Avenger

THIRTEEN

13 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

Nine days of hard travel brought Geran, Hamil, and Sarth to the outskirts of Myth Drannor. They’d sailed from Thentia aboard a Double Moon merchantman; unlike Hulburg, Thentia’s port remained ice-free through the winter. Still, it was enduring a difficult three-day Moonsea crossing against the westerly winds. In the city of Hillsfar, they bought riding horses and provisions for an overland journey, setting out southward along the Moonsea Ride. Deep snow and cold, damp weather had made the hundred-mile ride far more tiring than Geran remembered it, but at least they’d run into no trouble with bandits or monsters; it seemed the bad weather had driven them into their lairs, leaving the roads open to any who were foolish enough to travel in such conditions. They spent their nights huddling around campfires beneath the forest’s mighty boles, trying to keep dry and warm.

In the middle of the afternoon on the ninth day of their journey, Geran found that the endless woods around the elven road they followed had begun to take on a familiar character. The stirring of long-buried memories washed over him. He shortened his reins and brought his horse, a big gray gelding, to a stop on the snow-covered elven road, sitting motionless in the saddle as the wet snow floated down, sticking to his woolen cloak and the horse’s mane. The woods were still, and the snow muffled the hoofbeats of his companions’ horses, leaving no sound but the faint creaking of leather and the animals’ heavy breaths. Without even realizing it, he leaned forward, listening with all his might for something that stirred at the very edge of his awareness.

“What is it?” Hamil asked, reining in beside him. Sarth, a little way ahead of them both, glanced over his shoulder and halted as well.

Geran gazed at the snowy forest that surrounded them. He recognized this place. “I first met Alliere and Rhovann at this very spot,” he said. “A little more than seven years ago, I suppose. It was winter then too-Midwinter’s Eve-and I could hear the elves singing the Miiraeth len Fhierren.” He shook himself, raising a hand to brush the snow from his eyelashes and the memories from his sight. “It’s only a mile more to the city.”

“Good!” Hamil replied. “I’m more than ready for a hot meal and a warm bed tonight.”

“As am I,” Sarth said. The sorcerer had argued vehemently against completing Aesperus’s task, but once Geran made his decision, he’d grudgingly agreed to go with Geran and Hamil so that he could view the missing pages of the Infiernadex himself before the lich took possession of them. Geran had agreed that if the pages held some lore or ritual that seemed too dangerous to hand over, he’d destroy them rather than deal with the King in Copper-an alternative that he sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to exercise. There was no telling how Aesperus might react to such a refusal.

Hamil tapped his heels to his mount’s flanks and started again, but Geran hesitated a moment. This was the point of no return; if he continued forward, he’d be in defiance of the coronal’s judgment. He was not quite ready to discount all his misgivings yet.

Sarth glanced around the woods to make sure of their privacy, and then spoke to Geran. “You need not go any farther,” he said. “Hamil and I can find the pages Aesperus requires. There is no need for you to risk the coronal’s displeasure.”

The swordmage shook his head. “It might take you months to win the trust of the right people, and we can’t afford much delay. I still have friends here-I think. But from this point forward, my name is Aram, and I’m only a Red Sail armsman here to guard Master Hamil from any trouble on the road.” He was dressed the part, with an armsman’s scale coat, the red surcoat with its yellow slash, a little pigment to darken the eyesockets and make them appear deeper than they were, and a thick goatee in the Vastar style. His elven sword was disguised in a false scabbard, its hilt of mithral wire covered with a simple leather wrap; it likely would have been better to leave the weapon in Lasparhall, but once upon a time it had been bestowed on Geran by Coronal Ilsevele herself, and if things went poorly, he hoped that it might serve to remind the elves of the service he’d rendered their queen in years gone by.

Hamil noticed that he was not following yet, and reined in again. He glanced at Sarth, and then twisted in the saddle to look back at the swordmage. “You’ve never spoken much of your years in Myth Drannor,” he said to Geran. “I think now might be time to tell your tale. What happened to you here?”

Geran sat his horse in silence for a moment, wrestling with the question of whether to answer. For many months he’d done his best to forget about the life he’d made for himself in the elf realm, unwilling to torment himself with the memories. But Hamil and Sarth certainly deserved to know whether their association with him entailed any risk in the City of Song. And it might be possible that he was finally ready to unburden himself of the tale, dragging it out from the dark recesses of his heart into daylight again.

He felt his companions waiting for his answer, and sighed. “I came here in Nightal of the Year of the Heretic’s Rampage,” he began. “It was a year and a half or so after the Company of the Dragon Shield parted ways and Hamil and I took over the Red Sail Coster. I’d been feeling restless in Tantras. I suppose my heart wasn’t in the merchant trade-I missed the Dragon Shields, and I felt like I was still searching for a cause worthy of my sword. Anyway, some Red Sail business brought me to Harrowdale, and while there I intervened in a fight between an elf-a bladesinger-and a band of Netherese assassins. The bladesinger was as good as anyone I’ve ever seen, but the odds were long, and the Netherese fought with dark spells and shadowy blades. I was a good swordsman at the time, better than most, but I was out of my depth in that fight, and I knew it. Still, I timed things well, and my appearance tipped the balance of the fight. The bladesinger and I killed or drove off the Netherese.

“Afterward I spoke at length with the fellow I’d aided. He was a sun elf named Daried Selsherryn, a master bladesinger of Myth Drannor. He told me that he thought I had potential, especially since I’d had a little arcane study during my time with the Dragon Shields. Daried offered to teach me more of his art by way of thanking me for my help.” Geran smiled as he recalled the evening. “I thought I’d pretty much figured out everything I needed to know about sword play, and I was a little offended by the idea that I might not measure up. But I’d sensed the magic Daried and his Netherese foes wielded against each other-I’ve always had a knack for it, I guess-and I was intrigued despite myself. Besides, I’d wanted to see Myth Drannor since I was a young lad. When I finished up with my Red Sail business, I sent a note back to Hamil explaining I might be a tenday or two late-”

“Five years late, as it turned out,” Hamil muttered.

“-and I rode west into the forest, with nothing more than a vague notion of studying a few days with Daried and taking in the sights. Of course, the forest is a dark and wild place in its eastern marches, and I lost my mount to a hungry bulette. I finally arrived on foot, cold and hungry from days of walking.

“Here, on this very spot, I stopped to listen to the sound of elven singing that I could hear through the trees.” Geran nodded at the small clearing around them. “And while I was standing here listening, I met the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on-Alliere Morwain, of House Morwain. She and Rhovann Disarnnyl, who was courting her, were out for a sleigh ride in the snowy woods. Alliere took pity on my weatherbeaten state and offered me the hospitality of her family’s home. She showed me around the city, and of course, I’d never seen anything like it. I found Daried again soon enough, and within three days learned that I didn’t know a thing about sword play or magic.”

“Did Daried teach you your swordmagic, then?” Sarth asked.

Geran nodded. “I studied under him every day for months. In the evenings, I explored the city at Alliere’s side, listening to the master bards reciting in the lanternlit glens, dancing on the tavern greens, watching plays and wandering through the shops of the city’s merchants. When I’d learned enough swordmagic to regain some of my self-confidence and enough Elvish to avoid embarrassing myself, I went to the court of the coronal and offered her my sword. She accepted, and I became a member of the Coronal Guard. They don’t choose many folk of other races, but Daried and Alliere spoke well of me, and I come from a noble line-such as it is. My experience of the lands outside the forest made me useful as a scout and spy, so I often went abroad when the guards found something that needed doing outside Myth Drannor. And during those days, I fell in love with Alliere.” Geran paused, lost in the memories.

“I think I finally understand why you stayed so long,” said Hamil.

Geran shrugged. “Myth Drannor is a strangely timeless place. Time doesn’t touch the elves the same way it does the rest of us, of course, but there’s something more to it than that. It’s like living in a waking dream. The lords are so splendid, the ladies so fair, the songs so beautiful … there are days of toil and grief, but they’re few and far between. The longer you remain, the more deeply you lose yourself in the dream. And I was lost here for years.”

“How did it end?” Sarth asked quietly.

Geran’s mouth tightened with old pain. “A duel,” he said. “Rhovann and I grew into rivals for Alliere’s affections. She cared more for me, I think, but they’d known each other since before I’d even been born, and their families desired a marriage between them. Perhaps she didn’t really know her own heart. In any event, Rhovann became jealous of me, and I of course didn’t like him much either. Whether he truly loved Alliere or simply regarded her as something that belonged to him, I couldn’t say, but he never missed a chance to let me know what he thought of me. I challenged him to meet me in a tournament, and he agreed.

“It was supposed to be a contest of skill, but from the first we meant to hurt each other. I got the better of Rhovann and struck his wand from his hand, but he wouldn’t yield.” Geran closed his eyes, remembering the frost-covered leaves under his feet, the clash and thunder of spells striking spell-shields and steel gleaming in his hand. “Something came over me then, a black rage like I’ve felt only once or twice in my life. Rhovann reached for his wand again, and I struck off his hand, knowing full well what I was doing. And I would have done worse to him if Daried hadn’t stopped me.

“For dueling Rhovann and deliberately maiming him, Coronal Ilsevele banished me. I found out later that Rhovann was banished a few tendays after me, since it turned out that he’d been studying magical arts banned in Myth Drannor. But Alliere was horrified. She couldn’t bear to look on me after I’d maimed Rhovann.” He sighed and opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on the snow-covered road ahead of him. “That’s the tale. I haven’t seen Alliere since that day. I returned to Tantras six years after I’d left, and Hamil was kind enough to make a little room for me with the Red Sails again.”

He tapped his horse’s flanks, and rode forward at an easy walk. Hamil and Sarth fell in with him, and the three companions rode in silence for a time. After a little while Hamil asked, “Exactly how banished are you?”

“I’m not supposed to be within the coronal’s domain, which includes the city and the forests around it. Customarily that’s held to be anything within a day’s ride of the coronal’s palace. What judgment Ilsevele would pronounce on me for violating my exile, I couldn’t say. Imprisonment? A geas?” He shrugged. “I hope to avoid the coronal’s notice, to be honest.”

The road rounded a low hill and met a wide lake, running along the shore. Unlike much of the city behind it, the lake and the strong outbuildings were less than a century old, new defenses added to protect the great old city. Geran had heard that the elves hadn’t cut a single tree to clear the wide open space of the beautiful lakes that now girdled the city; they’d used some sort of forest magic to move the trees, root and bole, to new places, creating a moat of sorts a good bowshot in width to protect the city from any attacking army. The isthmuses joining the city to the surrounding lands were guarded by white barbicans, their walls fashioned in the form of delicately pointed arches filled with carvings of forest scenes, but the city was unwalled otherwise. Many of the elves Geran knew regretted the fact that the city had been separated from the surrounding forest by its defenses, but he’d always found the lakes to be a very beautiful city wall indeed; on still days the city’s wondrous spires and domes were mirrored perfectly in the reflecting ring.

“A wonder,” Sarth breathed softly, taking in the sight of the slender towers.

Geran nodded in agreement. “I wish I could show both of you more of it; it’s a shame to visit Myth Drannor in haste. But I suppose that might be for the best, since I should probably avoid my old haunts.” Even though he’d lived in this city for years, familiarity hadn’t diminished its beauty. They continued along the road as it turned toward the city again, now passing along a slender point of land dividing two of the reflecting lakes, and came to one of the city’s barbicans-a freestanding gatehouse guarded by elf soldiers in long coats of silver mail.

“Last chance,” Hamil remarked under his breath. “Just so you know, I intend to completely disavow you if you get caught.”

One of the elves stepped forward, raising his hand as the travelers approached. “Halt and name yourselves,” he said in a clear voice. “Who are you, and what is your business in Myth Drannor?”

Geran stared at the guard-captain in horror. It was Caellen Disarnnyl, a kinsman of Rhovann’s. He wasn’t anyone that Geran had known very well, but he’d certainly known Geran by name, especially after Geran’s rivalry with Rhovann had turned ugly. He fought down the urge to immediately tug his hood down over his features or keep his face turned away from the captain; the last thing he wanted to do was look as nervous as he felt. He hasn’t seen me in years, he reminded himself. I was clean shaven before, I dressed in elven garb, and I didn’t wear bulky armor like this scale coat. Before the captain glanced at him, Geran turned his attention to the barbican and the towers behind, making a show of gawking just a little at the elven city. Either Caellen would recognize him, or not; nothing he could think of at the moment would make that less likely without also drawing the captain’s attention to him.

“I’m Hamil Alderheart of Tantras,” Hamil answered the captain. “You might say I speculate in antiquities and enchantments. This is Sarth Khul Riizar, a sorcerer in my employ, and my bodyguard Aram Kost. I’ve come to Myth Drannor to consult with your sages about some magical devices that have come to my attention.”

“Antiquities, you say?” The captain frowned at Hamil. “In my experience, that is a euphemism for pillaging the old palaces and treasuries of my people. You understand that you may not enter any of the old ruins or vaults in Myth Drannor without a writ of permission from the coronal’s agent?”

“Oh, of course!” said Hamil. “I don’t risk my own neck in such foolishness, I pay others to do it for me. I’m simply here for research. The libraries of Myth Drannor are the finest north of the Sea of Fallen Stars; I’m hoping that they might contain lore pertaining to the items I mentioned. It would save me a great deal of time and trouble if they do.”

Caellen studied Hamil’s face for a moment, and then looked at Sarth with a small frown. Tieflings were hardly commonplace in most lands; Sarth’s brick red skin, swept horns, and barbed tail certainly suggested a dark disposition. “There are potent wards against creatures native to other planes protecting the city,” the captain said to the tiefling. “I am simply warning you that I do not know what might happen if you should enter the city.”

Sarth nodded to the captain. “I am familiar with such measures. In my case, I am several generations removed from my … forebears, and share little with them other than a passing resemblance. I shouldn’t provoke any response from your city’s mythal.”

Caellen shrugged, as if to say we’ll see in a moment, and turned his attention to Geran. A brief frown creased his brow, and Geran wondered if he saw a glimmer of recognition in the captain’s eyes. But at that moment Hamil cleared his throat and said, “This is the first time I’ve visited your city. Can you recommend a comfortable inn that isn’t too costly for a few days’ stay?”

Caellen glanced back to the halfling, forgetting Geran for the moment. The swordmage allowed himself a tiny sigh of relief. “Many travelers speak well of the Swan House,” he answered. “You’ll find it about two hundred yards ahead, on the right-hand side of the avenue. Madame Yisiere can also arrange to introduce you to the librarians at the mage’s college.”

“Excellent!” Hamil said. The elf captain stepped back and inclined his head; Hamil tapped his heels to his pony’s flanks and rode on through the gate. Sarth followed after him, and Geran brought up the rear. He noticed that Caellen and the other guards were watching closely as he rode into the tree-shadowed lanes, but then he realized they were observing Sarth to see if the tiefling experienced any difficulties in entering the city’s magical wardings. Well, that’s one way to deflect suspicions, he thought. Travel with a tiefling, and no one will give you a second look.

Hamil glanced over his shoulder at Geran and spoke mind-to-mind, in the manner of his kind. Is this Swan House where you want to go? he asked.

It will do, he answered, keeping his eyes on Hamil’s-it was the only way the halfling could read his answer. It’s the sort of place a traveling merchant would stay, although it’s not easy on the coinpurse if I remember it rightly.

The halfling nodded and returned his attention to the city ahead. Myth Drannor seemed more like a great noble’s villa than a city; the streets were shaded by trees centuries old, and the buildings they passed-graceful towers, majestic manors flanked by slender colonnades, and elegant homes-were set well back from the street amid the trees and gardens. Even the workshops and mercantile establishments were open arcades of white stone, decorated with delicate carvings in the shape of leaves and flowers. Geran knew of no city in Faerun that was as beautiful, and he sensed the growing wonder of his companions as they rode deeper into the city of the elves. A number of people were out and about, engaged in their day’s errands, but the streets were hardly crowded. Most passersby were moon elves or sun elves who generally greeted the travelers with a polite nod or a small smile, but a few folk of other races were mixed among the elves-humans, halflings, even a dwarf or two. The elves welcomed the merchants, artists, and students of other races, although they kept a close eye on such visitors, and very few were permitted to settle in Myth Drannor. After winding along for a short distance, they came to a fine villa overlooking the ringing lake on the north side of the city. A stone slab by the lane was chiseled in Espruar glyphs beneath the image of a swimming swan. “This is it,” Geran told his companions.

The Swan House was expensive as Geran remembered, but the three companions took a suite by the lakeside and left their mounts in the house’s small stable. There were other places Geran could have guided his friends to, but they were places where he was better known, and he knew it would be wiser to avoid his old haunts. They changed out of their muddy, travel-worn clothes into better dress, and availed themselves of the midday meal provided by the house: a light repast of fruit, cheese, and bread.

“So far, so good,” Hamil remarked when they’d finished. A good meal usually did marvels for his disposition. “Now how do we go about getting our hands on the bit of manuscript we’re looking for? Do you know the place Aesperus mentioned?”

“No, I don’t,” Geran answered. “Many of the old ruins in the city have been covered over by newer buildings, and I suspect that the Irithlium might be one. We’ll have to determine where it lies, and then see if we can slip into the ruins without notice.”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” Sarth said, frowning, “but I seem to recall that the captain at the gate specifically warned us that we were to rummage around in no old ruins without the coronal’s permission. I would feel much better about this if we observed the legalities.”

“Unfortunately, I doubt that we can,” said Geran. “First, it could very well take tendays to obtain a writ-there are dangerous things still sealed in some of the vaults below the city, and the elves are very careful to make sure no one breaks wardings they’ve created to lock them in. Second, and perhaps more importantly, the Coronal Guard very well might confiscate anything that we remove, such as the Infiernadex pages.”

The tiefling frowned, but subsided. Hamil helped himself to another slice of apple from the depleted dinner tray, and looked back up to Geran. “I don’t like this idea of dangerous things sealed in vaults, but other than that, your reasoning seems sound. What are the odds that we can do what you say without being caught in the act? And how do we go about finding this Irithlium place, anyway?”

“The odds depend on where exactly the Irithlium lies. If it’s in the outskirts of the city, we have an excellent chance to avoid being seen. If not, we might have to rely on Sarth’s invisibility spell or some other means to get in and out,” Geran replied. “As for finding out where the vault lies, well, I intend to ask.”

He took a slip of parchment from a writing desk that stood in the suite’s front hall and scratched out a short note with the quill and ink. He blew on it to dry the ink, then rolled the note into a tiny tube and pinched it closed with a little candle wax. Then he walked over to the suite’s window, opened the clear glass, and gave a long, trilling whistle. Sarth and Hamil stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, but he just smiled at them and repeated the whistle. A moment later, there was a sudden flurry of wingbeats at the sill, and a small blue-feathered songbird appeared. It chirped once at him.

Gently, Geran pressed the tightly rolled slip of paper into the bird’s talon. In Elvish he said, “Please, take this to Daried Selsherryn. You will likely find him in House Selsherryn or at Swordstar Hall.” The bird chirped again, and flew off with the note in its grasp.

“Did you just speak to that songbird?” Hamil asked in amazement. “When in the world did you learn to do that?”

“It’s not what I learned to say. It’s the birds that have been taught to listen.” Geran gazed out the window until the bird disappeared from view, enjoying a smile at his friends’ expense. Then he turned away and reached for his cloak. “Come on. We’ve got a little bit of a walk ahead of us.”