Forsaken House Read online

  He turned his attention to the spells first. The stone held seven of them, he saw. Several he knew already—or, to be more precise, were recorded in the spellbooks he carried in his well-protected rucksack. The spells of teleportation, lightning, the terrible prismatic blast … all were quite common among reasonably skillful wizards, so Araevin was not at all surprised to find that the telkiira held their formulae. Whomever had created the lorestone long ago had naturally recorded useful spells.

  He called to mind the remaining symbols he’d seen in his flash of insight, and recognized two more spells that he knew of but had not yet mastered: a spell that could be used to conjure up powerful, and often dangerous creatures from other planes of existence, and another that could cripple one’s enemies with nothing more than a single deadly word of power. But the last two spells in the stone he had never even heard of before. One seemed to be a spell that would turn an enemy’s own spell shields and protective mantles against him—a very useful spell for a wizards’ duel, to say the least. The last spell was incomplete. Araevin frowned and directed his attention at it again, confirming his initial impression. The telkiira recorded only a portion of the spell. The rest of the spell was not there.

  “What is it, Araevin?” Seiveril asked. “What have you learned?”

  “The telkiira records six spells, and part of a seventh,” Araevin answered. “That is not unusual. I’ve heard of elf wizards using telkiira as spellbooks.” He glanced down at the lorestone in his hand. The lambent light in its heart seemed to flicker a little brighter. “But there is something else here, too. This stone is part of a set. There are two more just like it, and there is a fourth stone as well, larger and more perilous than the others. I think it might be a selukiira.”

  “A high loregem?” Seiveril said. The older elf tapped a finger on his chin. “That would be a prize, would it not? Now I think I see why Philaerin might have chosen to hide this telkiira.”

  “What is a selukiira?” Ilsevele asked.

  “It is like a telkiira, but more powerful,” Araevin explained. “A telkiira is really not much more than a book. It stores whatever information its creators care to place in it—spells, memories, secrets, anything. When someone accesses the telkiira, they can ‘read’ that information quite quickly and accurately, but their comprehension is limited by their own skill and knowledge.

  “But a selukiira, a high loregem, is something different. It is a living thing, and it can teach those who view it. It is said that a selukiira can make an apprentice into a high mage in the blink of an eye, if it so chooses. Or it might destroy the one foolish enough to use it, in order to protect the secrets it holds.”

  “Do you think Philaerin owned the selukiira you saw in the telkiira?” Ilsevele asked.

  Araevin shook his head and replied, “If he did, he would not have told me. He wouldn’t have shared that secret with many people at all. But … I don’t think the selukiira was in Tower Reilloch. This telkiira here—” he held up the dark stone in his hand—“seems to indicate the direction and distance to the next stone. I can feel it in my mind, far to the east … almost certainly somewhere in Faerûn. And I suspect that if we were to examine the second stone, we would find directions to the third of the set, which would in turn reveal the location of the selukiira I saw.”

  He set the telkiira on the low table by the divan, and stood up, frowning as he paced around the room. The study seemed darker, more threatening than it had a right to. Ancient mysteries and hidden peril whispered to Araevin in chill, dead voices.

  Seiveril ran a hand through his hair and said, “Well, this is quite a day you have brought to my doorstep, Araevin. One stone missing, one stone found. Deadly battle and foul sorcery on Evermeet’s shores. I fear that great and terrible events are afoot.”

  “I am sorry, Lord Seiveril. It seemed prudent to bring the Tower attack to your attention.”

  “No, you did well, Araevin. I did not mean to suggest otherwise.” Seiveril sighed and continued, “I must go to Leuthilspar and confer with the queen at once. We will see if we can divine the location of those who stole the Gatekeeper’s Crystal from Reilloch. Amlaruil will want to send our foremost champions in pursuit of the thieves. In the meantime, Lord Muirreste and his knights should suffice to reinforce Tower Reilloch against any additional raids.”

  “What about Philaerin’s telkiira?” Araevin asked.

  “Finding the other stones may offer some insight into why the daemonfey wanted them,” Ilsevele observed. “And if you know why the daemonfey want the lorestones, we might understand what exactly they are trying to do with the Gatekeeper’s Crystal.”

  “Or perhaps they wanted the telkiira because they don’t want that high loregem found,” Seiveril mused. “Could it be a weapon they fear? Some secret weakness they’re afraid we might exploit?” He looked up at Araevin and said, “I will seek Corellon Larethian’s guidance in this matter, but for now, take the stone. My heart tells me that we need to answer this riddle that Philaerin has set for us, whether he meant us to or not.”

  “I think so, too,” Araevin said. He picked up the stone and slipped it into the pouch at his belt, murmuring a spell of safekeeping as he did so. “I meant to return to Faerûn soon, anyway. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

  Ilsevele fixed her eyes on him and asked, “You’ll leave tomorrow?”

  “I think,” Araevin said, “I meant to say that we will leave tomorrow. That is, if your father will allow me to carry you off thousands of miles from home.”

  “I stopped trying to tell Ilsevele what she could and couldn’t do a century ago,” Seiveril said with a laugh. “I’m pleased to see that it didn’t take you quite so long to learn not to do that. But both of you—be careful.”

  In the depths of the High Forest stood a great stone bluff, a rocky tor blanketed by a shaggy cloak of twisted felsul trees and hearty blueleafs. Between the arms of the hill stood a weather-beaten stone door, overgrown with ivy. For years companies of adventurers had gone there to explore its depths and seek out its hidden treasures. They knew it only as the Nameless Dungeon, and had no idea how or why it had come to be built. But the elves of ancient Eaerlann had known the place as Nar Kerymhoarth, the Sleeping Citadel, and refused to name it aloud. They had meant for its secrets to remain hidden for a very long time indeed.

  Sarya Dlardrageth studied the door in the stone hill, her arms folded across her chest.

  Without taking her eyes away from the door, she asked, “Did any escape?”

  “No, my lady,” Nurthel replied. “Lord Xhalph slew them all.”

  The elves of the High Forest and the nearby realms had long maintained a watch over the ancient elven road leading to Nar Kerymhoarth to warn away would-be explorers. Sarya had no particular interest in the sentries, so long as they did not interfere in her business, but she was pleased that her minions had been thorough. There was no point in leaving witnesses, after all.

  She gestured to her son Xhalph, who stood nearby. Like her, Xhalph was a true daemonfey, half-elf and half-demon. His father had been a glabrezu, a huge four-armed monstrosity of the Abyss. She did not recall that coupling with any great pleasure, but it had served its purpose. Xhalph was taller and more strongly built than the mightiest human warrior, and he had inherited his demonic father’s four arms, which made him quite a dangerous swordsman indeed. Of course, he also had a fierce temper and no gift at all for the study of magic, but all the daemonfey could call upon the infernal power of their heritage to rake their enemies with abyssal spells.

  Xhalph carried the Gatekeeper’s Crystal in a small casket between his two lower arms. At his mother’s command he opened the small chest and offered her the weapon.

  “Shall I use it, Mother?” he rumbled.

  “No, dear boy. I will do this myself. The magic warding Nar Kerymhoarth is impenetrable, but the Gatekeeper’s Crystal can sunder any obstacle. I am curious to see which proves the stronger.”

  Sarya carefully separated the crys
tal into its three component parts again. One she kept for herself. The other two pieces she gave to two of her fey’ri, who knelt before her.

  “Now, listen closely,” she said to the fey’ri. “You two will each take your piece of the crystal and carry it about three hundred yards to each side, so that the three of us form a triangle surrounding Nar Kerymhoarth, with a third at each corner. When you are in position, I will activate the crystal. You are to hold your fragments steady, but do nothing else. I will wield the magic of the device.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the two fey’ri said.

  They each took their pieces and set off at once, arrowing through the overcast skies to alight high on the shoulders of the hill, overlooking the cleft in which Sarya and the others stood. The daemonfey queen eyed their positions carefully, then gestured for the fey’ri to separate a little more. Then, content with their placement, she focused her attention on the brilliant crystal in her taloned hands, and summoned forth its power.

  Instantly, a blazing line of energy sprang into existence, linking each of the three pieces and forming a triangle of fire above Nar Kerymhoarth’s hilltop. Sarya recoiled, but maintained her hold on the gemstone. Despite its brilliance and the ravening power streaming from its depths, it remained cool to the touch and steady in her hand. The actinic light glared back at her from the hoary stone doorway, shadows snapping like banners in a gale.

  Her fangs bared in a ferocious grin, Sarya invoked the crystal’s most terrible power. In the space of a heartbeat, every spell, every ward, every shred of magic that existed within the bounds of the burning triangle ceased to exist. Ancient enchantments laid thousands of years before, strong enough to bind and hold for uncounted ages, were sundered in the blink of an eye. All the mighty magical power that had been laid into Nar Kerymhoarth’s building and its defenses came unshackled in a single calamitous detonation. The force of the blast hurled Sarya and her followers to the ground. Vast portions of the hillside were thrown into the air, and came crashing down in the forest below. Thunder pealed throughout the ancient woods, rumbling like the roar of some massive dragon.

  The broken crystal in Sarya’s hand shimmered once and vanished. The blazing white lines flickered and guttered out as boulders and splintered trees pelted down from the sky. Sarya growled in frustration, snatching futilely at the vanishing crystal. She rolled over on her hands and knees and looked up the hillside, to where the two assisting fey’ri had stood. Nothing was left there but complete devastation. Their pieces of the crystal were gone as well, along with any trace of the two hapless sorcerers she had pressed into service.

  It was not unexpected, she told herself. The crystal disperses when its full power is invoked—that is the curse—and those who assist in the invocation of its might often pay with their lives.

  It was exactly what had happened when the Harpers destroyed Ascalhorn. The two fey’ri she would not miss, but she had hoped that perhaps one portion of the crystal might remain within her grasp after she had finished with it.

  “It is done,” she hissed at her followers. “You can get up.”

  Though smaller pieces of rock and splintered wood continued to patter onto the ground around them, Xhalph, Nurthel, and the other fey’ri picked themselves up off the ground. More than a few had suffered injury from the explosion, but Sarya didn’t even spare them a glance. Instead she looked on the empty vaults and naked halls of Nar Kerymhoarth, which were bared to the sky.

  “I did it,” she said, then laughed and sprang to her feet.

  “I did it!”

  She took to the air and flew down into the dungeon, alighting before a great brazen seal set above a huge well in the floor. With a quick invocation, she gestured and hurled the seal aside, laying open the well below.

  “Warriors of Reithel!” she called. “Ilviiri! Ursequarra!

  Come forth!”

  From the dark well below her came a flutter of movement. Slowly, laboriously, a single fey’ri climbed into the air, gazing at the ruin around him with malice dripping from his eyes.

  “I am free,” he hissed.

  Other fey’ri followed, struggling to fight their way free of the well, male and female both.

  Sarya watched the demonspawned elves emerge, dark delight in her face. She and her two sons had been imprisoned beneath Ascalhorn with dozens more of her followers elsewhere in the old fortresses of fallen Eaerlann. But the great bulk of her army—nearly two thousand of her fey’ri, each a deadly swordsman as well as a skilled sorcerer—had been entombed in Nar Kerymhoarth. That was the army with which she could finally build her empire, after her enemies had cheated her of victory so long ago.

  “You!” she called to the first fey’ri. “Do you know who I am?”

  The fey’ri turned at the sound of her voice. He was a tall fellow with long black hair, clad only in a short kilt. Small horns jutted from his forehead. He took one menacing step toward Sarya, then recognition flared in his eyes.

  “Lady Sarya!” he said. “You have come to free us! Give me a sword, and for you I will blood it with the warriors of Sharrven!”

  “Sharrven is no more,” Sarya said. “Nor Eaerlann, nor even Siluvanede. You have been imprisoned a long, long time, my fey’ri.”

  “How long has it been, my lady?”

  “Fifty centuries, warrior. Five thousand years you and your comrades have been imprisoned here.”

  The fey’ri warrior wailed in anguish, “It was only to be one thousand years! They lied to us!”

  “Yes,” said Sarya. “The cursed paleblooded elves of Eaerlann and Sharrven lied to you. They bound you and your fellows in Nar Kerymhoarth for a thousand years. And they died, or forgot their promises, or chose not to honor them. You will not have your vengeance upon those who jailed you, warrior. They have gone down into the dust of history, while their watch failed and their cities crumbled. The world has changed beyond recognition, while we dreamed away the centuries in our magical slumber.

  “But know this, my fey’ri: All our ancient foes are gone. Now no one remains to oppose us.”

  “Araevin, what is it?” Ilsevele set a hand on the mage’s arm, a frown on her face.

  They stood in a small, wooded glade high on a hillside, a few miles inland from Seamist and the city of Elion. Sunset painted the sky with brilliant rose and pale gold.

  “I am not sure,” he said. “There was something …” He peered toward the east, toward distant Faerûn, thinking. Finally he turned away, shaking his head. “I thought that I felt a tremor in the Weave. Almost as if someone had plucked the string of a great harp a long distance away.”

  “I thought I felt something too,” Ilsevele said. “It came from the east.”

  “I’ve felt that before,” Araevin said. “The last was two years past when the city of Shade was called back from the Plane of Shadow. Someone has worked mighty magic indeed. I would not be surprised if half the mages in Faerûn just started from their beds.”

  “The Gatekeeper’s Crystal?”

  Araevin looked sharply at Ilsevele. She had named his fear before he had himself.

  “It could be,” he said. “My Circle noticed a similar disturbance about five years ago. That would have been in the Year of the Gauntlet, around the time when the crystal was used to shatter Hellgate Keep. Corellon grant that we’re wrong about this.”

  Ilsevele shrugged and said, “We’ll know soon enough.”

  She picked up her pack and slung it across her back, carefully arranging it so that the rucksack did not interfere with the bow and quiver she wore across her shoulders. Beneath her cloak she wore the arms of a captain of the spellarchers, an embroidered doublet of leather sewn with fine steel rings, strongly enchanted to ward its wearer from harm. A pair of fine elven short swords graced her hips.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Araevin nodded and picked up his own pack. He was also dressed for travel in dangerous lands, wearing his shirt of mithral mail beneath a dove-gray tunic, and his scarlet cloak
with its magic of warding and protection over all. His bandolier of spell reagents crossed his chest from left hip to right shoulder, and three wands were holstered at his side—the disruption wand he’d used in the fight at Tower Reilloch, plus a pair of additional wands he thought he might find a use for. At his hip he wore the blade of House Teshurr, an enchanted long sword named Moonrill. Spell and wand were his chosen weapons, but he knew how to wield a sword, and long ago an ancestor of his had imbued Moonrill with magic that a mage might find useful at times.

  He joined Ilsevele in front of a simple stone marker in the center of the glade. Faded old runes, half-filled with moss, were graven into its surface. Most of Evermeet’s old elfgates had been dismantled in the past few decades, as the elves of the isle had come to see the magical portals as weaknesses in their defenses, places from which resourceful enemies could attack the island. But a few had been left standing, secured by powerful defensive spells. Only those who knew the secret of their activation could make use of the elfgates, and with every year the folk of Evermeet grew more careful of that knowledge.

  “Where in Faerûn will this gate take us?” Ilsevele asked.

  “The Ardeep Forest, not far from the House of Long Silences. Many old portals meet there, and it’s close to Waterdeep, where many less magical roads meet.”

  Araevin hummed an arcane incantation beneath his breath, and passed his hand over the top of the stone marker.

  At first nothing happened, but then the stone began to glow with a soft, golden light. Slowly it brightened enough to fill the glade with its pale glow, dancing motes of magic drifting in the air.

  “Say farewell to Evermeet,” Araevin told Ilsevele. “We’ll be in Faerûn in just a moment.”