darkening skies. “I am glad that you told me of this shrine. The view is lovely. And I’ve had several hours to admire it.”
“I am sorry. I had a later start than I’d anticipated.”
“No matter. I enjoyed a couple of hours to myself.” She took his hand. “Come on, Maresa and Filsaelene are waiting in the city. They’re anxious to see you, too.”
The two sun elves followed an old path leading down from the shrine to the human city below. This close to Silverymoon, there was little danger even as darkness fell, but Araevin noted that Ilsevele wore her sword, and he approved.
“Where are you staying?” he asked. When he’d sent word to Ilsevele that he was coming, he had used a sending spell, and didn’t know where it might have found her.
“An inn called the Golden Oak. It’s quite nice, really. I like it much better than that Dragonback in Daggerford.”
“I know the Oak. You have expensive tastes,” he said with a smile.
Ilsevele drew closer under his arm. “I decided that I owed Maresa and Filsaelene some comfort, after what we’ve all been through over the last few months.”
“I certainly don’t begrudge you that.”
They’d crisscrossed the Sword Coast and the North in search of the telkiiras containing the clues that would lead him to the Nightstar, facing brigands, trolls, wars, demons, imprisonment, and worse. And not all of their companions had survived their adventure.
Araevin’s old comrade Grayth Holmfast had been murdered by the daemonfey, and Grayth’s armsman Brant torn apart by demons in the fight to find the telkiira stones before the daemonfey did. Thinking of his lost companions, Araevin lapsed into a long silence as they neared Silverymoon’s gates.
After a time, Ilsevele glanced at him and said, “You seem troubled.”
“I was thinking of Grayth and Brant. They deserved better.”
“I know.” Ilsevele leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. “He did not want to return, Araevin. We brought him to Rhymester’s Matins, the temple of Lathander in this city, and the human clerics cast divinations to determine whether his spirit would return willingly if they chose to raise him. Grayth is content with his life, and his death. All you can do is honor his sacrifice, and carry him with you in your memory.”
“Grayth is wiser than I, for I am not content.” Araevin said. He knew he was responsible for his friend’s death. The daemonfey had killed Grayth to compel Araevin to lead them to the Nightstar. If he had yielded earlier, the cleric might still be alive. Araevin had destroyed Nurthel, the fey’ri who had actually killed Grayth… but Sarya Dlardrageth, the author of his death, had so far escaped justice. “We still have business with the daemonfey.”
“I have not forgotten,” she replied, with an edge of cold steel in her voice. Ilsevele was a warrior as well as a highborn lady; she believed that some things could only be set right with steel and courage, and she knew her own measure better than most.
They passed the guards at the city gates, and walked Silverymoon’s broad boulevards until they reached the Golden Oak-a large, comfortable inn whose common room was an open atrium beneath the spreading branches of a great oak tree, from which dozens of small lanterns hung. A bard strummed a lute, and many of the inn’s guests sat drinking wine or ale beneath the oak tree, quietly conversing.
“Araevin!” called a loud voice. More than a few heads turned as Maresa Rost leaped to her feet, calling to the two elves. Maresa was an individual of striking appearance, a young woman whose skin was literally as white as snow. Her hair was long and silver-white as well, and it drifted gently around her head as if stirred by breezes unfelt by anyone else. She was a genasi, a human whose ancestry included beings of the elemental planes-in Maresa’s case, air elementals of some kind. She wore crimson-dyed leather and carried a rapier at her hip. “You were supposed to be here hours ago!”
Araevin started to bow and apologize, but Maresa surprised him, throwing her arms around him and offering a fierce hug. “I-it is good to see you, too, Maresa,” he stammered. He looked over Maresa’s shoulder to the genasi’s companion, a rather slight and young-looking sun elf woman who wore the emblem of Corellon Larethian’s clerics on her tunic. “And you, too, Filsaelene.”
Filsaelene offered a shy smile, and raised a goblet of wine. “Join us, please. I am afraid we are a little ahead of you already.”
Freed from the daemonfey stronghold only a few tendays ago, none of her former comrades had survived their battle against the demonic invaders. Filsaelene still struck Araevin as timid and retiring, but she seemed to be recovering well under Maresa’s care.
Maresa finally released him, and Araevin glanced over at Ilsevele. His betrothed shrugged.
“I could stand some song and wine,” she said. “Why not?”
They spent the evening drinking good wine, enjoying the music of the bard, and trading stories of old adventures. After a time, the lutenist was joined by a flutist and a drummer, and the three struck up a lively dance, in which Araevin was kept quite busy by dancing with all three of his companions in turn. Finally, tired and pleasantly aglow with the warm wine, he and Ilsevele said their goodnights to the others, and retired to Ilsevele’s comfortable room.
Whether it was the wine, the dancing, or simply the hidden relief of having survived their trials of the past few months, they made love for a time. Then they spent the hours after midnight lying together, content to be near each other without speaking. Such moments had become rare in the past few years, it seemed.
Ilsevele’s fingers glided over the cold, hard gemstone sealed to Araevin’s chest, and he felt her frown.
“You brought the selukiira with you?” she asked.
“I still have more to learn from it,” he told her. Then he reached up to mesh his fingers with hers, and brought her hand to his face, holding her close as they drifted off into Reverie together.
“I thought you said it was dangerous-an artifact of the daemonfey of old.”
“It is,” he said, and said no more about it.
The next morning, Araevin stirred from his Reverie and dressed himself in the dark hour before dawn. Ilsevele roused herself as he rose, drawing a deep breath as she called herself back to the inn room from whatever far memory or dream she had wandered in her own Reverie.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“The Vault of the Sages,” Araevin replied. He looked over at her. “It is the best library in the city, perhaps all of the North, and I have some research to do.”
“The Nightstar?”
“Yes. I have not yet solved all of its mysteries.” Araevin drew his cloak over his shoulders, and picked up the worn rucksack in which he carried many of his notes and journals. “I must learn more about the magic of ancient Arcorar, or at least some specific spells and rites from that era, if I am to unlock the deeper secrets Saelethil concealed in this lorestone.”
Ilsevele sat up sharply. “Is it a good idea to do that? You were lucky once with the Nightstar. Perhaps you shouldn’t delve any further into it unless you have to.”
“Last night we spoke of our unfinished business with the daemonfey. If I ever mean to finish it, I think I will need to know what other secrets the Nightstar holds.”
Ilsevele stood too, and said, “I will come with you, then.”
“There is no need. I’m not sure how much you could help, to be honest. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for.”
Ilsevele’s eyes narrowed. “I remind you, my betrothed, that I know a little bit about magic too. Besides, I have nothing else in particular to do today, and I might like a chance to look around a fine library for my own account, not yours.”
He winced. “I did not mean to imply that you were unable to help me,” he managed. “I would enjoy your company, if you wanted to come along.”
Ilsevele crossed her arms. “I find that less than convincing.”
They ate a quick breakfast of warm bread and apple butter in the inn’s common room, and set out across Silverymoon as the human town slowly woke. The Vault of the Sages was a tall horseshoe-shaped building of stone, sturdy and strong. Araevin and Ilsevele entered only moments after the priests of Denier, who kept the Vault, opened the doors for the day.
An old human cleric with a fringe of snow-white hair around his bald pate looked up from a desk to greet
