“What’s happened?” she asked.
“I’ve heard news of the daemonfey, I think.” Araevin stood. “Starbrow had Jorildyn speak to me in a sending. Your father’s warriors have found some portals hidden beneath Myth Glaurach, and Starbrow suspects that the daemonfey might have built them or used them for their own purposes. He asked me to examine the portals. I told him I would come within a few days.”
“Portals? Leading where?” Maresa demanded. “More troll-haunted forests, or monster-plagued caves? I’ve had enough of portals, thank you.”
“I won’t know where they lead until I see them for myself,” Araevin said. He looked at his companions, and gestured at the inn room. “Starbrow asked for me, and I intend to go. But there’s no need for you to leave Silverymoon, if you would prefer to stay.”
“I’ll come,” Ilsevele said at once. “My father’s fight against the daemonfey is my fight, too, and my place is with you.”
Araevin nodded. He hadn’t really expected anything other than that from her, even after their argument in the Vault.
“It may be nothing,” he said. “But, if Starbrow has stumbled onto the trail of the daemonfey, it might be more than a little dangerous to follow them. I might stumble into the middle of Sarya’s audience chamber again. Or they may set magical traps or monstrous guardians to discourage pursuit.”
“You are going to attempt those portals, regardless of the danger,” Ilsevele observed. “I will, too.”
“Why do they need you for this task, Araevin?” Filsaelene asked. “Aren’t there dozens of skilled mages with Seiveril and Starbrow at Myth Glaurach?”
“Yes, there are, but Araevin’s made a special study of portal magic over the last few years,” Ilsevele answered for him. “He knows as much about portals as any mage in Faerûn by now.”
“When are you leaving?” Filsaelene asked.
“Tonight or tomorrow morning,” Araevin said. “I can make arrangements for you to remain here as long as you like, Filsaelene. I don’t want to turn you out in the street. You too, Maresa.”
Filsaelene frowned, her eyes dark and thoughtful. “No, I think I would like to come with you. If your business with the daemonfey isn’t finished yet, the least I can do is help you finish it. If you hadn’t found me when you did, I doubt that Sarya would have left me alive in that dungeon when she abandoned Myth Glaurach.”
“You don’t owe us any debt, Filsaelene,” Ilsevele said. “We would have aided anybody in your circumstances.”
“I know,” the young sun elf said. “But … even if I owe you nothing for saving me from the daemonfey dungeons, I owe something to my friends who died fighting the daemonfey. If I can help to make the daemonfey answer for the evil they have caused, I will.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to stay here by myself,” Maresa muttered. She crossed her arms and glared at Araevin. “Next time, let’s find something that needs doing in a city like Calimshan or Waterdeep, instead of some musty old ruins in the middle of the wilderness.”
“It’s our task, not yours,” Araevin said. “You don’t have to—”
“Oh, yes I do,” Maresa said. “I didn’t know him as long as you did, Araevin, but Grayth was my friend, too. And Brant, as well. If you have any chance of finding where that demonspawned bitch Sarya is hiding, I want to be a part of it. I’m in the habit of killing people who murder my friends.”
Araevin grimaced. Maresa had struck straight at a point he had half-forgotten. Caught up in the mystery of Saelethil’s lore, it had somehow slipped from the forefront of his mind that his oldest and truest human friend had not survived their battles against the daemonfey.
“I will be glad for your company, then,” he told Maresa.
Ilsevele looked down at the pack by the door. “So we are leaving now?” she said.
“Soon,” Araevin replied. “I just wanted to be ready. But if we all are going … it’s dusk, and the daemonfey already have a twenty-day head start. Tomorrow morning is good enough.”
Maresa brightened. “Well, good, then. I was afraid I wouldn’t have one more chance to drink and dance all night long before we set out.”
“It’ll be a hard day of travel tomorrow, if you overdo it this evening,” Filsaelene warned.
“That,” said Maresa, “will be tomorrow’s problem.”
CHAPTER FOUR
13 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms
Seiveril Miritar spent much of his time in Leuthilspar closeted with Keryth Blackhelm and other captains of Evermeet’s armies and knighthoods, describing in exacting detail the course of the campaign his Crusade had fought across the wilderlands of the North. As best he could, he told them how he had confronted the daemonfey army and their demonic allies—which tactics worked against an army of winged sorcerers, which weapons and spells served to defeat demons and which did not.
When he finished with that task, he steeled himself for a duty he had no heart for, but that he had to do. After he tarried in Leuthilspar for a day more, he outfitted a riding horse in the stables of his family’s villa in the capital and left the city. He rode north into the green meadows and airy forests of the western hills, to the small forest estate of Elvath Muirreste. There he visited with Nera Muirreste, Elvath’s wife, and as best he could he told her how Elvath had died. She had heard of Elvath’s fall already, and greeted him wearing the gray veil of mourning.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Seiveril said to her. “Elvath was more than my captain-at-arms and adviser. He was my friend. I cannot tell you how much I regret his death.”
Lady Muirreste sighed. “I know, Seiveril. Elvath thought the world of you, and he answered your call to arms with a willing heart. His death is almost more than I can bear, but it gives me comfort to know that he died fighting for a good and true cause.” Nera sat in silence for a time then she set her hand on his and asked, “How did it happen? I only heard that he fell fighting outside Evereska.”
“Elvath had command of our right flank,” Seiveril said. He found that he was glad of the opportunity to simply recount the tale, rather than search for comforting words. “Our cavalry was there. They fought valiantly and well all morning. Elvath’s forces were outnumbered, but he commanded some of our best companies, and they used their speed and courage to great effect.
“After an hour of fighting, we repelled the daemonfey attack, and their lines broke. Their army fell back in retreat. I sent our cavalry in pursuit, and Elvath and his Silver Guard drove the orcs and ogres and the rest out of the West Cwm, sealing our victory. But near the top of the Sentinel Pass on the far side of the Cwm, Elvath was killed by a boulder thrown by a giant. He was simply looking the wrong way and had no chance to dodge it.” Seiveril paused then added, “He was killed at once.”
“Were you there?”
“No, I was tending to wounded on the far side of the vale when he fell. I might have been able to save him, had I been closer. But so many of our warriors were injured in the early fighting …” He made himself look into Nera’s eyes. “I left the pursuit in Elvath’s hands, because my healing was needed so badly where I was. I should have led the pursuit myself.”
Nera squeezed his hand. “Did others live because you chose as you did?”
Seiveril considered the question. “Yes. The healing spells I cast that day likely saved a number of people who otherwise would have died.”
“Then I am certain that I do not regret your decision, Seiveril. And I know that Elvath would not, either.” Nera Muirreste released his hand, and smiled sadly behind her veil.
Seiveril took his leave an hour later, and rode back to Leuthilspar in the afternoon, taking his time. Hundreds of elves who had followed him to Faerûn had fallen in battle, and he owed visits to many more people, a burden that should have broken his heart. Yet Nera’s question kept him from drowning in the grief he felt.
Did others live because I chose as I did? he asked himself. And the answer was an unequivocal yes. Elf warriors who fell i
n battle against the daemonfey had undoubtedly spared many more lives, the lives of many others who had no skill for battle and otherwise might have died terrible deaths. He grieved for each son or daughter of Evermeet who died following his banner, but he could not bring himself to believe that he had been wrong to take up arms against the daemonfey threat.
He returned to Leuthilspar late in the afternoon, following the familiar boulevards and winding ways that led to the Miritar villa. He tended to his horse himself, dismissing the groom as he unsaddled the animal, rubbed it down, brushed its coat, watered it, and put away the tack and harness. He had just filled the feed bag and was finishing his work, when he became aware of someone watching him from the stable door.
“Yes?” he said without turning.
“I’m glad you haven’t lost the habit of doing such work for yourself,” Queen Amlaruil replied. She glided into the stable and paused to pat the horse’s neck. “I see you have been out riding.”
Seiveril recovered from his surprise, and bowed. “Yes, my lady. I have just returned from Elvath Muirreste’s home.”
“He fell near Evereska, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did. Calling on Nera was the least I could do.”
Amlaruil looked over the horse’s shoulders at him. “That was good of you, Seiveril.”
Seiveril brushed off his hands and said, “If you like, we can go inside. For some reason I feel uncomfortable entertaining the monarch of Evermeet while standing in my stable.”
“It has the virtue of being a place where we are unlikely to be listened to,” Amlaruil said. “I can think of a few people who might be tempted to scry on you. Or me, for that matter.”
“In that case, I suggest the garden.” Seiveril led Amlaruil through another door to a small bower between the stable and the manor itself. A simple stone bench overlooked a small, natural waterfall that trickled through the grounds. It was nothing compared to the expansive gardens ringing Amlaruil’s palace, but it was quiet and private. And just to ensure their privacy, Seiveril spoke a prayer to Corellon and wove a spell designed to obscure any efforts to spy on them.
When he was done, he turned to Amlaruil and asked, “What brings you to my house, my lady?”
“I wanted to know what you thought of Selsharra Durothil’s suggestion. Are you willing to resume a Council seat and hold an office such as she describes?” Amlaruil sat down on the bench and arranged her silver-hued gown.
“The East Marshal?” Seiveril frowned, thinking carefully. “Are you asking me to accept this duty?”
Amlaruil smiled. “Answer my question first, and I’ll answer yours.”
“Well … no, I do not think I want to hold such a title.”
“Is it because Selsharra suggested it, or do you have some other objection?”
“I am certainly suspicious of Selsharra’s motives,” Seiveril admitted. “After all, she reversed her position with the skill of a pirouetting dancer, didn’t she? But even assuming that she was completely honest and forthcoming, I still am not sure that what she suggests will work.”
The queen tilted her head. “Go on.”
“If I swore myself to your service again, and accepted a titled office that made me a high captain of your army, I would naturally be subject to your commands. I would arrange my forces as you asked, I would march when you ordered me to march, and I would not march against an enemy unless I asked you first.” Seiveril shrugged. “That also means answering to the council for everything I do or don’t do.”
“The council does not have the authority to tell me what to do,” Amlaruil said. “It is true that I think twice before I disregard their suggestions, but the responsibility for Evermeet’s governance and safety are mine, not theirs. I will not allow the Durothils and Veldanns of the council to question my decisions beyond a reasonable point.”
“I am not certain that is as true as you would like it to be,” Seiveril said. Amlaruil’s eyes flashed, and he quickly hurried on. “You will not be on the throne forever, Amlaruil, and I will not be your general in Faerûn for long. An arrangement we make now, because it suits both our talents and our interests, may not survive our successors.”
“Even I do not know when that day will come, Seiveril. We can hardly allow ourselves to refrain from making good and sound judgments now because we think those who follow us may overturn them.”
“Nevertheless. The next monarch to sit on Evermeet’s throne may not possess the mandate of the Seldarine, as Zaor did and you do. Even if a Moonflower heir succeeds you, the succession may entail compromises, limits on the monarch’s power. In that scenario, your heir may not be able to refuse a council demand to recall any standing army you leave in Faerûn.” Seiveril looked down at his feet. “I do not want to see my work in Faerûn reversed, because Evermeet’s monarch or council—or the next holder of my prospective title, for that matter—change their minds about engaging Faerûn in a decade or two.”
“Seiveril, I have no intention of departing for Arvandor any time soon.”
“That’s not always left to our choosing, is it?” he countered.
“You truly believe that you will have an easier time maintaining a presence in Faerûn through your voluntary call to arms, when the council and the crown are willing to consider formalizing what you have done?” Amlaruil shook her head in disbelief. “Seiveril, I have been won over by the persuasiveness of your arguments so far, but I simply don’t see how this can be true.”
“I know,” Seiveril said, “but I have given it a great deal of thought over the last few days.”
The queen rose, and regarded him for a long moment. “The council meets again in a little less than a tenday, my friend. I am inclined to lend my support to Selsharra’s suggestion. It would place you in an awkward position if the council appointed a different lord to go to Faerûn and assume command of those in your army who would prefer to serve under the Crown.”
“I will have an answer for you and the council,” Seiveril said.
Amlaruil nodded. She took his hand, and smiled. “Then I suppose I will go. Thank you for hearing me out.”
“You are welcome in my stable any time you care to visit it, Your Majesty,” Seiveril replied.
Amlaruil laughed, and turned to go. Her gown glittered like starlight in the gathering dusk. But at the moonstone archway marking the garden’s entrance, she paused and looked back at him.
“One other matter I meant to mention,” she said. “I have heard that one of your captains wields Keryvian, the last of Demron’s baneblades. I knew the sword was in your possession, but I thought that it had answered to no hand since the fall of Myth Drannor.”
“Yes. I gave Keryvian into the keeping of my captain, Starbrow.”
“I do not know him,” Amlaruil said with a frown. Seiveril could understand her confusion. Any champion with skill and experience enough to merit such trust would have been known to her in Evermeet. “You must hold him in high regard indeed.”
“He is not who he seems to be.”
Amlaruil studied him for a moment, and her eyes widened.
“It can’t be Fflar,” she whispered. “Not after so many years.”
“Please, do not speak of this,” Seiveril asked. “He prefers to remain just Starbrow for now.”
“Seiveril, you can’t simply resurrect dead heroes when you need them! And he died so long ago.”
Seiveril glanced up at the darkening skies. “It wasn’t entirely my own idea.”
Amlaruil measured him, her expression stern. “You spoke of my mandate earlier. I sincerely hope you have the mandate you think you do. If you are wrong about what you’re doing, the consequences would be disastrous.”
She swept away into the dusk, leaving Seiveril alone in his garden.
The cleric sat down on the bench again, and watched the first dim stars emerging overhead.
“I hope I do, too,” he murmured.
Five days of hard travel brought Araevin, Ilsevele, Maresa, and Filsaele
ne from Silverymoon to the ruins of Myth Glaurach. Spring rains drenched them for several days, until Araevin began to wonder whether it would be better to seek some form of magical travel to speed their journey. But he disliked teleporting unless he felt that he absolutely had to do so—sometimes teleportation magic went awry, after all.
Fortunately, they found villages and inns for much of their journey—first along the road from Silverymoon to Everlund, then at Lhuvenhead and Jalanthar. From Jalanthar, at the east end of the Rauvin vale, they struck out south and east through Turnstone Pass, and arrived at the ruins of Myth Glaurach an hour after sunset. As before, the ancient city was ringed with the lanterns and modest campfires of the elven army, a cheerful sight after days of riding.
Araevin and his companions left their horses at a large camp corral where the cavalry companies of the Crusade housed their steeds, and climbed up Myth Glaurach’s winding old footpaths, which circled steadily as they ascended the forest-covered hilltop on which the city stood. Small encampments of elf warriors and patrols of vigilant guards filled the old city, calling out friendly greetings as they passed by. With a few questions Araevin and his companions learned that Starbrow and Vesilde Gaerth were currently in charge of the army, since Seiveril Miritar was away on Evermeet, and that the commanders were headquartered in the city’s old library.
They found Starbrow and Gaerth poring over supply and equipment records, wrestling with the question of how to feed and arm not only the warriors of the army—elf warriors in a forest could get along for quite some time with few stores, and most had brought their own weapons and armor—but also the thousands of horses and the more exotic creatures that accompanied the army.
The two commanders made an odd pair. Starbrow was nearly six and a half feet tall and about as burly as a moon elf ever got, while the sun elf Vesilde Gaerth was a full foot shorter and slight of build. Starbrow looked up as they entered, and grinned.
“I was wondering where you were,” he said. “I was about to have Jorildyn cast another sending for you.”
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