Farthest Reach (22 page)

“It has been a long time since an elflord has invited Dalelords to his table in Cormanthor,” Theremen said. “I, for one, am honored to be here.”

Seiveril inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment, and turned his eyes to the fourth of his guests—none other than Storm Silverhand, one of the Seven Sisters, Bard of Shadowdale, Harper, Chosen of Mystra, and a dozen other things more. She stood watching him, her eyes dark and thoughtful in a face of tremendous beauty. She wore a mail shirt and a leather jacket, and a long sword rode at her hip. Her silver hair, long and straight, gleamed in the lanternlight. Seiveril had not expected her, believing Shadowdale would send its lord Mourngrym Amcathra or another representative, but he was not about to tell a Chosen of Mystra that she was not welcome.

“Well, Seiveril Miritar, you’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest in Myth Drannor,” Storm said. “I suppose I would like to know what in the world is going on there, and why a whole army from Evermeet has suddenly gated into this forest.”

“I will explain,” Seiveril said, glancing to Thilesil, “but first, I was expecting a representative from Archendale too.”

“The Swords declined to come,” Thilesil said. “They sent word that they are not concerned with ‘elven matters,’ but will not obstruct your movements in any way, as long as you do not approach their land.”

Malorn shook his head. “Trust Archendale to look out for itself first. You won’t get much from them, Lord Miritar.”

“In all fairness, High Councilor, the Swords are mightily concerned by Sembia, which sits at their southern doorstep,” Lord Theremen replied. “They do not want to give Sembia a reason to pick a quarrel with them.”

Seiveril shook his head. The human ability to ignore their own common good always astonished him, but he supposed that if the rulers of Archendale wanted to be left alone, he could certainly leave them alone. He looked back to Storm Silverhand, sensing that she was the one he would have to convince. The legendary Bard of Shadowdale might not hold any titles or govern any lands, but her words went a long way in the Dalelands.

“I promised to explain our presence,” he began. “We have spent the last three months marching and fighting in the Delimbiyr Vale, where we fought a bitter campaign against a legion of daemonfey—winged demons who wear the shapes of elves. They are an ancient evil long ago defeated and imprisoned in the High Forest. But earlier this year they mounted a raid on Evermeet itself, and freed a great legion of their kind to launch an attack against the elves of the High Forest and nearby realms.”

“Evereska,” Storm said.

Seiveril nodded. He hadn’t wanted to name the city, not knowing the Dalelords with whom he spoke well enough to speak of such a secret.

“Yes, Evereska,” he allowed. “In response, I gathered a host of warriors from Evermeet to go to the Delimbiyr Vale and destroy the daemonfey threat. We stopped them at the gates of Evereska and in the deep refuges of the High Forest, and broke their army on the Lonely Moor. But the daemonfey fled through hidden gates to Myth Drannor, where they are now rebuilding their strength.” He faced Councilor Malorn and spread his hands in apology. “In truth, we did not mean to drive an army of our foes into your lands. But now that they have fled here, we have come to finish what we started at the Lonely Moor.”

“That explains your army’s presence,” Storm Silverhand said, “but perhaps you can also tell me why the forest is suddenly thick with creatures of the infernal planes. Have these daemonfey of yours broken the wards trapping those monsters inside Myth Drannor?”

“We think so, yes.” Seiveril paused, to make sure that the Chosen understood him. “One of my mages, an expert on mythakraft and the daemonfey spells, surveyed Sarya’s handiwork at Myth Drannor. He found that she has assumed control over the mythal, and is now working to twist it to her own purposes. In the High Forest she used the wards over Myth Glaurach to summon up a whole army of fiends. I fear she will do so again in Myth Drannor if we do not stop her.”

“Damn.” Storm turned away to stare out over the lake. “We’ve allowed Myth Drannor to fester for decades, and now it seems we’ll have to pay the price for it.”

Haresk Malorn looked to Storm and asked, “Can the Sage of Shadowdale do something about a demon queen tinkering with Myth Drannor’s old magic? Or the Knights of Myth Drannor? They would not stand aside and let this happen, would they?”

The Bard of Shadowdale frowned, and her face grew dark. “Elminster took the Knights off through a magical gate months ago on some perilous errand. I haven’t seen them since. My sister—the Simbul-grew so sick with worry that she appointed a regent in Aglarond and went seeking them. She said something to me about the Srinshee before she left, but now I haven’t heard from her since. I would like to know where they are, too.”

“I know that Elminster and the Knights have proven their friendship to the Dales many times over,” Malorn said. “But still … what in the world is more important than what’s going on right here?”

“The world is full of troubles, my friend, and we who are Chosen can only deal with a very few of them.” Storm looked up at the twilight skies overhead. “For my own part, I have always hated choosing which things to do and which to leave undone.”

The high councilor frowned and looked down at his feet, perhaps regretting his words. The gathering fell silent for a long moment, as the other Dalesfolk chewed over Storm Silverhand’s tidings.

Then Ilmeth of Battledale stirred and looked over to Seiveril. “So you’re just going to march your army up to Myth Drannor, kick out the daemonfey, and ride off back to Evermeet?”

“As directly as we can, though the mythal wards may prevent us from an outright assault. We may have to invest the city and batter down its defenses, or work powerful magic of our own to contain the daemonfey.” Seiveril hesitated, then added, “After that, many of us will likely return to Evermeet. But I intend to remain here and keep some strength in this forest. We have been surprised by threats originating in Faerun too many times. I cannot speak for all who march under my banner, but I at least have Returned.”

The Dalelords did not attempt to conceal their surprise. Councilor Malorn exchanged looks with Ilmeth of Battledale, and both surreptitiously glanced to Storm Silverhand to see how the Bard of Shadowdale responded. Storm, for her part, was still staring out over the lake. After a long moment, she spoke over her shoulder.

“Turning back the march of years is rarely a good idea, Seiveril Miritar,” she said. “It took the lords of the Elven Court nearly five centuries to decide on Retreat. Are you telling me that in a few short months they’ve suddenly decided otherwise?”

“The decision was not without debate.”

Storm snorted softly in the twilight. “Sun elves make an art of understatement. Do you have any idea of the trouble that will come from this?”

“Whatever trouble comes, it must surely be less than that which will come to this land if we leave Sarya Dlardrageth in Myth Drannor,” Seiveril answered.

“Lord Miritar, not all of the Dales hold to the old Dales Compact anymore,” High Councilor Malorn said. “The four Dales represented here still abide by the promises made fourteen centuries ago by our forefathers to yours, but the Compact is not remembered with much fondness in Archendale, Tasseldale, or Scardale. Even Harrowdale is questionable.”

“And there are powers encroaching on the borders of Cormanthor that never agreed to any Compact with the elves,” Lord Theremen pointed out. “Realms such as Zhentil Keep and Hillsfar—or Sembia, for that matter-are not at all unhappy with the elves’ Retreat. They might resist your Return to Cormanthor.”

“I have no designs on their lands,” Seiveril protested.

“No, Seiveril Miritar, but they certainly have designs on yours-and ours,” Storm Silverhand said. The silver-haired bard turned back from Lake Sember and fixed her eyes on Seiveril. “Cormanthyr long shielded the Dales and the forest lands from the ambitions of kingdoms nearby. But since the final Retreat of the Elven Court thirty years ago, the realms surrounding the Dalelands and Cormanthor have been growing ever bolder. In the absence of the elves’ strength and determination, the forest has become a great borderland, a frontier that all are eager to claim.

“Fortunately-” Storm smiled humorlessly as she spoke—”we live in interesting times. The Zhents would have overrun the northern Dales long ago, but they have murdered each other in at least two great bloody purges. They have now recovered from those feuds, stronger than ever. The Sembians might have bought Tasseldale and Featherdale and who knows what else lock, stock, and barrel-but Cormyr under King Azoun would have none of that. Well, Azoun is dead now. Hillsfar was a city friendly to the Fair Folk, respectful of the old Compact. Now it is ruled by the tyrant Maalthiir, a man known to hate elves.

“For a decade now, the only thing keeping the aspirations of these ambitious powers in check is the fear that should one of them move too quickly, the others would certainly join forces to drag down the leader from behind.” Storm frowned at Seiveril, her eyes narrow and thoughtful. “Now you tell me that there’s an army of demonspawn in Myth Drannor, who no doubt plan to seize a realm to rule for themselves.”

“That, at least, I mean to prevent,” Seiveril replied. “As for the other realms, I recognize that the years have passed since the Standing Stone was raised, and that a new Compact may be necessary. But I see no human cities standing here on the shores of Lake Sember, or rising in the silver groves of the Elven Court. I will not be told that elves cannot raise a realm under Cormanthor’s branches.”

Storm sighed and looked over at the glimmering lanterns and campfires of the elven army, which were beginning to flicker into life as the twilight deepened.

“Before the Retreat, no one would have dreamed of challenging an elven army in Cormanthor,” she said. “I do not think you can trade on that old fear and respect any longer. Whether you meant to or not, Lord Miritar, you have brought war to Cormanthor, and I cannot yet see who will take up arms against whom.”

4 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

Saerloon was one of the busiest ports on the Sea of Fallen Stars. Two days after Araevin and his companions arrived in the city, they boarded Windsinger, bound for the city of Velprintalar on Aglarond’s northern coast. Windsinger was a graceful three-masted caravel under the command of a captain named Ilthor, a wiry, sun-darkened Aglarondan. She had carried great tuns of wine, cords of fine hardwood, and small coffers full of rich amber from the Yuirwood to Saerloon, and was taking on Sembian pewter, ironwork, copperwork, and tooled leather to carry back home again.

The day was warm and the skies streaked with rain as two longboats pulled Windsinger from Saerloon’s wharves. Once in open water the caravel let down her sails, and set her course south-southwest for the whole day in order to clear the great southern cape of Sembia. Then, with a northwest wind at their back, they turned due east and made for the Isle of Prespur, sighting its town-dotted shores early on the third day of sailing. After that Ilthor turned Windsinger sharply to the northeast, striking across the mouth of the Dragon Reach for the city of Procampur, on the northern shore of the Inner Sea. It would have been far swifter to simply continue due east for Aglarond, crossing the center of the Sea of Fallen Stars, but the Pirate Isles and the dangerous shoals south of Altumbel lay astride that course, and Ilthor had no intention of trying his luck with either.

Araevin found the sea voyage an easy way to travel. There was little room to spare for passengers, and the deck was cluttered with cargo and stores, but the voyage offered ample opportunity to find a cargo hatch or coil of line to sit on, watch the sea or the distant shorelines, make entries in his journals, talk with his friends, or simply sit and reflect. Windsinger was too small to boast cabins exclusively for the use of passengers, so Ilsevele and Maresa shared the pilot’s cabin in the sterncastle, while the pilot bunked in the forecastle with the other crewmen. Araevin and Donnor were given the best sleeping places on the open deck. Covered from the weather by the quarterdeck overhead, the after deck was actually quite pleasant in warm weather, if not particularly private.

By night Ilthor found various small anchorages along the coastlines, dropping anchor each night in a different cove or bay. Only once did he run at night, when he crossed from Prespur to Procampur.

“The sea is too cluttered with islands and shoals to sail in the dark,” he explained. “Out on the Sword Coast or the Shining Sea, they’ll keep their course by day and night. But here I drop anchor when it gets dark, unless I’m certain I’ve got an open pitch of water all around me or the moon is bright enough to sail by.”

For the next few days they sailed eastward along the shores of Impiltur, passing cities such as Tsurlagol, Lyrabar, and Hlammach. Then Ilthor turned southeast, striking across the mouth of the Eastern Reach for Cape Dragonfang.

On the seventh day of their voyage, Araevin found himself sitting with Ilsevele at the stern. He studied his spellbooks in the bright sun, puzzling over the notations and concepts of a spell he had recorded months before but had not yet mastered, while she gazed back at the green shores of Impiltur, slowly sinking into the sea behind them. Her ivory skin had acquired a golden bronze hue in the past few days, as sun elves often did in warm climes. Even the fairest tanned quickly and easily, unlike moon elves, who could never gain more than the faintest hint of color to their skin. After a time Araevin realized that Ilsevele had been staring out over the sea for a long while, her brow faintly furrowed, her eyes distant.

He set down his spellbook and reached to place a hand over hers.

“What is it, Ilsevele? You’ve been staring at the sea all morning. Where are your thoughts?”

She didn’t reply for a long time, long enough that someone who didn’t know her as well as Araevin might have wondered whether she had heard him. But finally she took her eyes from the bright horizon, and looked down at the slender white wake streaming from behind Windsinger’s rudderpost.