“To find out who the star elves were, and where they lived, and whether some record of what Morthil brought back from Arcorar still exists. There is a rite I must master before the Nightstar will open the rest of its knowledge to me.”
“That might be the work of years, Araevin! You are speaking of secrets that were hidden five thousand years ago. That is a terribly long time, even by our standards.”
“It might also be the work of months, or days,” he replied. He looked back up at the starry sky, watching the dance and flicker of lanternlight bobbing in the breeze. “I can always seek to invoke a vision if I turn into a blind alley. My heart tells me that Saelethil’s lore will be the key to any battle in Myth Drannor. There are many skilled wizards marching in your father’s army, but I am the only one who can do this. Even if it proves to be fruitless, I have to make the attempt.”
She sighed and looked down at her hand atop his. “Are you asking me to choose between going with you or going with my father?”
“I do not mean to.” He allowed himself a small smile. “But there is more of Faerun to see, if you haven’t gotten your fill of it yet.”
Ilsevele pulled her hand away from his, and drifted away across the cracked and weathered stone of the old balcony. She stared off into the green shadows beneath the trees, hugging her arms against her body. Araevin gazed at her back, waiting. Finally she seemed to give herself a small shiver, and turned back to him.
“All right. Now that I have seen Myth Drannor with my own eyes, I find that I cannot argue against doing everything in our power to sever Sarya Dlardrageth from the city’s mythal. But I fear for you, Araevin. I think it is a perilous path you intend to walk. I will come, if only to guard you from yourself.”
Araevin started to reply, but then he thought better of it, and kept his argument to himself.
Instead he looked over to Maresa and asked, “What of you?”
Maresa leaned against the old wall, her arms folded. Her hair drifted softly against the breeze, glimmering like silver in the starlight.
“I see no reason to walk toward a battle when I’ve got an excuse to head away from one,” she said with a snort. “And I like the idea that your magic might be a stiletto we can stick in Sarya’s back while she’s watching Lord Seiveril march his army at her fortress. I’m with you, Araevin.”
Araevin looked over to Filsaelene and asked, “And you?”
The sun elf girl shook her head. “I think I should march with the Crusade. If Evermeet’s soldiers are heading into battle against the daemonfey, many will have need of healing. Lord Miritar needs every cleric he can find.” She frowned and raised her eyes to meet Araevin’s. “But… if you ask me to help you in this new quest, I will do so gladly. I can never repay you for saving me from captivity in Myth Glaurach.”
“You helped us in the mausoleum of the ghost and in the fight at the portal glade,” Araevin pointed out. “I’m inclined to think you have little left to repay.”
Ilsevele looked at her and smiled sadly. “Follow your heart, Filsaelene. You should serve as you think best, and I am afraid you are right about where you will be needed.” She stepped forward and embraced the young cleric. “Be careful. And do not be afraid to send for us if we are needed in Cormanthor. We will come if we can.”
Maresa turned back to Araevin. “So, more portals leading into the godsforsaken wilderness? Maybe a dragon’s lair this time?”
The sun elf mage shook his head. “No, no portals this time. If you’re willing, I will teleport us to where we need to go.”
Sarya climbed the steps of the First Lord’s Tower, and tried not to allow crawling disgust to mar her composed features. Hillsfar was a city of humans, a hundred miles north of Myth Drannor, on the shores of the Moonsea. It was filled with the reek and clamor of humankind, and everywhere she looked humans carried on with their senseless commerce, bickering, squabbling, and bullying each other.
She was shrouded in a magical disguise, a simple spell of appearance-changing that made her resemble a human woman-perhaps somewhat slighter of build than normal, but graceful and beautiful nonetheless, with hair of deep auburn and eyes of bewitching green. She wore a pleated emerald dress of human design, decorated with delicate gold embroidery. She had entered Hillsfar in a small coach driven by disguised fey’ri, and passed through its crowded streets unnoticed until her carriage clattered to a stop before the stern, tall citadel that stood at the heart of the city.
She glanced up at the banners and pennants snapping overhead, and frowned despite herself. In her day the humans had known their place. None dared challenge the power of the great elven realms. They had been a race of simple barbarians, suitable for use perhaps as mercenaries in the wars of greater races. Yet it was an inescapable fact of the age in which she found herself that humankind must be reckoned with.
That can be set right, she told herself. Soon I will be able to hurl an army of devils, yugoloths, and demons at any foe who dares to challenge me. I will lay this city under tribute-or have it torn down stone by stone and its people driven away from the borders of my new realm.
Six stern warriors in heavy armor with red-plumed helmets stood by the archway leading into the tower. It was more properly a small keep, really, with an interior courtyard and high, strong walls.
“Halt and state your business,” the guard sergeant demanded.
“Why, I seek an audience with First Lord Maalthiir,” Sarya said, her voice and smile cold and dripping with contempt. “I am Lady Senda Dereth. I believe he expects me.”
The man-at-arms-actually a woman-at-arms, though one could hardly tell beneath the heavy armor-turned her back on Sarya and glanced at an orders book on a standing desk in a small alcove by the doorway.
After consulting the book for a moment she grunted and said, “You’re to be shown to the Conservatory, and await the first lord there. Come with me.”
Sarya inclined her head without allowing her cool smile to slip, though the ill manners of the guard sergeant deserved a sharp rebuke indeed. She followed the stocky woman as she clomped along in her armor, passing through barren, cheerless halls that were almost devoid of decoration. Another guard followed at her back, a good three paces behind her.
“Is this truly necessary?” she asked.
“No one goes into this tower without a Red Plume escort,” the guard sergeant replied. “The first lord has made that absolutely clear. It is a standing order.”
She came to a tall, paneled door, and opened it for Sarya. Inside was a large parlor or sitting room, with several empty bookshelves along the periphery, and a number of old portraits hanging from the walls-mostly of elves, it appeared, though with the crude human artistry it was hard to be sure.
“Wait here,” the sergeant said, and withdrew to the hallway, closing the door behind Sarya.
Sarya composed herself for a long wait, and she was not disappointed. It was well over an hour before she heard measured footfalls in the hall outside, and the rough clatter of the guards coming to attention. She turned to face the door as Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, strode into the room.
He was a human of middle years, tall but thin, with a heavily lined face and a scalp shaved down to gray stubble. He wore a long goatee of iron gray, and dressed in a high-collared tunic of gleaming black, chased with dragon designs. In one hand he carried a short staff or long scepter of dark metal, with its head in the shape of a draconic claw. Four more guards followed him into the room, pale and silent warriors who seemed human at a glance, but positively reeked of planar magic to Sarya’s keen sense for such things.
“Well, you must be Lady Senda,” Maalthiir rasped, his voice completely humorless. “I’ve never heard of any Dereths around here. Who are you, and what do you want with me?”
“Who I am does not much matter,” Sarya said. “And I want nothing more than to give you a warning, First Lord.”
Maalthiir’s scowl deepened. “I react poorly to mysteries and threats. Choose your next words carefully.”
“You have a new enemy on your doorstep, Maalthiir.”
The first lord snorted and crossed his arms, tucking his scepter under his arm. “Oh, do I? And I suppose you have come to tell me all about my new adversary. Very well, then-who is this dreadful new foe?”
“Evermeet, my lord,” Sarya said.
Whatever the first lord might have been expecting her to say, that was not it. Maalthiir glared at her for a long moment, measuring her.
“What in the world does Evermeet want with me?” he demanded.
“An army from Evermeet is returning to Cormanthor. They mean to recapture Myth Drannor and restore the
