Final Gate

CHAPTER FIVE

30 Flamerule, the Year of Lightning Storms

The walls and towers of the Waymeet formed a difficult maze, but it was not impassable. The place was not really designed to entrap travelers, it was just a very complex structure with few good points of reference. The clear space in which the portal to the House of Long Silences stood was part of a boulevard or avenue that curved around a striking cluster of tall spires that Araevin presumed to be the center of the Waymeet. Smaller “streets” angled away into the crystalline depths. They passed door after door along the way, and down each intersecting passage they saw additional rows of portals leading away into the luminous distance.

“Where could all these portals go?” Donnor muttered to himself. “There are thousands of them here. Faerun must be riddled with gates!”

“Aryvandaar was a vast, long-lived, and wealthy empire,” said Araevin. “Look at it like this: Even if various mages or lords of Aryvandaar only found reason to create ten new portals a century, you would expect to find almost a thousand portals here.”

“I haven’t been counting, but it seems like there may be more than that,” the Tethyrian said.

Araevin frowned. “I think you’re right. It seems there are even more than there should be.” He paused, searching his mind for what the Nightstar had told him of the place. “Ah, that makes sense.”

The others waited for him to continue. Araevin shook himself, bringing his attention back to his companions. “The Fhoeldin durr itself creates new portals. In the years since Aryvandaar’s fall, it has continued to propagate portals throughout Faerun-and into other planes and worlds, as well. That is why it has become so dangerous. Over the centuries, its expansion has weakened the barriers between the planes, especially in places where people created any number of portals of their own.”

“Like Sildeyuir,” Nesterin said. The star elf narrowed his eyes, studying the great artifice thoughtfully.

“Like Sildeyuir,” Araevin agreed. “Or Netheril, or Myth Drannor in the dark years leading up to its fall.” He paused to check his bearings, and turned toward a smaller alleyway leading off the large esplanade they had been following. “I don’t think the mages who built this place intended for that to happen. They assumed that they or their descendants would be able to guide and govern the Waymeet’s expansion and function over the centuries. But Aryvandaar fell, and this place was left to govern itself.”

“Now that we’re here, why don’t you just take control of it like you did at Myth Glaurach?” Maresa asked. “Or just destroy it outright?”

Araevin shook his head. “I’m afraid the protections over this mythal are beyond my skill. That’s why I need the entire crystal, so I can gain access to the mythal.”

Jorin stopped suddenly, and knelt to look at something. “Araevin, what do you make of this?” he called.

The mage hurried over to his companion’s side and looked over his shoulder. Near the footing below one of the portals a thick iron spike had been driven into the crystal, leaving a spiderweb of faint cracks that slowly leaked a luminescent blue fluid. Harsh runes and symbols inscribed in the spike glowed an angry red, just visible through the intervening crystal.

“Can you make out what the runes say?” Jorin asked.

“No, but I recognize the script. It’s Infernal… the language of the Nine Hells.”

“What do you think its purpose is?”

Araevin studied it for a moment, observing the delicate weave of the ancient elven magic and the bitter intrusion of the hellwrought spike. “I think it’s pinning the portal open. Changing the portal’s natural behavior by transfixing it with a corrupting spell.”

Jorin looked up at him. “Should we remove it?”

“Go ahead and try, but be careful.”

The ranger reached out to grasp the head of the spike, but he drew back his hand before he even touched the metal.

“It’s hot,” he explained.

He rummaged around in his pack and found a spare cloak to wrap around his hand, and he tried again. The spike didn’t move an inch. Jorin shifted so that he was sitting on the ground, facing the portal, with his feet planted on the footing on each side of the spike, and grasped it with both hands. But still it didn’t move.

Finally he gave up with a grunt of dissatisfaction and said, “It’s anchored in there. We’ll have to chip away the crystal or use magic to get it out.”

“Leave it be,” Araevin told him. “If we succeed in reuniting the crystal, it will not matter.”

They hurried down the narrow avenue for another hundred yards or so, past more of the doorways transfixed with spikes. Then they turned a corner and came to something of a small square or open place amid the white spires. Great bands of iron had been riveted to the foot of one of the sharply soaring buttresses that leaped up into the interwoven spars overhead. As with the smaller spikes, it was also covered in fearsome lettering and glowed cherry-red with hellish magic. More of the iron bands were fixed to the crystalline walls and pillars nearby, and the whole area reeked of hot metal.

In the center of the small plaza stood a simple three-sided pillar, about fifteen feet tall, likewise clamped within spells scribed on hellwrought iron. Unlike the pearly white of the other crystal spars, it burned a bright blue. Araevin paused, searching the memory imparted by the Nightstar for details about the Waymeet.

“One moment,” he said. “This is a speaking stone. We can speak to the Fhoeldin Durr here.”

His companions exchanged puzzled glances behind him, but Araevin approached the blue pillar and set his hand on it. “Gatekeeper,” he said softly. “Do you hear me?”

Nothing happened for a long moment, but then a dim flicker awoke in the depths of the pillar. The metal bands encircling the stone seemed to constrain the pillar’s glow, smoldering brighter as the azure gleam danced more strongly in the pillar’s depths.

A smooth, soft voice came from the pillar. “I am the Gatekeeper,” it whispered. “I hear you, Araevin Teshurr.”

“You know me?”

“I know anyone who addresses a speaking stone.”

“Araevin, who are you speaking to?” Nesterin asked.

“The sentience of this mythal,” Araevin answered him. “It is known as the Gatekeeper, because it guards the countless doors in this place.”

“It’s not doing a very good job,” Maresa muttered.

“I am constrained by the infernal spells with which I have been bound, Maresa Rost,” the pillar replied. “I have been prevented from fulfilling my purpose.”

“What are these spells doing to you?” Araevin asked.

“The archdevil Malkizid seeks to subvert me. Already he can prevent me from closing the gates that his spells hold open. In time he will extinguish my consciousness altogether, and he will be free to use all of the powers of the Waymeet as he wishes.”

“Is Malkizid here?” Araevin asked.

“No. But many yugoloths and devils who serve him are. You are in no small danger.”

“Great,” Maresa snarled. She shrugged her crossbow from her shoulders and laid a bolt in the rest, looking around anxiously.

Araevin thought for a moment, studying the blue gleam. “Are you required to report our presence to Malkizid or his agents? Or this conversation?”

“No, but that may not be true for much longer. Malkizid may be able to compel me to speak.”

“I have a shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal in my possession,” he told the device. “I mean to find the remaining shards and use the device to undo the damage Malkizid’s spells are causing. Can it be done?”

The pillar was silent for a time.

“Yes,” it finally said. “But you will need all three shards.”

“Do you know where the other shards are?”

“Not precisely, but I know which of my doors is closest to each shard,” the voice in the pillar said. It hesitated for a moment then added, “Three nycaloths approach, Araevin Teshurr. They will be here in moments.”

Araevin stole a glance over his shoulder, while his comrades nervously scanned the mist-wreathed crystal spars nearby. “Which door do we use?” he asked.

“I will indicate the portal you seek. Look to your left.”

Araevin complied, and found that a flickering blue gleam danced in the crystal ramparts in that direction.

He glanced to his companions and said, “Let’s go, before Malkizid’s servants appear.”

Quickly they hurried after the blue glow. As they neared the flickering light, it vanished from the crystal where it danced, only to appear a little farther on. No more than fifty yards from the plaza of the blue pillar, the light halted by a portal that stood near the base of another soaring buttress. Araevin was relieved to see that no infernal spike transfixed it. As they approached, the portal came to life, its milky surface abruptly changing into a smooth, pearly mist.

“Do you have any idea what might be on the other side?” Donnor said to Araevin.

“No,” the sun elf admitted. “But this is the way I have to go.”

He drew a deep breath, and stepped into the blank mists.

From their campsite in the ruined manor house near the Pool of Yeven, Fflar and Ilsevele rode eastward along the south bank of the Ashaba, picking their way through lands that showed increasing signs of habitation the farther they traveled. The long, low rampart of the Dun Hills grew steadily closer, marching northeastward as if trying to beat them to Blackfeather Bridge.

The air grew hot and still as the day wore on. It seemed as if the forests, fields, and hills yearned for a cleansing rain, but the heat did not relent. Far behind them, to the west, thunderheads piled up on each other only to dissipate and reform, never coming any closer. They rode past a farmstead where dozens of cattle lay butchered out in the fields.

“Demons or devils,” Fflar murmured. “Best keep on.”

“All right,” Ilsevele replied. She did not look long at the scene of the slaughter.

As they rode away, the sight still worried at the back of Fflar’s mind, until it seemed like some accusing stare was fixed at a point between his shoulder blades.

There’s no point in going back, he told himself. You know what you’ll find there. It’s done, and any people there are beyond help.

But finally he could stand it no more, and he stood up in the stirrups to look back at the ruined farm, several hundred yards behind them.

Mottled gray shadows raced through the undergrowth and bounded along the road behind the elven company.

Fflar stared for a moment, too horrified to even call out a warning. The monsters were doglike things as large as small horses, but thickly built. Chitinous plates armored their bodies, but for all that they were quick. Blunt, eyeless heads ended in enormous rasping jaws, from which long barbed tongues lolled. The nearest darted through the dusty shadows along the roadside only forty yards behind them.

Finally he found his voice. “Canoloths!” he cried. “Run!”

He spurred Thunder, and the roan stallion leaped ahead in a gallop. It galled Fflar to lead the flight, but he’d seen a dozen or more of the monsters in his single glance, and he didn’t doubt that there were just as many that he hadn’t seen yet… and if the creatures were herding them into an ambush, he wanted to meet it himself.

Ilsevele did not waste a moment before spurring Swiftwind right after him, and the rest of the Silver Guards were no slower. In the space of five heartbeats the small company was at a full gallop, racing along the dry, dusty trail. Two of the guards bringing up the rear unlimbered their bows and managed a few awkward shots at their pursuers, guiding their mounts with knees only as they twisted around to shoot at the closest of the canoloths. One of the monsters tumbled into a great cloud of dust, lamed by an arrow that caught its shoulder. Another broke away, shaking its head to dislodge the arrow embedded in its jaws. The rest began to fall off the pace, outdistanced by the elves’ horses.

“I think we’re losing them!” Ilsevele called.

“Watch out for an ambush!” Fflar called back to her. “These things are clever.”

He turned his attention back to the road ahead, just in time to spot three canoloths leaping down out of the shadows from the higher ground on the right side of the road. One bowled over a Silver Guard and his mount, dragging the warrior down into the dust. The second came right for Fflar. Thunder whinnied and sheered away, almost throwing him, but the swordsman kept his seat and drew Keryvian. The canoloth darted after Thunder, lashing out with its hawser-thick tongue to lasso the horse’s rear leg, but Fflar leaned back in the saddle and severed the tentacle-like member with a quick overhand cut. The monster roared and jerked back, only to be ridden down by another of the Silver Guards.

“Ilsevele!” Fflar cried.

He whirled around to find his charge, just in time to see her stand up in her stirrups and shoot a pair of arrows over Swiftwind’s shoulder, skewering the third of their ambushers twice in the center of its open maw. The creature bucked and jumped, black blood spurting from its mouth, and Ilsevele hurtled over it in one smooth jump and kept going. Fflar galloped after her, and their remaining guards followed.

“Captain Starbrow!” cried one of the Silver Guards. “Illithor went down!”

Fflar risked another look over his shoulder. A hundred yards back down the road, four or five of the canoloths snarled and snapped in a murderous fury around the guard and the horse that had gone down.

“He’s gone!” he snarled back at the escorts. “Keep on!”

Half a mile later, Fflar judged that they had outdistanced the canoloths, and signaled for the rest of the company to slow down. They eased first to a canter, then to a quick trot. The canoloths were nowhere in sight.

Ilsevele turned her mare and looked back the way they had come. “Illithor,” she murmured. “Aillesel Seldarie, what an awful fate.”

“There is nothing we can do for him now,” Fflar said. He exchanged a long look with Ilsevele, and they continued on their way.

Only four miles farther on, they crested a steep hill and spied a large company of riders a few hundred yards ahead, encamped around an old roadside inn overlooking the Ashaba. Most of the cavalrymen were human, dressed in assorted surcoats of blue and white, with red-pennoned lances standing at the stirrup. Fflar held up his hand, and reined in. Beneath the tree-shadows at the top of the hill he was relatively certain that the cavalrymen below had not yet spotted them.

“I can’t make out any device,” Ilsevele said. “Are they Sembians?”

“It seems likely,” Fflar said. He peered at the company ahead. “I don’t know of any Dalesfolk cavalry that might be this far to the east. Of course, they’re probably mercenaries in Sembia’s pay, not Sembians proper.”

“Even if they’re only mercenaries, they’ll report to someone with the authority to treat with us,” Ilsevele said. “I suppose we have to start somewhere.”

Fflar looked over to her. “They may have no interest in talking to us, Ilsevele. You know that.”

“I know.” She looked at the riders who followed them. “Seirye, you stay here with half the company. Be ready to cover our retreat with archery, in case we must flee.”

Seirye, the young officer who was in charge of the Silver Guards, agreed with a nod. “We will be ready. Be careful, Lady Ilsevele.”

“I will,” she promised.

The Silver Guards detailed to accompany her down to the Sembian encampment fixed long white streamers to their lances, and she led Fflar and the others out into the open, riding slowly down toward the inn house.

The humans below noticed them immediately. Men shouted and hurried to mount up and make ready for a fight, but as it became evident that only a handful of elves were approaching, the stir of excitement in the camp died down. After a few moments, a pair of human riders cantered out of the inn yard and rode up the road to meet the elves.

“I think this is close enough,” Fflar observed. “Let’s wait for those fellows to come to us.”

“Very well,” Ilsevele said.

She came to a halt in a spot about halfway between the hillcrest and the inn house. The Silver Guards waited nearby, watching the humans come closer. Fflar studied them as well. They were good riders, comfortable in the saddle. One was a stocky brown-haired man with a sweeping mustache, and the other was younger, with a long mane of fine yellow hair.

The two humans clattered up close to the elves, and reined in. They looked over Fflar and the others, traces of puzzlement in their eyes. Then the older man pointed at the white pennons hanging from the guards’ lances.

“Is that a flag of truce?” he asked.

“It is,” Ilsevele replied. “Will you parley with us?”

The broad-shouldered man shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to talk. Might I ask who I’m speaking to, my lady?”

“I am Ilsevele Miritar. I am a captain of the Queen’s Spellarchers of Evermeet. This is Starbrow, and my guardsmen Aloiene, Deryth, Hasterien, and Sylleth.”

“I’m Randil Moorwatch, of Elturel. This is my bannerman Teren. I am the captain of the Blue Griffon Company, formerly in the employ of Lord Borstag Duncastle of Sembia, now in the employ of Lord Miklos Selkirk of the same.” The mercenary captain glanced up at the trees shadowing the hillcrest, and frowned. Fflar could imagine that he was asking himself how many more elves were hidden in the woods there. Then he returned his attention to Ilsevele. “Well, my lady Miritar, what is it that I can do for you?”

“I wish passage through your lines, and an escort to the commander of Sembia’s army in these lands,” Ilsevele said. Her Common had improved in the months since she’d left Evermeet but still held something of the melodious tones of Elvish in her accent.

“And what would you like to speak to our commanders about?” Moorwatch asked.

“We believe that the daemonfey are your enemy as well as ours. We wish to make common cause against the forces of Sarya Dlardrageth.”

The human captain narrowed his eyes, thinking. “If by ‘daemonfey’ you mean the various hellspawned monsters roving around these little flyspeck Dales, then I can’t say I disagree with you. But you’re not thinking clearly if you believe you can talk the Sembians into helping you retake Cormanthor.”

“But surely you must see-”

“It doesn’t matter what I see,” Moorwatch said, holding up his hand to interrupt her. “I’m not a Sembian, and this isn’t my war. The Blue Griffons fight for good Sembian gold, and I’ve come to learn that our paymasters didn’t get as rich as they are by giving away anything for free.”

Ilsevele hesitated. Fflar decided to step in to help her. “Will you allow us to take up the question with your employers?” he asked.

The captain looked over to him. “This whole campaign is buggered beyond belief. We certainly didn’t sign on to fight our way through hordes of demons, devils, and worse. I suppose I’ll pass you through my lines, and send along Teren here with a dozen Blue Griffons to provide safe conduct. I warn you, though-if this is a ruse of some kind, it will go hard with you.”

“No ruse,” Fflar promised. “We have six-no, five-more who will join our party, with your leave.” Illithor’s journey had come to an end in the road a few miles back. They were one fewer than they had been.

“Very well,” the human captain agreed.

Fflar glanced back at the woods and signaled the rest of their Silver Guards to join them, while Moorwatch arranged for a detachment of his men to mount up. In ten breaths Fflar, Ilsevele, and the rest of their small company were ringed by a score of vigilant Blue Griffon riders-seasoned sellswords of a much smarter appearance than Fflar would have expected of mercenaries. He took a moment to warn Moorwatch about the canoloths roaming the road a few miles to the west, and they set out with the bannerman Teren and his riders.

The young officer led them east along the river for a mile or so, while the mercenary guards conversed among themselves in low voices, sticking to their own native Chondathan rather than Common. Then they struck southeast on a wide trail that climbed up into the Dun Hills, veering away from the broad river vale behind them. Few people lived in the hills, but from time to time they passed lonely lime kilns and disused quarries.

“Where are you taking us?” Ilsevele finally asked Bannerman Teren.

“Tegal’s Mark in Tasseldale, my lady,” the young officer answered.

“Lord Selkirk is there?”

Teren shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any to start looking. Lord Selkirk has been riding all over the southern Dales for a month now, trying to make some sort of sense out of things. If he’s not in Tegal’s Mark, it’s likely that he’ll pass through within a day or two.”

“It’s important that I speak with him as soon as possible,” Ilsevele said. “One of my people died but a short time ago to see me to your lines.”

“That’s not up to me, my lady. I expect he’ll call on you or send for you as soon as he can, though.”

Fflar nodded to himself. It was nothing more than good common sense not to lead enemy emissaries right into your headquarters, after all. A skillful wizard could easily mark the place for scrying spells or secret gates later on, creating all sorts of trouble. He wouldn’t have led a Sembian party straight to Seiveril without taking similar precautions against treachery.

They reached the small town of Tegal’s Mark shortly before sunset, riding down out of the dusty hills into a fair green valley of apple orchards and small stone farmhouses. Tasseldale had not yet suffered much from the daemonfey, but that did not mean the war had bypassed the place. The town was ringed by the patchwork tents and shelters of Sembia’s battered army, with many hundreds of men bivouacked in the fields and orchards nearby. More soldiers filled the dirt streets of the town. And all around the soldiers’ camps sprawled the simple shelters and crowded wagons of refugees from Battledale, Mistledale, and the lands between.

Teren and his Blue Griffons led them into the town itself, threading their way through the narrow lanes with some difficulty. They finally halted by a fine-looking inn near the middle of the town. The signboard read simply “The Markhouse.”

“I’ll arrange quarters for you here,” the bannerman said. “You can wait here until Lord Selkirk sends for you.”

“We thank you, bannerman,” Ilsevele said.

“I am afraid that you will have to remain here until we tell you otherwise, Lady Miritar. If you or any of your folk need to go out, you’ll have to be escorted. We wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”

Ilsevele nodded. “We understand.”

The young officer nodded. “In that case, I’ll see to your rooms, and notify the Silver Ravens that you are here and wish to speak with Lord Selkirk.” He dismounted, handed his reins to another of the Blue Griffons, and touched his brow before striding into the Markhouse.

Fflar studied the inn. It seemed strong and well-built, which might be important if they had to fight in or around the place. He glanced back at the street behind them, noting the ways that led out of the town. With care, it might just be barely possible to get out from under the Sembians’ hands if they needed to.

He felt eyes upon him, and looked up at a window in the upper floor of the Markhouse. A dark-haired human girl of striking beauty stood there, gazing coldly down on the elves in the courtyard. She regarded him with no expression at all for a long moment, and moved away from the window.

“We’re in danger here,” he said quietly.

“I know, but I mean to carry on as if I expect nothing but good faith,” Ilsevele replied. “Still, I didn’t expect to be put under house arrest.”

“That’s the trouble with crossing an enemy’s lines under a flag of truce. You may find it harder to get out than it was to get in.” Fflar smiled crookedly at her. “How long do we wait before we go looking for this Selkirk ourselves?”

“I’ll give him two days,” Ilsevele said. “After that, we’ll see.”

Absolute lightlessness greeted Araevin on the far side of the portal, a darkness so complete that for one panicked moment he wondered if the portal had somehow hurled him into solid stone. He inhaled sharply-the air was very cold and dry-and staggered into an awkward crouch, fearful that he might blunder over some unseen precipice in the dark. His own sudden breath was the only thing he could hear in the blackness. Cold, rough rock greeted his fingertips, and he reassured himself that he was simply standing in an unlit cavern of some kind.

“Courage, Araevin,” he murmured.

He fished a small copper coin out of his belt pouch by feel, and pronounced a simple light spell on it. The copper piece began to glow with a bright yellow radiance, dispelling the darkness around him so that Araevin could see where he stood.

As he had suspected, it was a cavern of some kind-a long, winding passageway that seemed to follow the bottom of a crevice, for the walls simply leaned against each other about twenty feet overhead. He turned to look at the portal behind him, and found that it was set in a square alcove hewn out of the living rock. Its rectangular lintel was carved with geometric designs that reminded Araevin of dwarven work. He examined the strange runes with interest, but before he could make much out of them, shadows filled the space within the lintel and parted suddenly. Maresa stepped through, rapier in one hand and crossbow in the other.

“Where in the Nine Hells-” she began, but then she remembered to move away from the door. She took several quick strides into the tunnel, making room for Nesterin, Donnor, and Jorin to follow her through. Araevin held his magical light aloft, and kept watch over the passageway while the rest of his companions joined him.

“We’re somewhere in the Underdark, aren’t we?” said Donnor. One thick hand rested on the hilt of the broadsword at his belt.

“I think so,” Araevin replied. He murmured the words of a seeking spell, and frowned as the magic seemed to fray awkwardly beneath his subtle shaping. Faerzress, he remembered. The weird magical energy permeating the deep Underdark sometimes interfered with spellcasting. At the last moment he rallied and managed to finish the spell despite the strange interference.

The silent call of the second shard echoed from the darkness, somewhere not far off. “The Gatekeeper was right. We’re close to the second shard,” he told his friends.

“Thank Tymora for that, at least,” Maresa muttered.

“Have any of you traveled in the Underdark before?” Araevin asked.

“I have, a little,” said Jorin. “There are extensive caverns and passages under the Yuirwood, at least in places.” He shivered. “I don’t remember it being this cold, though.”

“I traveled through the upper reaches of Deep Shanatar two years ago,” Donnor said. The Tethyrian grimaced. “I can’t say I liked it much.”

“Until today, I’d succeeded in avoiding the place,” Maresa answered. Her pale hair hung still around her shoulders, unstirred by even the faintest breeze. In the depths of the earth, the magic of elemental air in her veins guttered as low as a dying candle-flame. “My mother never had anything nice to say about it. She told me plenty of stories of the horrors the Company of the White Star encountered down here.”

“I remember well,” Araevin said. It had been more than twenty years since he had ventured into the vast warrens beneath the Chionthar Vale with Belmora, Theleda, Grayth, and the rest, but he had not forgotten a moment of it. “Let’s make sure that we all have light close at hand. If you get separated from everyone else, you’ll want illumination.”

They searched through their packs, and shared out the candles and tinder kits they carried. Donnor had a half-dozen sunrods, and divided those as well. Of course, Araevin and Donnor had minor light spells they could call on, too.

“We’ll use our spells first, and save the sunrods for an emergency,” Araevin suggested. “Now, as for the Underdark… above all else, we must stay together. This place is vast and featureless. Sound plays tricks on your ears, so that you may think a distant voice is close by, and someone only a stone’s throw away might not be able to hear you even if you shout. I can’t warn you enough about how easy it is to get lost, and how hard it is to be found once you’re out of sight and earshot.

“You’ll find that this place is more hostile than the worst desert you can imagine. We may get lucky and find fresh water, but food is almost nonexistent. We must conserve our rations and our water carefully, for as long as we are down here.

“Finally, this place is home to dreadful monsters such as aboleths, mind flayers, beholders, and worse. Many are drawn by light and sound, so we should try to stay quiet and use as little light as we can.”

“Anything else?” Maresa asked, rolling her eyes.

The sun elf frowned, taking her question literally. “Oh, one more thing-we can’t count on teleporting. There are magical emanations in the rock all around us that often ruin teleport spells. It should be our very last resort. Once we leave this portal, we have no easy way back to the surface unless we retrace our steps to this spot, or stumble across another portal somewhere else.”

“Fine,” the genasi said. “Let’s get going.”

Araevin glanced up and down the passageway, and turned toward his right. “This way, then. The shard is somewhere in this direction.”