Forsaken House (6 page)

“You are free now, my lady. The ancient treachery of your foes has been undone.”

Sarya’s eyes narrowed and she said, “Only through the ignorance of foolish adventurers, who thought to cleanse Ascalhorn with no less a weapon than the Gatekeeper’s Crystal.”

They succeeded in throwing down Hellgate Keep—dying heroically in the process, of course—but they had also managed to crack the deeply buried magical prison in which

Sarya and her daemonfey sons had been interred thousands of years before the city of Ascalhorn had been raised.

At once Sarya had set about, exploring the new world that had grown over the ruins of the one she had known five millennia earlier. In the five years since the Harpers had unknowingly set her free, she had gathered together the remnants of the fey’ri, demonspawned elves who had served House Dlardrageth in the days of her glory. Some, such as Nurthel himself, she had liberated from lesser prisons similar to her own. Others she had found hiding in distant planes, and a handful had survived unimprisoned, hiding amid the cities of her enemies. And she had also turned her attention to unraveling the mystery of her freedom, employing all of her formidable sorcery to learn how and why she had come to be freed.

“I wonder how the palebloods of Evermeet found the third piece,” he said.

The daemonfey princess shrugged.

“Most likely it was found by some human mageling or tomb-plunderer,” she said, “who recognized it as elf-work and sold it to someone who understood its true worth. My divinations informed me of the crystal’s location, but did not suffice to solve the mystery of its travels.”

She turned to a golden coffer that stood on one table, and spoke a charm of opening. Inside gleamed two crystals virtually identical to the one she held in her hand. The first segment Sarya had found in the rubble of Hellgate Keep, soon after gaining her freedom. It took her four years, but she eventually found the second piece in a volcano in Avernus, first of the Nine Hells.

She lifted out the other pieces one at a time and joined them, base-to-base. As each segment’s lower facet touched that of the neighboring segment, the crystal glowed blue and melded together, forming a seamless, perfect whole. When the last piece was added, the device seemed to hum with power. It resembled a three-pointed star almost a foot in diameter, stronger than steel and imbued with magic beyond mortal means.

“Ah,” Sarya purred. “What a pretty trinket this is!”

“Will it work?” Nurthel asked, peering at the artifact.

“Oh, yes,” Sarya said. “Nothing can stand against it, though we must be careful, or else it will fly apart and fling its component crystals to the far ends of the multiverse. I dare not invoke its powers here, not within the spell wards of Myth Glaurach—but it will serve for the task I have in mind. I am confident of it.”

Sarya replaced the conjoined crystal in its coffer, then set a lethal spell over the chest. She gestured at a decanter of dark wine and a pair of golden goblets across the room, summoning them to her hand.

“Now, what of the rest of your mission? How did that proceed?”

“We battled at least two, perhaps three high mages. We killed the two we were certain of and destroyed a number of lesser mages, too. Some had skill, others were mere novices. We plundered what we could from the Tower, and left before the mages managed to organize their defenses.”

“And what of Kaeledhin’s key?”

“We did as you directed, my lady. I attended to the matter personally,” Nurthel said. The fey’ri lord accepted a goblet from his lady’s hand and sipped the fiery vintage within. He dropped his eyes to his golden cup and swirled the wine thoughtfully. “Still … I do not see the point of it. We have the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. That seems sufficient.”

“Perhaps,” Sarya replied. She turned and paced absently away, resuming the endless prowling she fell into when her mind was engaged. “But once I use the crystal, it is almost certain to fly apart again, and it may take years to reassemble. I would like a more permanent weapon at my disposal. In any event, it seems that Evermeet will remember our visit for some time.”

16 Alturiak, the Year of Lightning Storms

Araevin spent most of the day lending his spells and lore to the restoration of the Tower’s magical defenses, aiding Quastarte and the other mages. An hour before sunset, he and Ilsevele left Tower Reilloch, following the coastal track west.

While they walked, Araevin carefully replayed the battle over and over in his mind, setting its every detail in his memory and thinking long and hard on the nature of the Tower’s foes. The demons and yugoloths were clearly little more than footsoldiers, brought to the tower in order to destroy its defenders and guard the winged sorcerers. The latter were the creatures that most concerned Araevin. He’d seen at least three of them among the attackers. Each had possessed the narrow face, elegant features, and graceful build of an elf … along with the fine scales,sinister wings, and supernatural malice of a demon. It shouldn’t have been possible for the winged ones to gate their demonic minions into Evermeet, not with the magical wards surrounding the island, but somehow they had managed the feat.

They have elf blood, he thought grimly. They pierced our defenses because Evermeet did not recognize them as enemies. But what manner of elf is so clearly spawned of the lower planes? Not even the cursed drow are so debased.

A couple of hours before dawn, they finally stopped to rest in a small wayside hostel along the road. So far they had seen no signs of anything untoward, but as an extra precaution, Ilsevele stood watch while Araevin prepared his spells. Araevin had used many spells the night before, and he took some time to ready all his powers again. The act of unleashing a spell was fairly simple, a few arcane words, a quick pass of the hands, a pinch of odd reagents. But a wizard often required hours of tedious preparation to ready spells for the quick casting called for in battle. When he finished, they set out again, and reached the Miritar estate on the outskirts of the northern city of Elion late in the afternoon.

The Miritar clan had held Elion and the surrounding land in the name of Evermeet’s monarchs for close to five hundred years. Like many other Cormanthorian families, the Miritars had fled Myth Drannor in the last days of that great city, escaping the terrible army that had destroyed the city. They had never been a numerous family, but they claimed the allegiance of a number of less noble clans, and they had proven to be good stewards over the northern lands granted them by the Crown. Seamist, the Miritar seat, was a large, rambling place of white stone walls wreathed in the ever-present mists of the northern shore. Dimly glimpsed colonnades and alluring bowers hovered beneath the dripping fir trees like an ethereal dream.

Two guards in dappled gray cloaks greeted Araevin and Ilsevele as they approached the palace gates.

“Lady Miritar, glad homeagain!” one of them called.

“We wondered where you were when Swiftwind returned unsaddled. “

“I sent him along, Rhyste. He is well?”

“Yes, my lady. You’ll find him in the stables.”

“Good,” said Ilsevele. She glanced at Araevin. “Swiftwind knows his way here, unlike some others I can think of.” Araevin winced, but she smiled and looked back to the guard. “Is my father here?”

“Yes, my lady,” said Rhyste. “He just returned from Leuthilspar. You’ll find him taking his dinner in his study, if I am not mistaken.”

“Thank you,” Ilsevele replied. “Mage Teshurr will be staying with us for a time. Please send word to have a room readied for him.”

Ilsevele and Araevin passed into the palace grounds, following a winding path that climbed through the cool groves and elegant buildings to a broad meadow high on the hillside. There a manor house of white stone crowned the palace grounds, looking out over the forested slopes below to the gray sea beyond. An open archway led to a courtyard of undisturbed natural stone open to the sky, grown over with moss and heather. Ilsevele led Araevin to a door on their left and knocked twice before entering.

The room beyond was a broad study, its walls graced by elegantly carved wooden screens and wide windows of mystic theurglass. A writing desk of cherry stood against one wall, beside two tall bookcases of the same wood. On one wall hung the ancient sword Keryvian, a mighty weapon of fallen Myth Drannor that had come into the possession of House Miritar almost three hundreds years before, recovered from the demon-haunted ruins of the city by Ilsevele’s father when he was young.

A trim sun elf dressed in robes of green reclined on a divan beneath one of the windows, a book in his hands, a tray of sliced fruit and thin cakes forgotten on the end table. His hair, once a copper red, was streaked with silver, and thin lines framed his mouth and gathered at the corners of his eyes, but he was still graceful and fit. Lord Seiveril Miritar wore his four hundred winters well. He glanced up as Ilsevele and Araevin entered, and smiled warmly.

“Ilsevele! Glad homeagain, my dear. This is an unexpected surprise. And Araevin, too! Welcome to Seamist.”

Ilsevele hurried across the room to take her father’s hands and kiss his cheek.

“Hello, Father,” she said. “It’s good to be home.”

“Please, join me in my meal,” Seiveril said. He waved at the divan, and took in their mud-splashed boots and mist-dampened cloaks with a glance. “You’ve traveled a fair distance today, I see. Have you come from the Tower, then? How are things there?”

Araevin did not move. He exchanged glances with Ilsevele. Seiveril spied the worried look in Araevin’s eyes at once, and paused.

“Something is wrong,” he observed quietly.

“The Tower has been attacked, Lord Seiveril,” Araevin said. “The night before last. A large band of demons and yugoloths killed many of the Tower’s folk, including the high mages Aeramma Durothil and Philaerin, the Eldest. And they stole a dangerous artifact from the Tower vaults.”

“Aillesel seldarie! Has Amlaruil been told?” Seiveril asked at once.

A high priest of Corellon Larethian, highest of the elf gods, Seiveril served as one of Queen Amlaruil’s high councilors. It would not be completely accurate to say that he was lord of the isle’s northern coasts, but on the other hand no elf within fifty miles commanded the authority that Seiveril did as a high-ranking cleric and a lord of Evermeet’s council.

“We sent a mage to Leuthilspar immediately, and followed her with messengers on horseback,” Araevin said. “We left the Loremaster Quastarte in charge, with the other mages to help him defend Tower Reilloch until help arrives.”

“I will send assistance immediately, just in case,” said Seiveril. He stood and walked to the door, summoning a guard in the mist-gray and sea-blue colors

of House Miritar. “Tell Lord Muirreste to ready a company of knights to ride to Tower Reilloch at once,” he instructed the fellow. “Ask Muirreste to join me here as soon as he’s passed word to his riders. Then send for the mage Earethel, and ask him to join me here too. And tell Sister Thilesil that I will require her to send along five or six initiates of the grove with Muirreste’s riders. There are injured to tend. Be swift. I want Muirreste to leave within the hour.”

The guard’s eyes widened, but he nodded and said, “As you command, Lord Miritar.”

Seiveril watched the fellow go, then turned back to Araevin and Ilsevele. He clasped his hands behind his back and fixed his keen gaze on the two of them.

“Now,” he said, “start at the beginning then, and tell me exactly what happened.”

Araevin nodded. He drew a breath, and recounted the events of the past two days as best he could. He had a tremendous memory for details—one could not be very successful in the study of magic without a mind for such things—and he carefully and completely described the battle, the aftermath, the discovery of Philaerin, and the empty vault.

When he finished, Seiveril paced anxiously around the room.

“Demons, you said?” the lord asked. “I thought Evermeet’s wards barred such creatures from the isle.”

“They were led by demons that possessed elf blood,” Araevin replied. “Or perhaps elves corrupted into demonic shapes. They had black wings and terrible eyes, and they fought with both sword and spell.”

“You think the winged ones might have been elves?” Ilsevele said weakly.

“You saw them, too. They had our eyes, our ears, our features, and they were able to slip within Evermeet’s wards.”

“Demonblooded elves… . Could it be that some of the Dlardrageths survive?” Seiveril mused.

“Dlardrageths?” asked Ilsevele.

Seiveril’s eyes grew hard as he explained, “Thousands of years ago, in the early days of Cormanthor, the sun elves of House Dlardrageth—a proud and powerful family—gave themselves to demons, hoping to strengthen their line and gain power enough to seize the Coronal’s throne. They were discovered and driven out of Arcorar long before the mythal was raised over Cormanthor.” The nobleman sighed. “What was it you said they were seeking in Tower Reilloch?”

“The Gatekeeper’s Crystal,” said Araevin. “Well, one-third of it, anyway. It is an artifact composed of three smaller crystals. We had one shard of it in Tower Reilloch. I could not begin to guess where the other two pieces are now. I suppose we should assume that whomever attacked the Tower already has his hands on the remaining shards of the crystal.”

“We’ll find a way to get it back,” Seiveril said. “At moonrise I will pray to Corellon Larethian, and prepare divinations to find out who stole the crystal and where they’re hiding. We’ll assemble an expedition of our best warriors and mages. Whomever dared attack Evermeet herself will not enjoy their success for long.”

He passed a hand over his face, his expression grim.

Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and saw that her jaw was set in a determined frown as well. Three years before, Ilyyela Miritar—Seiveril’s wife, and Ilsevele’s mother—had died during the war launched by the traitorous sun elf Kymil Nimesin. Ilyyela had perished in the catastrophic attack against the Towers of the Sun and Moon. It did not take a sharp mind to guess that Seiveril was sickened by the thought of another attack against Evermeet, following so quickly on the heels of the recent war.