“The daemonfey have been defeated, have they not?” Ammisyll Veldann asked. “How much longer will you persist in this interminable folly, Miritar? While you chase after ghosts and garrison gloomy old ruins, Evermeet itself remains vulnerable to attack!”
“Clearly, Evermeet was vulnerable to attack before I called for my Crusade,” Seiveril replied. “My efforts in Faerun are your best defense, Lady Veldann.”
Veldann scowled and began to frame a response, but Amlaruil interceded.
“The Dlardrageths are the enemies of all the elf race,” she said. “I will pray to the Seldarine for your success.” The queen did not glance at Ammisyll Veldann, but the highborn sun elf frowned and subsided, leaning back in her seat. Instead, Amlaruil studied Seiveril. “Have you given more thought to Lady Durothil’s proposal, Lord Miritar?”
Seiveril glanced up at the pale sky overhead. An empty chair stood at the foot of the left-hand side of the table, opposite the seat occupied by the high admiral.
It would be easy to take my place there, he thought. I would certainly wield power at least equal to the power I held as Lord of Elion-perhaps even more, since I would hold a high office indeed, with no one within three thousand miles to countermand my commands. I could do a great deal of good, if I chose to take that seat.
But how long would that good last? he wondered. Evermeet might set a shining example for the young human lands of Faerun to follow, but ultimately Evermeet is a refuge, a retreat. All the troubles that were foremost in his mind-the daemonfey, the phaerimm, the assaults on Evermeet, even the fall of the realms of Eaerlann and Cormanthor hundreds of years ago-seemed inextricably linked with the pattern of Retreat and flight that had been established for a dozen elf generations.
The empty seat at the table was inviting. It was familiar, comfortable. And it might undo everything he had accomplished so far.
“Lady Durothil’s suggestion has great merit,” he finally said. “I wholeheartedly endorse the notion of appointing a minister or a marshal to sit on this council and speak for those of the People who remain in Faerun. But I respectfully decline to hold any such office, or to answer to anyone who does.”
“I don’t understand,” Keryth Blackhelm growled. “You tell us to raise up a councilor for the east, and you say you will pay no heed to him? What is the point?”
“If I accepted the seat you offer, I would be honor-bound to answer to Evermeet’s authority and conform my actions to the will of the throne and the council. I do not have confidence in this body’s ability to take the actions I deem necessary in Faerun. Therefore I must decline to be so bound.”
“Isn’t it arrogant of you to decide that you, in the solitude of your own heart, are better suited to make such decisions than anyone else?” High Admiral Elsydar asked.
“Perhaps, but I have work that is not yet done in Faerun,” Seiveril said. “I will remain until I know that I have done all that I can, and I will not let Evermeet’s isolationists to tell me otherwise.”
“Wander around in Faerun’s dying forests as long as you like, Miritar,” Ammisyll Veldann hissed, “but send home the sons and daughters of Evermeet you have inveigled with your promises of glory!”
“Each elf who followed me into Faerun is free to return to Evermeet whenever he or she chooses,” Seiveril said, standing as straight as a fine blade. “I compelled no one to follow me to Faerun, and I will not allow you to compel anyone to return, Veldann. If I have to, I will found a realm of my own to prevent it.”
The council fell silent for a moment, astonished. Even Amlaruil’s eyes widened.
The queen said, “Seiveril, think of the People who follow you. You are not the only one who must accept the consequences of your crusade.”
“By what authority?” snapped Selsharra Durothil. “By what authority do you name yourself a king, Seiveril Miritar? Where is your realm?”
“By what authority?” Seiveril repeated. “By the authority of each elf who chooses to follow me, Lady Durothil. I claim no crown. All who remain with me shall have a voice in choosing who we name as our lord and how we do so.”
He looked at each of the councilors and went on, “As far as our realm… how many of our lands lie empty now? Who would argue with me if I raised a city in the High Moor, where Miyeritar once was? Or the wild lands west of Tun, where the towers of Shantel Othreier stood? The Border Forest, where once the sylvan realm of Rystallwood lay? Or the Elven Court, or Cormanthor itself?” He paused, and said again, “Why not Cormanthor itself?”
Seiveril looked up at the sky overhead, where the first stars were beginning to glimmer in the darkening sky.
Corellon, guide me, he prayed silently. Hold me to the course you have set for me.
Then he turned his back on the council, and strode from the Dome of Stars, leaving Evermeet behind him.
The portal near the Burial Glen failed to work, as Araevin knew it would. The spells that had powered the device for centuries were designed to allow intermittent functioning only-once used, the portal could not work again for hours. He knew a spell or two that might suspend that particular property and allow the instantaneous use of the gate, but with all his spells drained, he did not have a chance of opening it.
“I am sorry,” he told his companions. “We can’t escape through this portal. It will be hours before it opens again.”
“Damn! Why build a magical door that’s nothing more than a dead stone most of the time?” Maresa snarled.
“Among other things, it makes a portal much harder to sneak an army through,” Araevin answered. “We’ll have to wait for it to activate again.”
“We certainly can’t wait here,” Starbrow growled. The moon elf looked around the clearing, his hand on Keryvian’s hilt. “Let’s keep moving. There’s a lot of forest to hide in, and maybe we can circle back in a few hours to try it again.”
“Agreed. The farther we are from this place, the better,” Araevin said. If she were in Myth Drannor, Sarya would certainly have sensed his attempt to manipulate her mythal defenses and the pounce of her spell trap. He couldn’t believe that she would not order her fey’ri to hunt him down, especially if she knew that her trap had drained away all his spells. “Starbrow, you know this place. Take the lead.”
The moon elf nodded curtly and set off at once, leading the small party away from the portal clearing along a small footpath. Ilsevele followed behind him, her bow in her hand, and Araevin trotted behind her, his disruption wand clenched in one fist. He was fairly sure that the wand would still work for him-wands didn’t draw on any spells held in the mind, they simply contained spells of their own that any competent mage could make use of. It was a good weapon, and he had two more wands at his belt with equally destructive spells. But he normally held dozens of spells in his mind, many of which were significantly more powerful than any he could build into a wand. Without the power and versatility of his normal repertoire, he was in no position to invite a battle against Sarya’s fey’ri or any of their infernal allies.
How did she do it? Araevin wondered. If she knew a spell to secure the mythal-weave from another mage’s examination or touch, why didn’t she guard the mythal at Myth Glaurach in the same manner? He could only think of three possible answers: Sarya Dlardrageth was simply careless at Myth Glaurach, which seemed scarcely credible; there was something different about Myth Drannor’s mythal; or Sarya Dlardrageth had learned something new about mythalcraft in the relatively short time since he had bested her at Myth Glaurach.
But she doesn’t have the Nightstar. Where could she have learned the necessary spells? Is there another selukiira she might have access to? Or… did Sarya find a tutor? Araevin’s frown deepened, and he rubbed at the gemstone in his chest.
“This way,” Starbrow said. He turned from the path, striking off into the forests. He slid down a leaf-covered slope, muddy and wet with the spring, and splashed across a small stream at the bottom of the dell. But before they scrambled up the far side of the stream bank, Araevin sensed a terrible, icy cold in the air, and a crawling wrongness that turned his stomach.
He looked back up the short hillside they’d just descended. A pair of nightmarish monsters bounded down after them. They were a pale bluish-white in color, the hue of dead flesh, and they were big-each easily the size of an ogre, with insectile features, clacking mandibles, and long, lashing tails studded with terrible barbs. They carried great spears of black iron frosted with supernatural cold.
“Behind us!” he cried. “Ice devils!”
