Elorfindar examined the shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal with interest. “I can tell it is an old and powerful device,” he mused aloud. “I wonder… you said that the crystal is affiliated with the Waymeet?”
Araevin nodded. “If nothing else, the combined crystal allows its bearer to draw power from the Waymeet, no matter where he or she is. Its primary use is the sundering of wards, mythals, and other constructs of powerful magic.”
“And it flies apart into its component pieces after its power is employed?” Elorfindar handed the shard back to Araevin. “It seems to me that the crystal’s tendency to hurl itself across the multiverse is simply a reflection of its tie to the Waymeet. After all, the Waymeet touches on thousands of doorways spanning Faerun, Toril, and the planes. I’d wager that the crystal uses that same network of portals to scatter itself.”
“So its pieces would appear near gates leading back to the Waymeet?” Nesterin asked.
Elorfindar shrugged. “It is only a guess.”
“That means we only have to find the right portals, and the shards will be right there,” Donnor said.
Araevin shook his head. “You’re forgetting that we’ve had a couple of months now for someone to stumble across the shards and carry them off from wherever they first appeared. But if Elorfindar’s observation holds true, then we’ll find that the trail begins somewhere near a Waymeet portal’s terminus.”
“Not so useful, if there really are thousands of doorways in this Waymeet,” Jorin said. “But better than nothing, I suppose.”
“Do any of the doors in this house lead to the Waymeet?” Nesterin asked Elorfindar.
The elflord nodded. “I know of one that will take you there. I can show you now, if you like.”
“Might as well get to it,” Maresa said. She stood and buckled on her sword belt. “I’ve never liked waiting, anyway.”
Elorfindar led Araevin and his friends back into the silent halls of the house and turned down a shadowed corridor they had passed before. Every four paces, a tall blank doorway stood waiting. Each was nothing more than a stone lintel framing an empty place on the wall. Carvings of leaves and flowers, animals and scenes of nature graced each of the doors. The elflord passed several of the empty doors and stopped before one that was marked with a strange design of stars and dragons.
“This is it,” he said softly. “I have never ventured into the Waymeet, so I cannot tell you what to expect on the other side.”
“What do we do with our horses?” Donnor asked. “Do we take them with us, or do we leave them here?”
“Leave them for now,” Araevin decided. “We can come back for them if we need them on the other side.”
“I’ll have them looked after,” Elorfindar said. He touched his fingertips to the blank stone, and said a single word: “Elladar.” Beneath his fingers, the stone seemed to melt away into a roiling gray fog.
“Thank you, Elorfindar,” Araevin said. He nodded to his friends, and one by one they stepped into the fog and vanished.
“You need only repeat the password to activate the portal again,” Elorfindar said. “Good luck, Araevin.”
“Until we meet again, old friend.” Araevin clasped his hand quickly, and turn and followed Nesterin into the misty doorway. There was a momentary darkness, a sense of movement in some direction that was not forward, up, or down… and he emerged.
He stood in a cathedral of glass.
The sky overhead was dark and starless. Underfoot, the ground was a sort of gray shale. But all around him stood walls and spires of luminous white glass. Great arching ribs of the stuff curved and met in a web of frozen light above him. Elsewhere serried ramparts of pearl marched in curved, sloping walls. The air was cold and still, but the crystalline castle seemed to whisper and sing in a constantly changing susurrus of sound. Maresa, Donnor, Jorin, and Nesterin stood nearby, silently taking in the sight. Their breath steamed in the chilly air, and their eyes were wide and rapt.
Araevin turned to examine the doorway behind him. It was a simple triangular arch between two swordlike spars of glass, its center gray and misty. Then he looked up and saw that the glass ramparts and spires extended for as far as he could see in that direction. The Waymeet wasn’t a cathedral of glass, it was a city of glass, perfect and empty. And everywhere he looked, he saw the doors-asymmetrical interstices where sharp spires and slanting sheets met. Hundreds of them appeared in a single glance, each flickering with living magic.
“I had no idea,” Araevin murmured. “It’s immense!”
“Your ancestors didn’t do anything by half-measures, did they?” Maresa said.
Jorin recovered from his awe long enough to turn his eyes to Araevin. “Do you have any idea which way to go from here?”
Absently, Araevin drew out the shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal and raised it to eye level, speaking the words of a spell. It gleamed brightly, and in his mind he felt a distinct tug toward his right. “This way,” he said. “I don’t think it’s far.”
“So where are we?” Maresa asked Araevin. “Where is this place?”
“It’s nowhere. This is a demiplane of its own.”
“A what?”
“A demiplane-a small self-contained world that exists parallel to Faerun. Much like Sildeyuir, but not anywhere near as large as that realm. The divine and infernal realms are places of a similar nature, but those of course are even more extensive than Sildeyuir.” Araevin looked around. “I don’t expect this one is much larger than what you can see from right here. Less than a mile across?”
“So where is it that this demiplane exists? What’s outside of it?”
“You might as well ask what’s on the other side of the stars when you’re looking up into the sky on a summer night.” Araevin shrugged. “The demiplane just ends. Outside you would find nothing but the unformed ether.”
“That’s horrible!” The genasi shivered. “Let’s find your door and get back on solid ground before we fall through the floor or something.”
CHAPTER FIVE
30 Flamerule, the Year of Lightning Storms
The walls and towers of the Waymeet formed a difficult maze, but it was not impassable. The place was not really designed to entrap travelers, it was just a very complex structure with few good points of reference. The clear space in which the portal to the House of Long Silences stood was part of a boulevard or avenue that curved around a striking cluster of tall spires that Araevin presumed to be the center of the Waymeet. Smaller “streets” angled away into the crystalline depths. They passed door after door along the way, and down each intersecting passage they saw additional rows of portals leading away into the luminous distance.
“Where could all these portals go?” Donnor muttered to himself. “There are thousands of them here. Faerun must be riddled with gates!”
“Aryvandaar was a vast, long-lived, and wealthy empire,” said Araevin. “Look at it like this: Even if various mages or lords of Aryvandaar only found reason to create ten new portals a century, you would expect to find almost a thousand portals here.”
“I haven’t been counting, but it seems like there may be more than that,” the Tethyrian said.
Araevin frowned. “I think you’re right. It seems there are even more than there should be.” He paused, searching his mind for what the Nightstar had told him of the place. “Ah, that makes sense.”
The others waited for him to continue. Araevin shook himself, bringing his attention back to his companions. “The Fhoeldin durr itself creates new portals. In the years since Aryvandaar’s fall, it has continued to propagate portals throughout Faerun-and into other planes and worlds, as well. That is why it has become so dangerous. Over the centuries, its expansion has weakened the barriers between the planes, especially in places where people created any number of portals of their own.”
“Like Sildeyuir,” Nesterin said. The star elf narrowed his eyes, studying the great artifice thoughtfully.
“Like Sildeyuir,” Araevi
n agreed. “Or Netheril, or Myth Drannor in the dark years leading up to its fall.” He paused to check his bearings, and turned toward a smaller alleyway leading off the large esplanade they had been following. “I don’t think the mages who built this place intended for that to happen. They assumed that they or their descendants would be able to guide and govern the Waymeet’s expansion and function over the centuries. But Aryvandaar fell, and this place was left to govern itself.”
“Now that we’re here, why don’t you just take control of it like you did at Myth Glaurach?” Maresa asked. “Or just destroy it outright?”
Araevin shook his head. “I’m afraid the protections over this mythal are beyond my skill. That’s why I need the entire crystal, so I can gain access to the mythal.”
Jorin stopped suddenly, and knelt to look at something. “Araevin, what do you make of this?” he called.
The mage hurried over to his companion’s side and looked over his shoulder. Near the footing below one of the portals a thick iron spike had been driven into the crystal, leaving a spiderweb of faint cracks that slowly leaked a luminescent blue fluid. Harsh runes and symbols inscribed in the spike glowed an angry red, just visible through the intervening crystal.
“Can you make out what the runes say?” Jorin asked.
“No, but I recognize the script. It’s Infernal… the language of the Nine Hells.”
“What do you think its purpose is?”
Araevin studied it for a moment, observing the delicate weave of the ancient elven magic and the bitter intrusion of the hellwrought spike. “I think it’s pinning the portal open. Changing the portal’s natural behavior by transfixing it with a corrupting spell.”
Jorin looked up at him. “Should we remove it?”
“Go ahead and try, but be careful.”
The ranger reached out to grasp the head of the spike, but he drew back his hand before he even touched the metal.
“It’s hot,” he explained.
He rummaged around in his pack and found a spare cloak to wrap around his hand, and he tried again. The spike didn’t move an inch. Jorin shifted so that he was sitting on the ground, facing the portal, with his feet planted on the footing on each side of the spike, and grasped it with both hands. But still it didn’t move.
Finally he gave up with a grunt of dissatisfaction and said, “It’s anchored in there. We’ll have to chip away the crystal or use magic to get it out.”
“Leave it be,” Araevin told him. “If we succeed in reuniting the crystal, it will not matter.”
They hurried down the narrow avenue for another hundred yards or so, past more of the doorways transfixed with spikes. Then they turned a corner and came to something of a small square or open place amid the white spires. Great bands of iron had been riveted to the foot of one of the sharply soaring buttresses that leaped up into the interwoven spars overhead. As with the smaller spikes, it was also covered in fearsome lettering and glowed cherry-red with hellish magic. More of the iron bands were fixed to the crystalline walls and pillars nearby, and the whole area reeked of hot metal.
In the center of the small plaza stood a simple three-sided pillar, about fifteen feet tall, likewise clamped within spells scribed on hellwrought iron. Unlike the pearly white of the other crystal spars, it burned a bright blue. Araevin paused, searching the memory imparted by the Nightstar for details about the Waymeet.
“One moment,” he said. “This is a speaking stone. We can speak to the Fhoeldin Durr here.”
His companions exchanged puzzled glances behind him, but Araevin approached the blue pillar and set his hand on it. “Gatekeeper,” he said softly. “Do you hear me?”
Nothing happened for a long moment, but then a dim flicker awoke in the depths of the pillar. The metal bands encircling the stone seemed to constrain the pillar’s glow, smoldering brighter as the azure gleam danced more strongly in the pillar’s depths.
A smooth, soft voice came from the pillar. “I am the Gatekeeper,” it whispered. “I hear you, Araevin Teshurr.”
“You know me?”
“I know anyone who addresses a speaking stone.”
“Araevin, who are you speaking to?” Nesterin asked.
“The sentience of this mythal,” Araevin answered him. “It is known as the Gatekeeper, because it guards the countless doors in this place.”
“It’s not doing a very good job,” Maresa muttered.
“I am constrained by the infernal spells with which I have been bound, Maresa Rost,” the pillar replied. “I have been prevented from fulfilling my purpose.”
“What are these spells doing to you?” Araevin asked.
“The archdevil Malkizid seeks to subvert me. Already he can prevent me from closing the gates that his spells hold open. In time he will extinguish my consciousness altogether, and he will be free to use all of the powers of the Waymeet as he wishes.”
“Is Malkizid here?” Araevin asked.
“No. But many yugoloths and devils who serve him are. You are in no small danger.”
“Great,” Maresa snarled. She shrugged her crossbow from her shoulders and laid a bolt in the rest, looking around anxiously.
Araevin thought for a moment, studying the blue gleam. “Are you required to report our presence to Malkizid or his agents? Or this conversation?”
“No, but that may not be true for much longer. Malkizid may be able to compel me to speak.”
“I have a shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal in my possession,” he told the device. “I mean to find the remaining shards and use the device to undo the damage Malkizid’s spells are causing. Can it be done?”
The pillar was silent for a time.
“Yes,” it finally said. “But you will need all three shards.”
“Do you know where the other shards are?”
“Not precisely, but I know which of my doors is closest to each shard,” the voice in the pillar said. It hesitated for a moment then added, “Three nycaloths approach, Araevin Teshurr. They will be here in moments.”
Araevin stole a glance over his shoulder, while his comrades nervously scanned the mist-wreathed crystal spars nearby. “Which door do we use?” he asked.
“I will indicate the portal you seek. Look to your left.”
Araevin complied, and found that a flickering blue gleam danced in the crystal ramparts in that direction.
He glanced to his companions and said, “Let’s go, before Malkizid’s servants appear.”
Quickly they hurried after the blue glow. As they neared the flickering light, it vanished from the crystal where it danced, only to appear a little farther on. No more than fifty yards from the plaza of the blue pillar, the light halted by a portal that stood near the base of another soaring buttress. Araevin was relieved to see that no infernal spike transfixed it. As they approached, the portal came to life, its milky surface abruptly changing into a smooth, pearly mist.
“Do you have any idea what might be on the other side?” Donnor said to Araevin.
“No,” the sun elf admitted. “But this is the way I have to go.”
He drew a deep breath, and stepped into the blank mists.
From their campsite in the ruined manor house near the Pool of Yeven, Fflar and Ilsevele rode eastward along the south bank of the Ashaba, picking their way through lands that showed increasing signs of habitation the farther they traveled. The long, low rampart of the Dun Hills grew steadily closer, marching northeastward as if trying to beat them to Blackfeather Bridge.
The air grew hot and still as the day wore on. It seemed as if the forests, fields, and hills yearned for a cleansing rain, but the heat did not relent. Far behind them, to the west, thunderheads piled up on each other only to dissipate and reform, never coming any closer. They rode past a farmstead where dozens of cattle lay butchered out in the fields.
“Demons or devils,” Fflar murmured. “Best keep on.”
“All right,” Ilsevele replied. She did not look long at the scene of the slaug
hter.
As they rode away, the sight still worried at the back of Fflar’s mind, until it seemed like some accusing stare was fixed at a point between his shoulder blades.
There’s no point in going back, he told himself. You know what you’ll find there. It’s done, and any people there are beyond help.
But finally he could stand it no more, and he stood up in the stirrups to look back at the ruined farm, several hundred yards behind them.
Mottled gray shadows raced through the undergrowth and bounded along the road behind the elven company.
Fflar stared for a moment, too horrified to even call out a warning. The monsters were doglike things as large as small horses, but thickly built. Chitinous plates armored their bodies, but for all that they were quick. Blunt, eyeless heads ended in enormous rasping jaws, from which long barbed tongues lolled. The nearest darted through the dusty shadows along the roadside only forty yards behind them.
Finally he found his voice. “Canoloths!” he cried. “Run!”
He spurred Thunder, and the roan stallion leaped ahead in a gallop. It galled Fflar to lead the flight, but he’d seen a dozen or more of the monsters in his single glance, and he didn’t doubt that there were just as many that he hadn’t seen yet… and if the creatures were herding them into an ambush, he wanted to meet it himself.
Ilsevele did not waste a moment before spurring Swiftwind right after him, and the rest of the Silver Guards were no slower. In the space of five heartbeats the small company was at a full gallop, racing along the dry, dusty trail. Two of the guards bringing up the rear unlimbered their bows and managed a few awkward shots at their pursuers, guiding their mounts with knees only as they twisted around to shoot at the closest of the canoloths. One of the monsters tumbled into a great cloud of dust, lamed by an arrow that caught its shoulder. Another broke away, shaking its head to dislodge the arrow embedded in its jaws. The rest began to fall off the pace, outdistanced by the elves’ horses.
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