Farthest Reach

CHAPTER TEN

4 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

Saerloon was one of the busiest ports on the Sea of Fallen Stars. Two days after Araevin and his companions arrived in the city, they boarded Windsinger, bound for the city of Velprintalar on Aglarond’s northern coast. Windsinger was a graceful three-masted caravel under the command of a captain named Ilthor, a wiry, sun-darkened Aglarondan. She had carried great tuns of wine, cords of fine hardwood, and small coffers full of rich amber from the Yuirwood to Saerloon, and was taking on Sembian pewter, ironwork, copperwork, and tooled leather to carry back home again.

The day was warm and the skies streaked with rain as two longboats pulled Windsinger from Saerloon’s wharves. Once in open water the caravel let down her sails, and set her course south-southwest for the whole day in order to clear the great southern cape of Sembia. Then, with a northwest wind at their back, they turned due east and made for the Isle of Prespur, sighting its town-dotted shores early on the third day of sailing. After that Ilthor turned Windbringer sharply to the northeast, striking across the mouth of the Dragon Reach for the city of Procampur, on the northern shore of the Inner Sea. It would have been far swifter to simply continue due east for Aglarond, crossing the center of the Sea of Fallen Stars, but the Pirate Isles and the dangerous shoals south of Altumbel lay astride that course, and Ilthor had no intention of trying his luck with either.

Araevin found the sea voyage an easy way to travel. There was little room to spare for passengers, and the deck was cluttered with cargo and stores, but the voyage offered ample opportunity to find a cargo hatch or coil of line to sit on, watch the sea or the distant shorelines, make entries in his journals, talk with his friends, or simply sit and reflect. Windsinger was too small to boast cabins exclusively for the use of passengers, so Ilsevele and Maresa shared the pilot’s cabin in the sterncastle, while the pilot bunked in the forecastle with the other crewmen. Araevin and Donnor were given the best sleeping places on the open deck. Covered from the weather by the quarterdeck overhead, the after deck was actually quite pleasant in warm weather, if not particularly private.

By night Ilthor found various small anchorages along the coastlines, dropping anchor each night in a different cove or bay. Only once did he run at night, when he crossed from Prespur to Procampur.

“The sea is too cluttered with islands and shoals to sail in the dark,” he explained. “Out on the Sword Coast or the Shining Sea, they’ll keep their course by day and night. But here I drop anchor when it gets dark, unless I’m certain I’ve got an open pitch of water all around me or the moon is bright enough to sail by.”

For the next few days they sailed eastward along the shores of Impiltur, passing cities such as Tsurlagol, Lyrabar, and Hlammach. Then Ilthor turned southeast, striking across the mouth of the Eastern Reach for Cape Dragonfang.

On the seventh day of their voyage, Araevin found himself sitting with Ilsevele at the stern. He studied his spellbooks in the bright sun, puzzling over the notations and concepts of a spell he had recorded months before but had not yet mastered, while she gazed back at the green shores of Impiltur, slowly sinking into the sea behind them. Her ivory skin had acquired a golden bronze hue in the past few days, as sun elves often did in warm climes. Even the fairest tanned quickly and easily, unlike moon elves, who could never gain more than the faintest hint of color to their skin. After a time Araevin realized that Ilsevele had been staring out over the sea for a long while, her brow faintly furrowed, her eyes distant.

He set down his spellbook and reached to place a hand over hers.

“What is it, Ilsevele? You’ve been staring at the sea all morning. Where are your thoughts?”

She didn’t reply for a long time, long enough that someone who didn’t know her as well as Araevin might have wondered whether she had heard him. But finally she took her eyes from the bright horizon, and looked down at the slender white wake streaming from behind Windsinger ’s rudderpost.

“Where will we marry?” she asked. “Where?” Araevin blinked, considering the question. In truth, he hadn’t given a single thought to any sort of wedding preparations-and especially not since the night the daemonfey had raided Tower Reilloch. “Your father’s palace at Seamist, I suppose. Everyone in Elion will want to come.” He managed an awkward shrug. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Do you think we will return to Evermeet in time for our wedding day? It is less than two years from now-Greengrass in the Year of the Bent Blade. That is the promise we made in the Year of the Prince.”

“I remember,” Araevin said. “Why wouldn’t we return for our wedding day?”

“What if my father’s army is laying siege to Myth Drannor? Or the daemonfey escape again, and we pursue them to some even more distant land? What if your search for high magic takes you to some realm on the other side of the sunrise, a road whose end you won’t reach for years and years?”

“Even if all those things happen as you say, Ilsevele, I don’t see why we could not stand in the arbor at Seamist and speak our promises before the Seldarine,” Araevin said.

“So we would abandon our battles and our journeys for a day, in order to honor our betrothal?”

“If that is the way we must do it, then yes.”

Ilsevele sighed. “And back to your studies, my father’s battles, whatever desperate journeys and adventures we must face. That is not much of a marriage, Araevin, and not much of a life together.”

Frustration hardened his words more than he intended, but Araevin spoke anyway. “If it is all we are to be permitted now, it will have to do. In time there will be years for us, Ilsevele. We won’t always be called away.”

“It isn’t enough.” Ilsevele glanced up at the cloudless sky overhead, her eyes as bright as emeralds in the sunshine. “When we met, Araevin, there was such passion in our hearts! There is nothing we would not abandon for an hour in each other’s company, stealing away for a walk in the glades of the forest, an evening’s dance in the wine rooms of Elion, a morning together in the woods by the sea… but when was the last time we did something like that?”

“You came to find me at the House of Cedars only a few months ago,” he protested. “For a few days, at least, I certainly did not think of anything other than you.”

“So you say. Yet even then you were aching to set out for Faerun again. I would catch you staring off to the east at sunset, looking out over the darkening sea toward Faerun, wishing with all your heart to tread those roads and wander those lands again, even though your mind did not want to hear your heart’s whispering.”

“If you had asked me, Ilsevele, I would have stayed. You know that.”

“If you had stayed, you would have wished I had not asked you.”

Araevin looked away, gazing at the empty sea as the breeze played with his hair, listening to the soft sound of water slipping past the hull, the ruffling of the sails in the breeze, the rhythmic creaking of lines and tackle as Windsinger rode the waves.

“But you came with me,” he said. “You have seen only a thimbleful of these lands, Ilsevele. We could roam the world for a hundred years, and still you would not have seen it all.”

She smiled and said, “I am not a roamer, Araevin. I have enjoyed our travels-the parts that weren’t difficult or deadly, anyway-and I am not done with them. But my heart turns to home, to familiar places, to the people I love. You, on the other hand… when you are at home, wherever that is, your heart turns to the things you have not seen. Tell me the truth: Can you close your eyes and imagine our life together? Can you picture fifty years in the House of Cedars, an end to your journeys, a life of being instead of a life of doing?”

He started to tell her yes, but Ilsevele held up her hand. “Try it before you answer.”

“All right, then.”

He closed his eyes, and did as she asked, imagining days of springtime sunshine in the House of Cedars, the sea storms of fall and the dark clouds of winter, the sound of the surf in his ears, nothing to do but pass his days a perfect and complete hour at a time. He might spend a hundred years there, two hundred perhaps, with Ilsevele and the children that might come. Yet he could not seem to envision Ilsevele in that house, or himself for that matter. He frowned and tried again. He was a high mage, and he wandered the halls of Tower Reilloch or the courts of Leuthilspar, while Ilsevele stood at her father’s right hand or perhaps even sat at the council table in the fullness of years. But that left the House of Cedars empty again, and he could not fill it with all his imagination.

“You can’t do it, can you?” Ilsevele said. “I can read it on your face.”

Araevin opened his eyes and looked at his betrothed. There was strength and unflinching wisdom behind her eyes, so bright and perfect. She had changed in the years of their betrothal. Wisdom and confidence, poise and determination, had gathered around her since he had first met her. She was not the timid young woman who had once been content to lose herself in his love, swept away by his stories of far-off places and the restlessness he had learned from a century among humankind.

There, on the sun-bleached deck of Windsinger, it occurred to Araevin for the first time that Ilsevele perhaps held a destiny and a passion that might eclipse his own, even if she had not yet found it.

“Give me a year,” he pleaded. “Let me walk a few more miles down the road I have to walk. When I know that the daemonfey have been dealt with, when I know that your father has done what he has set out to do, things will be different.”

“How do you know?” Ilsevele said. She looked away from him, her red-gold hair gleaming in the sunshine.

“Because you are waiting for me, and I would have to be a fool to let you slip through my fingers.” He pulled his hand away from hers, standing up slowly. “I have only a little farther to roam, Ilsevele. Then I will be coming back with you.”

Ilsevele pulled herself to her feet, and searched his face for a long moment.

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

She leaned on the rail, gazing at the sea astern of them. Araevin followed her eyes. Nothing but empty ocean and sweeping sky surrounded them, and they remained there, looking at nothing for a long time.

“I can’t see the land anymore,” Ilsevele finally said.

Araevin nodded. He had long since lost sight of Impiltur’s capes.

“We’re well in the Easting Reach now,” he said. “We should sight the shores of Aglarond tomorrow.”

The street lanterns of Hillsfar glowed orange in a light evening smog of smoke from thousands of homes, the banked furnaces and forges that had burned all day long, and the cold sea mist from the dark Moonsea, less than two miles from the city walls. Sarya Dlardrageth contemplated the cluttered streets and ramshackle buildings as her hired coach clattered over the gleaming, wet cobblestones.

“What a stinking sty of a city,” her son observed. The hulking swordsman wore the aspect of a tall, broad-shouldered human, but the daemonfey lord had little liking for hiding his true nature in a lesser guise. “Do all human cities reek so?”

“Mind your manners in the First Lord’s Tower, Xhalph,” Sarya said. “Maalthiir is a cold and arrogant man, quick to take offense. I want him as an ally, not an enemy.”

Xhalph scowled, but nodded. Sarya glanced out the coach’s window. The driver pulled up before the First Lord’s Tower, set the brake, and hopped down to open the door for Sarya and Xhalph-two foreign nobles, as far as he knew. Sarya descended, Xhalph at her side, and they climbed the steps to the tower.

“I am Lady Senda Dereth,” she told the guard captain. “Lord Maalthiir does not expect me, but I believe he will wish to see me.”

The guard captain consulted his order book, then looked up sharply. “The first lord will be notified of your arrival,” he said. “You will await him in the banquet room.”

He gestured to four of the red-plumed guards, who led Sarya and Xhalph through the keep’s winding passages and broad halls to a large room with a great table of oak and dozens of chairs arrayed neatly behind it. The windows were mere slits only a hand’s-breadth wide, and the two sets of doors leading into the chamber were made of four-inch thick oak bound with iron bands.

“Do they think this will hold us, if we should choose to leave?” Xhalph muttered to her, as the door closed behind the guards.

“I doubt it,” Sarya said. “Maalthiir at least knows that I am a mage. I suspect that the first lord simply wants to remind us of where we are.”

To Sarya’s surprise, Maalthiir did not keep her waiting. After only ten minutes, the first lord threw open the doors and strode into the banquet room, flanked as before by the four pale swordsmen with the dead black eyes, as well as two more Red Plumes. There was another lord with him, a heavyset man with an exquisitely trimmed mustache and goatee to go along with his long, curled locks of black hair and dark, narrow-set eyes. Sarya decided that he had the look of a warrior who’d let himself go. Despite his evident paunch, the man’s shoulders were broad, and his hands were large and strong beneath the delicate lace cuffs of his tunic.

Maalthiir paused on entering, studying Sarya intensely, and motioned to more guards stationed in the hall. The thick oak doors swung shut, and the first lord smiled coldly.

“Good evening, Lady Senda,” he said. “You left without answering my questions last time you visited my tower. I hope you will not do so again tonight.”

Sarya inclined her head to the human lord. “I hope I will not need to, Lord Maalthiir,” she said, ignoring the threat. “May I present my captain-at-arms Alphon? He advises me on military matters.”

Maalthiir studied Xhalph for a moment, and his lips twisted into a small, humorless smile.

“Captain Alphon,” he answered, then indicated the dark-bearded lord who had accompanied him into the room. “This is High Master Borstag Duncastle of Ordulin. He represents Sembian interests concerned with trade, settlement, and industry in the Dales and the Moonsea.”

Sarya nodded to the Sembian lord-more likely nothing more than a jumped-up merchant, she reminded herself-and looked back to the First Lord of Hillsfar.

“I hope you have had an opportunity to confirm for yourself the incursion of Evermeet’s army to these lands?”

“I have indeed. The elven army was exactly where you’d said I would find them.” Maalthiir crossed the room to the head of the large, empty table, kicked out the chair there, and sat down in an unconcerned slouch. The oddly pale swordsmen who accompanied the first lord moved to stand behind him. “My spies added some important details you neglected to mention, Lady Senda. They spoke with Dalesfolk who in turn spoke with emissaries of the elven army, and they learned that the leader of the elves-a Lord Miritar, I believe-has discovered that an ancient enemy of elf-kind has occupied Myth Drannor. Apparently these foes of the elves recently waged a furious war in the vales of the Delimbiyr, attacking elven kingdoms in the High Forest, but fled to Myth Drannor when they were defeated a month or two ago.”

High Master Borstag folded his thick arms in front of his chest. “My own spies confirmed the first lord’s report,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice. “In fact, I learned a name for these adversaries of the elves: The daemonfey.”

“You are well-informed, Lord Maalthiir.”

“Perhaps more well informed than you think, Lady Senda.” Maalthiir raised a hand and pointed at his own eyes. “I took the liberty of casting a spell of true seeing before I entered the room. You, dear lady, are not what you appear to be. Nor is your Captain Alphon, for that matter. In fact, were I to hazard a guess, I believe that I am speaking to a pair of Lord Miritar’s daemonfey at this very moment.”

Xhalph shifted beside Sarya, and his hand stole down to the sword at his side. The four mysterious swordsmen behind Maalthiir mirrored his move in unison, swiveling to direct their dark, dead gazes at Xhalph.

Sarya glanced up at him in irritation and said quietly,

“Not yet.”

Xhalph growled softly deep in his throat, but he took his hand from his sword hilt and subsided. Sarya looked back at Maalthiir, who still lounged in his chair at the head of the table.

“You are more astute than I had thought you would be, First Lord,” she said. “I am Countess Sarya Dlardrageth, of House Dlardrageth. This is my son Xhalph. I hope you will forgive me for taking steps to keep my identity a secret in order to avoid any undue alarm on your part.”

“I am by nature a suspicious man,” Maalthiir replied. “There is no such thing as undue alarm. Now, with all that behind us… what precisely do you want with Hillsfar, Lady Sarya?”

“I want to drive Seiveril Miritar out of Cormanthor entirely. As I said in our previous meeting, it seems to me that you might share that desire. Hillsfar would not profit from an elf coronal in Myth Drannor.”

“It is not at all clear to me that Hillsfar would profit from a demon-queen in Myth Drannor, either.”

“Well, among other things, I certainly have no interest in guaranteeing the Dales against the natural and logical growth of Hillsfar’s power… or Sembia’s. On the other hand, Miritar will stand in your path. If you ever hope to raise Hillsfar’s banner over Harrowdale or Battledale-or if the high master here ever hopes to see Featherdale or Tasseldale under Sembia’s dominion-you would be well-advised to make sure that Lord Miritar does not establish himself in Cormanthor.”

“Whereas you would gladly stand aside while we seized the Dalelands that lie all around your forest city?”

Sarya walked over to the banquet table and seated herself a few chairs down from Maalthiir, ignoring the flash of irritation in the human lord’s eyes.

“I mean to rule over most, if not all, of the old realm of Cormanthyr. That means the woods of the Elven Court, Semberholme… much of the forest Cormanthor, in fact. But the Dales were never a part of Cormanthyr, and I could care less what becomes of them. In fact, to help secure your assistance against my foe, I am willing to help you arrange matters in the Dalelands as you see fit.”

“An elflord in Cormanthyr-whether you or Miritar-is not something that Sembia wishes to see,” said High Master Borstag. “The southern Dales are Sembia’s in all but name anyway. What I need are furs, timber, game, lands to clear and to settle…”

“Trees are trees,” Sarya said. “I won’t let you cut the whole forest, but I see no reason why I could not sell you a concession for logging and clearing a good portion of it.” She smiled coldly. “Trust me, High Master, no such offer will be forthcoming from Seiveril Miritar.”

Borstag narrowed his eyes, and Sarya nodded to herself. She could almost see the human merchant prince counting coins in his head. Someone would have the right to exercise those concessions. Whether she permitted the Sembians to take as much as they wanted or at the price they offered was something she could determine for herself later, but she had little use for a few miles of forest on her southern border.

Maalthiir stirred in his seat. “So you want my Red Plumes to help you defeat Miritar’s army,” he said. “In exchange, you are offering me the northern Dales, and High Master Borstag the southern. I am afraid it is not so simple, though. You have omitted three important factors from your calculations: Cormyr, Zhentil Keep, and the Sage of Shadowdale.”

“Cormyr is in no condition to contest aggressive moves in the Dalelands,” Borstag pointed out. “Between the death of Azoun, the goblin incursions, and the Shades in Anauroch, Cormyr is as weak as it has been in a hundred years. Lady Sarya has chosen an auspicious time to reclaim Myth Drannor.”

“And I can aid you against Zhentil Keep and the Chosen of Mystra,” Sarya said. “I may lack in sheer numbers, but through my control over Myth Drannor I wield great magical power. I can dispatch hundreds of sorcerous warriors against my foes, striking anywhere within hundreds of miles, with dozens of powerful demons or devils to lead the attack.”

“If that is the case, I find myself wondering why you need me at all,” Maalthiir observed.

Sarya leaned back in her chair and studied the first lord. “I am not entirely certain that I do,” she said with a deceptively pleasant tone. “I believe that I could hoard my strength inside Myth Drannor and defy Seiveril Miritar forever. But I am not willing to take the chance that the powerful human lands surrounding Cormanthor might join forces with Miritar. That is why I have chosen to come to you, Lord Maalthiir, and through you your friends in Sembia. It is worth my while to make sure that you, at least, understand what you stand to lose from an elven Return to Cormanthyr. If you were to help Miritar overthrow me, I would simply melt away again, and you would be left with that army of elves to deal with. How many more centuries do you wish to spend under the shadow of elven power?”

Borstag glanced at Maalthiir, who simply studied Sarya in silence, a deep scowl etched on his face.

Then the Sembian looked back to Sarya and asked, “So how do you propose to go about removing Miritar’s army from Cormanthor?”

“As you might expect, I have given that some thought.” Sarya straightened in her seat, and focused her emerald gaze on Maalthiir of Hillsfar. The first lord brooded, leaning against the arm of his chair, one hand under his jaw. “The key, I think,” Sarya began, “is the land of Mistledale.”

From the shores of Lake Sember, the Crusade marched north for three days on long-disused elfroads that few other armies could have found, let alone followed, through the heart of southern Cormanthor. The weather, which had been fine for the days of the portal transit, turned cold and wet, with sullen gray skies and a strong, gusty wind out of the north that seemed to carry the chill of the Moonsea down into Cormanthor’s green, mossy heart.

Seiveril’s army had come to include a small company of rangers and archers from Deepingdale, many of them moon elves or half-elves descended from those who had chosen not to Retreat from Cormanthor when the last leaders of the Elven Court had finally decided to abandon the great woodland thirty years ago. The Deepingdale elves knew Cormanthor intimately, the secret paths and lore of rock, water, and leaf, and they helped Jerreda’s wood elf scouts guide the army northward toward the Standing Stone and Myth Drannor beyond that. Lord Ilmeth of Battledale had no strength to spare for such work, and little inclination to do so in any event. The lord of Essembra had fewer than a hundred men under arms in his whole demesne. Lord Mourngrym Amcathra of Shadowdale had more strength than that, but his land was much closer to Myth Drannor, and Storm Silverhand informed Seiveril that Mourngrym would not bring any soldiers to join the army of Evermeet until Evermeet’s soldiers were in sight of Myth Drannor.

Seiveril sent a company of bladesingers and battle-mages ahead of his marching host to help the folk of Mistledale fend off the marauding demons and devils that harried their small land, and another company ahead to Shadowdale for the same purpose. He did not like to part with any of the Crusade’s magical strength, especially when there was always the chance that hundreds of Sarya’s fey’ri warriors might appear in the skies overhead at any moment, but the daemonfey lurked out of sight and out of reach, letting their conjured hellspawn do their work for them.

“I don’t understand the point of harassing the Dalesfolk,” Seiveril remarked to Starbrow on the morning of the third day. The sun elf lord and the moon elf champion stood on the banks of the Ashaba, which was running deep and swift after several days of rain, and watched the lead companies of Seiveril’s host crossing the river on three bridges of glimmering magic, conjured by Jorildyn and the elf wizards under his command. “Shadowdale and Mistledale could lend us a couple of hundred trained fighters at best. Sending devils to harry them takes almost nothing away from our strength, and makes my quarrel with Sarya Dlardrageth their quarrel too.”

“The demons and devils who have been prowling about in the forests around Mistledale and Shadowdale might not be a part of Sarya’s army,” Starbrow replied. “Lord Theremen of Deepingdale says that monsters of the infernal realms have haunted the ruins of Myth Drannor for centuries now. Sarya’s seizure of the city’s mythal might have damaged the wards that held them trapped in the city, which would mean that this might be an unintended consequence of Sarya’s actions, not a deliberate act on her part.”

“Or… she might be doing nothing more than testing the strength of the humans who might ally with us,” Seiveril said, thinking out loud. “If Sarya doesn’t know these lands well, she might be worried about whether the folk of the Dales can give us as much help as Silverymoon’s knights did in the High Forest.”

Starbrow glanced up at the clouded sky above the river, then sighed and looked back to the elflord. “If you’re right, it’s a bad sign,” he said. “It suggests to me that Sarya doesn’t think she needs to hoard her demons for battle against our army. Either she’s got an inexhaustible supply of the monsters, or she doesn’t think we’re going to be able to do anything about her stronghold in Myth Drannor. I don’t know about you, but I certainly wonder why she’d think that.”

The vanguard made camp for the night in the shadow of Galath’s Roost, an old abandoned keep that stood little more than a mile from the Moonsea Ride. The rocky heights on which the old keep had been built offered a commanding view of the northern end of Mistledale and the great green sea of trees that rolled north, east, and south from the end of the open dale. Starbrow had the Crusade’s companies set out a double guard, fearing a sudden attack of marauding fey’ri or yugoloths, but no enemies showed themselves.

Seiveril greeted star rise with the customary devotions to Corellon Larethian and the Seldarine, celebrating the rites he had observed for so many years as a high priest of the elven faith. He spent an hour praying for guidance, trying to catch a glimpse of what waited if he continued on his way north. Myth Drannor was only three days’ march away, and he would soon test the strength of his host against Sarya’s demonic power. But Sarya’s mythal wards obscured his efforts to scry her fortress, and he had to content himself with minor auguries that promised little besides danger and uncertainty.

As he descended from the hilltop, still grappling with the incomplete visions he had seen, Seiveril found Thilesil waiting near his pavilion.

“Lord Seiveril,” the cleric said with a small bow. “An emissary from the human city of Hillsfar is waiting for you.”

“Hillsfar?” Seiveril said. He knew of the city, having walked in Cormanthor many years before, but from what he had heard, the city of Hillsfar wanted nothing to do with elves since the final Retreat from Cormanthor. “Very well, show him into my pavilion.”

Seiveril stepped into his personal quarters, doffed his ceremonial mantle, and washed his hands in a basin of water. Then he emerged into the pavilion’s sitting area, which doubled as his reception room. He did not have long to wait. Two of the guards standing watch by his door-both seasoned veterans of Vesilde Gaerth’s Knights of the Golden Star-showed the human ambassador into his room, and unobtrusively took up their posts just inside the door.

The human was a surprisingly short man, so stocky and thick-shouldered that Seiveril found himself wondering whether the fellow had any dwarf blood in him. His head was shaven, but he wore a long, pointed goatee under his wide mouth, and his eyes were sunk deep beneath beetling brows. The Hillsfarian wore the elegant dress one might expect of a courtier in a lordly palace, a well-tailored garment of scarlet that did not conceal the supple links of golden mail he wore beneath his shirt.

“Welcome, sir,” Seiveril said. “I am Seiveril Miritar, lately lord of Elion and high priest of Corellon’s Grove. I speak for the host of Evermeet.”

The human offered an obsequious grin that struck Seiveril as more than a little false. “And I am Hardil Gearas, High Warden of Hillsfar. I speak for my master, the First Lord Maalthiir.”

Seiveril deliberately set aside his dislike of the high warden’s facetious manner, and gravely offered his hand in the human fashion.

“Would you care for any refreshment, High Warden? Wine, or something to eat?”

“Not necessary, Lord Seiveril. I am anxious to get to business.”

The elflord nodded. “As you wish, then, High Warden. What can I do for the First Lord of Hillsfar?”

The human crossed his powerful arms and looked up at Seiveril. “The first lord would dearly love to know what you intend to do with this army, Lord Seiveril. It does not escape Lord Maalthiir’s notice that you are drawing closer to Hillsfar with every march.”

Human diplomacy may take different forms than I am used to, Seiveril reminded himself. I must be patient, even in the face of discourtesy. “Lord Maalthiir need not worry, High Warden. I am bringing my army to Myth Drannor in order to finally root out the evil that has taken hold there. I do not expect to come within thirty miles of Hillsfar.”

“Some things are better left alone,” Hardil Gearas answered. “Your people haven’t seen fit to do anything about Myth Drannor for six full centuries, but now you seem to have stirred up much evil in a land you abandoned thirty years ago. Evermeet might be far enough from Myth Drannor to ignore the depredations of the city’s fiends, Lord Seiveril, but Hillsfar is not.”

“You have the course of events confused, High Warden. We are here to deal with the evil that has stirred in Myth Drannor. We did not cause it to stir with our approach.”

The human snorted. “So you say now, anyway.”

Seiveril studied the human emissary. If this is the way humans conduct their diplomacy, the elflord thought, it is no wonder that they get into so many wars. “Did Maalthiir of Hillsfar have anything else to say to me?” he asked.

“In fact, he did,” Hardil Gearas replied. “The first lord instructed me to advise you of three important facts. First, in conjunction with our allies in Sembia, we are moving strong forces into place to safeguard the upper stretch of the Moonsea Ride and Rauthauvyr’s Road. We are concerned that your reckless marching about and warmongering may jeopardize our crucial, legitimate commercial interests in this vital route, and the various minor settlements and communities that lie along the way.

“Second, Hillsfar and Sembia recognize no other power as sovereign over the forest of Cormanthor. Your people gave up any claim to ownership over the woodlands when you left some three decades ago. Hillsfar now claims all lands within fifty miles of the city’s walls. We will clear, settle, log, or otherwise use these lands as we see fit. We will regard the presence of any foreign soldiers within this area as nothing less than an invasion of Hillsfar itself.

“Finally, the first lord offers this for your consideration: In Myth Drannor’s day, the elven realm of Cormanthyr was surrounded by human states too small and weak to do anything other than what the coronal told them to do. That is no longer true. Humans have grown strong in the centuries since Myth Drannor’s fall, Lord Seiveril. We were not party to the Dales Compact, and we see no reason to abide by an agreement made centuries ago by people who had no right or authority to speak for us.” Hardil Gearas bared his teeth in a cold, reptilian smile. “It is in the nature of humankind to grow, to expand, to become more numerous and more powerful with the passing of a few short years. You might as well shout at the incoming tide as try to check our natural increase. We need room to grow, Lord Seiveril, and we will have it.”

Seiveril folded his arms in front of his chest, and consciously made himself wait a full minute before he responded, in order to keep his anger in check.

“I wish no quarrel with Hillsfar or Sembia, High Warden, and I should hope they wish no quarrel with me. But your First Lord Maalthiir must understand that I will not countenance the occupation of Dales who have no interest in being ruled from Ordulin or Hillsfar, and I will not surrender a claim to the Elven Court. If Hillsfar needs room to grow, I hope that we could reach some agreement over the responsible use of the woodlands in question. As for your master’s third point… well, it may be human nature to expand, but you should not assume that it is in an elf’s nature to Retreat. With the host of Evermeet in this forest, there is a greater strength of elf warriors in Cormanthor today than there has been at any time since the Weeping War.”

“Elven armies stronger than your own failed to stop the Army of Darkness in the Year of Doom, Lord Seiveril,” the High Warden said, not even bothering to conceal a smirk.

The elflord watched the sneering Hillsfarian. What was his purpose in coming here? he wondered. Is he trying to provoke me with these threats and demands? Or is this simply a facade, a ploy of bravado to mask true fear?

“I mean to save my arrows for the daemonfey,” Seiveril told the first lord’s emissary. “Whether you know it or not, they are your enemies as well as mine. For all our sakes, do not interfere with my work in Myth Drannor.”

“For your own sake, think long and carefully before you attempt any work at all in Myth Drannor,” Gearas growled. “You will not be warned again.”

The stocky human inclined his head a bare inch and glowered at Seiveril before turning on his heel and stomping out of Seiveril’s presence, waving aside the door guards with a curt gesture.

Seiveril stared after the Hillsfarian lord.

“Corellon, grant me patience,” he whispered into the night.