Authors: Richard Baker
6 Ches, the Year of Lightning Storms
Araevin and Ilsevele set out from Waterdeep on a cold, bright day scoured by fierce westerly winds. With the two elves rode Grayth Holmfast, who wore a suit of light golden mail beneath a white surcoat emblazoned with the sunrise of Lathander, and his younger companion Brant, dressed in the orange surcoat of an aspirant to the Order of the Aster. Maresa Rost rounded out the party, wearing a jerkin of studded leather dyed deep crimson, a striking contrast with her pale skin and white hair. They had spent two days outfitting themselves, purchasing good horses, an ample supply of provisions, and equipment for their search.
“So, where exactly are we going?” Maresa asked as the keep of Daggerdale disappeared below the hills at their back. The cold waters of the Sea of Swords thundered and crashed below the cliffs a few hundred yards from the road, and the roaring wind made speech difficult.
“I am not sure,” Araevin replied. “I have a sense of how far away the item we seek lies, and in what direction. I’ve also glimpsed the place where it lies, a ruined tower deep in a forest. Based on that intuition, I believe that we will find what we seek in the Forest of Wyrms, though it might be the Reaching Woods, or the Wood of Sharp Teeth, or possibly even some unnamed copse somewhere south of the Chionthar and north of the Small Teeth.”
“You still haven’t gotten around to telling me what we’re looking for.”
Araevin frowned. He could feel Ilsevele and Grayth endeavoring not to look at him as he answered. When it came down to it, he still didn’t know Maresa well at all, and he hesitated to say too much. But he suspected that she was sharp enough to see through him if he didn’t trust her with something close to the truth.
“I am looking for a set of enchanted gemstones,” he said. “There are three of them. I have the first, and it permits me to sense the second.”
“Enchanted? What do they do?”
“They hold spells,” Araevin answered. “Like a wizard’s spellbook. I’m interested in the spells that I think might be stored in the second and third stones.”
“Fair enough,” said Maresa. “I suppose there’s no point in asking for a cut of the magic gems, but I’ll require an even share of any other treasure we find.”
“Agreed,” said Araevin, then he fell silent, considering what else he should add.
Ilsevele spoke for him.
“There is something else, Maresa,” she said. “We have reason to believe that there may be others who want these gemssorcerers with demon servants. They will kill for them without hesitation. Be on your guard.”
“There are always complications,” the genasi said brightly. She patted the rapier at her hip. “Let them come.”
“So we start near Soubar,” Grayth said. “That’s a tenday’s ride, possibly more if the rains come early this spring. I guess we’ll have time to get to know each other.”
“I intend to cut seven days from that,” Araevin said. “I know of an old portal that will shorten our journey by three hundred miles. It was built in the early days of ancient Illefarn. The gate will take us from the Ardeep Forest to an abandoned watchtower in the eastern portion of the Trollbark Forest.”
“Is it safe to use?” Grayth asked, with no small anxiety.
“The portal is sound enough, though we will have to be careful when we reach the other side,” Araevin answered. “The Trollbark is aptly named. But we won’t cross more than ten miles or so of that forest before we meet the Trade Way again.”
“Would it be better to remain on the road?” Ilsevele asked.
“I don’t know. The road has its perils, toobrigands and marauding monsters from the High Moor, thieves and cutthroats in the roadside inns. On the other hand time might be important.”
They rode on for the rest of the day, and by nightfall the company had reached the outskirts of the Ardeep Forest. The sea wind kept its strength all day and into the evening, though with sunset a low, scudding cloud cover set in, making for a lightless and gloomy night. The House of Long Silences was still almost ten miles farther on, so they decided to camp for the night in the shelter of a ruined hunting lodge, a moss-covered building made of rough-hewn logs and fieldstone. It was open to the sky, but with a little work they hoisted some of the fallen timbers back into place and spread evergreen boughs over the gaps. After stabling the horses in the other half of the old lodge and fixing supper over the campfire, they drew for watches and retired.
Araevin stretched himself out on his bedroll beneath a blanket, gazing up through the gaps in the makeshift roof at the gray clouds overhead. Though elves didn’t sleep, they still needed a comfortable place to sit or lie down while they drifted off into the dreamlike Reverie. Anything a human could sleep in or on was more than adequate. Ilsevele lay by his side, her hand in his, her breathing slow and deep. He wondered what she thought of human-crowded Faerun so far, and that reminded him of his first impressions when he traveled the continent. He wandered drowsily into the memories of his old journeys,
and an hour or more passed as he gazed absently up at the clouds.
An electric jolt returned him to full wakefulness. Araevin sat upright with a gasp, his heart thundering. One of his alarm spells, a ward against scrying and magical spying, had been triggered. He scrambled to his feet and whirled around to see a strange, semitangible puckering in the air, the manifestation of some sort of divination magic. Within the distorted knuckle of air he glimpsed a sharply handsome face surmounted by two small black
horns, one eye concealed beneath a rune-marked eye patch.
The daemonfey, he realized. They are spying on us!
“Araevin! What is it?” cried Ilsevele, startled by his sudden movement.
She seized her bow and groped for an arrow, rising to her knees as she searched wildly for a target.
Araevin ignored her and quickly worked a dispelling enchantment, wiping out the spell the other sorcerer was using. He sensed a growl of frustration, a snarl of pure hate, and the connection was severed. The mage closed his eyes and carefully enunciated the words of an amplifying spell, then stretched out his wizard’s senses to encompass the whole camp. He could feel a distant presence, a
tenuous thread linking their campsite with a far-off place many miles to the north and west.
“We have been spied on,” Araevin said finally. “A scrying spell. I negated it.”
Ilsevele paled and asked, “Who was it? Do they know where we are?”
“It was that daemonfey we saw at Reilloch,” Araevin replied. “The one with the eye patch. Most likely all he knows is that we are in Faerun, camping in a forest. He did not watch us long enough to perceive more. But I wonder if he has spied on us before without our noticing him.”
The rest of the company sat up in their bedrolls, looking at Araevin. Even Grayth, who had the watch, got up from the fireside and circled closer.
“Someone scried us?” the cleric asked.
“Yes,” said Araevin. “I defeated this attempt, at least. I must remember to renew my defenses regularly from now on, to detect and block any such additional attempts in the future. They saw enough to recognize me, and perhaps Ilsevele too.
“Someone knows we’re here.”
Five days had passed since Hill Elder Imesfor of Evereska had presented his city’s plea to the High Council of Evermeetfive days of bitterly divisive debate, argument, and strife that left Seiveril Miritar as cold and empty as last month’s ashes at the end of each day. Imesfor had returned to Evereska already, of course. Given the approach of an enemy army, the Hill Elder could not linger in Evermeet to plead his case in person. Seiveril therefore took up the Evereskan’s cause as his own. He used every argument, every wile he could think of to shake the intransigence of Durothil, Veldann, and the other conservatives in the council, but to no avail. The council could not resolve to send Evermeet’s army into danger again, not so soon after the costly campaign against the phaerimm and Kymil Nimesin’s invasion.
As the sun fell on the eighth day of Ches, Seiveril returned to his comfortable townhouse, a small palace of white stone in the hills overlooking Leuthilspar’s harbor. Even though their ancestral lands lay along Evermeet’s northern coasts, like many other noble families, the Miritars had maintained a residence in the capital for some centuries. The high priest donned his clerical robes and went straight to a small grove close by his palace to perform the daily rites and invocations welcoming starrise, the time holy to Corellon Larethian. He was so exhausted and sick with frustration that he stumbled over the familiar words.
With a sigh, Seiveril halted in his devotions. He was alone in the grove. Any elves who wished the clerics of Corellon to seek some special blessing or intercede on their behalf with the other deities of the Seldarine usually sought out the Uilaevelen, the Moongrove, Leuthilspar’s living temple to the elf gods. Feeling as weary as an aged human, Seiveril stared up into the sky, where a few faint and distant stars were beginning to appear in the gaps between the clouds.
“Lord of the Seldarine, give me patience and strength,” he prayed. “Help me to find the way to guide your People onto the right path. I cannot do it myself.”
He watched the sky darken for some time, his mind calm and empty. Then, as he turned away, he caught sight of a white owl winging silently through the treetops. Seiveril scented magic in the air. The beautiful creature hooted softly and wheeled over his head before descending to the ground. Then the owl shimmered into a fountain of silver light, growing and changing. In a moment Queen Amlaruil stood before him, dressed in a silvery gown with a cloak of soft white feathers draped over her shoulders.
“Good evening, Lord Miritar,” she said. “I hope you will forgive this unusual intrusion, but I wished to have a word with you without the rest of the council at hand.”
Seiveril bowed and replied, “You startled me, my lady. I sometimes forget that you were a grand mage before you were queen. What can I do for you?”
“You can listen, and perhaps understand. I have come to tell you that I have composed my reply to Evereska’s request for assistance.”
“You have decided not to help them,” the lord said. “You wanted to tell me first.”
The queen nodded and said, “I will send what help I can, Seiveril. Without showing my hand I can send a number of mages, spellarchers, spellsingers, and bladesingers to Evereska. Some of them can journey on from there to fight in the High Forest. But I cannot send any high mages, and I cannot send more than a few dozen carefully chosen warriors. And of course, I will offer safe haven here in Evermeet to any elf who seeks it.”
“It is not enough. Even if Evereska has the strength to fend off this newest assault, we cannot take the chance that the city will be weakened any further.”
“And I will not be permitted to take the chance that Evermeet might be rendered vulnerable by sending more of our strength to the mainland,” said Amlaruil. She folded her arms beneath the white cape. “You have seen that the council cannot reach consensus on any response that requires us to send,our warriors to Faerun. While we waste time in debate, the danger to our kinfolk grows each day. I will do what I can now.”
“My queen, it is up to you to end the debate,” Seiveril said. “The council serves at your pleasure. We hold no authority other than that of our collective titles and stations. If we cannot agree, then you must decide. You hold your throne to defend Evermeet, and all the People everywhere, against the threats that gather in this world. It is your paramount duty. You cannot allow Selsharra Durothil and Ammisyll Veldann to hinder you from taking whatever steps are necessary to preserve our civilization.”
“Do not presume to lecture me on my duties, Lord Miritar. I may have only held the throne for sixty years, but I have stood beside it for more than five hundred.”
Seiveril lowered his gaze and said, “I apologize, my lady.”
Amlaruil stood in silence for a long moment. Then her face softened.
“You know as well as I that I rule by the consent of the People. I am not a tyrant who can drive my subjects in any direction I choose. The monarch of Evermeet represents the collective will of all the People and must remain subservient to their goals and desires, not her own. While I may not care for the ambitions and arrogance of Durothil or Veldann or any of the other Houses who follow them, I cannot escape this one fact: Perhaps as much as a third of Evermeet’s folk believe strongly that spending our strength to defend realms in Faerun is pure folly.”
“They are mistaken,” Seiveril said.
“I am inclined to believe so too, though I find that I lack your unshakable certainty on the question. But regardless of how I feel about the matter, I cannot ignore the reservations of so many of my subjects.”
“Reservations or not, elves are in dire peril in Faerun. We cannot stand by and do nothing!” Seiveril took a small step toward the queen and caught her hand in both of his. “Send something, I beg you. Whatever force you dispatch will be better than nothing. Surely, Durothil and Veldann cannot prevent you from doing that.”
“Yet they can,” Amlaruil said with a sigh. She extricated her hand from Seiveril’s and turned away, pacing across the moonlit glade. “Soon after the council adjourned for the day, Selsharra Durothil came to speak to me privately. She informed me that if I dispatched any expedition to Faerun, she would recall all Durothils from Evermeet’s service-and with them, the Veldanns, as well as all the Houses that owe them fealty. That constitutes something like three in ten of our mages and warriors.”
Seiveril’s stomach ached with dread.
“Surely,” he said, “not all of the Durothils and Veldanns would abandon their oaths and return to their homes?”
“Some would defy Lady Durothil, I am sure. But how many others from different families might be encouraged to express their own private reservations in the same way?” Amlaruil hugged her shoulders against the growing chill in the night air and continued, “I dare not call her bluff, Seiveril. If my actions force the strong sun elf Houses to repudiate their allegiance to the throne, I open the door for horrors such as we cannot imagine. No, I must accept that Evermeet’s heart is divided on the question of whether to turn our faces toward Faerun or away from it, and as long as Evermeet’s heart is so troubled, my own must be too.”