Final Gate

CHAPTER TWO

21 Flamerule, the Year of Lightning Storms

At sunset of the day following his illicit visit to Evermeet, Araevin rode into Highmoon, the chief settlement of Deepingdale. It was a handsome town that climbed a small hill alongside the East Way, the road that skirted the southern flanks of the great forest. Stands of trees hundreds of years old shaded much of the town, and lanterns suspended from the branches gave the place the look of an elven town-which was not far from the truth. Those few elves of Cormanthyr who hadn’t Retreated had lingered in the forests near Deepingdale, befriending and mixing with the humans of the Dale. Only in Aglarond had Araevin encountered a land where elf and human ways were so intertwined.

He stopped by an inn advertising itself as the Oak and Spear, and swung himself down from his saddle with a pat for his horse’s neck. The Oak and Spear at least seemed to be doing a fair business; music drifted from the taproom’s open door into the warm night. Araevin led his horse into the stable, took his saddlebags, and headed into the common room. A single lutist strummed her instrument softly by the cold fireplace. Few Deepingdalesfolk were drinking that night; most of the able-bodied men were standing guard at the Dale’s borders or serving with Theremen Ulath up in the forests around Lake Sember. “About time you got here!”

Araevin glanced to his right, and found Maresa Rost leaning back in her chair as she nursed a small goblet of wine. The genasi wore crimson, as she often did; it made for a striking contrast with her perfect white complexion and drifting halo of silver-white hair. She had commandeered a big round table in an alcove of the taproom. Beside her sat the Aglarondan Jorin Kell Harthan, who had guided Araevin and his friends to the secret realm of Sildeyuir, and next to him the star elf Nesterin, who had accompanied them back to Faerun. Donnor Kerth, the Lathanderite crusader, sat opposite, his fist around a mug of ale.

“We were starting to wonder if you had forgotten about us,” Maresa said.

“I had to confer with some friends in Semberholme, and in Evermeet. I hurried back as quickly as I could.” Araevin took a seat at the table next to Donnor and poured himself some wine from a flagon on the table. “Has Ilsevele arrived yet?”

“No, we have not seen her for several days,” Nesterin said. The star elf was dressed in pale gray and white, with silver embroidery at the collar and sleeves. He attracted more than a few odd looks in the Oak and Spear. Deepingdalesfolk were familiar with most kindred of the elf race, but star elves were a different story. “As far as I know, she is with her father.”

Araevin glanced at the door, half-expecting Ilsevele to follow on his heels, but she did not appear. “She knows we are gathering here,” he mused. “I suppose she will be here when she can.”

“What news of the daemonfey army?” Donnor asked. He was a thickly built human almost as tall as Araevin himself, but better than eighty pounds heavier than the sun elf. He kept his scalp shaved down to stubble, and wore a closely cropped beard. His tunic was emblazoned with the sunrise emblem of Lathander, Lord of the Dawn, the deity to whom Kerth had pledged his sword and his service.

“Sarya’s demons and devils harry the borders of Semberholme every day. I don’t know if or when Seiveril will try to take the battle to the daemonfey again.”

“Glad we’re here,” Maresa muttered. “Wars are bad for the health, you know.”

“We’re not done with ours,” Donnor growled. “The daemonfey have much to answer for.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” The genasi hid her glower in her goblet, drinking deeply.

Jorin looked across the table to Araevin. “What did your ‘friends’ say about the threat you perceived in Sildeyuir?” the half-elf asked in a low voice. “Can they counter it?”

“They are going to study the question.”

Nesterin raised an eyebrow. “I thought the matter was urgent.”

“In my estimation, it is. But my friends in Evermeet have always been hesitant to move recklessly. They do not think it wise to exercise their power until they know precisely what will happen when they do.”

“No one can foresee all outcomes. If you wait until you think you can, you will never act at all,” the star elf said. “Sometimes it is wiser not to wait.”

“That is what I fear. As my human friends like to say, he who hesitates is lost.”

“So what are we going to do while your ‘friends’ are thinking things over?” Maresa asked.

Araevin allowed himself a small smile. Maresa had struck the nail on the head. “I think I know how to slam shut the doors that Sarya and her allies are trying to open. At the beginning of this war, Sarya used a weapon called the Gatekeeper’s Crystal to open the ancient dungeon of Nar Kerymhoarth, freeing her fey’ri legion. I can use that same device to stop her from destroying the boundaries between the planes.”

“How do we get the device away from her?” Jorin asked.

“We may not have to. Quastarte-one of my friends on Evermeet-reminded me that the crystal does not remain intact after use. It breaks into its component shards, three of them, and hurls its pieces across the world, sometimes even across the planes. I mean to find it, assemble it again, and use it to seal the Waymeet-the Last Mythal of Aryvandaar.”

“These three pieces could be anywhere?” Donnor asked. “Where do we begin?”

“The place where Sarya Dlardrageth last employed the crystal. The Gatekeeper’s Crystal often leaves at least one of its shards near the place where it was last used. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

“Back to the High Forest again.” Maresa shook her head. “You don’t let the moss grow under your feet, do you, Araevin?”

“We’ll retrace our steps through the portals back to Myth Glaurach. I don’t think that Nar Kerymhoarth is more than two days’ ride from there.” Araevin glanced at each of his companions, and added, “It may be a long, dull, or dangerous task to reassemble the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. None of you should feel obligated to come with me.”

“Is this the best way you can think of to slip a knife between Sarya’s ribs?” Maresa asked. Araevin nodded.

“Then I’m in.”

“And I,” said Donnor.

“Sildeyuir is in your debt, Araevin Teshurr,” Nesterin answered. “I will help you.”

Araevin looked to Jorin. The Aglarondan shrugged. “I haven’t traveled these lands before. I have a notion that I’d like to see more of the west, or wherever your search leads you.”

“Thank you, my friends,” Araevin said. “We’ll set out first thing in the morning.”

He raised his goblet to his companions and drank deeply; the others followed suit. Briefly, he explained as much as he felt comfortable telling them about the Waymeet and the crystal. He glanced at the door often, expecting Ilsevele to appear at any moment, but still she did not come. Finally, it grew late, and the companions said their goodnights to one another.

The innkeeper showed Araevin to his room, and Araevin spent some time double-checking his belongings, making sure that he was ready for another long journey. Then he stretched out on the bed to rest, slipping in and out of Reverie. He did not need as much as he used to-an odd side-effect of the telmiirkara neshyrr, one that he just as soon would have done without, since it left him wakeful and alert most of the night. Eventually he found himself simply sitting at the window seat in the little room, gazing out over the sleeping town while he grappled with wheels, fonts, and bonds of magic in his mind, reflecting on the artifices of high magic he had encountered in the last few tendays.

Shortly after midnight, his reflections were disturbed by the lonely clip-clop of a horse’s hooves in the street outside his window. He shook himself and looked down. A rider in green approached, riding a small dapple-gray mare. The rider stopped before the Oak and Spear, and drew back her hood. Ilsevele shook out her copper-red hair and turned her face up to him.

“Keeping watch for me?” she asked with a small smile.

“Simply taking in the night,” he told her. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

He slipped down from the window seat, pulled on his boots, and headed down the stairs to the dark and empty common room. Ilsevele came in a moment later, still dressed in her riding cloak.

“Do you want me to rouse the innkeeper?” Araevin asked. “It’s late, but they might have something you could eat.”

“Don’t trouble the fellow. I am not hungry.” She hesitated in the doorway, studying the room. “Are the others here?”

“Yes. We were only waiting for you.” Araevin took her in his arms, and held her close, but she returned his embrace half-heartedly. When he frowned at her, she disentangled herself from his arms and stepped back. “What is it, Ilsevele?”

“Araevin,” she said, “I cannot go with you.”

“What? But why?”

“I have something else I need to do. I am leaving in the morning for the Sembian camp in Battledale. I am going to try to persuade them to make peace with us, so that we can turn our full attention against the daemonfey.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he said automatically. “You would be too valuable as a hostage. The Sembians will try to use you against your father.”

“I do not think they will.” Ilsevele raised her hand to forestall his response. “If the daemonfey and the Sembians were still allied, you would certainly be right. But Sarya turned her demons and devils against the Sembians, too. We have a common foe, and I understand that counts for much in human diplomacy.”

“Ilsevele, you don’t understand-”

“Starbrow will come along to safeguard me, Araevin. And I’ll have a trick or two up my sleeve, just in case. But we have to take the chance that the Sembians can be reasoned with, before all the Dales are laid to waste.”

He started to protest but gave up with a grimace. “Very well. But promise me you will be careful, Ilsevele.”

“Only if you do the same.” She smiled thinly. “Do not worry for me, Araevin. Our paths will cross again before long.”

“I am not as certain of that as I once was.” He sighed and brushed a hand over his eyes. “We are heading back to the High Forest.”

“The High Forest? Why?”

“Because the Gatekeeper’s Crystal-or a piece of it, anyway-may remain somewhere near Nar Kerymhoarth. I think I will need it to deal with Sarya’s wards at Myth Drannor, and her influence over the Waymeet.” He quickly explained what he had learned about the Waymeet and the disaster he feared. “Will you stay to see us off?” he finished. “Morning is not long now.”

“I can’t. We are riding for Battledale at first light. I need to get back.”

“Maresa will take it hard. She likes you more than she lets on.”

“I am fond of her, too. Take good care of them, Araevin.” Ilsevele allowed him to embrace her one more time, and she turned to go. But in the doorway, her steps slowed, and she looked back over her shoulder at him. “Araevin, there is one more thing… I heard that you spoke with the high mages on the Isle of Reverie.”

“I did.”

“I heard that they are giving careful consideration to your warning, and are deliberating on the best way to meet the danger you have seen.”

Araevin briefly wondered how the story was reaching Ilsevele. High mages rarely discussed their business with others. Could it be Amlaruil herself? Ilsevele had served as a captain in the Queen’s Guard, after all. He decided that it would be unseemly to interrogate his betrothed over the question.

“I don’t know anything about the course of their deliberations,” he said, “but I hope they intend more than just talk.”

“So instead of waiting or conferring with the high mages, you are setting out after the Gatekeeper’s Crystal immediately?” Disapproval gathered in her face.

“I don’t think we have time to wait,” Araevin answered. He paced in a small circle, trying to keep his frustration with the glacial pace of the high mages to himself, and not entirely succeeding. “While the high mages debate and ponder the right course of action, I feel doom approaching. Someone has to act now.”

“That is always the way it is with you,” Ilsevele murmured. “Something is always the only thing that matters. You are almost human in that, Araevin. You lose yourself in the moment. You always have, and since you… changed… in Mooncrescent Tower, I think it has become even more pronounced.”

“This is important,” he protested. “You know what I’ve seen. We can’t defeat the daemonfey until we can deal with Sarya’s wards in Myth Drannor, and we can’t defeat the wards without the Gatekeeper’s Crystal.”

“You cannot even see it anymore, can you?” Ilsevele was as pale and perfect as a memory in the moonlight. “I can’t feel your presence, Araevin. You are standing before me, but I don’t feel your thoughts, I can’t sense your mood. You have become a wall that I cannot see through.”

Araevin shrugged awkwardly. “It may pass,” he offered. It was true enough that he did not sense her as clearly as he had before the telmiirkara neshyrr. All elves shared a bond, a communion of sorts, that allowed them to feel what other elves nearby felt, especially those whom they loved. It was not unknown for the link to wax or wane in strength. Doubtless it had something to do with changing his nature to suit himself for high magic, but what choice had he had? He took a step toward her and reached for her hand. “Come with me, Ilsevele. I need you at my side.”

“You haven’t needed me in a long time, Araevin-and my place is here, at least for now.” She touched the side of his face, and she drew back. “I think I should go now. Good luck in your journeys. I will pray for your success.”

“Ilsevele, wait-” Araevin began, but she just shook her head and left him standing in the doorway.

“This,” snarled Sarya Dlardrageth, “is an abomination.” She paced fretfully, her eyes aglow with hate. Sarya’s face was heartbreakingly beautiful, her supple figure the very image of desire, but in her anger-and Sarya was indeed angered-her demonic heritage was inescapable. Ruby skin and great black wings overwhelmed her noble elf’s features, and her slender serpentine tail coiled and uncoiled with agitation. “Tell me, Mardeiym, why haven’t you destroyed it yet?”

Mardeiym Reithel was a lord of the fey’ri, and Sarya’s most trusted general. Unlike many of Sarya’s minions, he knew her well enough to sense that her anger was not directed at him, and he did not quail before her rage.

“Strong old magic guards it, my queen. I would not presume to destroy something of such antiquity without consulting you first.”

“Antiquity?” Sarya snorted. “I am four times as old as this shameful stone. Don’t speak to me of its antiquity!”

The daemonfey queen stood before the old monument the humans called simply the Standing Stone. It stood thirty miles south of Myth Drannor, at the spot where the road leading south to Sembia met the Moonsea Ride. Twenty feet tall, the gray obelisk was covered with old runes and hidden Elvish script that proudly — proudly! Sarya marveled-described how the great elven realm of Cormanthyr had given over the governance of its unforested lands to dirt-grubbing human squatters.

The flyspeck lands known as the Dales dated back to that day, growing up in and among the vales of the mighty forest… and the coronals of Myth Drannor had given the humans their blessing. Of course, time had demonstrated the folly of that decision. The coronals of Myth Drannor were dead, and their kingdom was no more. But Sarya could see clearly that this shameful monument in front of her marked the day that the elves’ decline in Cormanthor had begun.

“Dlardrageth coronals would never have descended to such degrading pacts with humans,” she spat. With a flick of her wings, she turned her back on the Standing Stone and confronted her chief general. “You have now consulted me. Have it pulled down and broken into rubble. Use whatever power is necessary to overcome its wards. I never want to see this… emblem of weakness again.”

“It shall be as you say, my queen.” Mardeiym bowed his horned head in acknowledgment. He paused, and added, “The drow emissary still awaits.”

“I absolutely will not receive him standing in front of that,” she said, flicking her tail at the Standing Stone. “He is at the ruined keep?”

“He is, my lady,” Mardeiym affirmed.

“Come with me, then,” Sarya said.

She reached out and took Mardeiym’s hand, then teleported away from the road. There was an instant of darkness, of cold, and she stood in the courtyard of a ruined human keep, long abandoned. The place stood atop a rocky hill a few miles from the Standing Stone, overlooking the road. Less than a month before Seiveril Miritar had used that very keep for his headquarters while he hesitated on the doorstep of Myth Drannor, but since then the leader of Evermeet’s Crusade cowered in the supposed safety of Semberholme, a hundred miles to the south. Well, she would deprive him of that refuge soon enough.

A party of four drow waited for her, surrounded by her fey’ri and yugoloths. It was a blazingly hot day, but the dark elves wore long hoods to shade their eyes. Bright sunlight was more than a little uncomfortable to them; they much preferred the gloom of the forest, or better yet, the cool darkness underground. Sarya could have invited them to step into the shadows of the keep’s remaining buildings, but she decided that she had no particular need to make the drow comfortable.

She approached the dark elves, and studied them for a time. “I am Sarya Dlardrageth,” she said. “To whom am I speaking?”

One of the drow limped forward. A brace of leather and iron encased his left leg. “I am Jezz, of House Jaelre,” he answered. “Sometimes called Jezz the Lame, for reasons which should be obvious. These are my kinsmen Tzarrat, Dreszk, and Zilzin.”

Sarya frowned in distaste. Before the ancient quarrel of House Dlardrageth with the rulers of Arcorar, before the war of great Aryvandaar against the lesser elf nations, all other elves had stood against the drow. Daemonfey and drow had rarely met, as far as she knew, but she had no reason to think well of the traitorous dark elves.

“I see you have earned the special disapproval of your spider-goddess,” she said, looking at the clumsy brace. Any highborn drow should have had the resources to have such an injury healed with magic.

Jezz gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, I suppose Lolth doesn’t think well of me at all, or any of my kin, for that matter. We turned our backs on the Spider Queen centuries ago, and follow Vhaeraun instead.”

“Ah. You are the drow who hide in the Elven Court, then.”

“We are. The cursed light-elves abandoned this realm; we decided to claim it for our own.”

“I think you will find that I have already done so.”

Jezz shrugged. “We are a practical race, Lady Sarya. We recognize strength when we see it. You are clearly the master of Myth Drannor, at least for now.”

“For now, and for centuries to come.” Sarya folded her arms and flicked her tail in irritation. “Now what is it that you want with me, drow?”

“We want to come to some understanding with you,” Jezz answered. “We share a common enemy, after all. Should the Crusade succeed in evicting you from Myth Drannor, we have no illusions about who would be next. It would seem to be simply logical to agree to leave each other in peace… or, possibly, to consider how we profitably might work together against our mutual foes.”

Sarya snorted. “In other words, you have determined that I hold the winning hand, and so now you hope to share in the spoils.”

Jezz inclined his head. “As I said, Lady Sarya-we are a practical race.”

“Why should I share my conquests with you, drow? Why should I not have you thrown from the battlements for your presumption?”

“How many more enemies do you need, Sarya Dlardrageth?” the drow countered. “We do not have your strength, but we have some strength, and I think you would find us a more difficult conquest than the fat human farmers of Mistledale. If you are so strong that you can crush us at the same time that you fight against Sembia, Hillsfar, the Dales, and Seiveril Miritar’s army, then you should do so, and dictate your terms to us. If, perhaps, you think it might be prudent to save just a little more of your strength for your true enemies, then hear me out.”

The daemonfey queen measured the drow lord, thinking. Mardeiym would certainly advise her to avoid starting more wars, at least until they successfully concluded one of the wars they already had. The forest drow were not as strong as her fey’ri legion, but they could muster hundreds of skilled and stealthy warriors… at the very least, it would seem to make sense to leave them alone in the eastern forest, if they were willing to concede the rest of Cormanthor to her.

Besides, agreements could always be amended later, she reminded herself. She would not permit the drow to remain in Cormanthor unless they accepted her suzerainty, but that was a question she did not have to resolve that day.

“I agree that we need not fight each other,” Sarya told the drow. “I will not send my legions against your holds in the Elven Court. And I admit that I am intrigued by the possibilities of cooperation.”

Jezz sketched an awkward bow. “Then may I suggest that we find some place out of the sun to further develop our arrangement?”

From Highmoon, Araevin and his small company rode north, to a lonely mausoleum in the depths of the Sember woods. Seven tendays past they had discovered the place while exploring a network of magical portals whose entrance was buried under the former daemonfey stronghold at Myth Glaurach. Seiveril Miritar had used the portals to traverse a thousand miles in the course of a few short days, bringing the Crusade from the Delimbiyr Vale to the deep woods of Cormanthor. Araevin retraced their steps, passing back to the long-abandoned City of Scrolls by means of the magical doorways that he and his friends had explored.

They found Myth Glaurach guarded by a company of wood elves from the nearby High Forest, reinforced by several wizards of Silverymoon’s spell-guard. The daemonfey had shown no sign of returning to their original stronghold, but the folk of the High Forest and the Silver Marches intended to make sure that evil did not return to the old city.

Araevin and his friends enjoyed a fine lantern-lit dinner under the sighing firs of the wood elf camp on Myth Glaurach’s forested shoulders, and spent no small amount of time telling the tale of the Crusade’s efforts in Cormanthor. After that, Araevin asked the wood elves about the best way to the old stronghold of Nar Kerymhoarth. They did not answer right away, but instead summoned a slender elf huntswoman to the feast. She was lithe and handsome, with copper skin and the russet hair of her people, which she wore in a single long braid behind her.

“I am Gaerradh,” the wood elf said to Araevin. “You are Araevin? The mage who took this mythal from the daemonfey?”

“I am,” Araevin answered. “These are my companions Maresa, Donnor, Nesterin, and Jorin. I understand you know the way to Nar Kerymhoarth?”

Gaerradh nodded. “I know the place well. I’m the one who discovered what the daemonfey did there.”

“You were there?”

“Yes. That was several months ago, of course. The daemonfey magic ripped the place in half. It looked like a mountain giant had struck off a whole hillside with his axe.”

“Did you see the daemonfey assault on the dungeon?”

“No, I came upon the scene about two days after they had left.”

Maresa leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you found a big magical crystal lying around, did you?”

Gaerradh looked at her blankly. “I am afraid I saw no such thing. What sort of crystal?”

The genasi sat back. “It was worth a try,” she sighed. “It is about this long-” Araevin held up his hands, six inches apart-“and pale white, with a hint of violet light in its depths.”

“Is it important?

“I think so,” said Araevin. He went on to sketch out what he knew of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal, explaining how he hoped to use it to put an end to the manipulations of the daemonfey. “So, we hope to find a shard of the crystal somewhere near Nar Kerymhoarth. Can you tell us where to start?”

Gaerradh shook her head. “We keep people away from the place because it has always been dangerous. But your efforts speak for you, Araevin. If you need to go to Nar Kerymhoarth, I’ll take you and your companions there.”

“Thank you.” Araevin bowed.

Gaerradh returned such a stiff and formal parody of a sun elf bow that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Sun elves are so solemn about everything,” she said with a smile. Then she hurried off while Maresa and Nesterin were still holding their sides, and even dour Donnor was laughing softly.

In the morning, they set out toward the southwest, leaving the tree-grown ruins of Myth Glaurach behind them. They left their mounts in the care of the elves there, since the terrain was better suited to travel afoot. For most of the day they picked their way through the steep foothills and stream-filled gorges of the Talons, the swift cold mountain streams that formed the headwaters of the mighty Delimbiyr River. Then they veered west and skirted the forest verge, staying well to the north of the fuming crevasse where Hellgate Keep once stood.

“Turlang the Treant stands watch over the place, but it isn’t safe to go any nearer,” Gaerradh explained. “The Scoured Legion of Kaanyr Vhok lurks in the pits deep below the ruins of the keep.”

Gaerradh led them to a well-hidden wood elf shelter, concealed high in the branches of a mighty shadowtop, where they camped for the night. Then, a little after sunrise, they continued on their way. Satisfied that they’d circled far enough around Hellgate Keep, the wood elf turned southward and led them into the depths of the High Forest. Araevin was struck by how different the woodland was from the forests of Evermeet or even Cormanthor. The High Forest was old, with a high, thick canopy so dense that sunlight did not reach the forest floor. While summer in Cormanthor had been humid, even sweltering at times, the air beneath the mighty boles was so chilly and damp that he could not believe the month was Flamerule.

“The trees don’t like us,” Donnor muttered when they halted for a brief rest. “I can feel it.”

“They sleep more deeply here than they do in the Yuirwood, but they dream of dark things,” Jorin agreed. “If I were you, I would avoid giving them offense.”

The Lathanderite grimaced and wrung out the hood of his cloak. “I won’t speak ill of them if they extend the same courtesy to me.”

Shortly before sunset, they finally reached the rocky tor of Nar Kerymhoarth, the Nameless Dungeon. A low hill of ancient stone rose up through the forest mantle, its sides draped with young evergreens. Without Gaerradh’s aid, they might easily have missed it altogether. Approaching from the north, there was nothing to indicate that a buried vault lay beneath the hill. The wood elf led them around the base of the tor and finally brought them out into a valley between two arms of the hill.

“Here,” said Gaerradh. “This is the place where the daemonfey opened Nar Kerymhoarth.”

Araevin frowned. All he saw was a desolate clearing in the forest between the rocky arms of the hillside. But then he realized that the defile in which they stood was not a natural valley, but instead a titanic bite taken out of the hillside. Clover and blackberries covered much of the bare dirt, but shorn tree trunks marked the edges of the vast wound, and great boulders lay tumbled out of place all around them. The defile ended in a deep cleft in the hillside, where a dark cave mouth awaited.

“Let me guess,” Maresa said. “In there? That would be our luck. Trolls, demons, devils, whatever in the Nine Hells that monster Grimlight was… I just can’t wait.”

“It may not be inside,” Araevin told her. “The crystal might be lying on the forest floor a mile or two away.”

The genasi eyed the beckoning darkness under the hill. “Care to wager on that?”

Nesterin looked to Araevin. “You said that this was an old elven stronghold,” the star elf said. “Who delved it, and why? What is the story of this place?”

“Its name is Nar Kerymhoarth. My people do not like to speak of it,” Gaerradh answered for Araevin. “Because we don’t tell its name to outsiders, the place became known as the Nameless Dungeon. It’s one of the Seven Citadels of ancient Siluvanede.

“Long ago, three elven kingdoms shared this forest: Eaerlann, Siluvanede, and Sharrven. Siluvanede was the strongest of the three realms. It was a sun elf kingdom whose people hoped to build a realm to rival long-lost Aryvandaar.

“But a new shadow fell over Siluvanede. The sun elves grew proud and ambitious. Many were seduced into swearing allegiance to the daemonfey-though the Dlardrageths remained hidden for a long time, guiding the kingdom’s affairs in secret. Finally war broke out among the three kingdoms; Eaerlann and Sharrven stood together against Siluvanede. That was the Seven Citadels’ War.” Gaerradh glanced at Donnor and Maresa, hesitating, but then she continued. “In the last years of the war, the fey’ri legions appeared. The foulness of the daemonfey was revealed for all to see. But Eaerlann and Sharrven together overcame Siluvanede.

“My ancestors bound the fey’ri and their masters in timeless magical prisons, buried beneath their ancient strongholds. The people of Eaerlann and Sharrven vowed to keep an eternal watch over these places.”

Araevin picked up Gaerradh’s tale. “Sharrven fell not long after Siluvanede,” he said. “Eaerlann endured for many centuries more but was overthrown five hundred years ago, when demonic hordes emerged from Hellgate Keep and destroyed all the lands nearby.”

Gaerradh nodded. “Our watch failed. By the time my people returned to this part of the forest, we’d forgotten the story of the old prisons. We knew that something old and evil slept in the secret strongholds of the forest, and so we kept watch. But we didn’t know why.”

“You seem to have pieced it all together now,” Jorin observed.

“Only because the daemonfey showed us what we’d forgotten.” Gaerradh shrugged. “I only learned the beginning of the story-the story of the fey’ri and the Seven Citadels’ War-after speaking with the sages and scribes of Silverymoon this summer.”

“So Sarya Dlardrageth’s fey’ri army was imprisoned right in there-” Donnor Kerth nodded at the ruined hillside-“after some ancient elven civil war?”

“Yes, you are right,” the wood elf answered.

“Any idea of what lies buried here? What sort of magic or guardian monsters we might find?”

Gaerradh shook her head. “We never set foot in the deeper halls of the Nameless Dungeon. They were sealed so thoroughly we didn’t even know they existed.”

Araevin checked the wands he carried holstered on his left hip, and studied the dark opening in the hillside. “I suspect that Sarya emptied the place when she freed her legion. But there’s only one way to be sure, isn’t there?”