Farthest Reach

by Richard Baker

  “Does anything of Yuireshanyaar survive in Aglarond?” he wondered aloud.

  “Tel’Quessir have lived in Aglarond for a long time,” Ilsevele observed. “It is said that many half-elves still live in the Yuirwood.”

  “I have heard stories of old ruins and strange magic in Aglarond’s forests,” Calwern offered. “It is entirely possible that better records of Yuireshanyaar are preserved in the Simbul’s realm.”

  “I am inclined to think so too,” Araevin said. He looked to Calwern. “Can I have a copy made of that map, and translations of the captions and names? By tomorrow?”

  The cleric nodded. “Of course, Master Teshurr. I will set our scribes to the task immediately.”

  Ilsevele looked over Araevin’s shoulder at the map with some interest. “So, how far is Aglarond from here?” she asked.

  “It is quite far—two thousand miles, perhaps more,” said Calwern.

  Ilsevele’s eyes widened. “That is two months’ journey,

  at the least!”

  “It is not as bad as it sounds,” Araevin said. “A long part of that would be over water. We can hire a ship in one of the Dragon Coast ports and cross the Sea of Fallen Stars in a tenday or so. So, the question is how to reach the Sea of Fallen Stars quickly and easily.” Araevin leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “The portals we found under Myth Glaurach might serve. One led to the Chondalwood, another one to the forests of the east—”

  “What of the portal to Semberholme?” Ilsevele interrupted him, tracing a path on Araevin’s map. “That would bring us within a few days’ ride of the ports in Sembia or Cormyr, wouldn’t it?”

  Araevin allowed himself a small grimace. He was supposed to be the veteran traveler and the expert on portals, but Ilsevele had found the answer before he’d even started to consider the question.

  “I think you’re right,” he said. “The other portals might get us closer to our goal at the first step, but then we would have to find our way to a port on strange shores. Riding from Semberholme to Suzail or Marsember seems much easier than finding our way out of the Chondalwood.”

  Ilsevele patted his shoulder. He could feel her smirking behind his back.

  “What are Cormyr and Sembia like?” she asked. “And how likely is it that we will find a ship bound for Aglarond in their ports?”

  Araevin shrugged. “I haven’t been to that part of Faerûn before, but I know they’re both regarded as civilized lands. Sembia is a land where gold is king, a league of cities governed by merchant princes. They’re suspicious of elves, I hear, but as long as we have coin to spend, we should have no trouble there. Cormyr is a smaller realm, but well spoken of by many travelers I’ve encountered. As far as passage to Aglarond, well, I suppose we will learn more when we reach the Sea of Fallen Stars. If nothing else, it seems likely that we could take passage to Westgate or Procampur, and go from there to Aglarond.”

  “The quicker, the better,” Ilsevele said. “I have a feeling my father will need us in Cormanthor before too long. I do not want to tarry an hour longer than we need to.”

  Maresa shut the ponderous tome in front of her and smiled crookedly. “I’ve never been to Aglarond,” she said. “I wonder if their wine’s any good.”

  They returned to their rooms at the inn, making ready to depart on the following day. Araevin left the details in Ilsevele’s hands. He had something to do, and the time had come to do it whether he wanted to or not. At sunset he left the city’s gates and retraced his steps to the shrine of Labelas Enoreth, seeking quiet and solitude. The night was cool and breezy. Spring in the North faded fast once the sun set, and the woods around the old temple sighed and rustled in the wind.

  Araevin seated himself cross-legged, looking out over the lights of the city below. Then, drawing a deep breath, he began to chant the words of a powerful vision spell. Before he set off for a kingdom as distant and exotic as Aglarond, he wanted to know that he could find what he sought there.

  He focused on the tale of Ithraides and his allies, conjuring the images he’d seen preserved in the ancient telkiira stones: Ithraides, the ancient moon elf, with his younger apprentices around him. Morthil, he thought. Star elves. Yuireshanyaar. The telmiirkara neshyrr, the Rite of Transformation.

  “I wish to know!” he called to the wind.

  The vision seized him at once, powerful and immediate. Araevin felt himself flung out of his body, his perception hurtling eastward across land, sea, and mountains. He glimpsed a palace of green stone, a great woodland, a circle of old menhirs in a sun-dappled clearing in the forest. Then his vision lurched and leaped. He reeled, dizzy, setting a hand on the cold flagstones to steady himself.

  When he looked up again, he saw that he stood in a great, lightless hall. Wrecked balustrades of stone lined the walls, the remnants of high, proud galleries that once encircled the place. In the center of the hall a drifting spiral of white magic hovered in the air, turning slowly. Araevin gazed at the odd apparition, trying to make out what exactly it was—and his vision leaped again, diving into the white spiral.

  He stood in a strange room of gray mist and shining light, gazing at a great old tome of golden letters, lying open on a stand.

  “Ithraides’s spellbook,” he gasped.

  All at once the vision whirled away from him, and Araevin was left cold and hollow on the windswept terrace above Silverymoon.

  He climbed shaking to his feet, only to give up and sink back down to the ground. The spell was neither easy nor forgiving, and he would not be himself for quite some time. But the vision was usually truthful.

  A silver door of mist in a black hall, he wondered. Ithraides’s lore has not been lost.

  With a sigh, he climbed again to his feet, and started back toward the city and his companions below.

  CHAPTER NINE

  28 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

  They spent their last night at the Golden Oak much as they had the last time they left Silverymoon, enjoying a good meal, drink, and dancing beneath the lanternlit boughs of the great old tree. Then, in the morning, the three travelers returned to the Vault of Sages to pick up the copies Araevin had commissioned from Brother Calwern before leaving the city again. It was another warm spring morning, and flower beds all over the city were in bloom around them.

  They climbed the steps to the Vault’s entrance, and found Brother Calwern waiting for them with a new leather scroll case, secured for travel.

  “The Untheric map you requested is ready,” the aged Deneirrath told Araevin. “I wish you luck in your travels, Master Teshurr. Come back when you can and tell us about them.”

  “Thank you,” Araevin replied, accepting the map in its leather case. “Until we meet again, Brother Calwern.”

  He bowed and turned to go, but then someone called his name from nearby. The voice was human, though raspy and somewhat deep. Araevin turned and found himself looking on a man who sat by one of the desks. The fellow stood slowly, pushing himself to his feet with a jangle of mail beneath his surcoat.

  “I am Dawnmaster Donnor Kerth, of the Order of the Aster,” he said. “I have been waiting for you.”

  The same order that Grayth served in, Araevin recalled. He inclined his head to the fellow.

  “Well met, Dawnmaster,” he replied, studying the Lathanderian. He was young—a grown man, certainly, but no more than his mid-twenties, if Araevin was any judge of it—and he had a hard manner to him. His eyes were bright blue and intense, and his hair was hacked so short that it was little more than dark stubble covering his dusky scalp. He wore the rising sun symbol of Lathander on his breast, and a big-hilted broadsword hung at his hip. “What can I do for you?”

  “You were the companion of Mornmaster Grayth Holmfast?” the human asked.

  “Yes, I was,” Araevin said. He frowned, taking the young man’s measure. “We traveled together in the Company of the White Star some years ago, and again this very spring.”

  “Grayth
Holmfast was my mentor in the Order. I understand you were with him when he was killed.” His fierce manner grew even harder as his eyes narrowed, and a scowl crept across his features. “He was like a father to me, Master Teshurr. Tell me what happened to him.”

  Araevin searched Donnor Kerth’s eyes. “Grayth was a true friend to me as well, Dawnmaster. I will do as you ask.” He reached out and set a hand on the big human’s shoulder. “But, I have to warn you—it will be hard to hear. He fought valiantly at my side through many perils, but in the end he was murdered in cold blood by the daemonfey.”

  “I mean to hear your tale, Araevin Teshurr, whether it is good or ill.”

  Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and Maresa, then nodded. “Give me a moment to finish my business here, and we will go somewhere to talk. Dawnmaster, this is my betrothed, Ilsevele Miritar, and our companion Maresa Rost, who has also shared many dangers with us. We all rode with Grayth.”

  Ilsevele offered her hand in the human way, and Kerth surprisingly did not seek to crush it in his mailed grasp. He drew off his gauntlet to touch her fingers, and bent down to kiss her hand.

  “My lady Miritar,” he murmured. Then he turned to Maresa, who made a show of daintily extending her hand for the same treatment. “Lady Rost.”

  “Dawnmaster Kerth,” Maresa intoned gravely. The genasi regarded the serious Lathanderian with a solemn face, but Araevin caught a glimmer of humor in her eyes. Maresa was not used to such displays of courtesy, it seemed.

  “Let us go outside,” he suggested.

  The human assented with a nod, and Araevin led him outside to the green boulevard that ran past the Vault. Many of Silverymoon’s streets would have passed for parks in other cities. They found a row of cherry trees in full bloom, and sat on a pair of stone benches beneath the soft pink blossoms. Araevin related to Donnor Kerth the story of his return to Faerûn and quest for the missing telkiira. From time to time, Ilsevele or Maresa interrupted with details of Grayth’s valor and their adventures together.

  Araevin went on to tell of their continued quest in search of the last telkiira, the battle against Grimlight the behir, and the daemonfey treachery that snared them all in Sarya Dlardrageth’s clutches. Then he came to the end of Grayth’s tale in the demon-haunted halls beneath Myth Glaurach.

  “The daemonfey demanded that I lead them to the last of the treasures they sought, and so they threatened Grayth’s life if I did not comply.” He paused, struggling with the words, as the grief of the moment welled up again in his chest. “I hesitated, because I did not want to put such a weapon in Sarya’s hands. She ordered Grayth killed, and one of her fey’ri cut his throat. My resistance failed, and she caught me in a spell of dominion, commanding me to do as she asked.”

  Kerth’s fierce eyes softened for a moment. “You did what you could, Araevin Teshurr. Your lives were forfeit from the moment such monsters captured you. As far as you knew, they would kill you anyway.”

  “I know. But if I had yielded sooner, they might have saved Grayth for later use against me, as they did Ilsevele and Maresa. In which case, I might have been able to rescue him as well.”

  “How did you escape the domination spell and free your comrades?”

  Araevin frowned, and rubbed unconsciously at the Nightstar embedded beneath his shirt. Some things should not be lightly shared.

  “Sarya’s captain commanded me to attempt something that risked grave harm. That gave me the strength to break the spell. After that, I returned to Myth Glaurach, which had been mostly emptied, as the daemonfey were busy with their war against Evereska and the High Forest. I found Ilsevele and Maresa, and teleported away.”

  “He also managed to sabotage Sarya’s control of the city’s mythal, and banish a few hundred demons while he was at it,” Maresa added. “Don’t let Araevin convince you that he isn’t at least a little bit heroic.”

  The human glanced at Araevin again, and leaned back to digest the tale, hands locked in front of his chest. After a long moment he sighed and looked up.

  “Does Grayth’s murderer still live?” he asked.

  “No. I killed the one who wielded the knife,” Araevin said.

  “But as far as we know, Sarya Dlardrageth still lives,” Ilsevele added. “She is the one who ordered Grayth’s death. We think she is hiding in the ruins of Myth Drannor.”

  “Then, if you will permit me, I offer you my service in Grayth Holmfast’s stead.” The Dawnmaster bowed deeply, his arms spread wide. “These daemonfey, whoever they are, have made an enemy of the Order of the Aster, and I intend to see Lord Holmfast’s work through to its end.”

  Araevin frowned, not sure what to make of the offer. He exchanged looks with Ilsevele and Maresa. The genasi shrugged, but Ilsevele studied the human closely, her green eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Evermeet’s army is marching against the Dlardrageths in Myth Drannor,” Araevin finally said. “However, our path does not lead there yet. We are about to set out in search of some ancient lore that we need to defeat the mythal defenses Sarya is erecting around Myth Drannor. It is my intent to travel swiftly and return to the fight against the daemonfey as quickly as I can, but I can’t say where my quest will lead me, or how long it will take.”

  “A long and difficult march may prove more important than a single glorious charge in deciding a war,” the human knight said. “Honor is served equally by both. Until such a time as you know that you will have no need of my sword, I would like to aid you in whatever way I can. If Grayth would have followed you, I will follow you.”

  Araevin considered his reply. As far as he knew, he might be wandering in and out of libraries for months in search of the spells he needed. But Ilsevele answered for him. As a captain in the Queen’s Guard, she understood a warrior’s honor better than he did.

  “For the sake of Grayth Holmfast’s memory, we will accept your service,” she told the human. “The only conditions I place on you, Dawnmaster, are these—if Araevin or I tell you that something you see or do is not to be spoken of to those who aren’t elves, you will not do so, and you will not abandon us in danger. Other than that you are free to judge for yourself when honor has been served.”

  The human crossed his right arm over his heart. “I so swear,” he said.

  “Good,” said Araevin. He stood and faced the Lathanderian. “If you have a bedroll and a pack, go get them and meet us by the river gate. We need to get a mile or so beyond the city walls, and I will teleport us all to Myth Glaurach.”

  Curnil Thordrim stood his ground, and prepared to meet his death shoulder-to-shoulder with five more Riders of Mistledale. He and his fellows crouched in the common room of a farmhouse, staring out through the open door and the half-shuttered windows. Skulking closer through the forest verge came shapes out of a nightmare—snarling, hissing devils with snakelike tails, wide mouths full of foul, jagged teeth, and huge saw-toothed glaives of rust-red metal. Fearsome yellow light glimmered in the fiends’ eyes, and they cackled and snarled horribly in their terrible voices.

  “Why don’t they just get on with it?” muttered Rethold.

  The tall archer stood beside Curnil, a silver-tipped arrow held on his bowstring. He had only three arrows left, and he was waiting until he was sure of a shot. For the better part of a tenday, the Riders of Mistledale had been embroiled in a deadly fight that worsened every day, defending their vale against what was first a marauding devil or two, then murderous gangs of the creatures. In the past few days a dozen of Curnil’s fellows had died, torn apart by fiendish talons, skewered on hell-forged hooks or spears, or blasted to smoking corpses by devil-wrought hellfire.

  “Be patient, and wait for your shot,” Curnil told him. “If we are going to fall here, we have to take as many of these foul hellspawn with us as we can.”

  “What I’d like to know,” remarked Ingra, who was keeping watch by the window, “is how these monsters got out of Myth Drannor.”

  She stood with a powerful crossbow in her hands, a highly
enchanted quarrel laid in its rest. Curnil knew that she’d account for one of the devils, when the moment came. But that wouldn’t be enough, would it?

  “They’re coming!” cried Ingra.

  Curnil raised his paired short swords and crouched by the doorway, ready to kill the first devil to enter the room. Rethold’s bow thrummed to his left, as the archer fired through one of the shuttered windows on that side of the house, and Ingra’s crossbow snapped sharply on his right.

  There was a sudden rush of footfalls, the clicking of taloned nails on the floorboards of the porch outside—and a furious devil leaped in the door, eyes ablaze with battle-lust. It was so quick and reckless in its rush that it nearly skewered Curnil with its barbed glaive before the swordsman could move. He cursed and threw himself aside, then parried two more jabbing thrusts as the monster pressed in, two more of its fellows crowding in close behind it.

  “For Mistledale!” Curnil cried, and he heard his fellow Riders take up the call.

  He slipped inside the glaive’s point and launched a furious assault of his own, slashing and stabbing with his swords as the devil snapped at him with its fangs. The other Riders crashed into the doorway with him, and for a few moments the whole fight came down to a savage press right in the farmhouse’s door, blades flashing, fangs sinking into flesh, hisses of anger, and sudden grunts or cries of pain.

  Curnil roared in anger as the devil he battled sank its teeth into his forearm, snarling and worrying at him like a great fierce hound, but he managed to slip his right hand free and stabbed his enchanted blade into the monster’s torso over and over again, until the devil finally slipped and went down in the doorway. He stumbled to the floor, saw Rethold killed by a glaive-thrust that burst the weapon’s point half a foot out of the archer’s back, and from all fours awkwardly parried the attack of yet another devil leaping through the press.

  His new opponent hissed in savage glee and drew back its weapon for a killing thrust, even as Curnil tried to gain his feet—and a silver-white arrow sprouted from the devil’s neck. Curnil took advantage of the devil’s distraction to gain his feet again and gut the creature with a wicked low slash under its guard. More silver arrows struck all around him, a deadly sleet of archery that took the devils in their backs until the creatures finally scattered and dashed away, seeking escape.