Farthest Reach (3 page)

“I suppose it’s the best chance we have. But Seiveril—if we do not find some sign of the fey’ri soon, you will have to give thought to how much of this army you can send home.”

“Excuse me, Lord Seiveril?” Both elves turned as the priestess Thilesil entered the hall. She was also a cleric of Corellon, junior to Seiveril, who had joined Lord Miritar on his quest and served as his adjutant and chief assistant. “Lord Keryth Blackhelm of the High Council is here to see you.”

“Keryth, here?” Seiveril frowned. Keryth was the High Marshal of Evermeet, leader of the island’s armies, and one of Queen Amlaruil’s most valuable advisors. “Show him in.”

Thilesil nodded, and beckoned their guest in. “This way, sir.”

She stood aside to permit Keryth to enter, and followed him in, anticipating decisions to record or orders to issue.

Keryth Blackhelm was a moon elf of middle years, perhaps a little past his prime as a swordsman, but still hale and fit. He was not as tall as Fflar, but he was a commanding presence anyway, with a fierce determination burning in his eyes and a gruff, confident manner.

“Lord Miritar,” he said. “Thank you for receiving me.”

“Of course, Keryth.” Seiveril took Keryth’s hand in a firm clasp. They’d served together on Evermeet’s High Council for many years, and even if they did not always agree with each other, they shared a mutual respect. “Have you traveled long? I can ask for refreshments to be brought.”

“No, the trip was quick. The grand mage loaned me the services of a sorcerer who knows the spell of teleportation. We left Evermeet not more than half an hour ago.” Keryth looked about the ruined building. “How is Ilsevele?”

“She is well. I spoke to her just this morning. She is visiting Silverymoon with her companions, though. I believe Araevin is attending to some business at Tower Reilloch.”

“I have not seen Silverymoon,” Keryth replied. He wandered into the old library and through to the ruined colonnade outside, taking in the view. “This was Glaurachyndaar?”

“Yes. It was called the City of Scrolls in its day.” Seiveril gestured at the ruins beyond the library. “The daemonfey used the grand mage’s palace as their lair. While I have seen no sign of them since I have been here, I decided it was not prudent to take up residence in their quarters. There are deep vaults and armories hidden in the heart of the hill beneath the palace, and I am not sure that we have found all of their secrets yet.”

“It seems that you have matters well in hand otherwise,” Keryth said. He faced Seiveril. “Speaking of which, I have been sent here to ask if you would consent to attend the High Council’s meeting in seven days and provide the queen and her advisors with a firsthand account of your campaign. We have heard many stories, and we want to get the most accurate report we can.”

“You may have forgotten, Lord Blackhelm, but I am no longer a Councilor of the Realm.”

Keryth shook his head. “No, the queen is not summoning you as such. Nor is she summoning you at all, to be honest. She only requests that you come to speak before the council, my friend. She will send a mage to teleport you, if you like, so it should not take you long at all. And to be honest, you will save us a lot of pointless debate in which Veldann or Durothil question the veracity of every report we have received.”

Seiveril considered the request for a moment. He was certain that Selsharra Durothil and Ammisyll Veldann would question him harshly on any account he cared to provide. On the other hand, he could think of nothing he cared to hide, and he no longer needed to be particularly polite to the conservatives and antimonarchists on the council, did he?

He looked over to Fflar and asked, “Lord Starbrow, can you keep things in order here for a time?”

Fflar shrugged. “I’ll know where to find you if I need you.”

Seiveril turned back to Keryth. “All right, then. If the queen requests my presence, I will not tell her no. I will be there.”

*****

The House of Cedars stood on a rocky headland on Evermeet’s rugged northern shore, hidden within a sparse forest of wind-shaped cedars and hemlocks. It was a rambling old elven lodge of open verandas and promenades anchored into the very rock of the headland. Araevin’s ancestors had built themselves a home in which they remained a part of the world outside, instead of a burrow from which they could shut things out. Light screens of wooden paneling and large windows of strong glass in clever wooden frames allowed him to close or open most of the rooms as he saw fit.

Early in the winter Araevin had spent a tenday there, repairing the damage of many long years of weathering. As the spring turned toward summer and the days grew bright and windy along Evermeet’s shores, he was pleased to see that his repairs were keeping well. He had lived in the house as a child, more than two hundred years past, but no one had lived there for a century or more. When he’d finally gotten around to visiting the place a few months before it had been in poor shape.

On his arrival Araevin spent three days arranging the personal effects and arcane tomes he’d had sent from his chambers in the Tower Reilloch. The house featured a handsome library on its eastward face, which Araevin filled with the collection of grimoires, spellbooks, journals, treatises, and scrolls he had accumulated over eight decades of residence at Reilloch. Next to the library stood an empty hall that Araevin converted into his workroom, installing at one end the cabinet of theurglass in which he stored his collection of magic wands and other such devices. He also wove a potent fence of abjurations and magical defenses around the entire house, since he could no longer count on the wards of Tower Reilloch. He wove careful illusions to hide the books and artifacts he was most concerned about, and summoned magical guardians to defend the house if necessary.

As the sun set on the sixth day since he’d stood before the high mages, he removed the Nightstar from its hiding place over his heart and set the purple gemstone in a small stand before him.

“I think the time has come for you and I to speak at length,” he told the selukiira.

The Nightstar made no answer, but Araevin thought he saw a lambent flash in its depths. The high loregem was a living artifact. It held dozens upon dozens of spells, much as Araevin’s own spellbooks did. But beyond that useful function, the Nightstar protected the deeper secrets of mythalcraft and high magic. Already it had shown him spells for examining and shaping mythals, but the secrets of even greater power still awaited within the stone.

He drew a deep breath, and focused his attention on the flicker of light that lived in the heart of the gem, allowing his perception, his consciousness, to sink deeper and deeper into shining purple facets. The stone grew brighter, and distant voices whispered in his mind—and with an abrupt plunge he felt himself drawn into the gemstone, falling into a vast and illimitable expanse of towering amethyst ramparts.

He opened his eyes, and found himself in the poisoned garden of the Nightstar’s soul. It was a magnificent place, a palace of gold colonnades and elegant arcades that existed nowhere except in the gem’s own intellect. Lovely vines and flowers filled the open courtyard, but they were malicious and alive, things that slowly coiled and hunted with thorn and venom. In an old house on Evermeet’s shore, his body stood locked and immobile, facing a shining purple gemstone, but as far as Araevin’s senses could discern, he was physically here, a visitor in the infernal grandeur that lay at the heart of the gemstone.

“Saelethil!” Araevin called. “Come forth! I wish to speak to you.”

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 longdead 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?”