Authors: Richard Baker
“No.”
“Very well, then. Show me this portal.”
Araevin led Nurthel across the mist-filled hall, flanked by the surviving demons and fey’ri. With all the power of his will and heart he tried again to throw off Sarya’s spell and regain his freedom, but for all his effort his feet still carried him forward without hesitation, and his hands remained shackled behind him. Evidently the potential hazard of the selukiira was simply not immediate enough to give him the chance to overthrow the spell of dominion. On the wall opposite the stairway, a large design of silver inlaid in the stone depicted Selene and the diamondlike Tears trailing behind it.
“I must have my hands free to use the portal and retrieve the Nightstar,” Araevin said.
Nurthel undid his bonds, watching carefully for any sign that Sarya’s compulsion was weakening.
“You will use the portal to reach the selukiira chamber,” the fey’ri said. “You will then take the Nightstar and bring it back here to me. Do not do anything except what I have instructed you to do. If something prevents you from accomplishing this task, you will return immediately for further instructions. Now go.”
Araevin longed to rub his wrists and shake the stiffness from his arms, but the fey’ri’s orders left him no latitude even for so simple an act. He chanted the words of the secret spell taught him by the three telkiira, the only spell that could awaken the portal. The silver diagram inlaid in the stone woke to life, glowing with white fire. Then he reached out and touched three of the Tears, avoiding the silver stars that would have triggered all manner of deadly spells. He felt the ancient magic awake beneath his fingers and snatch him away from the silver hall.
*****
Seiveril stood in the silent grove, eyes closed, his face tilted up to the sky, and listened for Corellon Larethian’s whispers in his heart. The wooded hillside was a remote place indeed, old and wild, a small outpost of the strange and ancient Forgotten Forest that lay two days’ march behind him. The trees were gnarled and stooped like senescent men, tangled with beards and hoary coats of moss, and somewhere deep in their old black hearts they dreamed of days when their fathers stood wakeful and alert across all of northern Faerun, a single unbroken forest. Not even the elves were welcome beneath their branches.
Seiveril felt the warm glow of other elf minds nearby, the Seldarine knights and clerics of Vesilde Gaerth’s Golden Star order. As the soldiers best equipped with the magic needed to fight off demonic assaults, the knights of the Golden Star never strayed far from Seiveril’s banner, guarding him within a ring of holy steel and powerful protective prayers. He didn’t like the idea that he required an elite guard, not when Gaerth’s troops could have been gainfully employed in the close pursuit of the daemonfey, but he recognized the necessity. In the six days that the crusade had been following the retreating daemonfey army his foes had made no attempt to launch any more decapitating attacks against his standard like the one in the Western Cwm, but just because they hadn’t done it so far didn’t mean the daemonfey might not try it at any time.
The sun elf lord stilled his mind and looked past the nearby auras of his friends and allies, seeking the great golden presence of Corellon’s will. When he felt himself calm and still again, Seiveril began to pray in earnest, reciting the spell prayers he had readied for the day. Every day since the battle in the cwm, as his host had descended the Rillvale on the heels of the horde of orcs and demons and harried them into the wild and empty lands north and west of Evereska, Seiveril had set aside an hour to wrestle with his foes, seeking to divine their secrets and their plans. Sometimes he succeeded, gaining glimpses of the daemonfey array or the ruined old city that served as their citadel. More often the spellcasters of the daemonfey horde succeeded in deflecting his divinations, blinding his magical sight. And so, while company after company of archers, swordsmen, and cavalry hurried northward on the grass-grown roadway along which the daemonfey fled, Seiveril struggled to see what would happen next and understand what he had to do.
The day’s spells brought little to comfort him. He saw a terrible battle gathering in the High Forest, a fight he desperately wished to influence but was simply too far away to affect. He saw that his own army would likely be fighting again very soon, a rematch with the daemonfey horde, and he was not certain of the outcome. He could not see any hint of Ilsevele or Araevin, or the progress of their quest. It was as if they had been removed from the face of the world. He sensed that they were in danger, and that his own fortunes were tied up with theirs, but little more.
With a sigh, he allowed his arms to fall, and brought himself back to awareness. The brooding woodland returned to his eyes, its silence broken only by the soft whisper of cool, rain-speckled wind in the small green leaves of spring. He watched the woodland for a time, curiously drawn by its ancient, slumbering resentment, then he turned and picked his way down the slope.
Fflar was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on a flat stone, Keryvian leaning within easy reach. He glanced up as Seiveril returned.
“Well? What did you see today?” Fflar asked.
“There will be a fierce battle on the slopes of the Lost
Peaks, and soon. The wood elves have retreated as far as
they can go, and still the daemonfey pursue them.” “How soon?”
“Within a day, perhaps two.”
Fflar said, “Even if we left our footsoldiers behind and took nothing but our fastest cavalry, it would take a tenday to reach that corner of the High Forest. The wood elves will have to make do without our aid.”
“Perhaps I can ask Jorildyn’s mages to assist,” Seiveril thought aloud. “At least thirty of our wizards and sorcerers know teleportation spells. We could spare half that number to bring fifty or more spellcasters and chosen troops to assist the wood elves.”
“Jerreda Starcloak will insist that you must do something. I don’t like reducing our own magical strength, not with that daemonfey army ahead of us, but I don’t see any other way to help out the wood elves,” Fflar said. He stood easily, unfolding his long legs, and buckled Keryvian to his hip again. “What about us? When will we fight again?”
“The daemonfey will turn and stand on the Lonely Moor,” Seiveril said as he swung himself up into the saddle of his war-horse, and thanked the young warrior who held the reins.
The elven vanguard was less than ten miles from the round, scrub-covered hills that climbed up to the moor’s boggy plateau. Difficult terrain lay ahead of them. The cavalry would not do well on the moorland, but on the other hand archers would exact a terrible toll from adversaries seeking to close over the uneven ground. Almost no one-elf, human, orc, or otherwise-traveled those lands often, though Seiveril’s Evereskan scouts told him that bands of gnolls and bugbears hunted the moor.
“We should meet them tomorrow in the middle of the day,” Seiveril went on, “if we continue our pursuit.”
Fflar nodded and said, “I suppose that explains why the daemonfey haven’t abandoned any poor bastard who can’t fly. They could have escaped by taking to the air, and there would’ve been damned little we could do about it.”
“They still have that option,” Seiveril pointed out.
*****
The crusade marched the rest of the day, beneath gray skies and a cold, damp wind that slowly numbed the fingers and toes until they ached as if they were on fire. That night, they bivouacked on two large knolls on the long, rumpled slope climbing up to the moor proper. The overcast hid the stars, and the cold wind simply grew stronger, until the pennants and banners fluttered and snapped like brightly colored sails. Seiveril ordered his captains to rest the soldiers as much as possible and prepare a good, hearty meal from their stores, knowing that they would need their strength the next day.
Seiveril ate little and rested not at all, finding himself too troubled to slip into Reverie. He settled for circling the camp, watching the warriors of Evermeet making ready for battle. Beneath the songs sung by the windblown cookfires lay a note of determination and confidence that he could not have imagined when he recklessly invited any willing fighter to follow him to Faerun. How many of them would not greet the next moonrise, lying dead on a distant and useless battlefield far from home? How long might they have lived if they had remained on Evermeet?
He sat down heavily on a boulder, bowing his head in the dark night, weary with all the weight of his four and a half centuries. His mind turned to his wife, Ilyyela, dead for three short years after centuries at his side.
Am I doing the right thing, Ilyyela? he asked the night. Is this what I am supposed to do?
A soft footfall drew his attention. Seiveril looked up, and saw Fflar approaching. He waited as the moon elf hero joined him on his boulder. They sat a while in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts against the night.
Finally Fflar said, “Where are your thoughts, Seiveril?”
“My wife, Ilyyela. She died in the war three years ago. The Tower of the Sun was destroyed by a spell cast by a circle of traitorous spellsingers, and she was in it.”
“I am sorry for that, my friend,” Fflar said, staring off into the blackness of the night. “I had the good fortune of preceding my wife to Arvandor. She and my son were among the last to escape Myth Drannor, in the days before the city’s fall. Yet here I am now, walking the world once again, and now it is she who is gone, and my son as well. It has been six hundred years, after all. I wonder if he had children? It would be something to meet them, would it not?” The moon elf paused, and laughed softly
at himself. “I miss them, Seiveril. I should not have come back.”
“What do you remember of Arvandor?”
Fflar shook his head and replied, “It is only a dim dream, as you might remember a house you lived in when you were a very small child. I remember contentment, joy … I think that the gods must veil our memories when we return from death to life. Otherwise it would be an abomination to call us out of bliss, would it not? How could I stand to be parted from my wife and son a single hour otherwise?”
“Yet you agreed to return,” Seiveril said. “You made that decision while Arvandor was still unveiled.”
“The difficulty with attaining everything you want is that it’s not enough. I recall contentment, yes, but I also recall regret. I died as a failure, Seiveril. Despite all my efforts, my city fell, my people were slaughtered, our light was extinguished. I do not know for certain why I returned, since my mind is clouded now, but I think I came back to finish what I had left undone in my mortal days.” Fflar looked at Seiveril, folded his arms, and said, “You are high in the faith of Corellon Larethian. You must understand all this. Why did you call me back?”
“Because Ilyyela told me to,” Seiveril said. He did not meet Fflar’s gaze, but instead studied his hands, folded in his lap. “Soon after Amlaruil rallied us to repel Nimesin’s attack, I attempted to resurrect my wife. Perhaps I should not have tried it, but the grief … the thought was in my heart that we were both young still, young enough to walk the world for centuries yet before departing for Arvandor together.
“Corellon did not deny me the spell. I think he knew that I had to make the attempt. At sunset of a warm summer evening I chanted the prayers and cast the spell of resurrection, and Ilyyela’s spirit answered my call. But she would not cross back into life. Ilyyela, my love, come back to me,’ I begged. Yet she refused. ‘My time is done,’ she said. ‘Do not mourn for the years we might have shared in Evermeet, for we will be together in Arvandor’s summer forever.’
“I pleaded with her. ‘I cannot stand to be apart from you, not for the long years I might remain. I will join you in Arvandor, if you will not return.’
“Then Ilyyela regarded me with sadness. ‘That is not for you to decide,’ she told me. ‘It is not for any to decide. There is a great labor before you, my love, which you must begin before you come home. And you will not have long to wait. You will come to Arvandor very soon, Seiveril. Until that day you must live the life allotted to you.’”
Fflar smiled in the darkness and said, “I suppose you must wonder what she meant by ‘very soon.’ But what does this have to do with me?”
“I said my farewells to Ilyyela’s spirit then,” Seiveril said. “Before she departed entirely, she told me this: ‘I cannot answer your call, love. But there is one here who will. Heal him, Seiveril. His wait has been long.’ “
The moon elf was silent for a long time.
“And you thought she meant me?” he said finally. “Why me, Seiveril? I never knew you in life.”
“No, you did not. But you did know my father, Elkhazel. He told me many stories of your valor in the Weeping War. When he finally passed to Arvandor himself, he told me where to find Keryvian. I suppose I have regarded you as something of a hero, since I was a small lad.”
“I’m only one hundred and fifty years old, Seiveril. I can’t abide the notion that a fellow three times my age regards me as his boyhood hero. Nor can I believe that I was unhappy in Arvandor,” Fflar said. He stood up, shaking his head. “You’d better get some rest, old man. You’ll need clear wits and all your strength for tomorrow.”
At daybreak the elves broke camp and began to climb the flanks of the moor, marching in battle order-tight, disciplined companies instead of the loose columns of the past few days. They marched not more than two hours before an Evereskan scout galloped up to Seiveril and Fflar at the false standard.
“Lord Seiveril! The daemonfey army has turned!” Fflar looked at Seiveril and said, “You were right. It seems they’ve stopped running.”
The sun elf flicked the reins of his mount and followed the messenger as they rode ahead, climbing up a sparsely wooded hillside flanking the valley through which wound the weathered old track they followed. To the north the gray, flat emptiness of the Lonely Moor stretched unbroken for mile after mile. In the distance to the east Seiveril glimpsed the brown-gold desolation of Anauroch. On the rugged downlands of the moor the daemonfey army had halted, spreading out from the ragged, misshapen column the elves had chased for days into long lines facing south.