Araevin hummed an arcane incantation beneath his breath, and passed his hand over the top of the stone marker.
At first nothing happened, but then the stone began to glow with a soft, golden light. Slowly it brightened enough to fill the glade with its pale glow, dancing motes of magic drifting in the air.
'Say farewell to Evermeet,' Araevin told Ilsevele. 'We'll be in Faerun in just a moment.'
Ilsevele glanced around at the wooded clearing, the sunset sky above, the deep green forest all around. A tear trickled down her cheek. No elf could leave Evermeet easily, especially not for the first time. She whispered a farewell, and they were gone.
CHAPTER 4
19 Alturiak, the Year of Lightning Storms
Gaerradh trotted swiftly through the endless tree-gloom of the High Forest, little more than a shadow herself. She wore her long russet hair tied behind her in a single braid, and carried her longbow easily in one hand. Even though she wore a jerkin of studded leather and carried a pair of axes thrust through her belt, she ran easily. She was a seasoned warrior, well trained in the ways of the forest, and she had long ago learned that the ability to move fast and far was one of an elf scout's best weapons.
Behind her the snow-covered forest floor rustled, and a large, powerful wolf with a silvery coat appeared in the gloom. Long and lean, the predator sprinted after her, bounding over the ground like a white streak, only to fall in alongside the ranger and slow its pace to match hers. Gaerradh glanced down to her side without breaking stride.
'I was wondering where you'd gotten to,' she said to the wolf. 'Chasing rabbits, I suppose.'
Sheeril simply looked up at her with dark eyes and an expression of disdain. Gaerradh was fairly certain that the wolf understood almost everything she said. Gaerradh was comfortable with her own company-one could not serve as a far-ranging scout in the northern marches of the endless woods if one minded being alone for ten-days at a time-but Sheeril was as close a friend to her as any elf. Together Gaerradh and Sheeril kept watch over the northern marches of the High Forest, spying out the comings and goings of orc warbands, gangs of trolls, avaricious companies of human freebooters, and the darker and more dangerous creatures of the woodland. The High Forest was the largest and wildest in all Faerun, and it was far from a safe place. Gaerradh and Sheeril dealt with intruders who were few in number, and summoned help from other elf scouts and rangers when faced with foes too numerous or powerful to deal with on their own.
Gaerradh told her elf friends that she best served the People by searching out dangers before they could threaten the elven settlements of the High Forest, but in truth, Gaerradh simply loved the wide lands of the wilderness. She found solace in the wilds, and when she spent too much time among the People of Rheitheillaethor or the other settlements of the forest, she found herself growing restless and longing for the silence of the woods again. She was on her way back to Rheitheillaethor at the moment to provision herself and trade news, but she hoped to stay no more than two or three days before heading back out into the winter forest again.
Sheeril abruptly peeled away from her side, and halted to gaze intently into the woods downhill. Gaerradh needed no other signal. She halted in mid-stride, crouching knee-deep in the snow and holding herself immobile.
'What is it, girl?' she whispered to the animal.
The wolf glanced back at her and whined softly. Then she slid into a thick stand of fir trees lower on the hillside. Gaerradh followed, an arrow on the string of her bow. She was puzzled more than anything else. They were in a region of the forest that was usually safe and quiet. The elves maintained a guard over the old ruins nearby in order to keep careless bands of adventurers from disturbing them. The watch also served to chase marauding orcs and hungry monsters out of the area as well.
She followed Sheeril down into the thicket, and she caught the scent that had attracted the wolfs attention. The smell of death lingered in the cold air beneath the evergreens. It was faint, thanks to the blanket of snow and the cold weather, but it was there nonetheless.
Then Gaerradh found the first of the bodies.
Half-buried in the drifting snow lay a wood elf warrior, frozen gore clotted around his wounds. He'd been hacked to death by sword cuts, but he still wore the simple diamond-shaped brooch of those who stood guard over Nar Kerymhoarth, the Nameless Dungeon. Gaerradh bowed her head in grief, then rose and followed Sheeril deeper into the copse.
There, in ones and twos, she found the remains of eleven more wood and moon elves. Some had died by sword, others by spells, their bodies burned or blasted by deadly magic. Eight of them she knew, and two she counted among her few close friends.
'All twelve,' she murmured. 'The guardians of Nar Kerymhoarth, overcome all at once. What evil is this?'
Snow had fallen since the fight, covering any tracks Gaerradh might have studied. It had last snowed two days before and scavengers-ravens, mostly-had been at the exposed flesh. They died not long before the snowfall, she decided after a quick examination of the scene. Less than a day, certainly. Possibly no more than an hour or two. The warriors on watch had been killed between two and three days before.
Sheeril padded up to her side and looked up at her face.
'I know,' said Gaerradh. 'We must go to Nar Kerymhoarth and see who did this.'
She stood and composed herself, dropping her pack in a clump of brush nearby. Then she carefully backtracked out of the clearing, hiding her trail as best she could, and set her eyes on the nearby stony spire of the ancient citadel's barren tor, rising above the trees half a mile away.
It took Gaerradh well over an hour, since she didn't want to be seen, but she half-circled the barren hilltop and approached the deep ravine sheltering the fortress's entrance by climbing high over the shoulder of the hill and descending on it from above. Finally she got herself into position and wormed her way over the ridgeline, moving slowly to avoid the creaking of compressed snow or, worse yet, the sudden crunch of a broken ice crust. Sheeril crept along a pace behind her, trained to crawl on her belly and move only on Gaerradh's cue. Her face and throat stinging from the wet, cold snow, Gaerradh gently parted a notch to spy on the dungeon's door.
There was no door before her. In fact, there was no ravine. She blinked in astonishment. Had she somehow got her bearings wrong, and climbed over the wrong shoulder of the hill? She couldn't have made such a simple- minded mistake as that!
Gaerradh looked again, studying the scene carefully. The landscape seemed right, but there was a huge gouge in the side of the tor, laying bare chambers and tunnels in the hill. The door itself she finally spotted lying almost a hundred yards away, broken in several pieces. Someone had blasted the ancient citadel of Nar Kerymhoarth open to the sky. She could not imagine who would have done it, or why, but clearly powerful magic had been put to use there.
And they slew the watch, she reminded herself. Whoever this is, he's no friend to the People.
Rheitheillaethor, and the other havens of the People in the High Forest, had to be warned, and right away.
Gaerradh pushed herself to her knees, brushed snow from her clothing, and whispered, 'Come, Sheeril. We must travel fast and far today.”
Araevin and Ilsevele stood together in the dim light of the coming dawn, listening to the sounds of the forest around them. The first notes of birdsong lilted in the distant trees, and overhead the dark sky was streaked with bright shoals of rose and pearl. The elfgate had transported them to a briar-grown hollow deep in the shadowed woods, and they'd walked through the Ardeep for half the night to reach the ruins of an ancient court, its moss- grown flagstones long broken by the growth of mighty trees hundreds of years old. Before them was an ancient palace of white stone, its walls overgrown by ivy, and large sections open to the sky.
Ilsevele shifted the bow case she wore over her left shoulder and shook her pale copper hair free of her green hood. The air was damp with dew, and beads of cold water clung to her cloak and armor.
'The House of Long Silences is aptly named,' she observed. 'This place has been abandoned for many
