Farthest Reach

by Richard Baker

  Maresa turned back to Araevin. “So, more portals leading into the godsforsaken wilderness? Maybe a dragon’s lair this time?”

  The sun elf mage shook his head. “No, no portals this time. If you’re willing, I will teleport us to where we need to go.”

  Sarya climbed the steps of the First Lord’s Tower, and tried not to allow crawling disgust to mar her composed features. Hillsfar was a city of humans, a hundred miles north of Myth Drannor, on the shores of the Moonsea. It was filled with the reek and clamor of humankind, and everywhere she looked humans carried on with their senseless commerce, bickering, squabbling, and bullying each other.

  She was shrouded in a magical disguise, a simple spell of appearance-changing that made her resemble a human woman—perhaps somewhat slighter of build than normal, but graceful and beautiful nonetheless, with hair of deep auburn and eyes of bewitching green. She wore a pleated emerald dress of human design, decorated with delicate gold embroidery. She had entered Hillsfar in a small coach driven by disguised fey’ri, and passed through its crowded streets unnoticed until her carriage clattered to a stop before the stern, tall citadel that stood at the heart of the city.

  She glanced up at the banners and pennants snapping overhead, and frowned despite herself. In her day the humans had known their place. None dared challenge the power of the great elven realms. They had been a race of simple barbarians, suitable for use perhaps as mercenaries in the wars of greater races. Yet it was an inescapable fact of the age in which she found herself that humankind must be reckoned with.

  That can be set right, she told herself. Soon I will be able to hurl an army of devils, yugoloths, and demons at any foe who dares to challenge me. I will lay this city under tribute—or have it torn down stone by stone and its people driven away from the borders of my new realm.

  Six stern warriors in heavy armor with red-plumed helmets stood by the archway leading into the tower. It was more properly a small keep, really, with an interior courtyard and high, strong walls.

  “Halt and state your business,” the guard sergeant demanded.

  “Why, I seek an audience with First Lord Maalthiir,” Sarya said, her voice and smile cold and dripping with contempt. “I am Lady Senda Dereth. I believe he expects me.”

  The man-at-arms—actually a woman-at-arms, though one could hardly tell beneath the heavy armor—turned her back on Sarya and glanced at an orders book on a standing desk in a small alcove by the doorway.

  After consulting the book for a moment she grunted and said, “You’re to be shown to the Conservatory, and await the first lord there. Come with me.”

  Sarya inclined her head without allowing her cool smile to slip, though the ill manners of the guard sergeant deserved a sharp rebuke indeed. She followed the stocky woman as she clomped along in her armor, passing through barren, cheerless halls that were almost devoid of decoration. Another guard followed at her back, a good three paces behind her.

  “Is this truly necessary?” she asked.

  “No one goes into this tower without a Red Plume escort,” the guard sergeant replied. “The first lord has made that absolutely clear. It is a standing order.”

  She came to a tall, paneled door, and opened it for Sarya. Inside was a large parlor or sitting room, with several empty bookshelves along the periphery, and a number of old portraits hanging from the walls—mostly of elves, it appeared, though with the crude human artistry it was hard to be sure.

  “Wait here,” the sergeant said, and withdrew to the hallway, closing the door behind Sarya.

  Sarya composed herself for a long wait, and she was not disappointed. It was well over an hour before she heard measured footfalls in the hall outside, and the rough clatter of the guards coming to attention. She turned to face the door as Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, strode into the room.

  He was a human of middle years, tall but thin, with a heavily lined face and a scalp shaved down to gray stubble. He wore a long goatee of iron gray, and dressed in a high-collared tunic of gleaming black, chased with dragon designs. In one hand he carried a short staff or long scepter of dark metal, with its head in the shape of a draconic claw. Four more guards followed him into the room, pale and silent warriors who seemed human at a glance, but positively reeked of planar magic to Sarya’s keen sense for such things.

  “Well, you must be Lady Senda,” Maalthiir rasped, his voice completely humorless. “I’ve never heard of any Dereths around here. Who are you, and what do you want with me?”

  “Who I am does not much matter,” Sarya said. “And I want nothing more than to give you a warning, First Lord.”

  Maalthiir’s scowl deepened. “I react poorly to mysteries and threats. Choose your next words carefully.”

  “You have a new enemy on your doorstep, Maalthiir.”

  The first lord snorted and crossed his arms, tucking his scepter under his arm. “Oh, do I? And I suppose you have come to tell me all about my new adversary. Very well, then—who is this dreadful new foe?”

  “Evermeet, my lord,” Sarya said.

  Whatever the first lord might have been expecting her to say, that was not it. Maalthiir glared at her for a long moment, measuring her.

  “What in the world does Evermeet want with me?” he demanded.

  “An army from Evermeet is returning to Cormanthor. They mean to recapture Myth Drannor and restore the kingdom of Cormanthyr. I wonder what they will think of a neighbor who purged his city of elves years ago, having them slaughtered in bloody games?”

  Sarya’s eyes glittered like green ice as she delivered the barb. She had not yet managed to insinuate many fey’ri spies into the lands around Myth Drannor, but it had not taken her long to learn that Maalthiir had come to the throne of Hillsfar many years ago by deposing a council dominated by elves.

  A momentary uncertainty glinted in the human lord’s face before he bared his teeth in a fierce grin.

  “Cormanthyr is dead,” he stated. “The elves have Retreated. It took them five hundred years to reach that decision, Lady Senda. They will never overturn it in only fifty years.”

  “Do not take me at my word, Maalthiir. Investigate for yourself. You are reputed to be a mage of no small talent. Scry the woods of Semberholme and see what you find there. Or send for your spymasters and ask them what passes in the western Dales of late. You will find an army of elves better than five thousand strong—sun elves, moon elves, bladesingers and champions, mages and clerics, making ready to march north,” said Sarya. “It is a formidable array.”

  “Assuming for the moment that you are telling me the truth—who are you, and why tell me?”

  Sarya glided forward a step, and glanced at the expressionless guards with their black eyes.

  “Do you wish me to speak freely here?”

  The first lord did not even look at the black-clad swordsmen.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Do not mind my guards. They will not repeat anything they hear, and they are completely incorruptible. I see no one alone, Lady Senda. Ever.”

  “As you wish, then.” Sarya glanced at the impassive guards again, wondering exactly what they were, then dismissed them as unimportant. “Who I am is not important. As far as why I am carrying tales to you of an elven army in Cormanthyr, it is simply a matter of self-interest. The elves are my enemies. Since it seems that I must deal with them, I naturally thought it wise to consider who else might regard an elven Return to Cormanthyr as less than desirable.”

  “Now it becomes clear,” Maalthiir snorted. “You picked a fight with the elves, and now that they have come for you, you hope to hide behind Hillsfar’s army.”

  “Do you really wish to see a Coronal in Myth Drannor, Maalthiir? A power in the forest to shield the weaker Dales against you, to bar you from the timber and resources of the woodland at your very doorstep, and perhaps to restore elves to the rule of this city?”

  “You will have to do better than that, if you hope to frighten me,” the first lord said.

 
“I do not expect to frighten you. I expect you to examine the situation for yourself and act in your own interests as you perceive them.” Sarya turned her back on him and paced away, pretending to admire the portraits on the walls. “You have designs on the northern Dales, do you not?”

  “It is none of your business if I do,” Maalthiir snapped.

  “And your ally Sembia has interests in the southern Dales,” Sarya glanced back at the mage-lord. “An elven army in Myth Drannor would make both of those goals immeasurably more difficult. I submit to you, First Lord, that you would be well advised to think of how you could encourage the elves to Retreat once again, and leave you to the business of ordering this region as you see fit.”

  “I tire of this verbal fencing, my lady,” Maalthiir said. “You still have not explained who you are and why you are in my tower. I will have answers, real answers, now.”

  Sarya inclined her head. “Not until you verify that I have told you the truth so far, First Lord. See for yourself the army of Evermeet, marching to your doorstep. I will return in a few days to resume this conversation when you have had an opportunity to confirm the truthfulness of my words.”

  “I have not given you leave to go,” Maalthiir said. He made no motion or sound, but the pale swordsmen beside him set hands to sword hilts in unison and fixed their dead gazes on Sarya. “You will answer my questions one way or another, Lady Senda.”

  “Another day,” Sarya said, and she teleported away from Maalthiir’s parlor, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

  The last she saw of the first lord, his face was set in a scowl of displeasure—but not surprise.

  On the morning following Seiveril’s Council of War, Araevin, Ilsevele, and Maresa gathered their belongings, armed themselves with swords and spells, shouldered their packs, and drew their traveling cloaks over their clothes. Then, as Filsaelene stood by to see them off, Araevin incanted his teleport spell and grasped the hands of the two women. The ruins of Myth Glaurach faded away into a golden, sparkling haze, only to be replaced a moment later by the cool green shadows of the old hillside shrine overlooking Silverymoon—the same hillside where he had met Ilsevele before. Silverymoon’s graceful Moonbridge glimmered in the sun below them.

  Maresa glanced down and patted at her torso and arms, as if to make certain that all of her was present.

  “I’ve always thought that was an extremely useful spell,” she observed. “Why bother to walk anywhere once you know it?”

  “In the first place, it’s somewhat inappropriate to use magic of that sort on a whim,” Araevin replied. “More than a few wizards have managed to forget that their feet must serve when their magic won’t do. Secondly, the spell is not particularly easy. I have a difficult time holding more than one or two teleport spells in my mind at a time without giving up other spells that are equally useful. Finally, it’s wise to never use the last teleport spell you have in your repertoire unless you are in dire peril. You never know when you might earnestly wish to be somewhere else.”

  “There is also the chance of a mistake,” Ilsevele told Maresa.

  The genasi shot a sharp look at her. “Mistake? What sort of mistake?”

  “It would not ease your mind at all if you knew, Maresa.” Ilsevele patted her arm and walked past her, following the path down to the city below.

  The three travelers found their way back to the Golden Oak, and took rooms there again. Then, after shucking their packs and traveling gear, they went straight to the Vault of Sages.

  “I left Calwern with a list of references and texts to search for me,” Araevin explained as they walked through the tree-shaded streets of the city. “Before we do anything else, I want to see if he has learned anything important.”

  “What will you do if the knowledge you seek has simply been lost?” Ilsevele asked. “It has been a very long time. The spells you need may not exist any longer.”

  “Spells rarely vanish all together, at least in my experience. The gods of magic often intervene to ensure that knowledge does not disappear from the world.” In truth, Araevin dreaded that very possibility, but he did not want to dwell on it until he had to. “If Morthil has been forgotten by history, it may be that his spells remain. Clerics of Mystra, Oghma, or Denier hold many old spellbooks in their libraries. And if all else fails, I can attempt to reinvent the spells myself, though that would take many months, perhaps even years, of research. I think I am in too much of a hurry for that.”

  They arrived at the Vault. The great library’s gray stone turrets and narrow windows made it seem more like a castle sitting in the center of Silverymoon than a place of learning, but the library’s doors stood open. They mounted the worn stone steps to the wood-paneled foyer inside. Bright dust motes drifted in the yellow sunlight that slanted through the windows.

  “Why, Master Teshurr, you have returned! And Lady Miritar, too—how good to see you again!” Brother Calwern straightened up from his desk, a broad smile creasing his seamed face. “You concluded your out-of-town affairs to your satisfaction, I trust?”

  “Not entirely. I dealt with the question I was called away to look into, but I fear it only led to more questions.”

  “In my experience, difficult questions are like hydras’ heads,” Calwern said. “Each one you vanquish leads to two more. If it’s any help, I have set aside those tomes you asked me to look for. Do you want me to bring them out for you?”

  Araevin nodded. “Yes, please, Brother Calwern.”

  “The second reading room is open. Make yourselves comfortable, and I will bring them out directly.”

  Araevin bowed to the human cleric, and led Ilsevele and Maresa to the reading room. In a few minutes Calwern appeared, wheeling a small cart stacked with musty old texts and scrolls.

  “Here you are,” the human said. He handed Araevin a parchment letter, a list of the tomes with cryptic notes and marks accompanying it. “The list you requested. You’ll find some notes about what is here and what isn’t, as well as a few sources I added as I thought of them.”

  Maresa eyed the stack of books with suspicion. “I like reading as much as the next person, but that is a formidable stack of paper. Are you going to read all of those, Araevin?”

  “As many as I need to,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable, Maresa. Or, if you’d like to help, I’ll explain what I’m looking for, and you can try your hand at it too.” He looked over to Brother Calwern. “Thank you, Brother Calwern. This should be an excellent start.”

  They spent the rest of the day plowing through the collection of ancient texts and histories compiled by dozens of different authors, some human, some elf, and even a couple written by dwarves or halflings. Then they returned to the Golden Oak, ate, rested, and returned the next morning to resume their efforts, and again on the following day.

  By the morning of the third day, Araevin had learned some things he hadn’t known before. Morthil, the star elf wizard, was said to live in a realm named Yuireshanyaar. Araevin had never heard of any such land, and so he broadened his search, looking for anything he could find about a realm so old or so far off that even the sun elves had forgotten about it. He asked Calwern to look into it as well, and resumed his reading.

  Late in the afternoon, Brother Calwern brought Araevin a heavy ancient tome bound in dragon hide.

  “Good afternoon, Master Teshurr,” he said warmly. “I believe I may have found your missing kingdom.”

  Maresa looked up from an old tome she had been examining. “Thank Akadi,” she muttered. “My eyes can’t stand another hour of this.”

  The Deneirrath cleric set the heavy book on the reading table, and opened it with care. It was an ancient atlas with page after page of old maps, all marked in script Araevin could not read.

  “Is this Untheric?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is. The atlas dates back almost two thousand years. Fortunately its makers protected it with spells of preservation long ago.” The white-haired Deneirrath carefully paged through the atl
as, finally settling on a spread that showed, in fading ink, a long peninsula jutting into an island-studded sea. “The Yuir forest, where the realm of Aglarond now stands,” the cleric said.

  Ilsevele leaned over Araevin’s shoulders. “Aglarond’s forests hide many secrets, but a fallen kingdom no one has ever heard of? That stretches credulity.”

  Araevin studied the ancient map and said, “I see no realm or cities marked on the map.”

  “Ah, but look at the Untheric caption, here.” Calwern pointed with one stubby finger. “It reads, ‘Here of old stood Yuireshanyaar, which is now hidden from the world.’”

  Araevin glanced up to the Deneirrath. “Do you have any older maps of the Aglarondan peninsula here?”

  “No, I checked already. The ancient empire of Unther was the first human realm to settle the peninsula’s shores, and this is the oldest Untheric text we have in the library.” Calwern rubbed his chin. “But there is something here that puzzles me, Master Teshurr. Why does the map say that Yuireshanyaar used to be here, but has been hidden? If one hides something in a certain place, it is still there, isn’t it?”

  “That is odd,” murmured Araevin. “I might expect it to say ‘Here of old stood Yuireshanyaar,’ which would imply that the realm was there and has now fallen. Or I might expect it to say, ‘Here is Yuireshanyaar, which is now hidden.’ Which interpretation is correct?”

  Calwern shrugged awkwardly. “I fear my understanding of Untheric may be insufficient to the task.”

  “It could be an error on the part of the cartographer,” Araevin offered. He stood up from the desk and paced around the room, thinking. Morthil, the star elf—whatever that was—inherited the spellbooks and magical devices of Grand Mage Ithraides, hundreds of years after the coronal of Arcorar moved against the Dlardrageths. The last anyone recorded, Morthil returned to his people, taking Ithraides’s lore with him. The star elves lived in Yuireshanyaar, and here was a map claiming that Yuireshanyaar might once have stood in the forests of Aglarond.