Final Gate (7 page)

“Didn’t want to go with him?” Fflar frowned. “There is nothing to trouble you there, Ilsevele. You see your duty differently than he sees his. There is no fault in that.”

“That isn’t what I meant, Starbrow.” Ilsevele glanced over her shoulder at him, and looked away. He thought he saw the glimmer of a tear on her cheek. “Araevin has changed, and I am not speaking of the color of his eyes or the high magic in his heart. The last few months have awakened him from some long Reverie. I think I only really knew him when he was dreaming away his days in Evermeet.”

“Someone had to do what he did,” Fflar said. “It’s a good thing that he was the equal of the challenge, isn’t it? Without Araevin’s skill, his determination, I do not know if we could have beaten the daemonfey at the Lonely Moor.”

“I know. But have you seen how Mooncrescent Tower marked him?” Ilsevele shook her head. “I can’t help but think that it’s dangerous to want to be something other than what you are. You may get exactly what you want.”

Fflar shrugged awkwardly. He was beginning to fear that he might not be the right person to hear out Ilsevele’s heartache, but that was his problem, not hers.

“Give him time, Ilsevele,” he managed. “He will remember himself, when better days are here.”

She gave him a half-hearted smile and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I hope they come swiftly, then,” she said. She gave herself a small shake and fixed her eyes on him. “Enough of my foolish worries. You still haven’t told me who you are, Starbrow. I think it’s time you stopped dodging my questions.”

“Starbrow is good enough.”

“No, it’s not.” Ilsevele faced him, her arms folded across her chest. “You know Cormanthor like the back of your hand. You are one of the most skillful warriors I have ever seen. You carry the last Baneblade of Demron—a sword that my father kept safe for centuries. Where are you from? Do you have a family? How did you come to know my father?”

Fflar shook his head. “I told you once before, you’ll need to ask your father about that.”

“I am not asking him, I am asking you,” Ilsevele retorted. “I trust my father implicitly, but I won’t let you hide behind that blind any longer. We’ve shared deadly danger, and we’ve fought and bled together. I want to hear what you have to say for yourself.”

He did not try to meet her eyes. “It’s not my tale to tell.”

Ilsevele waited. Then, saying nothing, she turned and left the broken hall. Fflar sighed, and finished tending to his horse-he’d been done for some time, really. Then he brushed his hands together and stood, looking out at the night. Ilsevele had trusted him with the trouble in her heart, but he hadn’t shared anything in return, had he? She was right to be angry with him. He didn’t think that Ilsevele would be awed by his story, or that she would tell anyone else if he asked her not to. It just seemed simpler, easier, to approach this new life of his without any of the encumbrances of the old one.

“Ah, damn it,” he muttered softly. When it came down to it, refusing to speak openly was almost as bad as lying, and he hated falsehoods. Especially ones devised for his own comfort and convenience. She’d said it well enough, hadn’t she? It was dangerous to want to be someone other than who you were.

He checked on the sentries, making sure that the small campsite was secure. Then he went in search of Ilsevele. He found her sitting by a still pool in what had once been the garden of the old manor. She did not look up as he approached. Without invitation, he sat down next to her and began to speak. “My name is Fflar Starbrow Melruth,” he said. “I was born in Myth Drannor in the Year of the Turning Leaf, a little less than eight hundred years ago.”

“I served in the Akh Velar, the city’s guard. When I was eighty, I married Sorenna Alydyrrin, and a few years later, she bore me a son, whom we named Arafel. I loved them more than all the stars in the sky.”

“You are the Fflar of whom the legends speak?” Ilsevele asked softly.

“I don’t know of any legends. But I was captain of the Akh Velar in Myth Drannor’s final days, and I carried Keryvian in many battles that last summer. I died on a summer afternoon, fighting the nycaloth lord Aulmpiter.

“After that … I walked in Arvandor for a time, though I do not now remember much of the Elvenhome. Your father called me back a few months ago, hoping that I could lead his Crusade to victory over the daemonfey.”

Ilsevele stared at him. “My father raised you from the dead?” She grappled with the thought. “But … why? The Seldarine do not give away that magic lightly. How could my father have even known you would be willing to return?”

“Elkhazel Miritar—your grandfather, I suppose—was a good friend in my first life I think he must have filled Seiveril’s ears with wild tales about me when your father was a young fellow.” Fflar permitted himself a small smile. “So now I am here.”

Ilsevele studied him closely, her brow knit. “But you’re so young,” she managed. “You’re not much older than I am.”

“I was a little more than one hundred and thirty when I died.”

She shook her head. “Of course,” she murmured. “Of course. But …”

He patted her knee and stood up. “You asked. That’s all I have to say. I can’t make any more sense of it than you can, though I guess that I must have wanted to come back, or your father could not have called me out of Arvandor.”

Ilsevele managed to shake off her amazement long enough to speak. “Starbrow—Fflar—”

“Starbrow is fine, if you’re used to it.”

“Starbrow, then—What became of your family?”

He hesitated, his heart aching. Strange, that such an innocuous question could hurt so much! “I don’t know for certain. Sorenna escaped Myth Drannor with my son before the city fell. I know she lived for a time in Semberholme. But she is gone now, too. I hope that Arafel lived a long and happy life somewhere.” He tried to laugh without bitterness, and almost succeeded. “I may have grandchildren or great-grandchildren around who are older than I am. That would be hard to explain, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Ilsevele managed.

“Nor do I,” Fflar answered truthfully. He could see the questions gathering in her face, but he could feel fresh hurt welling up in his heart. He had no more answers. With an effort he found a small smile for Ilsevele. “I suppose we should rest. We have a hard day’s ride ahead.” Then he retreated, leaving her wrapped in her own thoughts in the moonlit garden.

*****

The secret door in the pillar led to a narrow, black stairway that wound upward for quite a distance through the cool gloom of Nar Kerymhoarth. A faint but unsettling musky smell lingered in the close air of the stairs. The stairs ended in a small landing with blank walls on all sides, but with a few moments of searching, they discovered another secret door. This one opened out into a low-ceilinged hall of more pillars—blocky and square this time—with several large, still pools of water rimmed by foot-high lips of smooth masonry. Water dripped somewhere in the dark distance, echoing in the stone hall.

“Which way, Jorin?” Araevin asked.

The Aglarondan knelt, resting his fingertips on the paving blocks of the floor. “Straight ahead.”

They came to the end of the square pillars and pools, and found a great doorway carved in the image of a serpent’s head. Long stone fangs framed the archway, and the whole thing had been crudely painted in peeling green and yellow. Araevin studied the doorway for a moment, and decided that no magical traps lingered in the area. But he could feel danger nearby.

“Carefully, now,” Araevin whispered to the others.

Maresa and Jorin led the way, ducking under the jutting fangs of the great serpent head. The passage beyond was fashioned to resemble a snake’s gullet, with curved stone ribbing at even intervals and a floor of glossy tile. They followed the eerie passageway for a short time and emerged onto a balcony above another large hall.

Scores of ophidians slowly writhed and coiled together on the cold stone floor below, tangled in a scaly heap before a great serpentine idol at the far side of the room.

Stifling a gasp of surprise, Araevin quickly backpedaled down the passage they’d just emerged from. His friends retreated as well. Only when he judged that they were out of easy earshot did Araevin allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

“I quit,” muttered Maresa. “I am not going in there.” “Do you think they spotted us?” Jorin whispered.

“I don’t think so,” Araevin said. “I think they would have let us know if they’d seen us.”

“Did you see the idol?” Nesterin asked Araevin. “Was that crystal the one you seek?”

Araevin shook his head. “I saw the idol, but I didn’t notice any crystal. Better show me.”

Leaving the others at a safe distance up the passageway, Araevin and Nesterin crept softly back to the edge of the balcony. The mage studied the great serpent statue at the far end of the room closely. At first he didn’t see anything, but he clearly sensed the presence of strong magic. Beside him, Nesterin tapped his arm and pointed toward a small offering dish that sat in the middle of the great stone serpent’s coils.

A milky white crystal the size of a man’s hand lay atop a heap of old coins in the dish. Araevin looked to Nesterin and nodded. Then, before they withdrew, he quickly looked around the rest of the room. The balcony ran along only the back wall of the shrine. To his left and right, stairs descended to the mosaic floor below, where the ophidians gathered around their sinister idol. There was a great dark pool in the center of the room, similar to the ones in the hall of the square pillars but much larger—and evidently inhabited. He caught the subtle stirring of something large moving in the water. He nodded to the star elf, and the two retreated back down the passage again.

“Is that it?” Nesterin asked.

“Yes. I’m pretty sure that is a shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal.”

“So how do we get it away from the serpent men?” “There’s more of them than I want to fight,” Jorin said.

“It’s worse than you think. There’s some sort of creature in the big pool in the middle of the room, too,” Araevin said. “I thought I sensed sorcery other than the crystal’s aura.”

“Then we steal it,” Maresa said. “Since we don’t have any particular quarrel with the ophidians, let’s not fight them if we can help it.” The genasi looked to Araevin. “Do you have any spells that might help?”

“I thought you wanted nothing to do with the ophidians.” “If we’re going to have to do this anyway, I might as well make sure we do it right.”

Araevin smiled at her. “I can make you invisible for a short time.”

“That will do.” Maresa quickly divested herself of her pack, crossbow, and bandolier of quarrels, keeping only her rapier and her fire wand for defense. “Be ready to discourage pursuit if things go badly.”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Then let’s go, before I change my mind.”

Maresa led the way as they returned to the balcony overlooking the den of the ophidians. Araevin paused as close as he dared to the open balcony itself before casting his invisibility spell on Maresa. She smirked at him as she faded out of sight. Then, silently, the company stole back out to the doorway leading to the balcony, crouching low to stay out of sight. Jorin, Nesterin, and Gaerradh knelt with bows in their hands and arrows on the string. Donnor simply waited in the darkness, his sword in his hand.

Araevin murmured a soft word and wove a spell to give himself the ability to see Maresa despite her invisibility. He watched her steal quickly across the balcony to the steps on the right-hand side, and start down the wide, shallow steps. The great hall was weirdly quiet, disturbed only by the occasional soft hiss or the faint rasp of scales sliding over scales.

Keeping her shoulder to the wall, Maresa reached the bottom of the steps and started forward. Even though she was invisible, she made an effort to stick to the shadows of the room’s thick stone buttresses and alcoves. Then she came to a place where several of the ophidians lay tangled, with coils of their bodies actually touching the wall she was moving along.

Maresa paused and looked for a way around, but if she moved left toward the middle of the room she would be in the middle of the creatures—and too near to the hidden menace in the pool for Araevin’s comfort. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped over one ophidian, then actually set her foot in the coil of another’s tail before stepping across its body as well. The monster shifted and began to move as Maresa tiptoed among its coils. She jumped two more steps to get away from it.

The ophidian turned with startling swiftness and hissed at the empty air where the genasi had stood just a moment before. Its long blue tongue flickered in and out, tasting the air, as Maresa backed away, hand on the hilt of her sword.

“Get ready,” Araevin breathed to his companions.

The archers straightened and went to a three-quarters draw, sighting on serpent men in the tangled mass below. But before Araevin gave the order to shoot, the ophidian near Maresa lowered its head and returned to its somnolence.

“It’s safe,” he said softly, and the bows relaxed again. The genasi darted one quick glance back up toward the balcony where her companions waited, and headed for the idol.

She reached the statue of the serpent god, and climbed carefully up into its coils. Araevin held his breath as her foot slipped on the slick stone, but she recovered easily and reached the broad stone bowl where the crystal glittered. Maresa loosened a small leather pouch from her belt, and brought it up to where the shard lay. Smart girl, he realized. A crystal bobbing around in midair would be a lot more likely to attract attention than one that simply and quietly vanished. With one confident motion, Maresa swept the shard into the pouch and slid back down the side of the idol.

“There it goes,” Nesterin whispered. “She has it.”

Behind Maresa, one of the old bronze coins in the stone bowl slid off the shallow mound and clattered to the stone floor.

Ophidians raised their heads from the floor and peered at the idol. In the space of three heartbeats hisses of anger arose throughout the hall, and the serpent folk thrashed in agitation. Some surged upright, balancing on thick, scaly torsos as they looked around the chamber. Others slithered toward the great statue, forked tongues darting.