The Summoning (22 page)

“I am not surprised to hear such talk from a human,” said Ryence. “The phaerimm are not threatening one of your cities.”

“It may not be a human city they are attacking, but plenty of human blood will be spilled defending it.” Khelben struggled to conceal the full depth of his contempt for this elf. He had witnessed enough noble ambition to recognize a lord trying to make a name for himself, and he knew that such fools rarely had the good taste to get only themselves killed. “You’d do well not to waste it.”

“No elf has asked you to waste anything,” said Bladuid, urging his horse alongside Ryence’s. “As far as we are concerned, this an elf matter.”

Though Khelben was well aware of the disdain in which most Gold elves held humans, he was unaccustomed to feeling

its sting himself. Drawing himself to his full height, he glared past Ryence at the high mage.

“Perhaps you have forgotten who I am. My father was Arun Maerdrym, noble son to House Maerdrym of Myth Drannor.” What Khelben did not add—though it was obvious by his entirely human appearance—was that Arun had been a half-elf, and as such the first son of mixed race to be acknowledged by a noble house. “And I, personally, am one of the few—human, elf, or otherwise—who actually recalls living in Myth Drannor.”

“Then you should know what happens when elves and humans mix,” the high mage replied. “How long ago was it that Myth Drannor fell?”

“More recently than Aryvandaar,” Khelben shot back. “And you can hardly blame humans for that.”

The gibe drew an angry snarl from Ryence and a black glare from Bladuid. No elf—especially no Gold elf—liked to be reminded of how the Crown Wars had shattered the golden age of elven civilization.

Khelben softened his tone. “Fortunately, the spirit of Myth Drannor still lives in some—even in Evereska. I myself have always found a warm welcome in the vale.”

“Yes. Perhaps if more humans risked their lives helping elves instead of robbing their tombs, they would receive the same welcome you did.” The high mage was referring to the time—nearly a thousand years earlier—that Khelben had almost died saving three Evereskans from a phaerimm ambush. When the grateful elves took him home to recover from his wounds, he became the first human ever allowed to see Evereska.

“If 1 may be so bold,” said Khelben’s scout, still flying just above his shoulder, “we are trying to help now.”

“How very noble of you,” Bladuid said. “And your generosity has nothing to do with what will become of human lands if the phaerimm succeed?”

“Waterdeep is a long way from Evereska, mage.” The

scout looked back to Khelben and pointed up the trail. “There’s the bend, milord. If you’re going to cross, you’d better do it soon.”

Khelben looked over to Ryence. “What say you? Will you humor me this once?”

The elf lord considered his request only a second. “There’s no need. We must be two hundred miles from Evereska. The phaerimm are not going to ambush us here.”

“Then I wish you well,” said Khelben, pulling his horse out of line.

Ryence’s eyes widened. “What are you …”

That was all Khelben heard before Ryence was carried out of earshot. He raised his hand to call Waterdeep’s riders to him, then watched with a heavy heart as the elf warriors streaked past, their heads swinging around to look in his direction. He would have felt better, had their expressions had been less indignant and more perplexed.

The scout landed beside Khelben, keeping a tight rein on his hippogriff so it did not try to snack on the gathering horses.

“A wise choice, milord.” In the thickening cloud of steaming horse breath, the scout’s invisible form was barely discernible even to Khelben. “That elf is too eager to find his death.”

“Let us hope he finds it later rather than sooner. Ryence may be a fool and Bladuid a bigot, but their warriors are brave and worthy, else they would not have traveled so far to fight someone else’s battle.” Khelben looked away from the elves and fixed his attention on the scout. “Shandar, is it not?”

“An excellent memory, Lord Blackstaff.”

“There are only a dozen of you,” said Khelben, dismissing the compliment with a wave of his hand. ‘Tell me how the moor looked when you flew over it. Can a horse cross it?”

“The ground looked frozen enough, but it was too broken. I fear we’d cripple as many as we didn’t.”

The last of the elf riders passed by, leaving the archmage

alone with his company of volunteers — barely a hundred warriors and a quarter that many battle mages. The men looked nervously from one to another, waiting in silence for their commander to explain why he had divided the Swift Cavalry. Khelben paid them no attention, convinced they would learn the reason soon enough, but hoping they would not.

Shantar finally grew impatient. “Lord Blackstaff? The river?”

Khelben looked across the Winding Water to the barren trees, knowing how difficult it would be to return across the river if the elves were ambushed.

“We can’t chance the river.” Khelben dismounted and passed his reins to a nearby rider, then drew his staff from its holster and started up the slope. “We’ll have need of those elves.”

The first hint of the village was the fruity reek of fireweed smoke, a stench that had led Galaeron to the camp of more than one shiftless, tomb-robbing wizard unable to forgo his indulgence for a few nights. This particular smoke happened to be especially foul, and he had a sudden vision of his mother and her friends squatting in the snow outside their stormlodge, their hands cupped around white meerschaum bowls and their heads swaddled in clouds of brown fume. Wood elves were the most capricious of Tel’Quess, ever ready to test some new delight or enliven a party with a touch of intemperance, and he could easily imagine them becoming slaves to the pipe after seeing some human wizard blow smoke rings through a yellow-stained beard.

As Turlang led the small company deeper into the village, they heard a male voice singing a bawdy tale of one-night love. A rush of laughter punctuated each verse, and it was not long before Galaeron could identify his own mother’s voice among them. As always, it stirred in him a youthful longing

he had long thought past—and also deeper, angrier emotions upon which he dared not dwell if he meant to keep his shadow at bay.

Like most Sy’Tel’Quess settlements, the winter village of Rheitheillaethor was more of a camp than a town. On the ground stood rough huts of log and mud meant only to deceive intruders, while the elves’ true homes sat high among the trees. Modest both in size and construction, the nestings were usually no more than a waxed leather tent covering a platform of deadfall logs. Often, the walls were decorated with elaborate dye-work grisaille depicting winter scenes, usually rendered so that the art enhanced the camouflage. To spare the residents the effort of descending to the forest floor when they wanted to go somewhere, the entire hamlet was linked by an intricate network of catwalks and swing-ropes, all cleverly disguised as crisscrossing limbs and draping vines. With a fresh twilight snow on the ground, as there was now, a careless observer might easily cross all of Rheitheillathor and never see the real village.

Galaeron’s companions were not careless observers. Vala and Melegaunt pretended not to notice the eyes peering down from the sentry hollows, but the care they took to avoid fields of fire suggested they knew exactly where Rheitheillaethor stationed its archers. Aris was not so subtle. The stone giant simply stomped from one tree to another, studying the grisaille and mumbling to himself as he admired the most inspiring of the works. If he noticed the startled elf mothers herding their wide-eyed children out the opposite sides of the nestings, he showed no sign.

At last, they reached the village center. Turlang stepped aside, revealing Rheitheillaethor’s only permanent building, a white marble longhouse. Aris was instantly on his hands and knees, studying the sculpted frieze work ringing the building.

Fifty paces beyond the longhouse, a hundred Wood elves sat on snow-cushioned deadfall logs, swilling triplewild mead and listening to the bawdy song the companions had been

hearing. The lyrics were being sung by a throaty-voiced human seated on the Honor Chair—a flat-topped boulder nestled in a crook along the bank of the Heartblood River. The fellow’s face was thin and weathered, with dancing eyes and a flowing beard stained yellow around the mouth. One hand held a long-stemmed pipe that had single-handedly covered the clearing with a cloud of turquoise smoke, while the other was cupping the fanny of the laughing Wood elf woman who sat on his lap.

With amber eyes, waist-length hair as richly golden as honey, and a face so deeply copper it could only be called red, the Lady of the Wood looked as strikingly beautiful as ever, and it took Galaeron a moment to accept that it was actually his mother on the human’s lap. Though Morgwais scorned humans even more than did most Wood elves—and the Wood elf abhorrence of humans was legendary—she did not seem to dislike this man. She had one arm wrapped around his neck and her bosom pressed to his cheek, and if she was troubled by the wrinkled hand on her behind, she hid the fact well.

Turlang waited while the human finished his song, then rustled his branches. “Forgive the intrusion, tree-friends.”

At the sound of the treant’s voice, Galaeron’s mother smiled broadly and turned to look, the delight in her eyes bespeaking the regard all elves held for the forest master.

‘Turlang?”

“I have need of words, Lady Morgwais.”

“Of course,” Morgwais called. She jumped off the human’s lap, then spread her arms wide and started forward. “Welcome.”

The treant dipped his leafy crown. “Always a joy.”

“What brings you to Rheitheillaethor, my friend?” As she slipped past the other elves, she finally seemed to notice Aris kneeling beside the stormlodge. “And who is your tall friend?”

“Aris is neither friend nor foe to me—yet.” Turlang

lowered a limb toward Galaeron. “He is companion to one claiming to be your son.”

“Galaeron?” Morgwais’s gaze shifted to where Galaeron stood beneath Turlang’s shadowy boughs, and she slipped past the treant to embrace him. “I didn’t feel you enter the wood!”

“No?” The comment caused Galaeron to feel strangely resentful, as though she were accusing him of trying to surprise her. He cast a bitter glance toward the white-bearded human, now trailing his mother forward like a hart after his hind. “Perhaps you were distracted by your man-friend.”

Morgwais retreated to arm’s length and cocked a chastening eyebrow. “Did Aubric send you to look in on my virtue? Because I am certain your father has more important things to worry about.”

This drew a chorus of titters from the Wood elves, who considered jealousy perverse. Galaeron felt the heat rise to his cheeks and started to grow angry with his mother for embarrassing him, then realized he had brought the ridicule on himself. To Sy’Tel’Quess, flirtation was as much a part of a good life as savory food and abundant drink, and even his father would not have been upset to find Morgwais sitting on someone else’s lap. The cause of Galaeron’s indignation was not her behavior; it was something much deeper and darker.

“I apologize,” said Galaeron. “I doubt Father even knows I’m here. I was just so astonished to find you keeping a human’s company I didn’t know what to think.”

The smile that returned to Morgwais’s lips was only half doubtful. She took Galaeron’s hand and motioned the white-bearded man forward. “Elminster is no ordinary human.”

“Elminster?” It was Melegaunt who gasped this. “Of Shadowdale?”

“The very” As the old man stepped to Morgwais’s side, the twinkle in his eye turned fiery “And ye be Melegaunt Tanthul, I believe.”

Melegaunt’s eyes narrowed, and his expression changed

from one of concern to something between awe and terror. “I am he—but you know that already.”

Elminster puffed his pipe. “Thy efforts have not gone unnoticed, lad. There is talk of all ye’ve done for Evereska.”

“And that’s why you are here?” Galaeron was as dazed by the idea that anyone would call Melegaunt “lad” as he was excited to hear that Elminster himself had taken notice of his home’s plight. ‘To help us?”

Elminster continued to look at Melegaunt. “That depends on what ye seek in Karse.”

Melegaunt arched his brow. “What makes you think… ?” He seemed to suddenly realize the answer, then said, “The stone giants, of course—and Lord Imesfor thinks I’m Netherese.”

“And I am not convinced he is wrong.”

“Believe what you wish, but if you spoke to the stone giants, you must also know the phaerimm are desperate to stop us. That alone should convince you we serve the same goal.”

Elminster’s tone grew sharp. “I’d be more convinced, had there not been an illithid after Lord Imesfor’s brain when he arrived at Khelben’s. He said ye set a whole band on him.”

“Then he is well.” Though Melegaunt’s reply was a statement, his audacity did not prevent him from cringing in the face of Elminster’s ire. “Sometimes right and wrong are not so clear. Imesfor had to suffer that Evereska might live.”

“Is that so?” Elminster’s tone suggested it was not. “Had he arrived with no holes in his skull, methinks Khelben would have been on his way that much sooner.”

“Khelben is going to Evereska?” Galaeron asked. “Khelben Arunsun?”

“Of course, lad. Did ye think he’d let the phaerimm take it?” The wizard pointed his pipe southward. “As we stand here talking, he’s leading a company across the western plains to raise a translocational gate.”

“What kind of company?” There was alarm and sorrow in

Melegaunt’s voice. “You are only sending live men after dead.”

Elminster’s irritation showed in his eyes. “Ye should not underestimate Khelben Arunsun.”

“Never, but he is no more a match for the phaerimm than the Evereskans.” Melegaunt gestured to Galaeron. “And young Nihmedu will tell you what became of them.”

Galaeron met Elminster’s eye and nodded. “The tomb guard, the border guard, the spell guard—