Final Gate (17 page)

“I don’t like this at all,” Maresa murmured. The genasi scowled, searching all around for easy avenues of escape.

“Araevin, the guards are not alive,” Donnor Kerth said. The Lathanderite stared at the warriors in their ancient armor, his face set in a determined scowl. “They are undead of some kind, I am sure of it.”

“I can see it,” Araevin answered.

In fact, Araevin could clearly distinguish the necromancy that pulsed in their cold veins in place of living blood. He hesitated, unwilling to approach any closer. He had never held with necromancy, and in fact had avoided the study of the black arts for all the long years at Tower Reilloch. It was an unwholesome thing to make the dead answer one’s bidding. Yet having come so far, they did not have any choice other than to go on.

“I think that someone here wishes to parley, not fight,” he told the Lathanderite. “But remain on your guard nonetheless.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Donnor said with a snort.

They followed the two giants into the square before the palace, and there six of the cold warriors took up the task of escorting them into the palace proper. They climbed up a wide set of shallow steps leading to the palace’s gate, and followed them inside. The interior was resplendent. Columns of beautiful pale marble veined with gold marched through the halls, and richly appointed rooms gleamed in the dim light of low-burning lanterns worked in the shape of flowering vines.

They came to another great hall, and found a pale queen waiting for them on a small dais.

She was white-skinned, with a complexion that reminded Araevin of snow on some distant mountaintop. Even Maresa was not so perfectly colorless, since the genasi possessed the faintest tinge of blue-white, like a high cloud in a springtime sky. The queen’s flesh, on the other hand, had a strange cold luster like polished marble. Her hair was long, black, and straight, bound by a simple fillet of silver on her brow. She wore a flowing gown of white that was gathered at the torso in an ornate silvered brocade, and a long, slender rod of black platinum lay across her lap.

“Welcome to Lorosfyr, Araevin Teshurr,” she said. Her voice was soft and rich, with a purring accent that Araevin had never heard anywhere else. “I am Selydra, whom some call the Pale Sybil. May I offer you refreshment? The Long Stair is a difficult path.”

“You are most gracious,” Araevin said carefully.

Apparently she had observed them through the medium of the white sphere they had encountered on the stairs. He was not at all sure that it would be wise to dine at her table, but he certainly did not wish to offend her within the first few moments of meeting her. He offered a slight bow.

Selydra smiled coolly, as if she were amused by his caution, and made a small motion with her hand. A lantern in the shadows at the side of the hall brightened, revealing a small banquet already set out. Divans and cushions were arranged nearby. She descended from her dais and led the way to the table.

“Please, eat and drink your fill,” she said over her shoulder. “Travelers are a rare treasure in this place, and I have always been fascinated by the World Above. I am eager to hear how you came to the Long Stair.”

Araevin hesitated. He was indeed hungry and thirsty, but he reminded himself of the deathless warriors who stood watch at Selydra’s door. “If you will allow us, my lady, my comrade Donnor would like to speak a small prayer before we eat,” he said to Selydra. “It is our custom.”

The Pale Sybil inclined her head, though Araevin thought he sensed a flicker of irritation in her gaze. “By all means.”

Araevin glanced at Donnor, and to his credit the cleric understood perfectly without another word. He stepped forward and spread his arms over the banquet, looking up to the ceiling, and he murmured the words of an ancient Lathanderite prayer—followed rather subtly by a divination to determine if everything was safe. After a moment, he nodded.

“As Lathander rises,” the cleric finished. “We may eat now.”

Araevin and his friends helped themselves to the strange viands laid out for them—dark slices of some sort of broiled meat, small salty fish that were completely eyeless, a coarse gray bread, and even a few small, tart, blood-red fruits that he had never seen before. Cold, pure water and decanters of a black wine accompanied the meal. Selydra simply helped herself to a goblet of the wine, and reclined on a divan while Araevin and his friends shed their packs and sampled her table.

“What realm of the surface do you and your companions come from, Araevin?” Selydra asked, sipping at her wine.

“I am from Evermeet. Donnor Kerth, here, hails from Tethyr. Jorin and Nesterin-” Araevin nodded at the Yuir ranger and the star elf—”come from the land of Aglarond on the Sea of Fallen Stars. And Maresa is a native of Waterdeep.”

“I have heard of these places,” Selydra murmured, “but I have never seen them. Only a rare picture or two in the tomes of my library. How strange.”

“You named this city Lorosfyr, my lady,” Araevin said. “Who built it? What is the story of this place? And why do you choose to dwell here?”

“It is an intriguing mystery, isn’t it?” Selydra said. She studied Araevin with that same amused half-smile on her lips, and Araevin sensed a deep stirring of something within her, a whisper of avidness, hunger, that she carefully concealed. “This was once a city of humankind. Long ago a race of great wizards fought and lost a terrible war in the surface lands. To escape the vengeance of their foes, they fled into the farthest depths of the Underdark, and founded hidden cities such as Lorosfyr.”

“But why here, my lady?” Jorin asked. “How could they survive in this place?”

“Long ago, Lorosfyr basked in the daylight of magical suns,” Selydra said. “This place was once a great, shining realm of golden mists, brilliant as the morning. I imagine that during its day it was not at all unpleasant.”

“What happened to it?” said Araevin.

“A disaster befell the place many centuries ago. The spells sustaining light and warmth in this great darkness failed.” Selydra shrugged. “I have not discovered the cause. I came here years ago in the hope of uncovering the secrets of Imaskari magecraft, and I have never managed to unravel the story of the city’s end. Whatever doom came to this place, it fell so swiftly upon the people who lived here that they made no record of it.”

“You are a student of the Art, then, my lady?”

“I am,” the Pale Sybil admitted. “As are you, Araevin Teshurr. Now, I confess I am quite curious as to why an elf mage of such skill would venture into Lorosfyr.”

Araevin did not glance at his companions, though he felt their eyes upon him. “I believe that you have come into possession of a shard from a magical crystal,” he said. “I have great need of it, my lady. I was hoping that I could persuade you to allow me to make use of it for a short time.”

If Selydra was surprised, she did not show it. She simply sipped again from her goblet, studying Araevin over the golden rim of her cup. “Unless I am mistaken, you also have a shard of this same crystal,” she said. “It may be, Araevin Teshurr, that I would like to make use of your shard for a short time.”

“It is a matter of great urgency, my lady. Thousands of lives may depend on this. I will be happy to explain.”

Selydra rose to her feet. “And I will be happy to listen, and perhaps try to persuade you of my own need in turn. We are reasonable mages, and I am sure we can reach an agreement. But I can see that you and your companions are absolutely exhausted. Before we examine this question at any length, I must insist that you rest. Recover your strength, and enjoy my hospitality for a time. We can take up more serious matters tomorrow.” She paused, her dark eyes fixed on Araevin. “I think there is much we will learn from each other.”

Araevin started to protest, but thought better of it. He had the feeling that pressing Selydra on the question would get him nowhere. The Pale Sybil meant to enjoy her role of gracious hostess. Regardless of how reasonable she seemed at the moment, he had no way of knowing what she might or might not be capable of. He thought of the broken gnome Galdindormm, moaning in terror with her name on his lips.

Patience, Araevin, he told himself. He inclined his head to the Pale Sybil. “Of course, my lady,” he said. “I look forward to our next conversation.”

“As do I,” Selydra answered. She motioned to the silent warriors standing nearby, and the creatures drew closer. “My servitors will show you to a comfortable set of apartments. You will have everything you need there, but I am afraid I must ask you to refrain from wandering about. While my swordwights should suffice to protect you here within the palace, you will find that there are many perils in Lorosfyr.”

She gathered up her sleeves and slipped her pale hands within, and glided away into the shadows of her palace. Araevin watched her go, his lips pressed together in a frown. The ancient warriors regarded him with their dead, unblinking gazes, a pale light glimmering in their haunted eyes. One extended an arm, indicating a passageway leading somewhere else in the shadows.

“I don’t trust her for a moment,” Donnor said. “This whole place reeks of necromancy. And stranger, darker arts too, I think. We’re in danger here.”

*****

His features hidden beneath a well-worn hood, Fflar turned into the alley running behind a merchant’s residence near the back of the Markhouse, and he paused for a moment to make sure he was not followed or observed. Then he quickly scrambled up to the roof of a shed leaning against the merchant’s house and vaulted over the tall fence that separated the inn’s smokehouse from the merchant’s alleyway. A couple of conveniently located trees made it an excellent way to slip in and out of the Markhouse without being seen.

Fflar ventured into the common room and spent a short time there listening to a lutist strumming her instrument while he indulged in two goblets of good wine. He was just about to leave a tip on the table and head upstairs to his room when the dark-haired girl, the bewitchingly beautiful girl he’d seen watching from the window five days ago, appeared in the room.

Her face was heart-shaped and perfect, her hair black and straight as a river of pure night, her figure almost elf-slender but alluring beneath a snug gown of royal blue. She fixed her eyes on him, and her lips pursed in a small smile. Ignoring the stares of the mercenary captains and lordlings who filled the taproom, she glided over to Fflar’s table and seated herself without waiting for an invitation.

“Well,” she began. “You have a habit of taking long walks in the evening, don’t you?”

Fflar did his best to keep a faintly bemused expression on his face. He could sense at once that he was badly out of his depth; he had no skill for fencing with words. “And you have a habit of watching me,” he answered. “Who are you?”

“I am Terian. You are Starbrow, are you not?”

“That’s what they call me,” Fflar said. “Why have you been spying on me, Terian?”

“Now that is a truly ironic accusation, coming from an elf who’s spent each night skulking about in the alleyways and shadows, eavesdropping on the whole town.”

“If there’s something you want to say to me, better say it soon. Otherwise I think I’m going on up to my room.”

“Forgive me, Starbrow. I meant that to be clever, not rude. I truly do admire your directness.”

Fflar leaned back in his chair, regarding the girl skeptically. “All right, then. What do you want, Terian?”

She tossed her hair and glanced around the room, and she moved closer, setting one slim hand on his forearm. “You are being watched, Starbrow. Ilsevele Miritar and all of the elves in your party, too.”

“By you, apparently.”

“I am being serious. Selkirk is not negotiating in good faith. I fear he may be plotting to take Lady Miritar captive and use her against her father.”

Fflar narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?” he demanded.

Terian raised a finger to her lips. “Not so loudly. I am in the service of a Sembian lord who believes that peace with your people is the only path that can lead us out of this disaster. He has sources of information close to Selkirk who have warned him of the prince’s duplicity.”

“Who is your master, then?”

“I can’t tell you that.” The girl frowned, chewing on her lower lip. “But … I think I might be able to arrange a meeting. Your delegation is to meet with Selkirk tomorrow afternoon, correct?”

“No, in the evening. He returns from Ordulin late in the day.”

“The evening … even better. You will need to slip away from the delegation before they reach the Sharburg. There is a manor on the east side of the town that belongs to the Elgaun family, of Yhaunn. Meet me there one bell after dusk.”

“Let me guess. I should come alone?”

“One elf slipping out is hard enough to hide. I think you would have a hard time if you brought any more of your warriors. But suit yourself.” Then Terian leaned across the table to brush her lips against his.

Fflar was so startled he didn’t even think to protest. Then she whispered in his ear, “For the sake of those who are watching us. Let them think you have an assignation of a different sort tomorrow.” Then she pushed away and disappeared into the crowded taproom, with only a single mischievous glance over her shoulder for a good-bye.

“I haven’t agreed to anything,” he murmured to no one in particular. There was trouble brewing, he was certain of it, but if the girl had been telling the truth … then Ilsevele was in danger.

He shook his head and sighed. He didn’t trust this Terian at all. Fishing a few coins from his belt pouch, he left them on the table and returned to the rooms set aside for the elven embassy. He replayed the whole mysterious conversation in his head several times before he reached the door to their rooms, but still he couldn’t make any real sense of it.

Fflar rapped three times on the door and was admitted by the moon elf Seirye, leader of Ilsevele’s party of guards. He found Ilsevele waiting for him, her arms folded across her chest and anxiety creasing her brow.

“Starbrow!” she said. “Where have you been? I was beginning to fear that some misfortune had befallen you.”