Farthest Reach

CHAPTER TWO

6 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

Sarya Dlardrageth stood on the broken battlements of Castle Cormanthor beneath a warm, steady spring rain, and surveyed her new realm. The daemonfey queen was strikingly beautiful, with the arresting features and enticing curves of a noble sun elf woman, but her skin was a deep, perfect crimson, and she possessed a powerful pair of batlike wings she kept folded behind her like a great dark cape.

Her domain was quite small, really, not more than a couple of miles from one end to the other, for she could not claim to reign over the great forest that surrounded Myth Drannor’s ancient buildings and walls. But it is a start, she told herself. Her eye fell on the rose-tinted tower the human clerics had raised within the very walls of Cormanthor’s ancient capital, and she bared her slender fangs in a vicious smile.

The shrine stood blackened and burnt, scorched by fey’ri spells and ancient Vyshaanti weapons. Its smoke was sweet in the air. Her fey’ri legion-a thousand swordsmen-sorcerers, the pride of ancient Siluvanede-had made themselves masters of the ancient city.

Sarya was not defeated yet, not by a wide margin.

“Lady Sarya, a handful of the Lathanderians escaped,” said the fey’ri lord Mardeiym Reithel as he approached carefully, offering a bow as he addressed her. “They used a hidden portal to flee our last assault. We could not follow.”

Mardeiym, and the rest of the fey’ri for that matter, were much like Sarya, sun elves of high and ancient lineage who had been imprisoned thousands of years ago. Like her, they were winged demonspawn, with skin in fine hues of red and great dark wings. But they were still more mortal than not, elves with a demonic taint. Sarya and her son Xhalph were true daemonfey, with much stronger demonic bloodlines.

“The portal refused you?” Sarya asked.

“Yes, my lady. The Lathanderians possessed some key or password that we lacked. Since we cannot use the device, I ordered it sealed with stone.”

“Good,” Sarya replied. “I am not concerned with the escape of a handful of human priests. We are the masters of this city now. But I would not want spies to slip back through the portal and learn more about us.”

Her army of fey’ri had easily overwhelmed the small companies of human adventurers and hidden nests of cultists and necromancers formerly encamped within Myth Drannor. The temple to Lathander had been the last bastion of explorers and adventurers remaining within the walls. Of course, monsters of all descriptions still lurked within their lairs and catacombs. But Sarya had no real need to eliminate such guardians, and most of the fearsome beholders, nagas, liches, dragons, and other such denizens of the ruins recognized that Sarya’s legion of well-armed fey’ri was a foe beyond their ability to drive off. The fey’ri did not go out of their way to trouble such creatures in their lairs, and for their part, the intelligent ones did not emerge to challenge Sarya’s warriors.

“There are still the devils to contend with,” Mardeiym said. “If we leave them alone, I promise you they will turn on us.” Hundreds of the supernatural fiends were bound to the ruined city. Before the arrival of Sarya and her legion, they had formerly ruled as masters over Myth Drannor. “We outnumber the filthy hellspawn. Our fey’ri warriors can defeat them now, before they have the opportunity to betray us.”

Sarya regarded her chief captain with a cold glare. Mardeiym sensed danger and dropped his gaze to her feet. Under most circumstances, Sarya-a princess of the demon-ruled Abyss by birth-would have regarded any spawn of the Nine Hells as a hated enemy. Demons and devils had fought each other throughout eternity, the unbridled destruction of demonic evil battling for supremacy against cruel, infernal tyranny.

“Do not question my judgment,” she said. “I have uses for the devils of this city.”

“I apologize, Lady Sarya. I do not mean to question your decisions, but it is important that you know when the fey’ri are troubled.” Mardeiym waited on her, his head still bowed in respect.

“Troubled?” Sarya said.

She turned away, pacing along the battlements. Flexing her wings, she luxuriated in the sheer pleasure of freedom. She would have liked to lash out at Mardeiym, remind him of the fearsome power she commanded and reinforce the ancient pacts by which she ruled absolutely over the fey’ri Houses. But the war captain was loyal to her, and spoke nothing more or less than the truth. She would do well to avoid teaching her subjects that bringing her bad news always led to punishment.

“Very well, Lord Reithel. Summon the House lords to my audience chamber, and I will explain more.”

“As you command, my lady,” the war captain said.

He bowed again, and vaulted over the battlement and took wing. Sarya watched him glide away into the ruins, then descended from the battlements into the spacious royal chambers she had claimed in the castle.

She allowed Mardeiym half an hour to gather the leaders of the other fey’ri Houses, busying herself with renewing the powerful abjurations and contingency spells with which she normally guarded herself, and she went down into the grand hall of Castle Cormanthor. Centuries ago, the coronals of the elven kingdom of Cormanthyr had presided over revels and banquets in the grand hall. Its walls were still painted with magical murals of woodland scenes that slowly changed from season to season, and the great columns that lined the walls were carved in the shape of tall, strong trees so realistic that stone blossoms and fruit could be glimpsed in the branches.

The leaders of her fey’ri legion awaited her in the hall. Each of the dozen demon-elves was the leader of one of the fey’ri Houses. Some, like Reithel, were ancient Houses from Siluvanede that were strong and numerous, having been imprisoned in the Nameless Dungeon for fifty centuries. Others, like Aelorothi, were survivor Houses, families of daemonfey who had passed their demonic heritage down through twenty generations from the time of Sarya’s ancient realm to her revival only five years ago. The descendant houses were smaller and less numerous than ancient houses such as Reithel, but they were made up of fey’ri who had grown up in the world Sarya and her ancient legion had suddenly found themselves in. They were comfortable with the new world in a way that Sarya and the other ancient prisoners could never be.

Not for the first time, Sarya found herself wondering what had become of Nurthel Floshin. He was from one of the descendant Houses, and had served as an able spymaster and lieutenant. But he had not returned from the expedition she had dispatched to recover the Nightstar, and she could only assume that he was dead.

She turned her attention to the proud, cruel lords and ladies gathered before her. “Look around you,” she began. “This will be our home, the founding-stone on which we will build our new realm. Before I and my family came to Siluvanede, we dwelled here in Cormanthyr. It is only fitting that this is the place where we begin to rebuild.”

Sarya leaped down from the steps on which she stood, flaring her wings to alight in front of the fey’ri lords. She did not look forward to what must be said next.

“You all know that this is not what I planned when I broke open Nar Kerymhoarth three months ago,” she began. “I intended to erase the realms of the High Forest and Evereska from the map, and claim vengeance for the destruction of Siluvanede five thousand years ago.”

She paused, holding the eyes of her minions, and said, “That, however, was a mistake.

“Perhaps events might have fallen out differently if Evermeet had not responded with so much force, or if Nurthel Floshin had not failed to recover the Nightstar, or even if the fortunes of battle had favored us against Evermeet’s army. But these things did not happen. I underestimated our enemies’ strength and resolve, or overestimated our own strength, or did not plan to overcome ill fortune-it does not really matter. The consequence of my mistake was that we had to abandon our stronghold at Myth Glaurach and leave our work in Evereska and the High Forest undone.”

The daemonfey queen turned away from her fey’ri, deliberately putting her back to them as she paced. She hated the idea of introducing her own fallibility into her follower’s minds, but it had to be there already, didn’t it? Still, she did not want to let the fey’ri lords consider that last thought for long. She looked back over her shoulder at her captains and lords.

“It would be foolish of me to pretend that I am incapable of making mistakes,” she said. “What I intend to do now is to learn from our mistakes. Before we take the field again or challenge the usurpers who have stolen our lands and treasures, we must grow much stronger. We will hide here in Myth Drannor, protected by the ancient power of its mythal. Within these ruined walls our enemies cannot divine our existence or scry out our strength. We will grow strong in secret, until the time is right for us to return.”

“What of the baatezu?” Alysir Ursequarra asked. “When do we destroy them?”

“They are not our enemies,” Sarya said firmly. “You are to strike no blow against the devils in this city unless I tell you to.” The fey’ri lords shifted uneasily, some risking quick glances at their fellows. Sarya turned back to face her followers. “The devils that were summoned here decades ago were outcasts from the Nine Hells, mercenaries and marauders who have no loyalty to the rest of their kind.”

“So they would have us believe,” Alysir volunteered boldly. “How can we know they are speaking the truth?”

Sarya stalked close to Alysir, and lowered her voice to a menacing hiss. “I have investigated the matter, Lady Alysir. Do you think I have allowed myself to be deceived?”

Alysir Ursequarra paled slightly, but held her ground.

“No, Lady Sarya.”

Were her fey’ri not irreplaceably rare, Sarya would have killed Alysir Ursequarra on the spot. But each fey’ri warrior was worth twenty orcs or five ogres. She could not be careless of their lives. Sarya smiled coldly. “You forget, Alysir, that the devils are bound to this city, and we are not. Spells anchored to the mythal by human wizards twenty years ago trap the devils within Myth Drannor. I can alter the mythal to allow some, all, or none of them to escape from this place, or call them back and confine them any time I wish-but I will exact fealty from each devil I allow to leave. The devils cannot escape unless I help them, and I will not help them unless I am certain of their loyalty. They will serve in our armies alongside the demons and yugoloths we summon to serve us. Does that meet with your approval, Lady Ursequarra?”

Alysir Ursequarra offered a deep bow. “I am sworn to serve you, my lady. I do not question your commands.”

“Good. It would go poorly for you if I thought you did.” Sarya wheeled away, her tail lashing like a whip. “We hide, we wait, we grow strong, and we marshal the devils of this city to our service,” she said. “Does anyone disagree?” None of the fey’ri spoke. Sarya nodded, and looked to a gaunt fey’ri sorcerer who stood a little apart from the other House lords. “Very well. In that case… Lord Aelorothi, please describe for your peers the shape of the human lands that have grown up around Myth Drannor. These will be our foes someday, but not until we are ready for them.”

The captains and lords turned their eyes on the sorcerer-lord. Aelorothi was a descendant House, and Vesryn Aelorothi had traveled widely all across Faerun for many years. He affected a gracious and courteous manner, but Sarya knew him to be capable of exquisite cruelties. A tenday ago she had named the gaunt fey’ri sorcerer her new spymaster, and set him to the task of insinuating daemonfey gold, assassins, and sorcery into the halls of power in every nearby land.

“It would be my pleasure, Lady Sarya,” he purred.

“Listen carefully to Vesryn, my children,” she told the fey’ri lords. “Many of you will be traveling these lands in the coming months, spying out their strengths and their weaknesses.”

She motioned for the sorcerer to continue, and left her assembled captains behind her.

Vesryn stepped forward as she left, and moving very deliberately-Vesryn was nothing if not cautious-he wove his hands together and muttered the words of a spell of illusion, conjuring in midair the image of a great map.

“This,” he began, “is the forest of Cormanthor…”

Araevin left the House of Cedars in the morning after his conversation with the Nightstar. He followed rarely traveled paths into the wild pine forests and hills overlooking the sea, drinking deeply of the scent of the trees and the cool spring rain. Early in the afternoon he reached a worn old portal glade, a small clearing around a weathered stone marker that had stood in that spot for thousands of years.

Most of Evermeet’s portals were closed forever, deliberately sealed in the past few decades to guard the island from any possible attack through the magical gateways, but a few still existed-some well guarded, others only one-way portals that allowed travelers to depart from Evermeet but not return, some so old or uncertain in their working that they were risky to use. Araevin had always been fascinated by portals, and he had spent many decades exploring them in both Evermeet and Faerun. He thought he might be the only person alive who knew how to wake the one in the glade.

He spoke the spells needed to activate the portal, and passed through. With a single step Evermeet’s misty forests vanished, only to be replaced by the high, windswept downs of the Evermoors. Dusk was falling, the end of a bright and cold spring day; the Evermoors were far to the east of Evermeet.

“What becomes of the hours I missed?” Araevin wondered aloud.

He studied the featureless moorland, speckled with the first small blooms of spring despite the lingering patches of snow that still lurked in the shadowed places. It was important to be sure of his exact location in case the portal had somehow malfunctioned.

Satisfied, he closed his eyes, envisioning a small hilltop shrine he knew well, and uttered a spell of teleportation.

There was a moment of darkness, a vertiginous sense of falling without motion, and Araevin stood in the small wooded bower of a shrine to Labelas Enoreth, a mile beyond the walls of Silverymoon, another hundred miles from the portal-stone in the Evermoors. Two large blueleaf trees had long ago taken root in the veranda, shouldering aside the shrine’s flagstones and forming a living roof over the elf deity’s altar. A small balustrade of old white stone, overgrown with green vines, offered a view of the swift river Rauvin and the city of Silverymoon, cupped around both the river’s banks.

“Well, there you are. I have been waiting for you.”

Araevin turned at the words, and found himself looking on the face of his betrothed, the beautiful Lady Ilsevele Miritar. She was a sun elf like he, but she was much fairer than he was-in both senses of the word-with a radiant mane of copper-red hair and green eyes. She wore a tunic of green suede over cream-colored trousers, bloused into high leather boots decorated with tiny gold thread patterns. A slender long sword was sheathed at her hip.

“Ilsevele,” he said, and he took three steps and caught her up in his arms.

“It’s only been a couple of tendays,” she said with a laugh, finally pushing him away. “You’ve gone years at a time without thinking to look in on me.”

“I have spent too much time around humans lately,” he answered. “After two hundred and fifty years, I believe I am losing the habit of patience.”

“Well, you must wait a little longer. Our wedding is still two years away, in case you have forgotten.” Ilsevele looked out over the human city nearby. Hundreds of lanterns were flickering to life in its tree-shadowed streets and graceful buildings, reflections glimmering in the dark waters of the Rauvin, and the stars were coming out in the darkening skies. “I am glad that you told me of this shrine. The view is lovely. And I’ve had several hours to admire it.”

“I am sorry. I had a later start than I’d anticipated.”

“No matter. I enjoyed a couple of hours to myself.” She took his hand. “Come on, Maresa and Filsaelene are waiting in the city. They’re anxious to see you, too.”

The two sun elves followed an old path leading down from the shrine to the human city below. This close to Silverymoon, there was little danger even as darkness fell, but Araevin noted that Ilsevele wore her sword, and he approved.

“Where are you staying?” he asked. When he’d sent word to Ilsevele that he was coming, he had used a sending spell, and didn’t know where it might have found her.

“An inn called the Golden Oak. It’s quite nice, really. I like it much better than that Dragonback in Daggerford.”

“I know the Oak. You have expensive tastes,” he said with a smile.

Ilsevele drew closer under his arm. “I decided that I owed Maresa and Filsaelene some comfort, after what we’ve all been through over the last few months.”

“I certainly don’t begrudge you that.”

They’d crisscrossed the Sword Coast and the North in search of the telkiiras containing the clues that would lead him to the Nightstar, facing brigands, trolls, wars, demons, imprisonment, and worse. And not all of their companions had survived their adventure.

Araevin’s old comrade Grayth Holmfast had been murdered by the daemonfey, and Grayth’s armsman Brant torn apart by demons in the fight to find the telkiira stones before the daemonfey did. Thinking of his lost companions, Araevin lapsed into a long silence as they neared Silverymoon’s gates.

After a time, Ilsevele glanced at him and said, “You seem troubled.”

“I was thinking of Grayth and Brant. They deserved better.”

“I know.” Ilsevele leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. “He did not want to return, Araevin. We brought him to Rhymester’s Matins, the temple of Lathander in this city, and the human clerics cast divinations to determine whether his spirit would return willingly if they chose to raise him. Grayth is content with his life, and his death. All you can do is honor his sacrifice, and carry him with you in your memory.”

“Grayth is wiser than I, for I am not content.” Araevin said. He knew he was responsible for his friend’s death. The daemonfey had killed Grayth to compel Araevin to lead them to the Nightstar. If he had yielded earlier, the cleric might still be alive. Araevin had destroyed Nurthel, the fey’ri who had actually killed Grayth… but Sarya Dlardrageth, the author of his death, had so far escaped justice. “We still have business with the daemonfey.”

“I have not forgotten,” she replied, with an edge of cold steel in her voice. Ilsevele was a warrior as well as a highborn lady; she believed that some things could only be set right with steel and courage, and she knew her own measure better than most.

They passed the guards at the city gates, and walked Silverymoon’s broad boulevards until they reached the Golden Oak-a large, comfortable inn whose common room was an open atrium beneath the spreading branches of a great oak tree, from which dozens of small lanterns hung. A bard strummed a lute, and many of the inn’s guests sat drinking wine or ale beneath the oak tree, quietly conversing.

“Araevin!” called a loud voice. More than a few heads turned as Maresa Rost leaped to her feet, calling to the two elves. Maresa was an individual of striking appearance, a young woman whose skin was literally as white as snow. Her hair was long and silver-white as well, and it drifted gently around her head as if stirred by breezes unfelt by anyone else. She was a genasi, a human whose ancestry included beings of the elemental planes-in Maresa’s case, air elementals of some kind. She wore crimson-dyed leather and carried a rapier at her hip. “You were supposed to be here hours ago!”

Araevin started to bow and apologize, but Maresa surprised him, throwing her arms around him and offering a fierce hug. “I-it is good to see you, too, Maresa,” he stammered. He looked over Maresa’s shoulder to the genasi’s companion, a rather slight and young-looking sun elf woman who wore the emblem of Corellon Larethian’s clerics on her tunic. “And you, too, Filsaelene.”

Filsaelene offered a shy smile, and raised a goblet of wine. “Join us, please. I am afraid we are a little ahead of you already.”

Freed from the daemonfey stronghold only a few tendays ago, none of her former comrades had survived their battle against the demonic invaders. Filsaelene still struck Araevin as timid and retiring, but she seemed to be recovering well under Maresa’s care.

Maresa finally released him, and Araevin glanced over at Ilsevele. His betrothed shrugged.

“I could stand some song and wine,” she said. “Why not?”

They spent the evening drinking good wine, enjoying the music of the bard, and trading stories of old adventures. After a time, the lutenist was joined by a flutist and a drummer, and the three struck up a lively dance, in which Araevin was kept quite busy by dancing with all three of his companions in turn. Finally, tired and pleasantly aglow with the warm wine, he and Ilsevele said their goodnights to the others, and retired to Ilsevele’s comfortable room.

Whether it was the wine, the dancing, or simply the hidden relief of having survived their trials of the past few months, they made love for a time. Then they spent the hours after midnight lying together, content to be near each other without speaking. Such moments had become rare in the past few years, it seemed.

Ilsevele’s fingers glided over the cold, hard gemstone sealed to Araevin’s chest, and he felt her frown.

“You brought the selukiira with you?” she asked.

“I still have more to learn from it,” he told her. Then he reached up to mesh his fingers with hers, and brought her hand to his face, holding her close as they drifted off into Reverie together.

“I thought you said it was dangerous-an artifact of the daemonfey of old.”

“It is,” he said, and said no more about it.

The next morning, Araevin stirred from his Reverie and dressed himself in the dark hour before dawn. Ilsevele roused herself as he rose, drawing a deep breath as she called herself back to the inn room from whatever far memory or dream she had wandered in her own Reverie.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“The Vault of the Sages,” Araevin replied. He looked over at her. “It is the best library in the city, perhaps all of the North, and I have some research to do.”

“The Nightstar?”

“Yes. I have not yet solved all of its mysteries.” Araevin drew his cloak over his shoulders, and picked up the worn rucksack in which he carried many of his notes and journals. “I must learn more about the magic of ancient Arcorar, or at least some specific spells and rites from that era, if I am to unlock the deeper secrets Saelethil concealed in this lorestone.”

Ilsevele sat up sharply. “Is it a good idea to do that? You were lucky once with the Nightstar. Perhaps you shouldn’t delve any further into it unless you have to.”

“Last night we spoke of our unfinished business with the daemonfey. If I ever mean to finish it, I think I will need to know what other secrets the Nightstar holds.”

Ilsevele stood too, and said, “I will come with you, then.”

“There is no need. I’m not sure how much you could help, to be honest. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for.”

Ilsevele’s eyes narrowed. “I remind you, my betrothed, that I know a little bit about magic too. Besides, I have nothing else in particular to do today, and I might like a chance to look around a fine library for my own account, not yours.”

He winced. “I did not mean to imply that you were unable to help me,” he managed. “I would enjoy your company, if you wanted to come along.”

Ilsevele crossed her arms. “I find that less than convincing.”

They ate a quick breakfast of warm bread and apple butter in the inn’s common room, and set out across Silverymoon as the human town slowly woke. The Vault of the Sages was a tall horseshoe-shaped building of stone, sturdy and strong. Araevin and Ilsevele entered only moments after the priests of Denier, who kept the Vault, opened the doors for the day.

An old human cleric with a fringe of snow-white hair around his bald pate looked up from a desk to greet them.

“Ah, good morning! It is not often we are visited by two of the ar Tel’Quessir. I am Brother Calwern. How might we help you today?”

“I am Araevin Teshurr, and this is my betrothed, Lady Ilsevele Miritar,” Araevin replied. “I am interested in making use of your library.”

“Of course. What topics interest you, sir?”

“I am looking for books or treatises on the magical lore of ancient Arcorar, from the early days of Cormanthyr-the centuries following the Twelve Nights of Fire, or perhaps the Fifth Rysar of Jhyrennstar. You may also have writings by the wizards Ithraides, Kaeledhin, Morthil, or Sanathar.”

Araevin did not mention Saelethil Dlardrageth. Saelethil would never have shared any of his writings with other mages, or left a record of his studies other than the Nightstar intended for members of his own House.

Brother Calwern raised a bushy eyebrow, and leaned back in his seat. “We have few works of such antiquity here. The wizards you named, are they from the same era?” Araevin nodded, and the Deneirrath priest continued. “I will have to examine our indices and catalogs to see if we have anything that might help you. It might take a little time. In the meantime, I can certainly recommend a likely tome or two for you to begin with. I presume you read Loross and Thorass?”

“Among others, yes.”

“Excellent!” The Deneirrath priest stood up, and gestured toward an archway leading deeper into the great building. “If you please, then-this way.”

Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and offered a small smile. When it came down to it, he couldn’t resist a scholarly mystery, and there was not a better place in Faerun to solve one than the libraries of Silverymoon. Together they followed Brother Calwern into the Vault of the Sages.

“High Lords and Ladies of the Council, the Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion!”

Seiveril faltered on the threshold of the Dome of Stars, surprised to hear his own name announced. He glanced at the herald-captain, a young sun elf who stared straight ahead, giving no further sign that he recognized Seiveril’s presence.

Eighty years on the Royal Council and never once have I been announced, Seiveril wondered. Instead, he had always been a member of the body that guests were announced to.

He felt the eyes of the minor lords and functionaries in attendance fall on him, as he stood unmoving in the chamber door. Then Seiveril recovered, and he strode with growing confidence into the Dome of Stars.

The high council chamber of Evermeet, the Dome was part of the sprawling palace compound in Leuthilspar. A striking chamber with a dark, star-flecked marble floor and a great clear ceiling of magic theurglass, the Dome was illuminated by the warm yellow light of late afternoon, striking bright gleams from the glossy stone underfoot. It was a magnificent chamber, and in its center stood the glassteel council table, a delicate ornament of frosted-white glass magically hardened to the toughness of steel. It had always struck Seiveril as a good metaphor for the elf race-beautiful to look upon, yet stronger than the eye could believe.

Six of Evermeet’s councilors waited on Seiveril’s approach. Closest to him, at the left-hand foot of the horseshoe-shaped table, sat the old scribe Zaltarish, one of the queen’s most valued advisors. Beside Zaltarish sat the High Admiral Emardin Elsydar, master of Evermeet’s navy, and on the other side of the admiral-past Seiveril’s own former seat, apparently still vacant-was the High Marshal Keryth Blackhelm, leader of Evermeet’s army.

On the right-hand wing of the table sat two of Seiveril’s most determined opponents: Lady Selsharra Durothil, matron of the powerful sun elf Durothil clan, and Lady Ammisyll Veldann, another sun elf noble who governed the southern city of Nimlith. Both highborn sun elves stared daggers at him as he came near. To Veldann’s left sat Grand Mage Breithel Olithir, another sun elf. Seiveril had always thought well of Olithir, even if the fellow did not trust his own wisdom.

At the head of the table sat Queen Amlaruil herself, dressed in a resplendent gown of pearl-white that was set with countless gleaming diadems. Her raven-dark hair was bound by a simple silver fillet, and she held a thin scepter of shining mithral across her lap.

“You are welcome here, Seiveril Miritar,” Amlaruil said in a warm voice, and she smiled graciously. “So little time has passed since you left, and yet we have so much to speak of.”

Seiveril looked up into Amlaruil’s eyes, and felt his heart flutter at the sad wisdom and perfect beauty of her face. To look on Amlaruil as she sat in state was to catch a glimpse of Sehanine Moonbow’s throne in Arvandor, or so it was said. For his own part, Seiveril knew of no son or daughter of Evermeet who could stand before Amlaruil unmoved.

“I thank you, Queen Amlaruil,” he replied, and he bowed deeply.

When he straightened again, Amlaruil looked left and right to her advisors. “I asked Lord Seiveril here today, in the hope that we might hear from his own mouth the tale of his battles to defend Evereska and the High Forest from the daemonfey army. Few events in Faerun within the last few years have portended so much for the People, and we would only be wise to inform ourselves as best we can about Lord Seiveril’s campaigns.” Amlaruil looked back to Seiveril, and said, “Will you speak, old friend?”

“Of course, Your Highness. Where should I begin?”

“Begin with your mustering at Elion,” Keryth Blackhelm said. “We were all here for your call to arms when you spoke of returning to Faerun, and we remember the arguments that led to your oratory. Tell us what happened after you left this chamber.”

“Very well,” Seiveril agreed, and he began his tale.

He recounted the gathering of companies and volunteers in Elion, and the efforts to organize useful military units from the horde of individuals who had answered his call. He described their quick transit to Evereska by means of the ancient elfgates when it became clear that the city was in imminent peril, and the victory of the Battle of the Cwm, in which Seiveril’s Crusade had stopped the daemonfey horde from laying siege to Evereska. Then he went on to the pursuit of Sarya Dlardrageth’s army through the wild lands north of Evereska, to the climactic battle at the Lonely Moor.

“That was a terrible fight,” Seiveril said. He could see it before his eyes even then, remembering the onslaught of demons and the furious battle as the Crusade found itself surrounded on all sides by Sarya’s forces. “We fell on the ranks of orcs, ogres, and such, and decimated them. But Sarya and her demons teleported to our flank, and attacked fiercely, while her fey’ri took to the air and fell on our rearmost ranks. It seemed desperate indeed, but then Sarya’s demons all vanished at once-each one of them banished back to its native hell as the spells holding the demons in our world failed. That turned the tide. The fey’ri warriors abandoned their orcs and ogres and fled the field soon thereafter.”

“The demons vanished-that was Araevin Teshurr’s work at Myth Glaurach?” asked the grand mage.

“It was.”

“What has happened since?” Zaltarish the scribe asked.

“Well, we have searched all of the North, or so it seems, for any sign of where Sarya and her surviving fey’ri warriors might be hiding. The spellcasters among our army have cast divination after divination, hoping to uncover some sign that our scouts might have missed. We have also helped the wood elves to hunt down the last of the orc warbands and ogre gangs that accompanied the fey’ri in their assault against the High Forest.”

“You have won a great victory,” Selsharra Durothil said. Seiveril fixed his eyes on her, instantly suspicious. Lady Durothil had not spared many kind words for him over the past few months. Selsharra ignored his dark look and continued, “The daemonfey attack against Evereska and the High Forest has failed. Events have vindicated you, Lord Miritar. I do not think I was wrong to argue for caution when we debated this question a few short months ago, but I certainly cannot argue today that your impetuousness did not accomplish a great good.”

Seiveril carefully kept his face neutral, merely inclining his head in response to Durothil’s concession.

What is she up to? he wondered.

“So,” Keryth Blackhelm said, “When can we expect the return of your army?”

“When I am certain that the threat of the daemonfey has truly passed, and that no other enemies will try Evereska’s strength as soon as I leave. Some companies I could send home within a month or two, I think. Others I may ask to remain longer.”

“How will you judge when the daemonfey have been finally defeated?” the high admiral asked. “What if you simply cannot find them again?”

“I am prepared to wait.”

“A few months is one thing,” Ammisyll Veldann observed. “What if you find no sign of the daemonfey for a year? Two years? They are evidently well hidden, after all. Is Evermeet to be left shorn of its defenders for as long as you see fit to be stubborn?”

“The daemonfey are not the sole standard by which I shall judge my errand in Faerun completed,” Seiveril replied. “The daemonfey were tempted to strike against Evereska because the People withdrew so much of their power from Faerun. I mean to find a way to set that right before I say I am done.”

“That will be hard on your warriors, will it not?” Veldann asked. “They joined you to defend Evereska, and Evereska has been defended. They did not answer your call in order to garrison gloomy old ruins in the middle of the wilderness for years.”

“I require none to remain who are not willing,” Seiveril said.

Ammisyll Veldann threw up her hands, and leaned back in her seat. “Nothing has changed,” she muttered.

Selsharra Durothil looked around the Council table, and let her gaze linger on Amlaruil. “I would like to put forward a proposal,” she said.

If Queen Amlaruil anticipated more argument from the conservative sun elf, her face did not show it. She graciously nodded. “Of course, Lady Durothil.”

“While I do not necessarily agree that Lord Seiveril requires an army quite as large as he now has at his command,” Selsharra Durothil began, “I think we have all seen the wisdom of his arguments about maintaining a presence in Faerun. In fact, it seems to me that this task may be important enough to justify a lasting amendment to Evermeet’s defenses. Instead of relying on the zeal and good intentions of those who happen to take interest in affairs in Faerun, we should shoulder this responsibility ourselves, and formally recognize and support Lord Seiveril’s actions so far. Let us name him the East Marshal of the Realm, admit him again to the High Council, and designate his standing army in Faerun as the East Guard.

“We can incorporate the East Guard into the armies of Evermeet, and thereby ensure that our brave soldiers need not abandon their oaths to the Crown in order to take service in Lord Miritar’s army. In fact, we can assess both Evermeet’s current defenses and the forces Miritar will need to continue his watch overseas, and divide our forces with more deliberation than before. Both the defenses of Evermeet herself and the strength of our East Guard should be improved with some careful planning.”

Seiveril stared at Selsharra Durothil, not bothering to hide his amazement. He noticed that most of her fellow councilors were staring, too.

She can’t have decided that I was right! he told himself.

Almost grudgingly, Keryth Blackhelm nodded in agreement. He looked to Queen Amlaruil. “There is a great deal of sense in that idea, my queen,” he murmured. “We could station the forces best suited for each job in the right place. Evermeet would be safer, and we would be better situated to intervene in Faerun when the need arises.”

Grand Mage Olithir also nodded and said, “The same is true for our mages, spellblades, and bladesingers. And I for one would welcome Lord Seiveril’s voice at this table again.”

Ammisyll Veldann turned a furious look on Selsharra Durothil. “You are not seriously suggesting that we reward Miritar’s disobedience by returning him the seat that he surrendered in this council!” she snapped.

“I do not condone the manner in which Lord Miritar assembled his expedition and decided for himself what was right for all of us,” Selsharra answered, “but I cannot deny that his vision and foresight secured Evereska, and perhaps saved thousands of our kindred from destruction and slaughter.”

“The constituency of the High Council is the queen’s prerogative,” Zaltarish observed. “It is for her to decide such matters.”

“I must consider the suggestion for a time before I know my answer,” Amlaruil said. She looked at Seiveril. “And I suspect that Lord Miritar will wish to consider the question, too. You are asking him to take up a heavy burden, Lady Durothil.”

“A burden that he sought out, Your Highness,” Selsharra replied.

Amlaruil rapped her scepter on the glassteel table. “We will reconvene in a few days to deliberate the question at length. Until then, Lord Miritar, I would be delighted if you could tarry a few days here in Leuthilspar.”

Seiveril bowed again. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said.