Farthest Reach (5 page)

Most of Evermeet’s portals were closed forever, deliberately sealed in the past few decades to guard the island from any possible attack through the magical gateways, but a few still existed—some well guarded, others only one-way portals that allowed travelers to depart from Evermeet but not return, some so old or uncertain in their working that they were risky to use. Araevin had always been fascinated by portals, and he had spent many decades exploring them in both Evermeet and Faerun. He thought he might be the only person alive who knew how to wake the one in the glade.

He spoke the spells needed to activate the portal, and passed through. With a single step Evermeet’s misty forests vanished, only to be replaced by the high, windswept downs of the Evermoors. Dusk was falling, the end of a bright and cold spring day; the Evermoors were far to the east of Evermeet.

“What becomes of the hours I missed?” Araevin wondered aloud.

He studied the featureless moorland, speckled with the first small blooms of spring despite the lingering patches of snow that still lurked in the shadowed places. It was important to be sure of his exact location in case the portal had somehow malfunctioned.

Satisfied, he closed his eyes, envisioning a small hilltop shrine he knew well, and uttered a spell of teleportation.

There was a moment of darkness, a vertiginous sense of falling without motion, and Araevin stood in the small wooded bower of a shrine to Labelas Enoreth, a mile beyond the walls of Silverymoon, another hundred miles from the portal-stone in the Evermoors. Two large blueleaf trees had long ago taken root in the veranda, shouldering aside the shrine’s flagstones and forming a living roof over the elf deity’s altar. A small balustrade of old white stone, overgrown with green vines, offered a view of the swift river Rauvin and the city of Silverymoon, cupped around both the river’s banks

“Well, there you are. I have been waiting for you.”

Araevin turned at the words, and found himself looking on the face of his betrothed, the beautiful Lady Ilsevele Miritar. She was a sun elflike he, but she was much fairer than he was—in both senses of the word—with a radiant mane of copper-red hair and green eyes. She wore a tunic of green suede over cream-colored trousers, bloused into high leather boots decorated with tiny gold thread patterns. A slender long sword was sheathed at her hip.

“Ilsevele,” he said, and he took three steps and caught her up in his arms.

“It’s only been a couple of tendays,” she said with a laugh, finally pushing him away. “You’ve gone years at a time without thinking to look in on me.”

“I have spent too much time around humans lately,” he answered. “After two hundred and fifty years, I believe I am losing the habit of patience.”

“Well, you must wait a little longer. Our wedding is still two years away, in case you have forgotten.” Ilsevele looked out over the human city nearby. Hundreds of lanterns were flickering to life in its tree-shadowed streets and graceful buildings, reflections glimmering in the dark waters of the Rauvin, and the stars were coming out in the darkening skies. “I am glad that you told me of this shrine. The view is lovely. And I’ve had several hours to admire it.”

“I am sorry. I had a later start than I’d anticipated.”

“No matter. I enjoyed a couple of hours to myself.” She took his hand. “Come on, Maresa and Filsaelene are waiting in the city. They’re anxious to see you, too.”

The two sun elves followed an old path leading down from the shrine to the human city below. This close to Silverymoon, there was little danger even as darkness fell, but Araevin noted that Ilsevele wore her sword, and he approved.

“Where are you staying?” he asked. When he’d sent word to Ilsevele that he was coming, he had used a sending spell, and didn’t know where it might have found her.

“An inn called the Golden Oak. It’s quite nice, really. I like it much better than that Dragonback in Daggerford.”

“I know the Oak. You have expensive tastes,” he said with a smile.

Ilsevele drew closer under his arm. “I decided that I owed Maresa and Filsaelene some comfort, after what we’ve all been through over the last few months.”

“I certainly don’t begrudge you that.”

They’d crisscrossed the Sword Coast and the North in search of the telkiiras containing the clues that would lead him to the Nightstar, facing brigands, trolls, wars, demons, imprisonment, and worse. And not all of their companions had survived their adventure.

Araevin’s old comrade Grayth Holmfast had been murdered by the daemonfey, and Grayth’s armsman Brant torn apart by demons in the fight to find the telkiira stones before the daemonfey did. Thinking of his lost companions, Araevin lapsed into a long silence as they neared Silverymoon’s gates.

After a time, Ilsevele glanced at him and said, “You seem troubled.”

“I was thinking of Grayth and Brant. They deserved better.”

“I know.” Ilsevele leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. “He did not want to return, Araevin. We brought him to Rhymester’s Matins, the temple of Lathander in this city, and the human clerics cast divinations to determine whether his spirit would return willingly if they chose to raise him. Grayth is content with his life, and his death. All you can do is honor his sacrifice, and carry him with you in your memory.”

“Grayth is wiser than I, for I am not content.” Araevin said. He knew he was responsible for his friend’s death. The daemonfey had killed Grayth to compel Araevin to lead them to the Nightstar. If he had yielded earlier, the cleric might still be alive. Araevin had destroyed Nurthel, the fey’ri who had actually killed Grayth … but Sarya Dlardrageth, the author of his death, had so far escaped justice. “We still have business with the daemonfey.”

“I have not forgotten,” she replied, with an edge of cold steel in her voice. Ilsevele was a warrior as well as a highborn lady; she believed that some things could only be set right with steel and courage, and she knew her own measure better than most.

They passed the guards at the city gates, and walked Silverymoon’s broad boulevards until they reached the

Golden Oak—a large, comfortable inn whose common room was an open atrium beneath the spreading branches of a great oak tree, from which dozens of small lanterns hung. A bard strummed a lute, and many of the inn’s guests sat drinking wine or ale beneath the oak tree, quietly conversing.

“Araevin!” called a loud voice. More than a few heads turned as Máresa Rost leaped to her feet, calling to the two elves. Máresa was an individual of striking appearance, a young woman whose skin was literally as white as snow. Her hair was long and silver-white as well, and it drifted gently around her head as if stirred by breezes unfelt by anyone else. She was a genasi, a human whose ancestry included beings of the elemental planes-in Maresa’s case, air elementals of some kind. She wore crimson-dyed leather and carried a rapier at her hip. “You were supposed to be here hours ago!”

Araevin started to bow and apologize, but Máresa surprised him, throwing her arms around him and offering a fierce hug. “I-it is good to see you, too, Máresa,” he stammered. He looked over Maresa’s shoulder to the genasi’s companion, a rather slight and young-looking sun elf woman who wore the emblem of Corellon Larethian’s clerics on her tunic. “And you, too, Filsaelene.”

Filsaelene offered a shy smile, and raised a goblet of wine. “Join us, please. I am afraid we are a little ahead of you already.”

Freed from the daemonfey stronghold only a few tendays ago, none of her former comrades had survived their battle against the demonic invaders. Filsaelene still struck Araevin as timid and retiring, but she seemed to be recovering well under Maresa’s care.

Máresa finally released him, and Araevin glanced over at Ilsevele. His betrothed shrugged.

“I could stand some song and wine,” she said. “Why not?”

They spent the evening drinking good wine, enjoying the music of the bard, and trading stories of old adventures. After a time, the lutenist was joined by a flutist and a drummer, and the three struck up a lively dance, in which Araevin was kept quite busy by dancing with all three of his companions in turn. Finally, tired and pleasantly aglow with the warm wine, he and Ilsevele said their goodnights to the others, and retired to Ilsevele’s comfortable room.

Whether it was the wine, the dancing, or simply the hidden relief of having survived their trials of the past few months, they made love for a time. Then they spent the hours after midnight lying together, content to be near each other without speaking. Such moments had become rare in the past few years, it seemed.

Ilsevele’s fingers glided over the cold, hard gemstone sealed to Araevin’s chest, and he felt her frown.

“You brought the selukiira with you?” she asked.

“I still have more to learn from it,” he told her. Then he reached up to mesh his fingers with hers, and brought her hand to his face, holding her close as they drifted off into Reverie together.

“I thought you said it was dangerous—an artifact of the daemonfey of old.”

“It is,” he said, and said no more about it.

The next morning, Araevin stirred from his Reverie and dressed himself in the dark hour before dawn. Ilsevele roused herself as he rose, drawing a deep breath as she called herself back to the inn room from whatever far memory or dream she had wandered in her own Reverie.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“The Vault of the Sages,” Araevin replied. He looked over at her. “It is the best library in the city, perhaps all of the North, and I have some research to do.”

“The Nightstar?”

“Yes. I have not yet solved all of its mysteries.” Araevin drew his cloak over his shoulders, and picked up the worn rucksack in which he carried many of his notes and journals. “I must learn more about the magic of ancient Arcorar, or at least some specific spells and rites from that era, if I am to unlock the deeper secrets Saelethil concealed in this lorestone.”

Ilsevele sat up sharply. “Is it a good idea to do that? You were lucky once with the Nightstar. Perhaps you shouldn’t delve any further into it unless you have to.”

“Last night we spoke of our unfinished business with the daemonfey. If I ever mean to finish it, I think I will need to know what other secrets the Nightstar holds.”

Ilsevele stood too, and said, “I will come with you, then.”

“There is no need. I’m not sure how much you could help, to be honest. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for.”

Ilsevele’s eyes narrowed. “I remind you, my betrothed, that I know a little bit about magic too. Besides, I have nothing else in particular to do today, and I might like a chance to look around a fine library for my own account, not yours.”

He winced. “I did not mean to imply that you were unable to help me,” he managed. “I would enjoy your company, if you wanted to come along.”

Ilsevele crossed her arms. “I find that less than convincing.”

They ate a quick breakfast of warm bread and apple butter in the inn’s common room, and set out across Silverymoon as the human town slowly woke. The Vault of the Sages was a tall horseshoe-shaped building of stone, sturdy and strong. Araevin and Ilsevele entered only moments after the priests of Denier, who kept the Vault, opened the doors for the day.

An old human cleric with a fringe of snow-white hair around his bald pate looked up from a desk to greet them.

“Ah, good morning! It is not often we are visited by two of the ar Tel’Quessir. I am Brother Calwern. How might we help you today?”

“I am Araevin Teshurr, and this is my betrothed, Lady Ilsevele Miritar,” Araevin replied. “I am interested in making use of your library.”

“Of course. What topics interest you, sir?”

“I am looking for books or treatises on the magical lore of ancient Arcorar, from the early days of Cormanthyr—the centuries following the Twelve Nights of Fire, or perhaps the Fifth Rysar of Jhyrennstar. You may also have writings by the wizards Ithraides, Kaeledhin, Morthil, or Sanathar.”

Araevin did not mention Saelethil Dlardrageth. Saelethil would never have shared any of his writings with other mages, or left a record of his studies other than the Nightstar intended for members of his own House.

Brother Calwern raised a bushy eyebrow, and leaned back in his seat. “We have few works of such antiquity here. The wizards you named, are they from the same era?” Araevin nodded, and the Deneirrath priest continued. “I will have to examine our indices and catalogs to see if we have anything that might help you. It might take a little time. In the meantime, I can certainly recommend a likely tome or two for you to begin with. I presume you read Loross and Thorass?”

“Among others, yes.”

“Excellent!” The Deneirrath priest stood up, and gestured toward an archway leading deeper into the great building. “If you please, then—this way.”

Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and offered a small smile. When it came down to it, he couldn’t resist a scholarly mystery, and there was not a better place in Faerun to solve one than the libraries of Silverymoon. Together they followed Brother Calwern into the Vault of the Sages.

*****

“High Lords and Ladies of the Council, the Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion!”

Seiveril faltered on the threshold of the Dome of Stars, surprised to hear his own name announced. He glanced at the herald-captain, a young sun elf who stared straight ahead, giving no further sign that he recognized Seiveril’s presence.

Eighty years on the Royal Council and never once have I been announced, Seiveril wondered. Instead, he had always been a member of the body that guests were announced to.

He felt the eyes of the minor lords and functionaries in attendance fall on him, as he stood unmoving in the chamber door. Then Seiveril recovered, and he strode with growing confidence into the Dome of Stars.

The high council chamber of Evermeet, the Dome was part of the sprawling palace compound in Leuthilspar. A striking chamber with a dark, star-flecked marble floor and a great clear ceiling of magic theurglass, the Dome was illuminated by the warm yellow light of late afternoon, striking bright gleams from the glossy stone underfoot. It was a magnificent chamber, and in its center stood the glassteel council table, a delicate ornament of frostedwhite glass magically hardened to the toughness of steel. It had always struck Seiveril as a good metaphor for the elf race—beautiful to look upon, yet stronger than the eye could believe.