Farthest Reach

CHAPTER EIGHT

24 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

After resting a night in the company’s improvised quarters, Araevin spent the next two days instructing the half-elf mage Jorildyn and several other high-ranking wizards of the Crusade in the pass phrases and spells necessary to use the old portal network. The mages retraced Araevin’s steps through the mountain fortress and the forest crypt to the woods of Semberholme, and confirmed that the door leading to Myth Drannor was beyond repair.

“A shame,” Jorildyn muttered as they stood in the vault beneath the mausoleum. “It would have been useful to be able to slip spies directly into the city through that door.”

Araevin shook his head. “The daemonfey were waiting for us when we sought to return. If the portal was working, they would guard it heavily with spells and infernal monsters.” He thought for a moment then added, “Also, I would not discount the possibility that Sarya might prepare deadly spell traps in the city’s mythal. When my friends and I entered the city before, there were spells to prevent me from inspecting the mythal. If Sarya could do that, she might be able to weave other spells into the mythal-for example, curses to afflict anyone who isn’t a daemonfey.”

“Lord Miritar means to move on Myth Drannor and attack the daemonfey in their lair, if they don’t come out to fight,” Jorildyn said, frowning. “How will Sarya’s control of the mythal effect a battle in Myth Drannor’s streets?”

“Consider the effect that Evereska’s mythal had against the phaerimm a couple of years ago, once the city’s high mages repaired it. Certainly the daemonfey army didn’t attempt to enter the mythal during their attack two months ago, but they probably just didn’t have the opportunity.”

The battle mage looked at Araevin, his face troubled, and asked, “Does Sarya have sufficient skill and ability to do that with the mythal?”

“I don’t know,” Araevin replied. “I don’t believe she has the ability to sculpt the mythal as she pleases, at least not yet. But a month ago I was able to best her at Myth Glaurach, and three days ago I could not do so at Myth Drannor. Either she was simply careless the first time I attemped to contest her access to a mythal-something that doesn’t really seem to be in her nature-or she has learned something new about mythalcraft in a very short time. That possibility terrifies me.”

“I don’t care for the idea of marching our army into Sarya’s mythal and hoping for the best,” Jorildyn said.

“Nor do I.”

Araevin narrowed his eyes, thinking. The magical might and lore of the Crusade was formidable indeed, but would it be enough if things came to a battle for Myth Drannor?

He set aside the question for a time, as he and Jorildyn charted out the other portals from the mountain fortress. First they blocked the trapped portal and marked it as such, so that there would be no mistakes while moving soldiers through. Then they examined the other two functioning portals. One led to a sunlit glen in a warm, southerly forest, with thick moss hanging from the trees and the humming of countless insects in the air. The other opened into a ruined wood elven watchtower, a great tree that had once been a living fortress. Araevin guessed that that portal likely opened in the forests of the Great Dale, though none of the other wizards assisting in the task knew for certain.

Within hours of their return, Seiveril summoned all the captains of the Crusade to his headquarters: Jorildyn, master of the battle mages; Edraele Muirreste, the captain who had succeeded the fallen Elvath Muirreste as leader of the Silver Guard of Elion; Ferryl Nimersyl, commander of the Moon Knights of Sehanine Moonbow; Daeron Sunlance, ranking Eagle Knight of the small company of aerial warriors; and Rhaellen Darthammel, the Blade-Major of Evereska, who led a stout company of Evereskan Vale Guards in order to repay the warriors of Evermeet for their stand on Evereska’s behalf. They were joined by Keldith Oericel, who had taken over as leader of the infantry of Leuthilspar after Celleilol Fireheart’s death at the Battle of the Cwm. A dozen lesser captains from smaller companies, orders, clans, houses, and societies came as well, each the leader of anywhere from a couple of dozen to a few hundred elf warriors. Finally, Seiveril also invited a score of the most prominent heroes and champions. Even though they led no companies of soldiers, powerful wizards and noted bladesingers wielded great influence over the opinions of many warriors in the Crusade.

The commanders and heroes filled the great hall of Myth Glaurach’s ruined library, gathered together beneath soft lanternlight. The night was clear, cold, and breezy, with stars glimmering above the roofless white ruins, and a constant cool murmur of wind in the branches of the surrounding forest. Araevin and his companions stood near an open arch leading out to the overgrown balcony beyond.

When the leaders of the Crusade stood assembled, Seiveril strode to the front of the room and climbed three steps up the remains of the grand staircase that had once swept down into the room from the missing upper floors.

“Welcome, friends,” he began. “I have summoned you here because our next campaign is at hand. As you have no doubt heard by now, we have learned that the daemonfey legion has retreated to the ruins of Myth Drannor in ancient Cormanthor. I propose to bring our might against the Dlardrageths there, and finish the daemonfey once and for all.

“You may wonder how we will get to the forests of Cormanthor from the ruins of Myth Glaurach without months of difficult and dangerous marches. There is a simple answer: We will pursue the daemonfey through the same portal network they used to make their escape. We cannot follow them into Myth Drannor itself-that last portal has been destroyed-but, thanks to the efforts of Mage Araevin Teshurr and his companions, we can move our army swiftly and safely to Semberholme, which is only a hundred miles or so from our destination.

“My friends, I hold no one here sworn to join me in Cormanthor. You and your warriors came to Faerun to defend Evereska and the High Forest from invasion, and we have succeeded in doing that. But I want you to consider the question of whether we should content ourselves with having defeated one daemonfey attack, or should seek to eradicate forever the threat they pose to realms of the People here in Faerun, as well as Evermeet itself-for we should not forget that this war began when the daemonfey attacked Tower Reilloch.”

“Leuthilspar is with you, Seiveril!” called the moon elf Keldith Oericel. “We will not allow the daemonfey to escape unpunished!”

Seiveril conceded a hard, thin smile, and nodded toward Keldith. “Do not be too quick to answer, my friends,” he cautioned the others. “You must lay this choice before all who serve under your banner. I asked Evermeet’s warriors to follow me to Evereska, but I will not take them farther without asking again.”

“I, for one, do not like to leave a job half-done,” said a sun elf swordsman that Araevin didn’t know by name. “You have my answer, Seiveril.”

“For those who choose to follow me to Cormanthor, then, I have another question to ask you,” Seiveril said, raising his hands to still any more outbursts. “So far you have regarded this campaign as a Crusade, a war against the daemonfey. I want you to consider this: Are we engaged in a Crusade, or a Return? For myself, this is my Return. I will remain in Faerun, even after the daemonfey are defeated, and seek to rebuild a realm on this shore that will prove strong enough to prevent threats such as House Dlardrageth from rising unchallenged for generations to come.”

The assembled captains and heroes looked to one another, as if to confirm that they had heard Seiveril’s words right. Some shouted out their approval, raising fists and bared blades in the air. Some remained silent and thoughtful, weighing the meaning of Seiveril’s words. Others were openly troubled, frowning or whispering to their neighbors.

“Has the queen given her blessing to this?” called a bladesinger who stood near Araevin.

“The Council of Evermeet frankly opposes it,” Seiveril said, “but Amlaruil has not forbidden me from asking you-each of you-whether you would consider aiding me in rebuilding a lasting elven presence in Faerun.”

“Where will you raise this realm?” asked the Eagle Knight Daeron Sunlance. “Here, in Myth Glaurach?”

“If it proves the wisest course, then yes, I will come back to Myth Glaurach to found a realm here,” Seiveril said. “But first we have unfinished business with the daemonfey in Cormanthor. Once we have driven them out of our fathers’ lands, we might find that old Cormanthyr is the place to which we will Return.”

“What of the humans? Their kingdoms surround Cormanthor. They may fight to keep us from our ancient homelands,” Sunlance said.

“We would be better neighbors than the daemonfey, wouldn’t we?” More than one elf laughed at Seiveril’s words. The sun elf lord raised his arms again. “As I said before, I ask for no one to swear allegiance to a new realm tonight. The Crusade has work to do before the Return can truly begin. But I hold this dream in my heart, my friends, and it is long past time for me to share this vision with you, in the hopes that it will kindle the same passion and determination in your hearts that it has kindled in mine.

“Now, go back to your warriors, and tell them what you have heard here tonight. Starbrow, Thilesil, and I will begin to order our march through the portal to Semberholme under the assumption that most or all will follow us against the daemonfey, if no farther. Sweet water and light laughter, friends.”

Seiveril descended from his steps, and was promptly surrounded by several of the captains, besieging him with questions or demanding to march first.

Araevin, Ilsevele, and their companions moved onto the balcony nearby as the captains and commanders walked out into the starlight, many already engaged in arguments about whose company should march first, how and when to break camp, or whether it was even possible to contemplate a march on Myth Drannor. The sun elf mage looked over to where Seiveril, Starbrow, and Vesilde stood, besieged by others who were unwilling to leave without seeking more answers.

“Your father has a talent for making trouble, doesn’t he?” Maresa asked Ilsevele, with a mischievous grin. “Didn’t any of it rub off on you?”

“It’s a skill he’s learned late in life,” Ilsevele retorted. She looked up to Araevin, who simply stared off into the dark skies to the east, his hands on the ruined balustrade. She moved up beside him, and laid her hand on top of his. “Something troubles you?”

“I think my path lies elsewhere, Ilsevele.” Araevin glanced back at his companions, and touched his hand to his breastbone, feeling the hard form of the Nightstar beneath his robes. “I have to decipher the last of Saelethil’s lore in this selukiira. If Sarya turns the mythal into a weapon, Saelethil’s magic may be the only answer we have.”

“What do you propose, then?” she asked, her voice small against the sounds of the night.

“To find out who the star elves were, and where they lived, and whether some record of what Morthil brought back from Arcorar still exists. There is a rite I must master before the Nightstar will open the rest of its knowledge to me.”

“That might be the work of years, Araevin! You are speaking of secrets that were hidden five thousand years ago. That is a terribly long time, even by our standards.”

“It might also be the work of months, or days,” he replied. He looked back up at the starry sky, watching the dance and flicker of lanternlight bobbing in the breeze. “I can always seek to invoke a vision if I turn into a blind alley. My heart tells me that Saelethil’s lore will be the key to any battle in Myth Drannor. There are many skilled wizards marching in your father’s army, but I am the only one who can do this. Even if it proves to be fruitless, I have to make the attempt.”

She sighed and looked down at her hand atop his. “Are you asking me to choose between going with you or going with my father?”

“I do not mean to.” He allowed himself a small smile. “But there is more of Faerun to see, if you haven’t gotten your fill of it yet.”

Ilsevele pulled her hand away from his, and drifted away across the cracked and weathered stone of the old balcony. She stared off into the green shadows beneath the trees, hugging her arms against her body. Araevin gazed at her back, waiting. Finally she seemed to give herself a small shiver, and turned back to him.

“All right. Now that I have seen Myth Drannor with my own eyes, I find that I cannot argue against doing everything in our power to sever Sarya Dlardrageth from the city’s mythal. But I fear for you, Araevin. I think it is a perilous path you intend to walk. I will come, if only to guard you from yourself.”

Araevin started to reply, but then he thought better of it, and kept his argument to himself.

Instead he looked over to Maresa and asked, “What of you?”

Maresa leaned against the old wall, her arms folded. Her hair drifted softly against the breeze, glimmering like silver in the starlight.

“I see no reason to walk toward a battle when I’ve got an excuse to head away from one,” she said with a snort. “And I like the idea that your magic might be a stiletto we can stick in Sarya’s back while she’s watching Lord Seiveril march his army at her fortress. I’m with you, Araevin.”

Araevin looked over to Filsaelene and asked, “And you?”

The sun elf girl shook her head. “I think I should march with the Crusade. If Evermeet’s soldiers are heading into battle against the daemonfey, many will have need of healing. Lord Miritar needs every cleric he can find.” She frowned and raised her eyes to meet Araevin’s. “But… if you ask me to help you in this new quest, I will do so gladly. I can never repay you for saving me from captivity in Myth Glaurach.”

“You helped us in the mausoleum of the ghost and in the fight at the portal glade,” Araevin pointed out. “I’m inclined to think you have little left to repay.”

Ilsevele looked at her and smiled sadly. “Follow your heart, Filsaelene. You should serve as you think best, and I am afraid you are right about where you will be needed.” She stepped forward and embraced the young cleric. “Be careful. And do not be afraid to send for us if we are needed in Cormanthor. We will come if we can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this truly necessary?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Evermeet, my lord,” Sarya said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you wish me to speak freely here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this Untheric?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ilsevele’s eyes widened. “That is two months’ journey, at the least!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ithraides’s spellbook,” he gasped.

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

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

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

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