Final Gate Page 3

  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 Sildëyuir, 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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 sat the Aglarondan Jorin Kell Harthan, who had guided Araevin and his friends to the secret realm of Sildëyuir, and next to him the star elf Nesterin, who had accompanied them back to Faerûn. Donnor Kerth, the Lathanderite crusader, sat opposite, his fist around a mug of ale.

  “We were starting to wonder if you had forgotten about us,” Maresa said.

  “I had to confer with some friends in Semberholme, and in Evermeet. I hurried back as quickly as I could.” Araevin took a seat at the table next to Donnor and poured himself some wine from a flagon on the table. “Has Ilsevele arrived yet?”

  “No, we have not seen her for several days,” Nesterin said. The star elf was dressed in pale gray and white, with silver embroidery at the collar and sleeves. He attracted more than a few odd looks in the Oak and Spear. Deepingdalesfolk were familiar with most kindred of the elf race, but star elves were a different story. “As far as I know, she is with her father.”

  Araevin glanced at the door, half-expecting Ilsevele to follow on his heels, but she did not appear. “She knows we are gathering here,” he mused. “I suppose she will be here when she can.”

  “What news of the daemonfey army?” Donnor asked. He was a thickly built human almost as tall as Araevin himself, but better than eighty pounds heavier than the sun elf. He kept his scalp shaved down to stubble, and wore a closely cropped beard. His tunic was emblazoned with the sunrise emblem of Lathander, Lord of the Dawn, the deity to whom Kerth had pledged his sword and his service.

  “Sarya’s demons and devils harry the borders of Semberholme every day. I don’t know if or when Seiveril will try to take the battle to the daemonfey again.”

  “Glad we’re here,” Maresa muttered. “Wars are bad for the health, you know.”

  “We’re not done with ours,” Donnor growled. “The daemonfey have much to answer for.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” The genasi hid her glower in her goblet, drinking deeply.

  Jorin looked across the table to Araevin. “What did your ‘friends’ say about the threat you perceived in Sildëyuir?” the half-elf asked in a low voice. “Can they counter it?”

  “They are going to study the question.”

  Nesterin raised an eyebrow. “I thought the matter was urgent.”

  “In my estimation, it is. But my friends in Evermeet have always been hesitant to move recklessly. They do not think it wise to exercise their power until they know precisely what will happen when they do.”

  “No one can foresee all outcomes. If you wait until you think you can, you will never act at all,” the star elf said. “Sometimes it is wiser not to wait.”

  “That is what I fear. As my human friends like to say, he who hesitates is lost.”

  “So what are we going to do while your ‘friends’ are thinking things over?” Maresa asked.

  Araevin allowed himself a small smile. Maresa had struck the nail on the head. “I think I know how to slam shut the doors that Sarya and her allies are trying to open. At the beginning of this war, Sarya used a weapon called the Gatekeeper’s Crystal to open the ancient dungeon of Nar Kerymhoarth, freeing her fey’ri legion. I can use that same device to stop her from destroying the boundaries between the planes.”

  “How do we get the device away from her?” Jorin asked.

  “We may not have to. Quastarte—one of my friends on Evermeet—reminded me that the crystal does not remain intact after use. It breaks into its component shards, three of them, and hurls its pieces across the world, sometimes even across the planes. I mean to find it, assemble it again, and use it to seal the Waymeet—the Last Mythal of Aryvandaar.”

  “These three pieces could be anywhere?” Donnor asked. “Where do we begin?”

  “The place where Sarya Dlardrageth last employed the crystal. The Gatekeeper’s Crystal often leaves at least one of its shards near the place where it was last used. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

  “Back to the High Forest again.” Maresa shook her head. “You don’t let the moss grow under your feet, do you, Araevin?”

  “We’ll retrace our steps through the portals back to Myth Glaurach. I don’t think that Nar Kerymhoarth is more than two days’ ride from there.” Araevin glanced at each of his companions, and added, “It may be a long, dull, or dangerous task to reassemble the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. None of you should feel obligated to come with me.”

  “Is this the best way you can think of to slip a knife between Sarya’s ribs?” Maresa asked. Araevin nodded.

  “Then I’m in.”

  “And I,” said Donnor.

  “Sildëyuir is in your debt, Araevin Teshurr,” Nesterin answered. “I will help you.”

  Araevin looked to Jorin. The Aglarondan shrugged. “I haven’t traveled these lands before. I have a notion that I’d like to see more of the west, or wherever your search leads you.”

  “Thank you, my friends,” Araevin said. “We’ll set out first thing in the morning.”

  He raised his goblet to his companions and drank deeply; the others followed suit. Briefly, he explained as much as he felt comfortable telling them about the Waymeet and the crystal. He glanced at the door often, expecting Ilsevele to appear at any moment, but still she did not come. Finally, it grew late, and the companions said their goodnights to one another.

  The innkeeper showed Araevin to his room, and Araevin spent some time double-checking his belongings, making sure that he was ready for another long journey. Then he stretched out on the bed to rest, slipping in and out of Reverie. He did not need as much as he used to—an odd side-effect of the telmiirkara neshyrr, one that he just as soon would have done without, since it left him wakeful and alert most of the night. Eventually he found himself simply sitting at the window seat in the little room, gazing out over the sleeping town while he grappled with wheels, fonts, and bonds of magic in his mind, reflecting on the artifices of high magic he had encountered in the last few tendays.

  Shortly after midnight, his reflections were disturbed by the lonely clip-clop of a horse’s hooves in the street outside his window. He shook himself and looked down. A rider in green approached, riding a small dapple-gray mare. The rider stopped before the Oak and Spear, and drew back her hood. Ilsevele shook out her copper-red hair and turned her face up to him.

  “Keeping watch for me?” she asked with a small smile.

  “Simply taking in the night,” he told her. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

  He slipped down from the window seat, pulled on his boots, and headed down the stairs to the dark and empty common room. Ilsevele came in a moment later, still dressed in her riding cloak.

  “Do you want me to rouse the innkeeper?” Araevin asked. “It’s late, but they might have something you could eat.”

  “Don’t trouble the fellow. I am not hungry.” She hesitated in the doorway, studying the room. “Are the others here?”

  “Yes. We were only
waiting for you.” Araevin took her in his arms, and held her close, but she returned his embrace half-heartedly. When he frowned at her, she disentangled herself from his arms and stepped back. “What is it, Ilsevele?”

  “Araevin,” she said, “I cannot go with you.”

  “What? But why?”

  “I have something else I need to do. I am leaving in the morning for the Sembian camp in Battledale. I am going to try to persuade them to make peace with us, so that we can turn our full attention against the daemonfey.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” he said automatically. “You would be too valuable as a hostage. The Sembians will try to use you against your father.”

  “I do not think they will.” Ilsevele raised her hand to forestall his response. “If the daemonfey and the Sembians were still allied, you would certainly be right. But Sarya turned her demons and devils against the Sembians, too. We have a common foe, and I understand that counts for much in human diplomacy.”

  “Ilsevele, you don’t understand—”

  “Starbrow will come along to safeguard me, Araevin. And I’ll have a trick or two up my sleeve, just in case. But we have to take the chance that the Sembians can be reasoned with, before all the Dales are laid to waste.”

  He started to protest but gave up with a grimace. “Very well. But promise me you will be careful, Ilsevele.”

  “Only if you do the same.” She smiled thinly. “Do not worry for me, Araevin. Our paths will cross again before long.”

  “I am not as certain of that as I once was.” He sighed and brushed a hand over his eyes. “We are heading back to the High Forest.”

  “The High Forest? Why?”

  “Because the Gatekeeper’s Crystal—or a piece of it, anyway—may remain somewhere near Nar Kerymhoarth. I think I will need it to deal with Sarya’s wards at Myth Drannor, and her influence over the Waymeet.” He quickly explained what he had learned about the Waymeet and the disaster he feared. “Will you stay to see us off?” he finished. “Morning is not long now.”