, perhaps a little past his prime as a swordsman, but still hale and fit. He was not as tall as Fflar, but he was a commanding presence anyway, with a fierce determination burning in his eyes and a gruff, confident manner.
“Lord Miritar,” he said. “Thank you for receiving me.”
“Of course, Keryth.” Seiveril took Keryth’s hand in a firm clasp. They’d served together on Evermeet’s High Council for many years, and even if they did not always agree with each other, they shared a mutual respect. “Have you traveled long? I can ask for refreshments to be brought.”
“No, the trip was quick. The grand mage loaned me the services of a sorcerer who knows the spell of teleportation. We left Evermeet not more than half an hour ago.” Keryth looked about the ruined building. “How is Ilsevele?”
“She is well. I spoke to her just this morning. She is visiting Silverymoon with her companions, though I believe Araevin is attending to some business at Tower Reilloch.”
“I have not seen Silverymoon,” Keryth replied. He wandered into the old library and through to the ruined colonnade outside, taking in the view. “This was Glaurachyndaar?”
“Yes. It was called the City of Scrolls in its day.” Seiveril gestured at the ruins beyond the library. “The daemonfey used the grand mage’s palace as their lair. While I have seen no sign of them since I have been here, I decided it was not prudent to take up residence in their quarters. There are deep vaults and armories hidden in the heart of the hill beneath the palace, and I am not sure that we have found all of their secrets yet.”
“It seems that you have matters well in hand otherwise,” Keryth said. He faced Seiveril. “Speaking of which, I have been sent here to ask if you would consent to attend the High Council’s meeting in seven days and provide the queen and her advisors with a firsthand account of your campaign. We have heard many stories, and we want to get the most accurate report we can.”
“You may have forgotten, Lord Blackhelm, but I am no longer a Councilor of the Realm.”
Keryth shook his head. “No, the queen is not summoning you as such. Nor is she summoning you at all, to be honest. She only requests that you come to speak before the council, my friend. She will send a mage to teleport you, if you like, so it should not take you long at all. And to be honest, you will save us a lot of pointless debate in which Veldann or Durothil question the veracity of every report we have received.”
Seiveril considered the request for a moment. He was certain that Selsharra Durothil and Ammisyll Veldann would question him harshly on any account he cared to provide. On the other hand, he could think of nothing he cared to hide, and he no longer needed to be particularly polite to the conservatives and antimonarchists on the council, did he?
He looked over to Fflar and asked, “Lord Starbrow, can you keep things in order here for a time?”
Fflar shrugged. “I’ll know where to find you if I need you.”
Seiveril turned back to Keryth. “All right, then. If the queen requests my presence, I will not tell her no. I will be there.”
The House of Cedars stood on a rocky headland on Evermeet’s rugged northern shore, hidden within a sparse forest of wind-shaped cedars and hemlocks. It was a rambling old elven lodge of open verandas and promenades anchored into the very rock of the headland. Araevin’s ancestors had built themselves a home in which they remained a part of the world outside, instead of a burrow from which they could shut things out. Light screens of wooden paneling and large windows of strong glass in clever wooden frames allowed him to close or open most of the rooms as he saw fit.
Early in the winter Araevin had spent a tenday there, repairing the damage of many long years of weathering. As the spring turned toward summer and the days grew bright and windy along Evermeet’s shores, he was pleased to see that his repairs were keeping well. He had lived in the house as a child, more than two hundred years past, but no one had lived there for a century or more. When he’d finally gotten around to visiting the place a few months before it had been in poor shape.
On his arrival Araevin spent three days arranging the personal effects and arcane tomes he’d had sent from his chambers in the Tower Reilloch. The house featured a handsome library on its eastward face, which Araevin filled with the collection of grimoires, spellbooks, journals, treatises, and scrolls he had accumulated over eight decades of residence at Reilloch. Next to the library stood an empty hall that Araevin converted into his workroom, installing at one end the cabinet of theurglass in which he stored his collection of magic wands and other such devices. He also wove a potent fence of abjurations and magical defenses around the entire house, since he could no longer count on the wards of Tower Reilloch. He wove careful illusions to hide the books and artifacts he was most concerned about, and summoned magical guardians to defend the house if necessary.
As the sun set on the sixth day since he’d stood before the high mages, he removed the Nightstar from its hiding place over his heart and set the purple gemstone in a small stand before him.
“I think the time has come for you and I to speak at length,” he told the selukiira.
The Nightstar made no answer, but Araevin thought he saw a lambent flash in its depths. The high loregem was a living artifact. It held dozens upon dozens of spells, much as Araevin’s own spellbooks did. But beyond that useful function, the Nightstar protected the deeper secrets of mythalcraft and high magic. Already it had shown him spells for examining and shaping mythals, but the secrets of even greater power still awaited within the stone.
He drew a deep breath, and focused his attention on the flicker of light that lived in the heart of the gem, allowing his perception, his consciousness, to sink deeper and deeper into shining purple facets. The stone grew brighter, and distant voices whispered in his mind-and with an abrupt plunge he felt himself drawn into the gemstone, falling into a vast and illimitable expanse of towering amethyst ramparts.
He opened his eyes, and found himself in the poisoned garden of the Nightstar’s soul. It was a magnificent place, a palace of gold colonnades and elegant arcades that existed nowhere except in the gem’s own intellect. Lovely vines and flowers filled the open courtyard, but they were malicious and alive, things that slowly coiled and hunted with thorn and venom. In an old house on Evermeet’s shore, his body stood locked and immobile, facing a shining purple gemstone, but as far as Araevin’s senses could discern, he was physically here, a visitor in the infernal grandeur that lay at the heart of the gemstone.
“Saelethil!” Araevin called. “Come forth! I wish to speak to you.”