kingdom of Cormanthyr. I wonder what they will think of a neighbor who purged his city of elves years ago, having them slaughtered in bloody games?”
Sarya’s eyes glittered like green ice as she delivered the barb. She had not yet managed to insinuate many fey’ri spies into the lands around Myth Drannor, but it had not taken her long to learn that Maalthiir had come to the throne of Hillsfar many years ago by deposing a council dominated by elves.
A momentary uncertainty glinted in the human lord’s face before he bared his teeth in a fierce grin.
“Cormanthyr is dead,” he stated. “The elves have Retreated. It took them five hundred years to reach that decision, Lady Senda. They will never overturn it in only fifty years.”
“Do not take me at my word, Maalthiir. Investigate for yourself. You are reputed to be a mage of no small talent. Scry the woods of Semberholme and see what you find there. Or send for your spymasters and ask them what passes in the western Dales of late. You will find an army of elves better than five thousand strong-sun elves, moon elves, bladesingers and champions, mages and clerics, making ready to march north,” said Sarya. “It is a formidable array.”
“Assuming for the moment that you are telling me the truth-who are you, and why tell me?”
Sarya glided forward a step, and glanced at the expressionless guards with their black eyes.
“Do you wish me to speak freely here?”
The first lord did not even look at the black-clad swordsmen.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Do not mind my guards. They will not repeat anything they hear, and they are completely incorruptible. I see no one alone, Lady Senda. Ever.”
“As you wish, then.” Sarya glanced at the impassive guards again, wondering exactly what they were, then dismissed them as unimportant. “Who I am is not important. As far as why I am carrying tales to you of an elven army in Cormanthyr, it is simply a matter of self-interest. The elves are my enemies. Since it seems that I must deal with them, I naturally thought it wise to consider who else might regard an elven Return to Cormanthyr as less than desirable.”
“Now it becomes clear,” Maalthiir snorted. “You picked a fight with the elves, and now that they have come for you, you hope to hide behind Hillsfar’s army.”
“Do you really wish to see a Coronal in Myth Drannor, Maalthiir? A power in the forest to shield the weaker Dales against you, to bar you from the timber and resources of the woodland at your very doorstep, and perhaps to restore elves to the rule of this city?”
“You will have to do better than that, if you hope to frighten me,” the first lord said.
“I do not expect to frighten you. I expect you to examine the situation for yourself and act in your own interests as you perceive them.” Sarya turned her back on him and paced away, pretending to admire the portraits on the walls. “You have designs on the northern Dales, do you not?”
“It is none of your business if I do,” Maalthiir snapped.
“And your ally Sembia has interests in the southern Dales,” Sarya glanced back at the mage-lord. “An elven army in Myth Drannor would make both of those goals immeasurably more difficult. I submit to you, First Lord, that you would be well advised to think of how you could encourage the elves to Retreat once again, and leave you to the business of ordering this region as you see fit.”
“I tire of this verbal fencing, my lady,” Maalthiir said. “You still have not explained who you are and why you are in my tower. I will have answers, real answers, now.”
Sarya inclined her head. “Not until you verify that I have told you the truth so far, First Lord. See for yourself the army of Evermeet, marching to your doorstep. I will return in a few days to resume this conversation when you have had an opportunity to confirm the truthfulness of my words.”
“I have not given you leave to go,” Maalthiir said. He made no motion or sound, but the pale swordsmen beside him set hands to sword hilts in unison and fixed their dead gazes on Sarya. “You will answer my questions one way or another, Lady Senda.”
“Another day,” Sarya said, and she teleported away from Maalthiir’s parlor, vanishing in the blink of an eye.
The last she saw of the first lord, his face was set in a scowl of displeasure-but not surprise.
On the morning following Seiveril’s Council of War, Araevin, Ilsevele, and Maresa gathered their belongings, armed themselves with swords and spells, shouldered their packs, and drew their traveling cloaks over their clothes. Then, as Filsaelene stood by to see them off, Araevin incanted his teleport spell and grasped the hands of the two women. The ruins of Myth Glaurach faded away into a golden, sparkling haze, only to be replaced a moment later by the cool green shadows of the old hillside shrine overlooking Silverymoon-the same hillside where he had met Ilsevele before. Silverymoon’s graceful Moonbridge glimmered in the sun below them.
Maresa glanced down and patted at her torso and arms, as if to make certain that all of her was present.
“I’ve always thought that was an extremely useful spell,” she observed. “Why bother to walk anywhere once you know it?”
“In the first place, it’s somewhat inappropriate to use magic of that sort on a whim,” Araevin replied. “More than a few wizards have managed to forget that their feet must serve when their magic won’t do. Secondly, the spell is not particularly easy. I have a difficult time holding more than one or two teleport spells in my mind at a time without giving up other spells that are equally useful. Finally, it’s wise to never use the last teleport spell you have in your repertoire unless you are in dire peril. You never know when you might earnestly wish to be somewhere else.”
“There is also the chance of a mistake,” Ilsevele told Maresa.
The genasi shot a sharp look at her. “Mistake? What sort of mistake?”
“It would not ease your mind at all if you knew, Maresa.” Ilsevele patted her arm and walked past her, following the path down to the city below.
The three travelers found their way back to the Golden Oak, and took rooms there again. Then, after shucking their packs and traveling gear, they went straight to the Vault of Sages.
“I left Calwern with a list of references and texts to search for me,” Araevin explained as they walked through the tree-shaded streets of the city. “Before we do anything else, I want to see if he has learned anything important.”
“What will you do if the knowledge you seek has simply been lost?” Ilsevele asked. “It has been a very long time. The spells you need may not exist any longer.”
“Spells rarely vanish all together, at least in my experience. The gods of magic often intervene to ensure that knowledge does not disappear from the world.” In truth, Araevin dreaded that very possibility, but he did not want to dwell on it until he had to. “If Morthil has been forgotten by history, it may be that his spells remain. Clerics of Mystra, Oghma, or Denier hold many old spellbooks in their libraries. And if all else fails, I can attempt to reinvent the spells myself, though that would take many months, perhaps even years, of research. I think I am in too much of a hurry for that.”
They arrived at the Vault. The great library’s gray stone turrets and narrow windows made it seem more like a castle sitting in the center of Silverymoon than a place of learning, but the library’s doors stood open. They mounted the worn stone steps to the wood-paneled foyer inside. Bright dust motes drifted in the yellow sunlight that slanted through the windows.
“Why, Master Teshurr, you have returned! And Lady Miritar, too-how good to see you again!” Brother Calwern straightened up from his desk, a broad smile creasing his seamed face. “You concluded your out-of-town affairs to your satisfaction, I trust?”
“Not entirely. I dealt with the question I was called away to look into, but I fear it only led to more questions.”
“In my experience, difficult questions are like hydras’ heads,” Calwern said. “Each one you vanquish leads to two more. If it’s any help, I have set aside those tomes you asked me to look for. Do you want me to bring them out for you?”
Araevin nodded. “Yes, please, Brother Calwern.”
“The second reading room is open. Make yourselves comfortable, and I will bring them out directly.”
Araevin bowed to the human cleric, and led Ilsevele and Maresa to the reading room. In a few minutes Calwern appeared, wheeling a small cart stacked with musty old texts and scrolls.
“Here you are,” the human said. He handed Araevin a parchment letter, a list of the tomes with cryptic notes
