She knows something about what she is doing, he decided. But her understanding is incomplete. She could have anchored those strands in the very fundament of the mythal, but she lacked the mythalcraft to do so.
Of course, he himself could not have perceived even that much without the knowledge the Nightstar had grafted to his mind.
"It's a good thing Sarya did not get her hands on the Nightstar," he murmured. "If she had had access to Saele-thil's lore, she could have done terrible things indeed."
"What do you see, Araevin? Can you do what you thought you might be able to do?" Ilsevele asked.
Even with the magical training she had, it was clear that she did not perceive the mythal stone as he did.
"I believe so," he said.
He took a deep breath, and began to speak the words of a high and complex spell he was attempting for the first time. One of the spells recorded in the Nightstar, it was not a spell of high magic, but it was close. It stood near the pinnacle of what was possible without high magic, and few mages could have mastered its difficult symbology and intricate weavings. When he had prepared spells from the selukiira in Ithraides' vault, he'd readied the powerful evocation on the chance that his suspicions about Sarya's mythal might prove true.
The spell allowed a knowledgeable mage to modify mythals. It would never work against a mythal whose creators could oppose it, or even against a mythal secured in the proper way by a new master, but Myth Glaurach's mythal had no living defenders-or none who chose to present themselves, anyway-and its powers were open to all spellcasters who stood within its bounds. In the days of Eaerlann, that might have been a sign of trust: trust in the power of the mythal's wards to keep evil influences outside, trust in the wisdom of Myth Glaurach's leading wizards to intervene against any abuse of the mythal's power, even a sign of trust in the good intentions of those who entered the City of Scrolls. Araevin doubted that Sarya shared such trust. She simply lacked the mythal-craft to seal the device, or possibly even understand that it could be sealed. On the other hand Saelethil had no such lack.
Araevin felt his perception sinking into the great golden orb at the mythal's heart. Carefully he sifted through the strands of magic until he found the shining white filaments that represented the laws binding and governing the device. With the care of a master musician seeking to elicit a single perfect note from his instrument, Araevin focused his willpower into a pure blade of thought, and reached in to adjust the mythal's governing.
Stop.
Araevin looked up, startled. He sensed that he was in two places at once. On the physical level, he stood a few feet from the pale pink stone, his eyes closed in concentration, one hand extended toward the device. His companions watched him anxiously. But the voice had not come from there. The voice had emerged from the metaphysical, the level of thought and magical consciousness in which his mind was engaged.
You are not Sarya, the voice continued. It was a melodious and powerful voice, a voice that hinted at great beauty and wisdom, but there was a dark timbre to it that Araevin did not care for. He studied the mythal closely, but he saw no sign of another mind. Who are you?
Who wants to know? he replied, standing on his guard, summoning his willpower to repel a mental assault if such a thing should come.
I am not to be bantered with. Identify yourself at once.
Araevin sensed the menace and towering willpower behind the words, but he relaxed his guard. The speaker was not present in the mythal. He was speaking through the device in some way, using the mythal as a medium.
I am Araevin Teshurr. To whom am I speaking?
Sarya will destroy you for playing with her toy, the voice observed. You would be well advised to desist in your use of the mythal, and flee before she returns.
I intend to take Sarya's toy away from her. And I note that you have still not answered my question.
Is this a coup of sorts? Do you think to overthrow your mistress and replace her? The voice laughed, a curiously childlike sound for the menace and power behind it. All right, then. If you succeed, I will consent to extend to you the same arrangements I offered Sarya.
What arrangements? Araevin asked. Who are you?
I am Malkizid. You may contact me through the mythal stone. But do not trouble me until you have deposed Sarya. I have no interest in dealing with underlings.
Then the voice was gone, and with it the sense of menace.
He returned his attention to the governing concordance of the mythal, and with one decisive stroke he imposed a new set of rules to restrict access to the mythal's powers. Only spellcasters without the stain of evil in their souls would gain the benefit of the mythal's abilities. Then he added a secure lock to prevent the governance from being rewritten again, creating a magical password to protect the mythal from further changes. An original creator of the device, if any still lived, would be able to contest Araevin's restrictions. But Sarya would find them difficult to overcome indeed.
With that attended to, Araevin looked for the brazen strands of Sarya's weaving. With one quick cut he unbound them all. Spells and wards of a dozen varieties abruptly discorporated, fading into nothingness. The myriad strands anchoring Sarya's summoned demons to Faerun vanished as well. Araevin was not certain if the monsters would be destroyed, banished, or simply fade back into their own native dimensions, but he was sure that they would not long remain in Faerun, whatever happened. He ended his spell and brought himself back to wakefulness in the real, physical world.
"It is done," he announced.
Ilsevele glanced around, surprised and asked, "Are you sure? It doesn't seem like anything has changed."
"I've severed the daemonfey from this mythal. They will miss its power very shortly, I think. We should get out of here before they do. Everybody, join hands."
"I'm all for that," Maresa replied. "Where are we going?"
Araevin hesitated.
"I hadn't thought that far ahead," he admitted. "Evereska?"
"What in the world?" Seiveril whispered.
He paused in his fighting, staring at the scene around
The others nodded agreement. He stepped over to his companions, rested one hand over Ilsevele's and the other over Maresa's, and cast the final teleporting spell he had readied for the day. The four of them disappeared from the daemonfey vaults beneath Myth Glaurach. him. He was not alone. Elf, fey'ri, orc, and ogre alike looked up in amazement.
Every demon on the battlefield stood transfixed, screeching in immortal rage and agony as brilliant white spears of light struck down from above, pinning each in place. Tendrils of colorless power arced and snapped from demon to yugoloth, covering the battlefield in an electric web of magical fire.
The white spears of light grew brighter still, broadening into shining columns that engulfed the monsters of the lower planes.
The pillars of light vanished all at once, and with them each of the demons, devils, yugoloths, and fiends who had marched with the daemonfey army. Seiveril sensed the abrupt banishment of the monsters from Faerun as a wave of icy severance that rippled across the battlefield and back again. He blinked the afterimage of the brilliant spears from his eyes, astonished.
"Seiveril! What just happened?" Fflar demanded.
The moon elf shielded his eyes with his left forearm, holding Keryvian in his right. Despite all the blood the ancient baneblade had spilled that evening, its steel was still pure and unsullied. The holy fire of the sword burned it clean of demon blood.
"The demons were unsummoned," Seiveril answered. "They're banished. Whatever was holding them here has failed."
"Will they return?" Fflar turned, sweeping his eyes over the battlefield on all sides. "Are they truly banished, Seiveril?"
"I believe they are," Seiveril replied.
He had sufficient skill in summoning spells to recognize the end of one when he saw it. He surveyed the battlefield, looking for any sign of the fiends. Everywhere he looked, the remaining warriors of both sides still stood ama
zed.
The left flank, where the Knights of the Golden Star and Seiveril's bladesingers and spellsingers had battled against hundreds of the daemonfeys' demon allies, was virtually denuded of enemies. In a single stroke Seiveril's best warriors had been left in complete command of their corner of the moorland with no more enemies surrounding them or keeping them from going to the aid of the hard-pressed center and right.
The battered battle-platform began drifting back toward the fey'ri legion that stood behind Seiveril's force, awkwardly climbing over the jumbled remnants of the huge elemental Seiveril had sent to attack it. From somewhere far away came the single, solitary ring of steel meeting steel, and the battle began to resume, as more and more warriors turned back to their foes and redoubled their efforts to overcome each other.
"The sorcerers in that damned floating fortress are retreating," Seiveril observed.
"That is a good sign," Fflar grinned. "I think I like these odds a little better. So what now?"
"Reform the knights. We'll swing back toward the south and turn east to take the damned fey'ri in the flank. If we can defeat them, the orcs and ogres will break."
Seiveril glanced up into the dark skies overhead. Stars were beginning to appear through the violet wisps of the day's overcast, illuminated by the last faint rays of the sunset far to the west. The clouds were breaking up. It would be a clear and starry night.
"I don't know what became of the demons," Seiveril said, "but the Seldarine are smiling on us tonight."
The western skies still glowed with the fading gold of sunset over Evermeet. Amlaruil strolled along a balcony of the palace, looking down over the dark streets of Leuthilspar as one by one the warm lanterns of the elven city began to wake beneath the stars. The night was cool and the sea-breezes growing stronger. She listened to the voice of the waves and the wind, even as her handmaidens laughed and chattered behind her.
Zaltarish walked at her side, a thin staff in his hand.
"You must give Lady Durothil an answer of some kind soon," he said. "If nothing else, she will insist on a date by which you will reach your decision concerning the council."
"I meant what I said," Amlaruil began. "Filling the council is my prerogative, not hers, and I will do so in the time and manner that-"
Her eyes opened wider, and she drew in a small gasp. There was something in the Weave, subtle, a distant vibration as if a great, deep harp string had been touched a great distance away. Her step faltered and she gripped the balustrade, turning to peer east over the dark sea.
"What is it, my queen?" Zaltarish asked softly.
"High magic in Faerun," the queen said. "Not a true spell of high magic, only the… touching of one. It resonates in the Weave."
The scribe followed her eyes toward distant Faerun and asked, "What does it signify?"
Amlaruil gazed into the night for a long time, then lifted up her face, smiling at the stars.
"I am not certain, old friend, but I think a mighty blow has been struck against our enemies. Sunrise will find new things in Faerun."
The damaged Vyshaanti battle-platform hovered high over the battlefield of the Lonely Moor, its deck canted slightly to one side. Sarya didn't know if the device could be repaired or not, but she was unwilling to abandon it, even with its crumpled and scorched armor plates. But sooner or later the platform would certainly draw another attack from the elf spellcasters below, and it was only a tool, after all. Broken tools were to be discarded, and that was that.
The savage warriors who had fought and died as the fodder for her army were rapidly reaching the status of broken tools as well. Untold numbers of orcs, ogres, and such had fallen in the futile attempt to overwhelm the deadly steel core of Evermeet's army. They'd done well enough while the elves were beset by hundreds of demons and flanked by her fey'ri, but the demons she'd seeded among their ragged ranks had served to drive the tribal warriors onward with suitable zeal. With the demons gone, the orcs and their kin didn't seem so eager to try their chances against elven arrows and battle magic.
"The battle is lost, my lady," Mardeiym Reithel said. He bowed and continued, "We must withdraw the fey'ri before our losses grow any worse."
"I know," Sarya snarled.
She was tempted to punish the fey'ri for his temerity, but she held her hand. Mardeiym was competent and respectful, and it was certainly not his fault that he'd lost a quarter of the army-the fiercest and most powerful quarter, really-in one terrible moment. She had to get back to Myth Glaurach right away to see what had happened to the mythal stone. Had it finally decayed past the point of usefulness? Or had one of her underlings attempted something rash? Was Nurthel capable of such a brazen act of defiance?
"Signal the legion to disengage at once," she commanded. "Leave the orcs and the rest to the mercy of the elves. They shall serve to cover our retreat."
Mardeiym called to the messenger fey'ri who waited on his orders. "Sound the retreat!" he said. "We'll retire by air."
The messengers sounded their brazen trumpets, and from the melee of flashing swords and crackling spells below, the fey'ri began to rise, taking to the air. Better than a thousand of Sarya's demonblooded warriors had started the battle at sunset, but she guessed that a third of her fey'ri would not return to the halls of Myth Glaurach. Demons could be summoned again. orc tribes could be enticed with promises of loot and easy victory. But her fey'ri were indispensable.
"What will we do now, my lady?" Mardeiym asked quietly.
Sarya clenched her fists on the iron rail of the platform until the strength in her fingers left marks in the armor plate.
"Preserve the fey'ri," she answered. "Fall back and regroup to fight another day. You will gather the fey'ri and lead them back to our city at your best speed, but do not abandon the wounded if you can help it."
"Where will you be, my lady?"
"I must return to Myth Glaurach immediately to see what has happened there. Now go."
"Yes, Lady Sarya," the fey'ri warmaster replied.
He struck his fist to his breastplate in salute, and took to the air to join the fey'ri flying away from the battle.
Sarya spared the elf soldiers beneath her one hateful hiss, then she teleported herself away from the battle-platform. It was rash of her, but she chose to send herself directly to the mythal stone in its deep well of living rock. She needed to know what had happened to the spells with which she had anchored her demons to the physical world.
She appeared in a gout of sudden flame, her spell shields crackling into life, her staff held in guard as she readied herself to strike. But no enemies awaited her.
"What is this?" she snarled into the cold air.
There was no reply.
Angrily, she stalked over to the great rosy stone and set her hand on it, commanding it to reveal what had been done to it. But the mythal refused to answer. It did not recognize her presence at all.
"Who did this?" she screamed aloud. "Who did this?"
Ah, Sarya, I see that you have returned. You may be pleased to learn that I can answer that question, Malkizid's beautiful voice spoke from the mythal stone, melodious and perfect.
"Malkizid! What has happened to the mythal?"
I regret to inform you that a sun elf wizard with some skill in these matters appeared in this chamber a short time ago, and performed some alterations to your mythal stone. I presume from the outrage in your voice that he has sealed the mythal from any further contact on your part.
"Why did you not stop him?" Sarya raged.
I had no power to do so. I can communicate through this device, but I can exercise none of my powers at your end. Malkizid allowed himself a small laugh then added, I warned the fellow that you would be terribly angry.
"This is no laughing matter," the daemonfey queen snarled. "The loss of this mythal just now wrecked my army on the Lonely Moor. I had the palebloods trapped between my demons and my fey'ri, and my demons vanished all at once. My victory was stolen from me, damn you!" She whi
rled away in anger, stalking the floor of the mythal chamber, eyes aflame with emerald fire. "This is intolerable. I must resummon those demons and yugoloths at once."
Alas, this mythal will no longer serve you for that purpose. The sun elf who came here made certain of that. Malkizid's golden voice paused then added, But… there are other mythals you might turn to your purposes.
The daemonfey queen stopped in mid-step and snapped her gaze to the rose-hued boulder, even though she knew that Malkizid was not really there.
"Myth Drannor," she said
I have no ability to manipulate the mythal of Corman-thor, for I am not an elf. However, with your elf's blood and my knowledge of mythalcraft, we could accomplish far more in Myth Drannor than you could in Myth Glaurach. Is it really necessary to begin your reign by reclaiming Siluvanede? Or are you willing to found your dynasty here instead?
Sarya folded her wings close behind her back, and narrowed her eyes.
"Before my family came to Siluvanede, we sought the throne of Arcorar. I am not without a claim to Corman-thyr's throne." She considered the offer, examining the possibilities, and said, "Your suggestion interests me. I gain the kingdom denied my House for six thousand years, but what do you gain, Malkizid?"
The light tones of the golden voice vanished for an instant.
Freedom, Malkizid answered. And the dream of a new Aryvandaar ordering the world as it should have long ago. Our paths run together for quite a long time, Sarya Dlardrageth.
The daemonfey queen weighed Malkizid's words, and assented with a predatory smile.
"Very well. I will bring my fey'ri to Myth Drannor, and we will make ready an army even greater and more terrible than the one I just raised."
I await your arrival, then.
Sarya nodded. She did not entirely trust Malkizid, but she couldn't see what he might gain from leading her astray, and what he said made sense to her. Already she was considering the questions of how to carry away the treasures and armaments she had stored beneath Myth Glaurach. There was much to do, and not much time. She started to turn away, but then one more thought struck her.
Forsaken House tlm-1 Page 33