Farthest Reach (36 page)

“Does any of Morthil’s handiwork still survive? Loregems, spells he created, spellbooks he scribed?”

“When I was young, there were stories told in the Seneirril Tathyrr that the secret libraries and vaults of the tower might hold such things. But that was a long time ago— about three hundred years after the making of Sildeyuir and the translation of our kingdom into this plane.”

Araevin stared at Tessaernil. “You told me before that Yuireshanyaar had been removed to Sildeyuir two thousand years ago. You have lived that long?”

“Time flows differently in Sildeyuir, Araevin. One year passes here for every two in the world outside.” Tessaernil offered a small smile. “I was born over eighteen hundred years ago, but I am in truth not more than nine hundred years old.”

“You may not find that remarkable, but few of my folk reach nine centuries, even in Evermeet,” Araevin said. “Queen Amlaruil might be that old, but she enjoys the blessing of the Seldarine themselves.”

“It is noteworthy among my people as well,” Nesterin observed. He offered a crooked smile. “I introduced Lord Tessaernil to you as my uncle. It would have been more accurate to add a few ‘greats’ before that.”

“You said before that you thought Morthil’s tower lies in the farthest reach of your realm—you were referring to Mooncrescent Tower?”

“Yes,” Tessaernil replied.

“So I need only speak to the masters of the tower, then,” Araevin said. “They will be able to help me with Morthil’s ancient lore.”

“That is the problem,” Nesterin said. “The order failed some time ago, and Mooncrescent Tower has been abandoned for centuries. It lies at the very border of our realm. Given what I recently discovered when I visited House Aerilpe, I fear that the place may no longer be accessible.”

“As soon as you give me leave to, I certainly intend to try it, regardless of the tower’s present circumstances,” Araevin answered. “I have no small experience in dealing with ancient ruins and warding magic “

The older elflord nodded. “I cannot understate the peril you may face, Araevin, but I did not expect that you would depart without trying.” He glanced to Nesterin and continued, “I have spoken with some of the other House lords of our land, taking counsel about you and your companions. I have decided to allow you to attempt Mooncrescent Tower. Nesterin here has agreed to guide you, at least as far as any road will serve.”

“I thank you, Lord Tessaernil,” Araevin said. He stood and offered a deep bow to the ancient elflord.

“You might not later, if things prove as dangerous as I fear they may,” Tessaernil said. He stood as well, and gravely returned Araevin’s bow. “You may set out when you like, Araevin. I wish you good fortune and a safe journey.”

*****

For two days, Scyllua Darkhope fought with every inch of her zeal and determination to extricate something from the disaster on the borders of Shadowdale. By all rights, the Zhentarim army should have disintegrated completely in the retreat back to Voonlar, harried as it was by the slashing attacks of pursuing elf riders. But Scyllua personally commanded the rearguard action, turning at bay and standing her ground whenever the elves pressed too close, then wheeling away to gallop another mile or two down the road as soon as the elves had been repulsed again.

As she harangued the last weary companies of the rearguard, keeping them on their feet and moving north through nothing more than her own unswerving will, she found Fzoul Chembryl at a nameless ford ten miles south of Voonlar. The lord of Zhentil Keep and his company of guards came riding south, against the march of soldiers retreating north, breasting a path through the exhausted ranks with callous indifference.

When Fzoul caught sight of Scyllua, he said, “Ah, there you are. Come, Scyllua, I would like to have a word with you.”

Scyllua dismounted and followed Fzoul into an old stone cottage that overlooked the ford. She did not fear punishment for her failure at Shadowdale. There was no point in dreading it. She had failed, and she would be disciplined. That was the way of the Black Lord. If she wanted to earn Bane’s favor again, she must endure her punishment stoically, with no attempt at evasion or excuses.

Fzoul muttered the words of a spell and sealed the cottage from scrying or outside observation. Then, when he was satisfied, he turned to Scyllua and delivered a great backhanded slap to her face that spun her half around and left her reeling drunkenly, her ears ringing.

“How did you allow this to happen?” he demanded.

Scyllua spat blood from her split lip, and slowly straightened. She kept her hands at her sides, expecting that her lord and master would strike her again.

“I failed to take sufficient precautions against an attack on my camp, my lord,” she said. “I expected to attack, not to be attacked.”

“Did you not entrench your camp every night, and post a strong watch?”

“I did, my lord. But events proved those measures insufficient.”

“Clearly,” Fzoul muttered. “Recount all that happened as you marched south from Voonlar. Do not seek to conceal anything from me.”

Scyllua did as she was told. When she had finished, she awaited Fzoul’s punishment with open eyes. But the Chosen of Bane did not immediately lash out. Instead, he turned away, frowning, his thick arms crossed before his chest.

After a long time, he spoke. “Circumstances beyond your control contributed to your failure,” he grudgingly admitted. “We had an excellent chance to crush the elven army, but the Red Plumes and Sembians did not take the steps that needed to be taken.”

Scyllua looked up at Fzoul. “The Red Plumes did not move on Mistledale?” she asked in surprise. She’d simply assumed that Hillsfar would have moved against the elven army’s rear. “Maalthiir is not stupid,” she muttered, talking more to herself than to Fzoul. “He would not have missed that chance unless he chose to miss it. He has betrayed us, Lord Fzoul!”

“My spies in Hillsfar report that Maalthiir had some sort of falling out with his mysterious new allies. There were reports of a fearsome magical duel fought in the First Lord’s Tower several days ago.”

“Does Maalthiir still live?”

“Regrettably, yes. But this story of a falling out with Sarya intrigues me.” Fzoul looked back to Scyllua. “The daemonfey agents who accompanied you and summoned the demons against Evermeet’s army—what became of them?”

“They abandoned us after we were driven from the camp,” Scyllua said bitterly. “As soon as they saw that we were beaten, Lord Reithel and his guards declined to offer any more assistance and left.”

“It seems that we are no longer useful to them,” said Fzoul. He scowled. “Now what? Do I hold back strength to counter Hillsfar … or Myth Drannor, for that matter? Do I strike a deal with the daemonfey and turn against Maalthiir? Or do Maalthiir and I hold to our agreement, and simply remove the daemonfey from consideration?”

Scyllua stood motionless, blood trickling from her damaged face. She would not be so forward as to offer an opinion. Fzoul was lost in his own dark thoughts, anyway.

He stroked his mustache, and nodded.

“We deal with Maalthiir,” he decided. “That’s the thing to do. As long as we have an understanding with Hillsfar and Sembia, we must profit by it. Let the elves worry about the daemonfey, and vice versa. In the meantime, Scyllua, you will repair this broken army as quickly as you can. I will have need of it soon.”

26 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms

Araevin and his comrades set out from the citadel of House Deirr on the day following Araevin’s conversation with Lord Tessaernil. The elflord provided them with mounts for their journey; the horses of Sildeyuir were lightly built and graceful, with spirited manners. Donnor Kerth looked on their destriers with some suspicion, not entirely sure that the horses could keep up a good speed on a long ride, but the star elf mounts proved quick and enduring. They soon showed that they could outpace the heavily armored Dawnmaster, even if they were several hands shorter than the big roan Kerth had brought with him

Nesterin rode at their head, leading the way along dim, shadowy roads of mossgrown gray stone that wound through countless miles of dusky forest. Araevin and Ilsevele rode behind the star elf, followed by Maresa and Kerth. Jorin Kell Harthan brought up the rear of the party, keeping a careful eye on the shadows behind them as they rode on. Tessaernil had warned them that no part of Sildeyuir outside the walls of an elven citadel was truly safe, and the Yuir ranger had taken the warning to heart.

They went on for several days, as near as Araevin could tell, halting to rest in the hours when the gloaming was at its deepest and the stars shone brightly in the velvet sky, then rising as the pearly gray of the lighter hours began to seep back up into the sky. From time to time they crossed over rushing streams on bridges of pale stone or came to silent crossroads in the forests, places where dim roads led off into the shadows beneath the silver trees. They even passed by several lonely citadels or towers, isolated keeps whose gleaming battlements looked out over the forest from rugged hilltops or slumbered in broad, grassy vales. Some of the towers glimmered with lanternlight and song, but others were dark and still, long abandoned.

As they rode past another of the empty towers, Maresa gazed up at the shadowed tower and shuddered. “Is this whole realm desolate?” she asked aloud. “We’ve gone sixty miles or more from Tower Deirr, and we haven’t met a single person on the road. We’ve passed more empty keeps than occupied ones!”

Nesterin glanced back at Maresa and shrugged. “Most of the realm is like this,” he said. “My people built true cities long ago, but our numbers have been dwindling for centuries. With the whole plane to ourselves, we never saw a need to crowd together into narrow lands and teeming towns. But I fear that the distances between our keeps and towers and towns are growing longer with each year.”

“Do any towns or keeps lie ahead of us?” Ilsevele asked.

The star elf shook his head. “Our road doesn’t take us near any towns,” he said. “We are heading out toward the edge of the realm. In fact, I know of only one more keep on this road before we reach the place where Mooncrescent Tower once stood.”

As it turned out, the keep that Nesterin remembered was also abandoned, with no sign of its People. Its walls were pitted and charred, as if by acid.

“The nilshai,” the star elf said bitterly as they studied the ruins “They must have come here, too.”

“You are under attack, Nesterin,” said Donnor. “Your foes are destroying you one by one. You must gather your strength, and soon, or you will be lost.”

“We are not as warlike as you humans,” Nesterin protested. “Sildeyuir has never had need of an army. We are the only realm on this plane!”

“War has come to Sildeyuir, whether you are ready for it or not,” Ilsevele said.

Nesterin bowed his head, and did not answer.

They managed another day and a half of riding before they came to the first of the gray mist rivers. The road dropped into a dark, shallow dell, and in the bottom of the small hollow a silvery mist or dust flowed sluggishly across the road like a low fog. At first glance the stuff seemed innocuous, but as they drew closer, the horses stamped nervously and refused to set foot in it.

“Is this the mist you encountered when you rode to Aerilpe?” Ilsevele asked Nesterin.

The star elf frowned. “Yes, it is. But I did not expect to meet it so soon. We’re many miles from Mooncrescent yet.” He glanced around the shining forest, his eyes dark and troubled. “Aillesel Seldarie! What is becoming of my homeland?”

“It’s just a little mist,” Maresa snorted. “Just ride on through, and have done with it!”

“The horses don’t like it at all,” Ilsevele said. “And now that I’m here, I find that I don’t like it either. Ride on through if you like, but I think we should look for a way around it if we can.”

The genasi tapped her heels to her mount’s flanks, and urged the animal forward until the mist lapped over the horse’s hooves, and strange tendrils or streamers of the silvery stuff seemed to wind around its legs. The horse began to shy in fright, its ears flat along its head, its eyes wide and rolling. Maresa struggled with the animal, but then she gasped and drew away, backing the horse quickly away.

“The mist tried to grab me!” she exclaimed.

“I didn’t see anything,” rumbled Donnor. “Are you sure?”

“I felt it,” Maresa insisted. “It’s thick as molasses in there. And it was trying to pull me in deeper.” She shuddered, her white hair streaming from her face as if she stood in a strong wind. “Have you ever stood in a high place and felt as if you might fall? As if you were about to slip over, but you didn’t really want to stop yourself? It’s something like that.”

Nesterin nodded in agreement. “That’s how I recall it. I discovered that I didn’t dare cross more than a few feet of the mist, not even when the nilshai were on my heels.”

Ilsevele looked over to Araevin. “What is this, Araevin? Do you have any idea?”

The wizard studied the weird, silvergray mist, streaming slowly through the hollow’s floor.

“I am not sure,” he said. “One moment….”

He murmured the words of a seeing spell and studied his surroundings, searching for signs of magic. His companions all glowed brightly, armed as they were with various enchanted weapons or protective spells. Araevin ignored them and bent his attention to the sluggish silvergray river of dust—or mist or smoke—that flowed across their path. Slowly he realized that the whole forest around him, and the sky overhead, was a vault of deep and powerful magic, a great silver artifice of staggering size.

High magic, he thought. Of course! Tessaernil said as much. The plane of Sildeyuir was called into being by high magic

He couldn’t even begin to imagine the difficulty and precision of the high magic ritual that had called a whole world into being, but the evidence was before his eyes. He tore his gaze from the faint silver vault of flowing magic that filled the sky and shaped the ground, and looked again at the gray stream of dust.

It was a crawling black gate, a ghostly portal that flickered and shifted beneath the mist. And it was growing. Whatever it touched was consumed, taken out of Sildeyuir to some other place. When the mist dissipated, its contents might return—or they might not. Like a great boring worm, the mist was chewing its way through the homeland of the star elves, devouring the magic and the very existence of the plane itself.