Farthest Reach lm-2 Read online

  The hungry flowers rustled and groped at the sound of his voice, but Araevin did not fear them. They were not real, and had no power to hurt him. He simply exerted his will and made a small brushing gesture with his mind, and the sinister things recoiled from him, leaving a clear circle around his feet.

  “Saelethil! Come forth!”

  Araevin frowned and glanced around, wondering if perhaps he had erred in some way, but when he looked back Saelethil Dlardrageth was standing silently only an arm’s reach from him, regarding him with bright green eyes that held all the malice and venom of an asp. Despite himself, Araevin took a step back.

  The ancient sorcerer smiled at the motion. In life Saelethil Dlardrageth had been a tall and regal sun elf, with handsome if cruel features, and the figment of his consciousness and personality that was embodied in the Nightstar chose to manifest itself in his living appearance.

  “The measure of an undisciplined mind,” Saelethil rasped, “is that the intellect allows emotion to challenge the observed truth. You know that I am not permitted to harm you, and yet you quail like a child at the mere sight of me, Araevin Teshurr.”

  Araevin did not refute the accusation. Saelethil would have excoriated him for denying it, in any case. The shade of the long-dead intellect that had crafted the Nightstar despised self-deceit more than anything. Instead, he decided to take the offensive.

  “I spoke with the high mages about you recently,” he said. “They wish you destroyed, and I am not altogether certain I disagree with them.”

  “Your high mages are fumbling incompetents, Araevin. They have no idea what it means to be worthy of that title.” Saelethil sneered in contempt, but he turned away to inspect the garden, folding his arms imperiously across his chest. “Bring one here, and I will demonstrate the extent of their ignorance for you.”

  “Tell me of the high magic spells you hold, and I will judge the question of their ignorance for myself,” Araevin replied. “You have shown me only one high magic spell so far, even though you claim to know a dozen more.”

  Saelethil glanced back at Araevin and grinned without humor. “Ah, perhaps there is some Dlardrageth in you after all, my boy. You’ve tasted true power, and now you thirst for more.”

  “What I thirst for is not your concern, Saelethil. Now, are you able to make good on your claims or not?”

  The Dlardrageth archmage studied Araevin for a moment, his eyes cold and measuring. “I could, but you are not yet suited for the spells I haven’t taught you.”

  “Not yet suited? In what way?”

  “The highest and most dangerous art of high magic is the manipulation of magic more powerful than the mortal frame can bear. Your so-called masters in Evermeet accomplish this by forging a circle of mages to wield high magic. They cooperate with a number of other high mages to collectively shape a magic that would destroy any single one of them who attempted it.”

  “I know that much,” Araevin said.

  “Indeed. Well, there is another tradition for wielding high magic, Araevin Teshurr. Those of us who did not care to shackle our power to the weakest of our fellows wielded solitary high magic, free and unfettered by the prejudices of our peers. In order to wield power that otherwise would destroy us, we devised the telmiirkara neshyrr, the rite of transformation. We sculpted our very natures to suit ourselves for the power we intended to wield. With such preparation, a single high mage could transcend mortal limits and manipulate powers that otherwise might require a whole circle of high mages to manage.”

  “I did nothing of the sort when I severed Sarya from the mythal.”

  “You did not need to. Many spells of high magic can be cast without the aid of a circle or a transformation. The mythaalniir darach, the spell of mythal-shaping you wielded against my kinswoman Sarya, does not conjure into existence the awesome power of a high mythal. It simply allows manipulation of an existing font of power.” Saelethil shrugged. “However, I did not see fit to preserve many spells of that sort in my Nightstar. The rest of the high magic spells I recorded require the telmiirkara neshyrr.”

  Araevin frowned, considering the notion. He did not think that Saelethil was permitted to deceive him, but he was certain that the Nightstar’s persona was capable of choosing not to tell him something he didn’t ask about.

  “So you can teach me the rest of the high magic spells you hold if I perform this telmiirkara neshyrr?”

  Saelethil nodded.

  “What sort of transformation is involved?”

  “You exchange a large portion of your mortal soul for demonic essence. Demons are magical beings by their very nature; a demonic nature serves to shield one from power of untrammeled high magic.” The Dlardrageth smiled cruelly. “It is not very difficult.”

  Araevin blanched in horror. He understood the bargain the Dlardrageths had made so long ago.

  “I will not do that!”

  “Then you will find most of my high magic spells inaccessible,” Saelethil said with open contempt. “I expected no better of you.”

  Araevin glanced down, thinking hard. He noticed that the poisonous creepers squirmed closer to him, and he brushed them aside again. If Sarya had access to the sort of mythalcraft he did in the form of the Nightstar, she would be able to wield those spells as if she were born to them… which, in fact, she was. He found himself thinking of the melodious voice of Malkizid, the sinister presence he had felt in Myth Glaurach’s mythal when that device had been under Sarya’s control. What had Malkizid told Sarya about him? What did Malkizid know about mythals and their uses?

  A thought occurred to him, and he said to Saelethil, “Demons are not the only creatures of supernatural power in the multiverse. Can your telmiirkara neshyrr bind other essences to a high mage, essences not steeped in evil?”

  Saelethil hesitated, but said, “Possibly. You must transcend your mortality to wield these spells safely, but there may be more than one way to do that. Chaos, order, the elements, the concept you term ‘good’… all these principles give rise to supernatural forces, and might prove suitable.”

  “What other transformations do you know, then?”

  “I do not know any other than the one I used.”

  “Do you know of anyone else who would know?”

  The Dlardrageth archmage frowned. “Yes,” he said finally. “Ithraides and his students wielded high magic without the benefit of a circle.”

  “Ithraides?” Araevin said in surprise. He knew that name. Ithraides was the grand mage of fallen Arcorar, the ancient archmage who had driven the Dlardrageths out of Cormanthyr thousands of years in the past. From there Sarya Dlardrageth had gone on to subvert the realm of Siluvanede and breed her legions of fey’ri warriors… but before all that House Dlardrageth had been defeated by Ithraides and his allies, more than five thousand years ago. “Was he also bound to a demonic essence?”

  “No. He shared your useless scruples. He discovered another soulbinding, something that allowed him to match my mastery. I sincerely doubt he would have had the stomach to follow the path I chose.”

  Araevin offered a grim smile and said, “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have.”

  He took a step back, and willed himself up and out of Saelethil’s poisoned garden. There was a dizzying moment of soaring recklessly upward into a world of great purple planes and dancing storms of lambent fire, and he opened his eyes with a sudden gasp of breath.

  He sat in his library in the House of Cedars, the Nightstar gleaming on the table before him. The sea wind rattled the windows of his study, and the ocean was dark and wild beyond.

  Ithraides knew how to wield high magic without a circle, just like Saelethil, he reflected. And he did it without transforming himself into a demon. That knowledge might still exist, if he looked in the right place.

  “Arcorar,” Araevin breathed, his eyes distant. Arcorar had become the realm of Cormanthyr, and Cormanthyr’s capital was the city of Myth Drannor, which had fallen only six hundred years ago. Much lore of ancie
nt Arcorar had been carried out of Myth Drannor in its final years to Evermeet and places such as Evereska and Silverymoon. Evermeet’s hoard of Cormanthyran lore had been largely destroyed when Kymil Nimesin destroyed the Towers of the Sun and Moon five years ago, but what of Silverymoon? Araevin had heard that many Cormanthyran mages and scholars fled there when Myth Drannor fell.

  It seemed as good a place to start as any, and Araevin had other reasons to visit the city in any event.

  He reached out for the Nightstar and slipped the gemstone inside his shirt again, pressing it to his breastbone. He had a journey to make ready for.

  CHAPTER TWO

  6 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

  Sarya Dlardrageth stood on the broken battlements of Castle Cormanthor beneath a warm, steady spring rain, and surveyed her new realm. The daemonfey queen was strikingly beautiful, with the arresting features and enticing curves of a noble sun elf woman, but her skin was a deep, perfect crimson, and she possessed a powerful pair of batlike wings she kept folded behind her like a great dark cape.

  Her domain was quite small, really, not more than a couple of miles from one end to the other, for she could not claim to reign over the great forest that surrounded Myth Drannor’s ancient buildings and walls. But it is a start, she told herself. Her eye fell on the rose-tinted tower the human clerics had raised within the very walls of Cormanthor’s ancient capital, and she bared her slender fangs in a vicious smile.

  The shrine stood blackened and burnt, scorched by fey’ri spells and ancient Vyshaanti weapons. Its smoke was sweet in the air. Her fey’ri legion-a thousand swordsmen-sorcerers, the pride of ancient Siluvanede-had made themselves masters of the ancient city.

  Sarya was not defeated yet, not by a wide margin.

  “Lady Sarya, a handful of the Lathanderians escaped,” said the fey’ri lord Mardeiym Reithel as he approached carefully, offering a bow as he addressed her. “They used a hidden portal to flee our last assault. We could not follow.”

  Mardeiym, and the rest of the fey’ri for that matter, were much like Sarya, sun elves of high and ancient lineage who had been imprisoned thousands of years ago. Like her, they were winged demonspawn, with skin in fine hues of red and great dark wings. But they were still more mortal than not, elves with a demonic taint. Sarya and her son Xhalph were true daemonfey, with much stronger demonic bloodlines.

  “The portal refused you?” Sarya asked.

  “Yes, my lady. The Lathanderians possessed some key or password that we lacked. Since we cannot use the device, I ordered it sealed with stone.”

  “Good,” Sarya replied. “I am not concerned with the escape of a handful of human priests. We are the masters of this city now. But I would not want spies to slip back through the portal and learn more about us.”

  Her army of fey’ri had easily overwhelmed the small companies of human adventurers and hidden nests of cultists and necromancers formerly encamped within Myth Drannor. The temple to Lathander had been the last bastion of explorers and adventurers remaining within the walls. Of course, monsters of all descriptions still lurked within their lairs and catacombs. But Sarya had no real need to eliminate such guardians, and most of the fearsome beholders, nagas, liches, dragons, and other such denizens of the ruins recognized that Sarya’s legion of well-armed fey’ri was a foe beyond their ability to drive off. The fey’ri did not go out of their way to trouble such creatures in their lairs, and for their part, the intelligent ones did not emerge to challenge Sarya’s warriors.

  “There are still the devils to contend with,” Mardeiym said. “If we leave them alone, I promise you they will turn on us.” Hundreds of the supernatural fiends were bound to the ruined city. Before the arrival of Sarya and her legion, they had formerly ruled as masters over Myth Drannor. “We outnumber the filthy hellspawn. Our fey’ri warriors can defeat them now, before they have the opportunity to betray us.”

  Sarya regarded her chief captain with a cold glare. Mardeiym sensed danger and dropped his gaze to her feet. Under most circumstances, Sarya-a princess of the demon-ruled Abyss by birth-would have regarded any spawn of the Nine Hells as a hated enemy. Demons and devils had fought each other throughout eternity, the unbridled destruction of demonic evil battling for supremacy against cruel, infernal tyranny.

  “Do not question my judgment,” she said. “I have uses for the devils of this city.”

  “I apologize, Lady Sarya. I do not mean to question your decisions, but it is important that you know when the fey’ri are troubled.” Mardeiym waited on her, his head still bowed in respect.

  “Troubled?” Sarya said.

  She turned away, pacing along the battlements. Flexing her wings, she luxuriated in the sheer pleasure of freedom. She would have liked to lash out at Mardeiym, remind him of the fearsome power she commanded and reinforce the ancient pacts by which she ruled absolutely over the fey’ri Houses. But the war captain was loyal to her, and spoke nothing more or less than the truth. She would do well to avoid teaching her subjects that bringing her bad news always led to punishment.

  “Very well, Lord Reithel. Summon the House lords to my audience chamber, and I will explain more.”

  “As you command, my lady,” the war captain said.

  He bowed again, and vaulted over the battlement and took wing. Sarya watched him glide away into the ruins, then descended from the battlements into the spacious royal chambers she had claimed in the castle.

  She allowed Mardeiym half an hour to gather the leaders of the other fey’ri Houses, busying herself with renewing the powerful abjurations and contingency spells with which she normally guarded herself, and she went down into the grand hall of Castle Cormanthor. Centuries ago, the coronals of the elven kingdom of Cormanthyr had presided over revels and banquets in the grand hall. Its walls were still painted with magical murals of woodland scenes that slowly changed from season to season, and the great columns that lined the walls were carved in the shape of tall, strong trees so realistic that stone blossoms and fruit could be glimpsed in the branches.

  The leaders of her fey’ri legion awaited her in the hall. Each of the dozen demon-elves was the leader of one of the fey’ri Houses. Some, like Reithel, were ancient Houses from Siluvanede that were strong and numerous, having been imprisoned in the Nameless Dungeon for fifty centuries. Others, like Aelorothi, were survivor Houses, families of daemonfey who had passed their demonic heritage down through twenty generations from the time of Sarya’s ancient realm to her revival only five years ago. The descendant houses were smaller and less numerous than ancient houses such as Reithel, but they were made up of fey’ri who had grown up in the world Sarya and her ancient legion had suddenly found themselves in. They were comfortable with the new world in a way that Sarya and the other ancient prisoners could never be.

  Not for the first time, Sarya found herself wondering what had become of Nurthel Floshin. He was from one of the descendant Houses, and had served as an able spymaster and lieutenant. But he had not returned from the expedition she had dispatched to recover the Nightstar, and she could only assume that he was dead.

  She turned her attention to the proud, cruel lords and ladies gathered before her. “Look around you,” she began. “This will be our home, the founding-stone on which we will build our new realm. Before I and my family came to Siluvanede, we dwelled here in Cormanthyr. It is only fitting that this is the place where we begin to rebuild.”

  Sarya leaped down from the steps on which she stood, flaring her wings to alight in front of the fey’ri lords. She did not look forward to what must be said next.

  “You all know that this is not what I planned when I broke open Nar Kerymhoarth three months ago,” she began. “I intended to erase the realms of the High Forest and Evereska from the map, and claim vengeance for the destruction of Siluvanede five thousand years ago.”

  She paused, holding the eyes of her minions, and said, “That, however, was a mistake.

  “Perhaps events might have fallen out d
ifferently if Evermeet had not responded with so much force, or if Nurthel Floshin had not failed to recover the Nightstar, or even if the fortunes of battle had favored us against Evermeet’s army. But these things did not happen. I underestimated our enemies’ strength and resolve, or overestimated our own strength, or did not plan to overcome ill fortune-it does not really matter. The consequence of my mistake was that we had to abandon our stronghold at Myth Glaurach and leave our work in Evereska and the High Forest undone.”

  The daemonfey queen turned away from her fey’ri, deliberately putting her back to them as she paced. She hated the idea of introducing her own fallibility into her follower’s minds, but it had to be there already, didn’t it? Still, she did not want to let the fey’ri lords consider that last thought for long. She looked back over her shoulder at her captains and lords.

  “It would be foolish of me to pretend that I am incapable of making mistakes,” she said. “What I intend to do now is to learn from our mistakes. Before we take the field again or challenge the usurpers who have stolen our lands and treasures, we must grow much stronger. We will hide here in Myth Drannor, protected by the ancient power of its mythal. Within these ruined walls our enemies cannot divine our existence or scry out our strength. We will grow strong in secret, until the time is right for us to return.”

  “What of the baatezu?” Alysir Ursequarra asked. “When do we destroy them?”

  “They are not our enemies,” Sarya said firmly. “You are to strike no blow against the devils in this city unless I tell you to.” The fey’ri lords shifted uneasily, some risking quick glances at their fellows. Sarya turned back to face her followers. “The devils that were summoned here decades ago were outcasts from the Nine Hells, mercenaries and marauders who have no loyalty to the rest of their kind.”

  “So they would have us believe,” Alysir volunteered boldly. “How can we know they are speaking the truth?”

  Sarya stalked close to Alysir, and lowered her voice to a menacing hiss. “I have investigated the matter, Lady Alysir. Do you think I have allowed myself to be deceived?”