Forsaken House Page 7

  Ilsevele glanced around at the wooded clearing, the sunset sky above, the deep green forest all around. A tear trickled down her cheek. No elf could leave Evermeet easily, especially not for the first time. She whispered a farewell, and they were gone.

  CHAPTER 4

  19 Alturiak, the Year of Lightning Storms

  Gaerradh trotted swiftly through the endless tree-gloom of the High Forest, little more than a shadow herself. She wore her long russet hair tied behind her in a single braid, and carried her longbow easily in one hand. Even though she wore a jerkin of studded leather and carried a pair of axes thrust through her belt, she ran easily. She was a seasoned warrior, well trained in the ways of the forest, and she had long ago learned that the ability to move fast and far was one of an elf scout’s best weapons.

  Behind her the snow-covered forest floor rustled, and a large, powerful wolf with a silvery coat appeared in the gloom. Long and lean, the predator sprinted after her, bounding over the ground like a white streak, only to fall in alongside the ranger and slow its pace to match hers. Gaerradh glanced down to her side without breaking stride.

  “I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” she said to the wolf. “Chasing rabbits, I suppose.”

  Sheeril simply looked up at her with dark eyes and an expression of disdain. Gaerradh was fairly certain that the wolf understood almost everything she said. Gaerradh was comfortable with her own company—one could not serve as a far-ranging scout in the northern marches of the endless woods if one minded being alone for tendays at a time—but Sheeril was as close a friend to her as any elf. Together Gaerradh and Sheeril kept watch over the northern marches of the High Forest, spying out the comings and goings of orc warbands, gangs of trolls, avaricious companies of human freebooters, and the darker and more dangerous creatures of the woodland. The High Forest was the largest and wildest in all Faerûn, and it was far from a safe place. Gaerradh and Sheeril dealt with intruders who were few in number, and summoned help from other elf scouts and rangers when faced with foes too numerous or powerful to deal with on their own.

  Gaerradh told her elf friends that she best served the People by searching out dangers before they could threaten the elven settlements of the High Forest, but in truth, Gaerradh simply loved the wide lands of the wilderness. She found solace in the wilds, and when she spent too much time among the People of Rheitheillaethor or the other settlements of the forest, she found herself growing restless and longing for the silence of the woods again. She was on her way back to Rheitheillaethor at the moment to provision herself and trade news, but she hoped to stay no more than two or three days before heading back out into the winter forest again.

  Sheeril abruptly peeled away from her side, and halted to gaze intently into the woods downhill. Gaerradh needed no other signal. She halted in mid-stride, crouching knee-deep in the snow and holding herself immobile.

  “What is it, girl?” she whispered to the animal.

  The wolf glanced back at her and whined softly. Then she slid into a thick stand of fir trees lower on the hillside. Gaerradh followed, an arrow on the string of her bow. She was puzzled more than anything else. They were in a region of the forest that was usually safe and quiet. The elves maintained a guard over the old ruins nearby in order to keep careless bands of adventurers from disturbing them. The watch also served to chase marauding orcs and hungry monsters out of the area as well.

  She followed Sheeril down into the thicket, and she caught the scent that had attracted the wolf’s attention. The smell of death lingered in the cold air beneath the evergreens. It was faint, thanks to the blanket of snow and the cold weather, but it was there nonetheless.

  Then Gaerradh found the first of the bodies.

  Half-buried in the drifting snow lay a wood elf warrior, frozen gore clotted around his wounds. He’d been hacked to death by sword cuts, but he still wore the simple diamond-shaped brooch of those who stood guard over Nar Kerymhoarth, the Nameless Dungeon. Gaerradh bowed her head in grief, then rose and followed Sheeril deeper into the copse.

  There, in ones and twos, she found the remains of eleven more wood and moon elves. Some had died by sword, others by spells, their bodies burned or blasted by deadly magic. Eight of them she knew, and two she counted among her few close friends.

  “All twelve,” she murmured. “The guardians of Nar Kerymhoarth, overcome all at once. What evil is this?”

  Snow had fallen since the fight, covering any tracks Gaerradh might have studied. It had last snowed two days before and scavengers—ravens, mostly—had been at the exposed flesh. They died not long before the snowfall, she decided after a quick examination of the scene. Less than a day, certainly. Possibly no more than an hour or two. The warriors on watch had been killed between two and three days before.

  Sheeril padded up to her side and looked up at her face.

  “I know,” said Gaerradh. “We must go to Nar Kerymhoarth and see who did this.”

  She stood and composed herself, dropping her pack in a clump of brush nearby. Then she carefully backtracked out of the clearing, hiding her trail as best she could, and set her eyes on the nearby stony spire of the ancient citadel’s barren tor, rising above the trees half a mile away.

  It took Gaerradh well over an hour, since she didn’t want to be seen, but she half-circled the barren hilltop and approached the deep ravine sheltering the fortress’s entrance by climbing high over the shoulder of the hill and descending on it from above. Finally she got herself into position and wormed her way over the ridgeline, moving slowly to avoid the creaking of compressed snow or, worse yet, the sudden crunch of a broken ice crust. Sheeril crept along a pace behind her, trained to crawl on her belly and move only on Gaerradh’s cue. Her face and throat stinging from the wet, cold snow, Gaerradh gently parted a notch to spy on the dungeon’s door.

  There was no door before her. In fact, there was no ravine. She blinked in astonishment. Had she somehow got her bearings wrong, and climbed over the wrong shoulder of the hill? She couldn’t have made such a simple-minded mistake as that!

  Gaerradh looked again, studying the scene carefully. The landscape seemed right, but there was a huge gouge in the side of the tor, laying bare chambers and tunnels in the hill. The door itself she finally spotted lying almost a hundred yards away, broken in several pieces. Someone had blasted the ancient citadel of Nar Kerymhoarth open to the sky. She could not imagine who would have done it, or why, but clearly powerful magic had been put to use there.

  And they slew the watch, she reminded herself. Whoever this is, he’s no friend to the People.

  Rheitheillaethor, and the other havens of the People in the High Forest, had to be warned, and right away.

  Gaerradh pushed herself to her knees, brushed snow from her clothing, and whispered, “Come, Sheeril. We must travel fast and far today.”

  Araevin and Ilsevele stood together in the dim light of the coming dawn, listening to the sounds of the forest around them. The first notes of birdsong lilted in the distant trees, and overhead the dark sky was streaked with bright shoals of rose and pearl. The elfgate had transported them to a briar-grown hollow deep in the shadowed woods, and they’d walked through the Ardeep for half the night to reach the ruins of an ancient court, its moss-grown flagstones long broken by the growth of mighty trees hundreds of years old. Before them was an ancient palace of white stone, its walls overgrown by ivy, and large sections open to the sky.

  Ilsevele shifted the bow case she wore over her left shoulder and shook her pale copper hair free of her green hood. The air was damp with dew, and beads of cold water clung to her cloak and armor.

  “The House of Long Silences is aptly named,” she observed. “This place has been abandoned for many years.”

  “In the days of Illefarn, it was a proud manor,” Araevin replied. “But the realm dwindled over the centuries and finally passed away more than seven hundred years ago. Few of our folk live in the Ardeep now, other than Elorfindar.”

 
“Elorfindar?”

  “Lord Elorfindar Floshin. He is a kinsman of mine, the son of my great-great-grandmother’s brother. He has taken it as his duty to guard the magical portals here.”

  Araevin took Ilsevele’s hand and led her up a wide flight of cracked stone steps to the gaping doorway of the old palace.

  The empty halls seemed a place apart from the thick stands of cedars and blueleafs beyond its facade of pale white stone. The Ardeep Forest chirped and rustled with birdsong and the soft caress of wind in the treetops, but those comforting sounds did not intrude into the ancient elven palace. Even though the empty doorway stood open to the elements behind them, Araevin and Ilsevele heard nothing in the gloomy forehall. Ilsevele turned to speak to Araevin, but the mage simply shook his head.

  Measured footfalls echoed in the corridor. A dignified sun elf appeared, dressed in silver mail, with a long sword at his belt. His eyes had the dark wisdom of many years, and in the shadows of the hall he seemed almost to glow with an eldritch light.

  “Greetings, Araevin,” the elflord said. “I have not seen you in the House of Long Silences in some years. Come inside. And you, too, fair lady.”

  Araevin clasped Elorfindar’s arm firmly and replied, “It’s good to see you, kinsman. How goes your watch?”

  “It is hard to say. Many of the old gates to Evermeet have been closed or hidden in recent years, so I have fewer to guard now. But after the invasion launched by Kymil Nimesin three years past, it has become more important than ever to ward the ways leading to the Green Isle.” Elorfindar shrugged. “It is my penance, and I am not finished with it yet. I can only hope that my watch will in some small way atone for those of my fathers who betrayed the trusts they held.” The dignified warrior turned to Ilsevele with a gentle expression. “Araevin, you have neglected to introduce me to your companion, for which you owe me an apology.”

  “Elorfindar, this is the Lady Ilsevele Miritar, a captain of the spellarchers in the queen’s service. She is the daughter of Councilor Seiveril Miritar, the lord of Elion. And she is my betrothed.”

  Elorfindar’s serious expression lifted, as a genuine smile creased his features.

  “Your betrothed? Lady Ilsevele, I am delighted to meet you. And I am even more delighted to learn that you will be a cousin of mine! I was afraid that the Teshurrs would vanish all together, and leave the House of Cedars for the seabirds.” He took Ilsevele’s hand. “Your beauty brightens this gloomy palace, dear lady.”

  “As does your gallantry. Thank you, Lord Elorfindar,” Ilsevele replied. She looked around at the ruined palace. “Do you live here by yourself?”

  “Oh, no,” the elflord said. “I live a day’s ride south of here, in a much less lonely manor close to the Delimbiyr Vale. I only keep watch over this palace and its doors. My wardings warned me that someone was here, so I came to investigate.”

  “I apologize for forcing the journey on you,” Ilsevele said.

  “It was nothing. My magic shortens the trip considerably.” Elorfindar gestured to the ruined palace and continued, “There are some rooms that are in better condition, where I have a store of food and drink laid by for just such an occasion as this. Before I set the table, I would like to know what brings you here, Araevin. You are always going somewhere when you pass through this house.”

  Araevin dropped his gaze to the floor. He did not like to carry tidings of ill news. “Evermeet has been attacked again, Elorfindar. Not an invasion like Nimesin’s war of three years ago, but a raid to break into the vaults of Tower Reilloch.”

  Elorfindar’s expression grew cold and he said, “Go on.”

  Araevin nodded, and launched into the story of the attack on the Tower.

  “When Quastarte and I found Philaerin,” he concluded, “we also discovered evidence suggesting that Philaerin held knowledge of something dangerous in Faerûn, something that he chose to conceal from the Tower’s attackers. The demons and their masters escaped with the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. Ilsevele’s father has gone to Leuthilspar to take up that matter with Queen Amlaruil. In the meantime, I am looking into Philaerin’s secret. The Tower’s attackers might have been after the crystal and nothing else, but it seems dangerous to assume that was the case. Our enemies thought their prizes important enough to dare Evermeet’s defenses and attack a Tower of mages.”

  “You said that the raiders were demons and demonic sorcerers. I thought Evermeet’s wards prevented such creatures from attacking the island directly.”

  “Demons and yugoloths, to be accurate,” Araevin said. “I recognized creatures of both races. As for their masters, they were like winged elves with demonic blood. They had scarlet skin with fine scales, black hair and eyes, and small horns … and they seemed to be resistant to fire and lightning, like many demons and devils are. But they fought with sword and spell, not the supernatural powers of a demon.”

  “My father wondered if they might have been elves of a fallen Cormanthyran House known as Dlardrageth,” Ilsevele added. “He said that they were thought to have been defeated long ago, but the description fit. Since they were elves at least in part, they might have been able to pierce Evermeet’s defensive wards more easily than true demons could.”

  “I know of the Dlardrageths,” Elorfindar said. His face was pale and his eyes dark with horror. “They were destroyed or bound long ago, along with the lesser Houses that followed them into darkness. Long ago, they poisoned the realm of Siluvanede and brought down the kingdom of Sharrven before they were halted. The shadow of their crimes stretches across many centuries and distant lands. If they have somehow returned….” He looked up at Araevin and asked, “How can I help you?”

  “I may need to make use of some of your portals,” Araevin said. “I believe the trail I am following will lead me to some lonely places scattered far across the North. And I mean to gather some help before I set out. Using the old portals of Illefarn could save me a great deal of time.”

  “Of course,” said Elorfindar. “The doors are at your disposal.”

  “What sort of help are we going to gather?” Ilsevele asked.

  “During my previous travels in Faerûn, I spent a lot of time seeking out and exploring the ruins of ancient elven realms. They are dangerous places, filled with decaying wards, slumbering guardians, and sinister new occupants. The Company of the White Star assisted me in my explorations. They were courageous and trustworthy comrades.”

  “Where will we find these old associates of yours?”

  “It’s been quite some time, so I am not entirely sure,” Araevin said. “But when we last parted, we agreed to honor any call from one of the company. I will dispatch a sending to each, asking them to meet us in Daggerford.”

  Lord Seiveril Miritar sat at his customary place in the eighth seat of the council table, absently gazing up at the ceiling a hundred feet above as he waited for the queen to call the council to order. The Dome of Stars was the heart of the royal palace in Leuthilspar, a vast round chamber ringed by high galleries. By day the theurglass dome was a wondrous mosaic of stained panels, gleaming with a rainbow of color in the light. By night the magic glass was clear, showing the starry sky overhead. The floor of the chamber was finished in dark, glossy marble that seemed to hold tiny flecks of diamond in its depths, so that on clear nights those lords and ladies who met in the Dome seemed to float in a veritable sea of stars.

  It was dusk, and the dome was open to the sullen colors of an overcast sunset.

  “The council is assembled, Lord Seiveril,” said Amlaruil, Queen of Evermeet, from her high seat at the head of an elegant table of frosted glassteel.

  A moon elf of striking beauty, her hair dark and flawless as a cascade of night, her eyes thoughtful and wise, Amlaruil was one of the oldest elves in Evermeet, but unlike so many who were close to passing to Arvandor, she was untouched by the winds of the LastHome. Instead of ghosting softly away from the world as so many old elves did, Amlaruil’s personal power and force of character fixed her to
the firmament of the world, so that it seemed as if all Evermeet was anchored to the spot where she sat.

  “Tell the council what you have told me,” Amlaruil continued in her clear, musical voice, “so that we may consider the meaning of these events and decide what action to take.”

  Seiveril returned his attention to the table. The great galleries ringing the Dome were empty, having been cleared at his request. He quickly swept the table, eying his fellow councilors. To his right sat the High Admiral Emardin Elsydar, a sun elf of unusually serious demeanor, and at the foot of the table Zaltarish, the aged royal scribe. It was his duty to record the discussions and resolutions of the council. To Seiveril’s left sat the wood elf princess Jerreda Starcloak, who represented Evermeet’s forest-dwelling elves, and the highborn sun elf Selsharra Durothil, matron of the powerful Durothil clan. On the opposite curve of the table sat Grand Mage Breithel Olithir, newly appointed to his position to replace the grand mage slain during the fall of the Tower of the Sun. Beside him sat the moon elf Keryth Blackhelm, the High Marshal of Evermeet, then the wealthy moon elf merchant Lady Meraera Silden, the Speaker of Leuthilspar. Beside her was the Lady Ammisyll Veldann, governor of the city of Nimlith on Evermeet’s southwestern shores.

  The membership of the council was not set at nine by any law or tradition. Over time it fluctuated as new members were invited to join, or older ones passed to Arvandor. For eighty years Seiveril had sat on the council, by virtue of his governorship over the northern city of Elion, his high standing among the clerics of Corellon Larethian, and the cachet of the Miritar name.

  “I must report that Evermeet has been attacked,” Seiveril began. “Three days ago a raiding party of demons and demon-blooded sorcerers teleported into the great hall of Tower Reilloch. They killed more than twenty of Reilloch’s People, including the high mages Philaerin and Aeramma, and wounded many more. They fled with the Gatekeeper’s Crystal, an artifact stolen from Reilloch’s vaults.”