Final Gate (21 page)

For a time he couldn’t put anything together, and simply stared up at the brilliant daylight pouring through the window. Then his brow furrowed in recollection. There was a fight, he remembered. A lonely manor house on a hill, arrows in the dark … the banquet! The dark elf assassins!

“Ilsevele!” he gasped.

“Peace, Starbrow. I am right here.”

Fflar turned his head and found Ilsevele sitting on a wooden chair by the head of the bed on which he lay. A rough abrasion scored one of her cheekbones, and she’d cut away some of her beautiful copper-red locks-most likely because they’d been singed beyond repair, he supposed. But she regarded him with a soft, shy smile and set one cool hand on his forehead. “I think the poison has run its course. We feared the worst, but Lord Selkirk sent a cleric of Tyr to tend to our wounded, and he spoke powerful healing prayers over you while you lay senseless. For that, at least, I am grateful.”

He looked past her shoulder, and saw several of their comrades waiting nearby—Aloiene, Deryth, and three others. But Seirye, Hasterien, and Jerien were not present. I saw Seirye die, he reminded himself. Did Hasterien and Jerien fall as well? He remembered other elves falling in the fury of the battle spells and swordplay.

“By the Seldarine, what a disaster,” he breathed. “Where are we now?”

“The Sharburg. We’re being held in one of the towers. The Sembians say it’s for our own protection.” Ilsevele grimaced. “I pointed out to Lord Selkirk that I would be quite well protected in the camp of my father’s army, but he hasn’t seen fit to allow us to leave yet. There are a number of guards just on the other side of that door.”

“We’ll leave any time you like,” Fflar promised her.

He started to throw off his blanket and rise, only to realize two things at the same time—first, he was still quite weak, and second, he was not wearing a stitch of clothing. While elves did not concern themselves quite as much as humans about that sort of thing, he suddenly found that he was not so willing to abandon his modesty with Ilsevele watching him.

He fell back into his covers, and he remembered everything. She knelt over me and wept when I was hurt. And she kissed me, and I kissed her too. All of the sudden, his heart was hammering in his chest, and he could feel his face flushing with embarrassment. He looked up suddenly in alarm. “Ilsevele, I think I—did we?”

She smiled down at him, and her eyes sparkled with delight. “Yes, we kissed,” she said, and she leaned close to kiss him softly again. “I knew what I was doing, and I meant what I said,” she whispered to him.

“I don’t know what to say,” he answered. In fact, he did, even if he did not want to admit it. Even as his heart danced with the words she breathed into his ear, a dark and ugly knot of guilt grew under his ribs. Seiveril had trusted him to guard Ilsevele, not to steal her heart. And he had dealt with Araevin in an even worse way, hadn’t he? Even if Ilsevele and her betrothed had quarreled lately, he hadn’t waited a day before stepping into his friend’s place. How could he ever look Araevin in the eye again?

“What is it?” Ilsevele asked.

He couldn’t bear to say what came next, but he had to. “Ilsevele … what about Araevin?”

“Do you think it is any easier for me?” A shadow flickered behind her eyes. “I wept for hours, Starbrow. But I came to realize that I have been growing apart from Araevin for years now. And lately he has been growing apart from me, much more so in the last few months. He has left me behind him, and I do not understand him anymore.”

“He is my friend.”

“I know. And I hope that somehow he still will be. But this is my choice, Starbrow, and it is my responsibility as well as yours. Who can tell their heart what to feel?”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Ilsevele laughed and said, “Perhaps that is exactly why it did.” Fflar started to respond, but she simply laid her fingers across his lips and drew back. “No more for now. You still need rest, and we have all the time in the world to make sense of this. I am not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

Fflar started to protest, but Ilsevele pushed him back into bed with one hand, and he resigned himself to resting a little longer. Sleep—full, unconscious sleep, in the helpless manner of humankind—claimed him for a time.

When he woke again, the sunlight streaming into the room was dim and golden with the approaching dusk. He felt much stronger, and Ilsevele allowed him to rise and dress himself. He found that the elves’ arms and magic devices were in the keeping of their captors. He was just starting to examine whether the narrow window in their chamber could be widened with some judicious removal of stonework when a sharp knock came at the door.

Miklos Selkirk and several of his Silver Ravens entered the room. “Good evening, Lady Miritar,” the Sembian lord said smoothly. “I think it is time that we had a word.”

“It appears that I am at your disposal, Lord Selkirk,” Ilsevele answered, with just the subtlest inflection of bitterness in her voice.

Selkirk grimaced, but he pulled a plain wooden chair out from under a table by the door and seated himself. His guards took up places just behind him.

“Your father’s army is marching,” the Sembian began. “My scouts are not entirely sure, but it seems that Seiveril Miritar is marching east, along the south bank of the Semberflow. If he meant to attack Myth Drannor, he’d be on the other side of the Semberflow and he would be heading north. I can only assume that he means to attack Sembia.”

Ilsevele sank down onto a couch with a stricken look on her face. “He must have heard of the attempt on my life.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“I believe you,” Fflar told him. “But you are holding us here like prisoners. What else do you think Seiveril Miritar would do?”

“I will have no choice but battle if he continues. And if I must fight, I see no reason to allow you to return to your people with knowledge of what you’ve seen here.” Selkirk raised a hand to forestall Ilsevele’s protest. “You will be treated honorably, of course. I am not a savage, and I will not allow you to come to harm under my protection.”

“If you continue to hold us, you will only confirm my father’s fears,” Ilsevele said sharply. “If you have any hope of avoiding a battle, you must let go. My father is coming here for my sake, and my sake only. When I am no longer in danger, he will turn aside. He does not want to fight you, Lord Selkirk.”

The Sembian lord nodded. “I think that is true, too. In fact, I am willing to risk allowing you to report on my strength and dispositions, because I hope to avoid the fight altogether. But before I consider setting you free, I need to know something. What happened last night? What exactly was your Captain Starbrow doing before he made his dramatic entrance? What game are you and your people playing at?”

Ilsevele glanced at Fflar. He met her gaze steadily. He was done with fencing with words. The truth was a better answer than anything else he might think up, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if Selkirk had some way of ferreting out a lie anyway. He straightened up and faced the human lord.

“Two nights ago, I was approached by a young woman, a human, who asked me to meet her at the house of the Elgaun family—a manor on the outskirts of town,” Fflar said. “She claimed that she had proof that some among your folk were negotiating in bad faith. I agreed to come, and so when Ilsevele and the rest of our companions went to your banquet, I slipped away unseen to meet my mysterious friend.”

“I did not deal dishonestly with you,” Selkirk said stiffly.

Fflar shrugged. “I felt that I had to hear her out if there was any possibility that she had information about a plot against Ilsevele.”

“What happened after that?”

“When I arrived at Elgaun Manor, I was ambushed. Several drow were there, waiting for me I managed to kill three of them and make my escape—though I caught a poisoned arrow for my trouble. I realized that I had been drawn away from Ilsevele, so I drank a flying potion and raced to the Sharburg as fast as I could. You know the rest.”

Selkirk rubbed his jaw. “I’ll have my men search the manor at once. Perhaps they’ll turn up something. Did this treacherous lady of yours give her name?”

“Yes,” said Fflar. “She called herself Terian.”

The human lord looked up sharply at the moon elf. “Terian? Short and slender, with long black hair and a face that would stop a man’s heart?”

“You know her?”

“I only met her once, a few tendays ago,” Selkirk said. “She was in the company of a noblewoman named Senda Dereth. I hadn’t heard of either of them before, which struck me as odd. I know most of the highborn folk of Sembia, Cormyr, and the Dales too, for that matter. Both ladies were speaking with Borstag Duncastle when I came upon them.”

“Who is Duncastle?” Ilsevele asked.

“A very wealthy merchant of the sort that we in Sembia call ‘lords,’ and a member of my country’s ruling council. He was the power who was behind Sembia’s involvement in this war.” Selkirk frowned, fixing his dark eyes on the scene in his memory. “Duncastle was found dead the day after the daemonfey openly revealed their strength and turned against our army in Battledale. His eyes had been cut out, and Terian was nowhere to be found.”

“You believe she killed him?” Fflar asked.

“She went alone to his tent, and his guards admitted no one else that night. I looked into the matter myself, because the murder of a powerful lord is certainly of interest to the Overmaster.” Selkirk stood up and began to pace, chewing his lip absently as he considered the puzzle. “I presumed that she had decamped after murdering Duncastle, but it seems that she has been skulking around since. I wonder what other sort of mischief she has been up to? For that matter, who is she really? And who is she working for?”

“She managed to slip a dozen drow assassins into the middle of your army,” Fflar pointed out. “Who would be able to persuade drow to take on such work?”

They fell silent, considering the question. Then Ilsevele spoke up. “I think you have been dealing with a daemonfey, Lord Selkirk,” she said. “Terian must be a fey’ri in Sarya Dlardrageth’s service. Some of them are shapechangers of great skill, after all. And Sarya would certainly be interested in making sure that negotiations between my father and your father never bore fruit.”

Selkirk stopped his pacing and looked hard at Ilsevele. “Damnation, but that fits,” he said. “How many other daemonfey spies have been whispering a word here and a word there in order to set my countrymen against Evermeet?”

Ilsevele fixed her bright green eyes on the human lord and said, “Lord Selkirk, you are not our enemy. Our enemy hides in Myth Drannor. Regardless of what you decide to do, my father is going to march on Sarya Dlardrageth and destroy her once and for all. Now, are you going to stand aside and let him do his work? Or do you want to continue as Sarya’s dupe a little longer?”

Fflar shot a quick look at Ilsevele, surprised by her forcefulness. Then he looked back to the human lord to gauge the effect of her words. Selkirk glared at Ilsevele, and his face flushed red. “You need not remind me of how Sembia found herself entangled in this whole disastrous enterprise. I do not like to be made a fool.”

“What are you going to do about it, then?” Fflar asked.

Selkirk took a deep breath. “You are free to go,” he said to the elves. “I will have your weapons and other belongings returned at once. But I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What is it?” Ilsevele asked

“Take me to see your father. You trusted me enough to come to Tegal’s Mark, so I can trust him enough to go to Semberholme—or meet him on the road between here and there, I suppose, since he seems to be on his way here.” Selkirk grinned fiercely, and set his hand on the rapier hilt at his belt. “I think Sarya Dlardrageth has a few things to answer for.”

*****

The forgotten city of Lorosfyr was terrible and magnificent at the same time. Araevin and his companions wandered along empty boulevards and past proud towers whose curiously squared doorways and windows stared down on them, black and forbidding. Two files of six swordwights each marched on either side of the small company, escorting them at all times. Cold, dead eyes sunk in faces of pallid flesh stared back at Araevin when he studied the creatures. The only sound they made was the soft creak of molded leather and rasp of green-pitted bronze as the dead warriors followed the travelers.

Araevin drew his cloak closer around his shoulders and paused to study the facade of a public building rising above them. It seemed to be a library, or perhaps a courthouse. He started toward the steps leading up to the dark doorway, but two of the swordwights moved to bar his path. With a shrug, Araevin turned away.

“Are you really going to accept Selydra’s invitation?” Nesterin asked him in a low voice.

Maresa scowled fiercely. “Tell me you’re not going to bed that spell-spinning vixen, Araevin!” the genasi hissed. “She’ll stick a knife in you or poison you or worse the minute you let down your guard. I can see it in her soulless black eyes!”

“I do not trust her any more than you do, Maresa,” the mage answered. He also kept his voice down. The swordwights did not appear to be listening in, but that didn’t mean it would be wise to speak too freely in their presence. “I accepted her offer because I was not ready to offend her by declining.”

“She seems to be interested in you, Araevin,” Nesterin offered. “I hesitate to suggest it, but perhaps if you played along, you might find a way through this impasse.”

“Or he might find that her bed is the most dangerous place in this city,” Maresa retorted. “Have you seen the way she looks at him? She hungers after Araevin, Nesterin. She has evil designs on him, I am sure of it.”

Araevin held up his hand, interrupting the conversation. “I think I have found what I am looking for,” he said.

They had reached a courtyard close to the edge of the abyss, with a tall citadel or palace overlooking it. The plaza was ringed by a colonnade of angular pillars, each scribed with the strict runic script of the long-dead city. Statues of forgotten heroes stood among the columns, each gazing sadly out toward the center of the court, where a great geometric mosaic of green, white, and purple tile gleamed in the dim light.