The Nightstar hovered in the center of the room, held aloft by the spells of the ancient wizard who had built the place. It was exactly as Araevin had seen, a dagger-shaped crystal about three inches long. In color it was a deep, iridescent purple reminiscent of the last gloaming of a storm-clouded sunset, and pale lavender glyphs were etched into its surface. Unseen emanations of magical power ringed the device like heat shimmering in the air, an aura of arcane potency that halted Araevin even in the face of his compulsion to seize the gem.
For all his years of study alongside high mages and loremasters, he had never seen a selukiira before. Like their lesser kindred the telkiira, they served to store knowledge-memories, spells, secrets, whatever their creators chose to infuse them with. But the high lore-gems were also reputed to be teaching devices, a means by which the arcane study of a hundred years might be conferred to the wearer in the blink of an eye. A selukiira might make a novice into a powerful mage in a single searing instant. If what Sarya had said was true, then locked inside its violet depths lay the secrets to high magic, knowledge of ancient rites and mighty spells that otherwise might take decades of study to encompass.
This was made by a Dlardrageth, he reminded himself. A Dlardrageth who studied firsthand the forgotten magic of old Aryvandaar, the most powerful realm of elves that ever existed. From their mighty towers in the North the High Mages of Aryvandaar launched spells that destroyed entire nations and enslaved half a continent. What would Sarya do with such knowledge?
It did not matter. He didn't have the ability to refuse.
Since the gemstone hovered ten feet above the marble floor, Araevin cast a simple spell to catch hold of it and draw it down to him-but the spell failed. The Nightstar was not to be moved by such a minor magic. He stood silent, thinking, then he muttered the words of his spell of flying, and willed himself into the air. Moving slowly, as if he watched himself in a dream, he reached out to touch the crystal. Dread welled up in his mind as his fingertips neared the gem, yet he was helpless to turn away his face or even wince in anticipation of what might happen when his flesh touched the crystal.
Selukiira burn out the minds of those who are not meant to handle them, he reminded himself. They recognize those who are false, and destroy them utterly.
"I refuse," Araevin whispered.
For an awful moment he fought to keep his hand from moving an inch nearer, his muscles straining to obey Sarya's command while his mind and will woke to full power, shaking off the daemonfey enchantment. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth, throwing the entirety of his consciousness into the simple effort to hold his hand still.
"I refuse!" he snarled, and he drew his hand back half an inch. Sarya's spell enticed him toward his doom with the seductiveness of a high, rocky clifftop and the lure of the leap, but Araevin proved the stronger.
He snatched his hand away, and howled, "I refuse! "
The Nightstar hung before his face, less than an arm's length from his eyes. It stood quiescent, showing not a hint of the fearsome doom it held for him. Araevin drifted back in midair, thinking hard. He took a deep breath.
"Now what?" he asked aloud.
Though his free will had been restored, the fact remained that he could not escape the chamber except by means of the portal, and that would return him to the hall where the daemonfey waited. Any teleportation he attempted there would destroy him, as surely as the vrock had been destroyed in the rooms above. He could try to surprise Nurthel with his sudden return, and attack-but Araevin had not had the opportunity to replenish his magic since before they entered Grimlight's lair, and few of his spells remained. It did not seem realistic to hope that he could defeat Nurthel, the other daemonfey, and the surviving demons with a single swift assault.
Would I have time enough to flee? he wondered. If I could escape the misty hall… but there again the barrier against teleportation would foil me. At best I could try to outrun the daemonfey, but they have wings, don't they?
He could try to feign compliance, returning to offer Nurthel a fake Nightstar. It was possible that the fey'ri sorcerer didn't know what the device would look like. That might give him an opportunity to flee later, but if Nurthel discovered the deception he would know that Sarya's compulsion had failed. Perhaps the best thing would be to simply wait in the buried chamber without ever returning, and make sure that the daemonfey were denied the Nightstar forever. Would it be worth his life to keep the selukiira out of their hands?
"Not just your life, Araevin," he reminded himself.
Sarya still held Ilsevele and Maresa in her stronghold. If he did not return there quickly, and with his will un-trammeled by the daemonfey enchantments, Ilsevele and Maresa would suffer for it, and he could imagine only too well what form their tortures might take.
There is no way out, he realized.
Even if he regarded his own life as forfeit, he could not do the same for Ilsevele and Maresa. He had to find the path that offered him some chance to return and free them.
If he simply seized the gemstone and let it have him, there was a chance that Ilsevele and Maresa might be rescued by some other agency. Seiveril might divine her location and send help. At the very least, Araevin's resistance would not be an excuse for Sarya to kill his companions. There was at least some small possibility that the selukiira was not programmed to destroy its defiler. How much of a risk it would be, he had no way of knowing.
And when it came down to it, he was curious. Even if it destroyed him, he wanted to know what secrets the Nightstar concealed.
"Damn," he breathed.
He reached out and grasped the Nightstar.
His vision whirled, and in a flash of lambent light he felt himself drawn into the dormant consciousness of the gemstone. It engulfed him like a violet sea, smothering him in its power. He felt its might rising around him, ramparts and battlements of dangerous lore looming around him on all sides, penning him in, trapping him. Then the edifices vanished, leaving him to plummet screaming into a terrible and dark abyss, falling for what seemed to be hours through a cosmos of purple facets and white-glowing runes of fire. Darkness came, and a flash of brilliant light.
Araevin opened his eyes, and found himself standing in a wondrous and terrible garden. Walls of perfect white stone, graced by elegant arches, seemed to wall out some place of infernal terror. Brutal red firelight shone through the gaps, and the sky overhead was a sickly yellow-brown, streaked with columns of toxic smoke. The garden was home to scores of exotic plants and stunningly colorful blossoms, but they were alive and predatory, slow-moving things that writhed like serpents and dripped venom from their delicate structures. The golden fountain showed a marvelous sculpted scene of elf maidens and dancing satyrs, yet on a closer look the maidens' faces gaped with terror and the satyrs were scaly devils.
A flicker of light caught his eye, and he turned to look. From a soft sparkle of lavender a handsome sun elf stepped into the garden, appearing from the air itself. He was a regal fellow, tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore long crimson robes with a shorter vestment of gold-embroidered black over his torso. His face was sharp-featured, and his eyes were a startling, powerful green in color.
"Well," he said, his voice lilting with sinister beauty. "You are not what I expected. Who are you?"
Araevin steeled himself, determined not to show his dread, and replied, "I am Araevin Teshurr. Who are you?"
"I am Saelethil Dlardrageth. Or at least, a facsimile of him-me. I am the Nightstar."
"What is this place?"
"I am holding your mind within mine, as I assay you. Of course, your body still holds me in its hand." Saelethil paced nearer, his hands clasped before him, a sinister smile on his face. "I have taken the liberty of examining your predicament, at least as you perceive it. I am rather astonished to find that five millennia have passed, while I waited in Ithraides* prison. Saelethil did not-that is, I did not-anticipate this turn of events. If he had, I would know better what to do with you."
/> "If you mean to destroy me, then get on with it. I have had enough of bantering with daemonfey."
"Destroy you? Why, it's a lovely offer, but I am afraid I cannot oblige."
Araevin narrowed his eyes and studied the strange apparition more closely.
"I thought selukiira destroyed those unfit for their use," Araevin said.
"Of course I would do that. However, you are not unfit," Saelethil replied. His smirk faded a bit, and his eyes darkened with ire. "My purpose, as Saelethil himself inscribed it within me, is to teach sun elves of House Dlardrageth the secrets of Aryvandaar's high magic, provided they are sufficiently skilled in the study of magic to comprehend such things. You are a mage whose skill, while modest, still falls within acceptable limits. Therefore, I am not to destroy you."
"But I am not a Dlardrageth," Araevin replied, even as he wondered how hard he ought to argue that point with the Nightstar.
Saelethil laughed darkly and said, "Well, you may think you are not, but evidently you are. I have an infallible sense for this, and cannot be mistaken."
Could it be true? Araevin wondered. He thought back to what he knew of his ancestors… and he recalled his kinship to Elorfindar Floshin. Elorfindar and he shared an ancestor, a Floshin. And House Floshin had been one of the Houses of ancient Siluvanede, a House whose name was claimed by some among the fey'ri.
"I am a Floshin," he mumbled.
"That does not make you a Dlardrageth," Saelethil observed. "However, I would guess that one of my family chose to favor one of the Floshins with a child. The Floshins served us long and well, after all. Your heritage likely derives from such a dalliance." The cruel sun elf shook his head. "I was not nearly specific enough when I created the descriptions of who could use this device. Of course, I had no idea that five thousand years and dozens of generations would pass, allowing Dlardrageth blood to surface in some unexpected places."
"If I am a Dlardrageth, then how did I manage to unlock Ithraides' telkiira or gain access to this chamber?" Araevin asked. "These things were locked against the daemonfey."
Saelethil pursed his lips in displeasure and said, "Take up that question with Ithraides' shade, not mine. If I were to guess, I would suppose that his defenses were designed to hinder those with the stain of evil marking their souls. Your high and useless morals likely met the stodgy old bastard's approval."
Araevin closed his eyes and laughed bitterly.
"So I represent the one contradiction that neither you nor Ithraides foresaw," he said, "a Dlardrageth free of the supernatural evil of the rest of the House. Had I been evil, I never could have found this place. Had I not been a Dlardrageth, I never could have survived it."
"The irony overwhelms me," Saelethil said, grimacing.
"So, what now?"
"What now?" Saelethil repeated. He fixed his emerald eyes on Araevin, and a cruel smile grew slowly on his features. "What now? Now, my weak-minded bastard whelp who happens to be blessed with a genealogy you do not appreciate or deserve, I am going to do what I was made to do and instruct you in the things that Saelethil wished to see preserved. And well see if you are Dlardrageth enough to survive the scars I'm going to sear into your soul."
Saelethil stood before Araevin, who started to protest, but Saelethil seized his head with both hands and pressed his fingertips into Araevin's skull.
The world exploded with crimson pain.
CHAPTER 17
11 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms
Silver moonlight streamed down the shoulders of Daelyth's Dagger until the stark cliffs of the forest mountain shone like white beacons in the night. Nervous, Gaerradh studied the sky and the high slopes overhead, searching for any sign of daemonfey sorcerers above the vale. The deeply cleft valley was so narrow and high that the winged fey'ri would have to choose between staying so far above the gorge that they could not reach the elves below with their spells and quarrels, or descending into the straits of stone where it would be difficult to maneuver between the cliffs. On the other hand any fey'ri who remained above the Dagger could simply hurl stones into the deeps below and create no small danger for anyone sheltering on the valley floor below, even if their boulders were dropped at random.
"It's a clear night," Methrammar remarked. "That favors us greatly. As long as there's any light at all, we'll see as well as the orcs, and the moon shadows will help to hide us from unfriendly eyes."
The commander of Silverymoon's legion stood dressed in his great crimson cloak, his mithral mail gleaming like starshine beneath his mantle. All around him, hundreds of Silverymoon's Knights in Silver and their dwarf comrades from Citadel Adbar's Iron Guard filled the Dagger's mouth, standing in easy ranks to guard the narrow trail winding along the swift white stream.
Faint lanterns had been positioned high up on the rocky walls of the trail and the lower vale, throwing soft verdant light over the way the enemy must come if he came on foot. But Gaerradh thought that the dense ranks of waiting soldiers would make an excellent target from the air.
"The orcs do not concern me," Gaerradh murmured. "It's the daemonfey I fear. If they do not enter the vale…"
"If they do not enter the vale, they'll never get us out of here," Methrammar finished for her. "We can stand a siege of a month or more if we have to, and the mages of Evermeet tell us their army is marching here next. No, the daemonfey want to take the Dagger by assault. They don't have the time to starve us out."
"Your soldiers are too exposed. I don't like this."
"They're where they need to be." The half-elf turned to look Gaerradh in her eyes and said, "Our warriors are best suited for this task, Gaerradh. We've got heavier armor than your wood elves, and we're trained to fight in ranks. Holding this trail is our kind of fight. The rest of it is up to you."
"I know," she said.
She studied Methrammar's clean visage and fine features, finding no trace of fear in his eyes, only a shadow of anticipation-not that she should have expected less from a son of Alustriel. Still, the Argent Legion bore the greatest hazard, and that meant Methrammar did as well, since the high marshal was not in the habit of leading from the rear. He would be in the forefront of the fighting, his banner flying behind him, and Gaerradh knew what a prize he would be for the daemonfey and their allies. She did not want to see him wounded, or worse. "Be careful," she managed.
Methrammar rolled his eyes and started to answer, but then a harsh, brazen horn blast sounded in the darkness beyond the vale. Red torchlight bobbed up and down in the darkness beneath the trees, and the rumble and clatter of iron-shod feet filled the echoing gorge.
"I told you they wouldn't wait," Methrammar said. He stepped out and called to his soldiers, "Get ready, lads. We'll hold them here until the mountain itself cries for mercy. Iron Guards, take your position!"
The dwarves of Citadel Adbar raised a hoarse cheer and jogged forward, forming a wall of dwarven steel across the trail, with their right flank bending back along the stream-bed in case any foes came at them by climbing up the cold, rushing stream. Fitted head to toe in heavy dwarven plate, with big steel shields and deadly war axes, they were an unshakable obstacle in such a small space. The humans and half-elves of Silverymoon's Knights in Silver stood back a short distance, fighting afoot since there was no room for mounted troops. Dozens of seasoned Spellguards stood within their ranks, alongside a handful of the crusade mages sent to aid the beleaguered wood elves. It was their job to protect the dwarves under the brunt of the first assault.
The orc horns sounded again, along with a rising chorus of war cries and screams, and the ground shook with the thunder of the orc approach. The savage warriors appeared at the far bend of the Dagger's trail, rushing up the old road in a reckless, screaming mass. Gaerradh recoiled a step despite herself, and started searching for targets worthy of arrows.
An instant before the orc berserkers crashed into the dwarven line, the air itself seemed to lurch and thunder as dozens of demons teleported to the mouth of the Dag
ger, behind the Iron Guard dwarves.
The sheer violence of the collision staggered Gaerradh. The dwarves had expected demons to show up behind them, and with uncanny swiftness the powerful company turned turtle, sealing the road like a cork in a bottle. Demons shrieked and clawed, trying to tear into the dwarven ranks from behind or scour the sturdy fighters with their terrible spells of hellfire and destruction. But Silverymoon's Spellguards countered many of the spells or threw hasty defensive wards over the Iron Guards, while the rest of the knights-led by Methrammar, who brandished his sword and bellowed commands-charged against the vrocks, hezrous, and babaus who sought to surround and overwhelm the dwarves. The whole time, the orcs roared and hacked at the front line of the dwarf fighters, while the dwarves roared their own challenges back and hewed down orc berserkers like farmers threshing grain.
Gaerradh calmly nocked an arrow with a point of blessed cold iron, a weapon no demon could shrug off, and sighted carefully to make sure that she would not strike an ally. She spotted a hulking hezrou laying about itself with its long, powerful claws, froglike mouth gaping with needle-sharp teeth. She buried two arrows in its thick neck, her hands blurring with the speed of her shot. The creature coughed black blood and disappeared at once, teleporting away from the battle-wounded or dying, Gaerradh did not care. She sighted another demon and fired again, slipping her arrows through lightning-quick openings and shifting, battling figures as a master duelist might wield a rapier.
Silverymoon's knights counterattacked the demons who'd thought to surround the dwarven company with such ferocity that the foul creatures were forced to turn away from the Iron Guards. In turn, the demons hurled themselves against Methrammar's soldiers with blind fury, claws rending and jaws tearing, all the while blasting and scouring any warrior who stood against them with sickening blasts of evil power, great gouts of clinging hellfire, and billowing yellow clouds of poison vapor.
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