Final Gate (3 page)

Ilsevele frowned at Seiveril’s awkward stance, and her eyes fell on the bloody creases in his greaves. “Father, you’re hurt!”

“It is nothing.” Seiveril settled himself back on the fallen menhir. “I am afraid that there were many who needed my healing spells more than I did last night. I take it things were quiet on the eastern marches?”

“For us, yes,” Theremen answered. “But my scouts reported that the Sembians entrenched in Battledale had a furious time of it. The daemonfey aren’t shy about sharing their fury with everyone around them, it seems.”

“Sarya hates us more, but the Sembians are an easier target,” Starbrow remarked. “If there’s a strategy to her attacks, I can’t see it. If I were her, I’d choose one enemy at a time.”

In the ruins of the watchtower, a pillar of gray smoke started up. Ilsevele glanced over, and her face tightened. “Who fell?” she asked.

“Adresin,” Seiveril answered quietly. “We were separated in the fighting last night. We found him only a short time ago.”

Ilsevele looked down at the ground. “I am sorry, Father. He was a courageous warrior, faithful and good. I know you will miss him.”

“He will not be the last, I fear,” Seiveril said. He sighed and looked away from the smoke twisting into the sky. “Well, we have gone to ground in Semberholme, and Sarya seems unable or unwilling to push us any farther. So what do we do now? How do we bring some sort of hope out of this horror?”

“Seek aid from Cormyr?” said Ilsevele. “I would think that Alusair might be disposed to help us.”

“You forget, we are currently at odds with Sembia as well as the daemonfey,” Theremen said. “Alusair can’t afford to be drawn into a war against Sembia by helping us in the Dales. Cormyr is still recovering from the troubles attending Azoun’s death.”

“Find Archendale’s price and buy their help?” said Starbrow.

“You face the same problem,” Theremen said. “The swords of Archendale don’t want to stand opposite Sembia unless Sembia itself threatens them.”

Seiveril looked up into the smoke-streaked sunrise. “We can’t deal with the Shadovar, not after the way they treated Evereska. Is there some friendly great power nearby that I am forgetting about, Lord Ulath? Otherwise I am out of ideas.”

A distant birdsong fllled the silence as the elves and the Dalelord examined their own thoughts. Then, slowly, Ilsevele said, “We have to make common cause with Sembia. It’s the only course of action that makes sense.”

“Not while they’re holding three Dales under their fist,”

Theremen countered. “I will not countenance any deal that concedes Battledale, Featherdale, or Tasseldale. We dare not feed that beast, not even once. They’d be swallowed whole in a generation, and we’d be feeding Mistledale or Deepingdale to Sembia next.”

“Better the Sembians than the daemonfey,” Starbrow pointed out.

“Some of my neighbors would say that it’s better to die sword in hand than to live on as chattel in their own homes,” Theremen snapped.

Seiveril raised his hand for calm. “It’s an academic question anyway, isn’t it? Sembia and Hillsfar have determined to carve up the Dales between them. We simply can’t go along with that.”

“But that was before the daemonfey fell out with Hillsfar,” said Ilsevele. “We don’t know if that accord still stands, do we? And even if it does, well, I’m willing to lay aside my differences with the Sembians long enough to end the daemonfey threat. How do we know that the Sembians wouldn’t feel the same? After all, Sarya’s triumph would be a disaster that none of us could stand for.”

The lord of Deepingdale shook his head. “The Sembians hold more Dales than the daemonfey at the moment.”

“But we don’t know that the Sembians would insist on keeping those lands,” Ilsevele answered. “As far as we know, they might be asking themselves what price we will insist on before we consent to aid them.”

Starbrow studied Ilsevele for a long moment, deep in thought. “You know, Seiveril, we would find it harder to fight a war with the Sembians once we’ve fought alongside them. If Ilsevele is right, they’d find it hard too.”

“But we would have to, if they tried to absorb the Dales their soldiers hold,” Theremen warned. “What if it proved easier to lay down our swords and let them have what they’ve taken, instead of making them give it back?”

“I hear you,” Starbrow said. “But we don’t have the strength to beat the daemonfey and the Sembians both, so there’s damned little we can say about Sembians in Featherdale right now anyway. As long as things stay the way they are, we aren’t about to throw the Sembians out.”

Seiveril leaned forward to rest his head in his hands, thinking. He hadn’t picked the fight with the Sembians, and it made him sick to his stomach to even begin a conversation with humans who’d seen fit to throw an army between him and Myth Drannor. But for all the maneuvering, marching, and sharp skirmishes of the past two months, he had yet to try the Crusade against the Sembian army. And the real challenge thrown in his face had come from Hillsfar, not Sembia.

Corellon, guide me, he prayed silently. The Sembians have feared and envied us for a thousand years. How can we hope to set that aside now? He straightened and looked up at the sunrise again, watching the smoke of the burning tower—Adresin’s funeral pyre, he reminded himself—glowing in the early light.

“Seiveril?” Starbrow asked quietly. “What do you think?”

“I agree with Ilsevele,” Seiveril said. “We will send an embassy to the Sembians, and see if we can set aside our quarrel long enough to defeat the daemonfey. I will leave tomorrow.”

“No, not you, Father,” Ilsevele said. “The Crusade would be lost without you. I will go and speak for you.”

“Absolutely not!” Seiveril stood up so fast that his injured leg almost buckled under him. He grunted in pain and sat back down again almost as fast as he had stood up. “The Sembians may prove treacherous, Ilsevele! The Hillsfarians certainly are. I can’t let anyone else shoulder the risk.”

“No, she’s right, Seiveril,” Starbrow sighed. “You can’t go, and if you can’t, there is no one better than Ilsevele. Besides, it was her idea.”

“If the Sembians used her as a hostage against me, there is nothing I would not do.”

“I know,” said Starbrow. “I will go with her and make sure that does not happen. I promise you, my friend, I will keep her safe.”

Ilsevele crossed her arms. “I don’t think-“

“I didn’t ask you,” Starbrow said firmly. “I’m going for your father’s sake. Now, when do you want to leave?”

Sunlight and warm pine scent filled the forest glade when Araevin appeared. He ghosted into solidity, his hand resting on the battered old stone marker that stood in the center of the clearing. He felt the mossy stone cool and damp under his fingertips and allowed himself a small smile.

“I suppose they haven’t barred me yet,” he murmured.

It was late afternoon in Evermeet, a perfect summer day with just the faintest whisper of the ever-present sea somewhere far off beyond the forest. The glade stood high in the rugged hills overlooking the isle’s northern shore, not far from the House of Cedars, where Araevin had grown up. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, momentarily lost in the memories of childhood years spent wandering in these hills

“Well, this is a pleasant enough spot, but I was beginning to wonder why you’d asked me to come here.”

Araevin turned at the sound of the voice. Quastarte, the ancient loremaster of Tower Reilloch, sat with his back to a tree trunk, resting in the shade. Araevin smiled and waved in the human manner.

“Quastarte!” he called. “I did not know if you would puzzle out my sending or not.”

“They call me a loremaster for a reason,” the old sun elf muttered. He squinted, looking closer at Araevin. “Now, why the secret summons to this place? And what has happened to your eyes? Unless I miss my guess, you have walked some strange roads indeed since we last met.”

“First question first,” Araevin answered. “I have been asked to stay away from Evermeet for a time. Given that, it hardly seemed like a good idea to rap on your door in Tower Reilloch.”

“But this seemed like a less flagrant act of defiance?”

Araevin shrugged. “I needed to speak with you, and I felt that it could not wait.” He sat down by a boulder near the loremaster, and dropped his rucksack to the ground at his feet. He rooted around in the sack and drew out a wineskin and two wooden mugs. “I have much to tell you, and I hope you will share some of your wisdom with me.”

“I have no other business to attend this afternoon,” Quastarte said. He poured himself some of the wine, and settled back against the tree. “Start at the beginning.”

“That would be about eleven thousand years ago… .” Araevin drew in a deep breath, and he told Quastarte the story of his search for the secret of the telmiirkara neshyrr, the strange twilight quest in the fading world of Sildeyuir, and his subsequent conquest of Saelethil Dlardrageth’s malevolent presence in the selukiira known as the Nightstar. He explained what he had learned from the ancient loregem and how that had illuminated what he had seen of Sarya’s works in his visit to Myth Drannor’s mythal. The better part of the afternoon passed as Araevin recounted his tale to the loremaster, while Quastarte listened attentively, frowned, and swirled the last swallow of wine in the bottom of his cup, thinking hard on Araevin’s story.

“And you spoke with the high mages?” he asked Araevin after the mage finished.

“Yes. I asked them to help me expel Sarya’s influence from Myth Drannor and the Waymeet, but they wish to study the threat more carefully before they employ high magic against the daemonfey.”

“And you think that no such study is necessary?”

“I do not think that we have the luxury of deliberation. If Sarya succeeds while we still are pondering how to stop her, there will be no end to the damage she causes.” Araevin took a swallow of his own wine. “I can’t overthrow her by myself, and I can’t wait for the help of the high mages.”

“And so one old loremaster will have to serve in place of a circle of Evermeet’s most powerful mages.” Quastarte set down his cup. “All right, then As I see it, Araevin, you need the Gatekeeper’s Crystal.”

“The same device Sarya used to open Nar Kerymhoarth, and free her fey’ri legion? It’s powerful enough to destroy the Waymeet?”

“I suppose it might be, but that’s not what it’s for. The Gatekeeper’s Crystal is the key to the Waymeet.”

Araevin looked at him with a blank expression.

The loremaster shook his head. “See, that’s what you get for drinking your knowledge from ancient loregems. If you had studied honestly, you would know this. The Gatekeeper’s Crystal is not just a weapon, Araevin. It is intimately connected to the Waymeet. Now, we never had the whole crystal at Tower Reilloch, only one of the three shards, so I never had the opportunity to experiment with it. But we learned long ago that the crystal we guarded drew its power from the Waymeet.”

“I never knew,” Araevin said.

Quastarte sighed. “Trust me, I understand. I did not know that the Waymeet itself was a mythal of old Aryvandaar until you told me just now, and I have had centuries to figure it out.”

“Sarya Dlardrageth holds the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. I doubt she would let me borrow it to deal with the Waymeet.”

“She had the crystal when she rent the wards of the Nameless Dungeon, yes. But she has it no more.”

“How do you know?” Araevin demanded.

“It’s the limitation of the crystal. When its full power is employed—as Sarya did when she opened Nar Kerymhoarth—its component shards fly apart and scatter themselves across the face of the world. She has not had the crystal since the day she freed her fey’ri.”

Araevin leaped to his feet, and gathered up his rucksack. “Thank you, old friend. I think you’ve given me more hope than I’ve had in a long time.”

Quastarte rose more slowly. “If you intend to assemble the Gatekeeper’s Crystal again, start at the Nameless Dungeon. When the weapon shatters, it often leaves one of its component shards near the place where it was last employed.”

Araevin clasped Quastarte’s arm. “If you could neglect to mention to the high mages that I was here, I would appreciate it.”

The old loremaster gestured at the forested hillside. “I went for a long walk in the woods on a fine summer day, and that is all. No one needs to know any more than that.”

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 at 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.