Farthest Reach lm-2

by Richard Baker

  Seiveril stared after the Hillsfarian lord.

  “Corellon, grant me patience,” he whispered into the night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  12 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

  Windsinger dropped anchor in the round bay of Velprintalar, surrounded by the steep green hillsides and graceful, airy buildings of the city. Araevin could see the elven influences in the city’s flower-covered verandas, tree-shaded boulevards, and elegant palaces high above the bay. High up on the slopes above the city’s center stood the palace of the Simbul, the ruler of Aglarond, a rambling structure of beautiful green stone that gleamed like emerald in the sunshine.

  “Is this truly a human city?” Ilsevele wondered aloud. She stood beside him at the ship’s rail. Smiling, her eyes were warm when she looked at him, but there was a distance hiding in her thoughts, a searching quality to her gaze that he could not miss. “I didn’t know humans could be so… elven… in their work.”

  “Aglarond is the union of two lands under one crown,” Araevin answered, glad of an opportunity to speak without addressing the anxiety he knew was growing in his own heart. “Centuries ago the young human kingdom of Velprin settled the northern coasts of the Aglarondan peninsula, while a race of forest-dwelling humans, half-elves, and wood elves held the woodlands of the interior. Velprin tried to bring the whole of the peninsula under its rule, but the forest folk defeated Velprin’s ambitious rulers. The lords of the forest folk governed both the forests and the coastlands from that day forward.”

  “My homeland has a similar history, but a more tragic outcome,” Donnor Kerth said. Araevin glanced at him in surprise. Their new companion had proved more than a little taciturn, a fellow who rarely used two words when one would do. “In Tethyr elves and humans fought for centuries. Elves still roam the deeps of the Wealdath, or so I am told, but they have nothing to do with the human lands beyond their forests, and humans do not venture very far into their woods.” He dropped his gaze from Araevin and Ilsevele. “I am sorry to say that I have known very few elves. And I believed things that were said about your kind that I have since learned are not true.”

  Ilsevele reached out and set her slender hand atop the Lathanderian’s. “I have spent most of my years on Evermeet, Donnor, and I have known very few humans. I, too, am learning that not all that I have heard is true.”

  Maresa laced up her crimson-dyed leather armor, and adjusted her sword belt. “I thought you said you hadn’t been here before, Araevin,” she said. “You seem to know a lot about this place for a stranger.”

  “I haven’t. But I’ve had a long time to pick up odds and ends about a lot of places I haven’t been.” Araevin picked up his pack, and quickly checked to make sure he had everything he needed. “Come, let’s go ashore.”

  The four travelers thanked Master Ilthor for their passage and paid him handsomely. Then they were rowed ashore in Windsinger’s longboat. They landed along the city’s stone quay, and climbed up the seawall’s steps to the harborside streets. For all Velprintalar’s elven grace, the dock district seemed human enough, filled with carts and longshoremen, and dozens of workshops, warehouses, and merchant’s offices, all crowded together in buildings faced with white stone.

  “Well, where now?” asked Maresa.

  “We’ll find a place to stay then we’ll ask after sages, colleges, wizards’ guilds, and such things,” Araevin said. “Someone will have an idea of who I can ask about star elves and ancient Yuireshanyaar.”

  They found a comfortable but expensive inn within an hour of landing, a fine establishment called the Greenhaven, high up on one of the hillsides overlooking the harbor. Araevin asked the proprietor about sages or libraries he could visit, and the inn’s proprietor directed him to several locales where he might confer with learned folk.

  With his companions in tow, Araevin spent much of the next two days visiting Velprintalar’s houses of learning. He visited the temple of Oghma and spoke with the high loremasters there. He conferred with a local wizard held in high regard by the Oghmanytes. And he also found a small chapel dedicated to the Seldarine, where he and Ilsevele were able to speak at length with the presiding priest. Several times Araevin confirmed that the ancient realm of Yuireshanyaar had indeed stood within the Yuirwood, and that some at least of its ruins might still be found there, but no one knew anything about star elves or a mage named Morthil who had lived long ago in that realm.

  At the end of their second day, Araevin returned to the Greenhaven, resigning himself to a long and arduous effort to unearth the knowledge he sought. He suspected that some at least of his inquiries had simply been evaded, and he was wondering how he could proceed if that turned out to be the case. But as he and his companions ate a light supper on the Greenhaven’s veranda, drinking watered wine and watching the shadows lengthen over the city, a dark-haired, deeply tanned half-elf dressed in an elegantly embroidered doublet appeared at their table, flanked by a pair of human guardsmen who wore the green-and-white tabards of the Simbul’s Guard over coats of mail.

  “Araevin Teshurr and company?” he asked pleasantly.

  Araevin sensed his companions exchanging puzzled looks behind him, but he stood slowly and nodded to the fellow.

  “I am Araevin Teshurr,” he said. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “I am Jorin Kell Harthan. I serve the Simbul.” Harthan’s manner remained easy, but Araevin did not miss the keen alertness in his eyes, nor the businesslike demeanor of the two guards who accompanied him. A long sword was sheathed at the half-elf’s hip, and a long dagger was tucked into his left boot. “You have been inquiring after things that few people ask about, Master Teshurr. We would like to know more about the nature of your interests. Would you kindly accompany me to the Simbul’s palace?”

  “Careful, Araevin,” Maresa whispered under her breath. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

  “I assure you, I mean no harm to Aglarond or anyone in it,” Araevin told the half-elf.

  “If we did not believe that to be true, Master Teshurr, our invitation would leave you little opportunity to decline,” Jorin Kell Harthan said. He bowed and gestured toward the door. “You may find answers in the palace that you will not be given outside it. If you please?”

  Araevin could see the alarm in Maresa’s face. From what he knew of her, she had reason to be suspicious of city guards and officials of the court. Ilsevele, on the other hand, was herself an officer of the Queen’s Guard in Leuthilspar.

  She glanced up at the half-elf and asked, “May we accompany Araevin?”

  The Simbul’s servant considered for a moment then said, “Very well.”

  They rose and followed Harthan to an open carriage waiting outside the inn. Araevin had half-feared a sealed coach that would double as a cell in a pinch. They climbed in-the half-elf sat opposite Araevin, with Donnor beside him, while the guards stepped up onto the running boards-and clattered off through the winding, dusk-dim streets. In a few minutes they rolled into a small courtyard below one of the palace’s green stone towers, and followed the half-elf past more guardsmen into the tower.

  The palace of Aglarond’s queen was not so large or ethereally beautiful as Amlaruil’s in Leuthilspar, but it was easily the grandest and most elegant building Araevin had ever set foot in outside of Evermeet itself. Despite his two and a half centuries and familiarity with the uses and exercises of power, he could not entirely quell the uneasy awe that settled over him. Maresa was positively petrified, marching stiffly as if she expected to be arrested on the spot, while Donnor Kerth lapsed into a silence so deep and sullen that Araevin feared he might try to fight his way out of the place given the least provocation to do so. Ilsevele, though… She strode along confidently, her chin high, her eyes straight ahead, refusing to be intimidated by the setting. She was the daughter of a lord of Evermeet, after all, and she had been born to palaces.

  Jorin Kell Harthan led them to a comfortable hall with a great fireplace and a large banquet table
. He spoke a quiet word to the guards walking with them, and the two warriors withdrew to flank the door.

  “There’s wine on the table,” the half-elf said. “Help yourselves, if you like.”

  “Well, if we are being arrested, it’s starting well enough,” Maresa muttered. She went over and poured herself a goblet.

  “Are we under arrest?” Donnor Kerth asked the half-elf.

  “Most likely you are not, Dawnmaster. We will see soon.” Harthan leaned against a credenza, and spoke no more.

  They all waited anxiously for a short time, but just as Araevin was about to question the Aglarondan again, the door at the far end of the hall opened, and a regal woman swept into the room. She was tall and dark-haired, with striking green eyes as bright and keen as a serpent’s. She wore a gown of deep green, and Araevin noticed at once that she was quite skilled in the Art, girded with subtle spells and enchantments he would be hard-pressed to match.

  “Greetings,” she said in a cool voice. “I am Phaeldara, apprentice to the Simbul. I am currently serving as regent in her stead. Now, do not be alarmed, but I am going to cast a spell. Be still.”

  With no more warning, the enchantress skillfully cast a powerful divination that Araevin recognized, a spell that would give her the ability to reveal false things and unearth magical deceptions. Phaeldara studied Araevin and each of his companions for a long moment, taking their measure, and she allowed the spell to fade away.

  “Forgive me for that. We have learned that we must be careful of strangers. The zulkirs of Thay have tried to slip assassins in magical guise into the palace before.”

  “What is this all about, Lady Phaeldara?” Araevin asked. “If we have given offense to you or your people in the last two days, we sincerely apologize.”

  “It has come to my attention that you have been making inquiries throughout the city about Yuireshanyaar and star elves. I would like to know why you are interested in such things.”

  Araevin studied the Simbul’s apprentice for a moment, considering his answer. He could see no reason not to be reasonably forthright with the Aglarondans. They did not need to know about the selukiira embedded over his heart, but it certainly would not hurt for more people to know of the threat posed by Sarya Dlardrageth and her fey’ri legion.

  “An old enemy of the People returned to Faerun this year, Lady Phaeldara,” he began. “They are known as House Dlardrageth-or the daemonfey, a family of sun elves tainted by demonic blood. Long ago they were driven out of Cormanthyr, in the early days of that realm. Later they and their followers caused the Seven Citadels’ War between Siluvanede, Sharrven, and Eaerlann. They were imprisoned for thousands of years by high magic, but they have escaped. The daemonfey raided Evermeet itself, and launched a war against the High Forest and Evereska.”

  “We heard of war in the High Forest,” Lady Phaeldara said. “But what does this have to do with Aglarond, Master Teshurr?”

  “Ilsevele’s father-Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion-gathered a host in Evermeet to battle the daemonfey. His army drove the daemonfey out of Myth Glaurach, but they fled to Myth Drannor and began to fortify the ruins of that city as their new stronghold. More importantly, Sarya Dlardrageth, the queen of the daemonfey, has learned how to manipulate the wards and powers of mythals, so she has surrounded Myth Drannor in magical defenses of great power. Lord Miritar’s army followed the daemonfey to Cormanthyr, but I fear that they will be unable to defeat Sarya unless we find a way to contest her control of Myth Drannor’s mythal.”

  “And you think that this can be found in Aglarond?”

  “I hope that what I seek exists in Aglarond,” said Araevin. “We have come to believe that the key to unlocking the high magic secrets Sarya Dlardrageth now wields might lie somewhere in your realm. Specifically, we know that a great mage of early Cormanthyr carried away many Dlardrageth spellbooks when the coronal and the court mages first drove the Dlardrageths out of that realm. That mage was a star elf named Morthil. We are attempting to trace his footsteps.”

  Phaeldara said nothing, but her eyes flicked to Jorin Kell Harthan.

  The half-elf straightened and said, “So you came to Aglarond in search of star elves?”

  “We were unfamiliar with that kindred of the People, but in researching the question, we learned that their realm was known as Yuireshanyaar, and that it stood in the Yuirwood long ago.”

  “How long ago did this Morthil leave Cormanthyr?” Phaeldara asked.

  “Five thousand years, give or take,” Araevin said.

  “Five thousand years?” Jorin Kell Harthan said, his voice incredulous. “You can’t seriously expect that any spellbooks have survived that long!”

  “It is an immense span of time, I know. But time means less to elves than it does to humans. I do not hope to find the original spellbooks, but I hope to find more durable records such as telkiira stones, or mages who have studied a tradition that is founded on this missing lore without even knowing where it once came from, or possibly even books that were copied from copies made from the original tomes.” Araevin spread his hands helplessly. “I admit that I have little prospect for success, but there is no telling what horrors Sarya Dlardrageth will inflict on the lands around Myth Drannor if we do not find a way to stop her.”

  Ilsevele addressed the Simbul’s apprentice. “Do the star elves still exist? Can they be found in Aglarond?”

  Phaeldara turned away without answering. She paced over to a row of elegantly arched windows, gazing out over the glimmering lamps and lanterns that were coming to life all over the city below, sparkling like a sea of fireflies.

  “I wish the Simbul were here,” she remarked. “She would be a better judge of this than I. But she has left the realm in my hands for better than a month now, and I do not know when she will return. I suppose I must decide as best I can.”

  She looked back to Araevin and his companions. “It seems that your need is pressing, so I will share a secret that few know, and trust that two of the ar Tel-Quessir and anyone they trust enough to call friend know the value of keeping secrets. Yes, the star elves exist, but they are not exactly in Aglarond.”

  “Great,” Maresa sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to sail off to Kara-Tur or Selune itself to find them, right?”

  “You won’t find them in any other land, either,” Jorin Kell Harthan said.

  Donnor Kerth frowned. “Are they ghosts, then?”

  “Nothing like that, Dawnmaster,” Phaeldara said. “Their kingdom lies entirely within the Yuirwood, but it is not of this world. You could crisscross the peninsula a hundred times, but you would never set foot in it. Only a few of us outside its borders have been entrusted with Sildeyuir’s secret.” The Simbul’s apprentice looked over to Jorin Kell Harthan, who still lounged by the door. “But Master Harthan knows the way. He can take you there.”

  The half-elf frowned. “The paths to Sildeyuir have grown wild and strange in recent years, Lady Phaeldara. And the star elves might not welcome the Dawnmaster and the genasi.”

  “We will answer for them, if need be,” Ilsevele said. “Maresa has walked in Evermeet and Evereska, and Donnor Kerth has sworn by Lathander to accompany us wherever our quest takes us. They will not betray your trust.”

  Phaeldara nodded. “I believe you, Ilsevele Miritar.”

  Jorin shrugged and stepped forward to clasp Araevin’s hand. “I’ll meet you at the Greenhaven an hour after sunrise. Be ready for a couple of days of walking.”

  The city of Yulash had been a ruin for decades. It sprawled atop a great, shield-shaped plateau overlooking the fertile lower vale of the Tesh, with the Moonsea a dark shadow in the eastern distance. From its battered walls a sentry could see the black towers of Zhentil Keep a little more than twenty miles to the north and the white-tipped peaks of the Dragonspires a hundred miles past that on a clear day.

  The mountaintops floated like a distant phalanx of blunt spears in the sky, but Scyllua Darkhope ignored the view. She stood, sword in hand, be
side her lord and master Fzoul, vigilantly watching the ruins around them. The two Zhents stood amid the foundations of a ruined tower that had once been the home of Yulash’s greatest wizard. That mage was long dead, assassinated in the early years of the fierce civil war that had eventually consumed the city, and his tower had the distinction of being the largest and most prominent structure located between the Zhent-fortified districts remaining around Yulash’s old citadel and the Hillsfarian-held districts located in the vicinity of the city’s great eastern gate, and the fortifications there.

  Fzoul Chembryl, on the other hand, stood near a gap in the wall, gazing northward at the city he ruled, small and distant at the mouth of the Tesh. Half a dozen of the Castellan’s Guard, the most dedicated and skilled warriors of Zhentil Keep, stood watch around the clearing, and Scyllua knew that other unseen guardians hovered nearby, cloaked by magic.

  “You may put up your sword, Scyllua,” the Chosen of Bane said amiably. “This is a parley, after all, and we are supposed to show some small sign to indicate that we won’t fall on our guest the minute he sets foot in the door.”

  “This place is dangerous,” Scyllua replied. “I do not like to take chances with your life, my lord.”

  “It’s neutral ground, Scyllua. It’s the best we could do.” Fzoul glanced at his zealous captain, and Scyllua submitted, sheathing her blade.

  The air in the center of the broken tower rippled, and half a dozen figures materialized out of thin air: Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, his four black-clad swordsmen, and the stocky High Warden Hardil Gearas. Scyllua kept her hand on her sword hilt, but took care to remain still, unwilling to provoke a fight without her lord’s express permission.

  Maalthiir gazed around the ruined tower, and snorted. “Trying to impress me, Fzoul?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” the Lord of the Zhentarim answered. He turned away from broken walls and the view to the north, arms folded confidently across his black breastplate. He studied the first lord, his expression mild enough, even though his eyes glittered with the avid hunger that Scyllua knew burned within him. “Since I judged that you would be unwilling to come to Zhentil Keep, and I found myself unwilling to call on you in Hillsfar, I deemed Avandalythir’s Tower a good middle ground.”