and marks accompanying it. “The list you requested. You’ll find some notes about what is here and what isn’t, as well as a few sources I added as I thought of them.”
Maresa eyed the stack of books with suspicion. “I like reading as much as the next person, but that is a formidable stack of paper. Are you going to read all of those, Araevin?”
“As many as I need to,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable, Maresa. Or, if you’d like to help, I’ll explain what I’m looking for, and you can try your hand at it too.” He looked over to Brother Calwern. “Thank you, Brother Calwern. This should be an excellent start.”
They spent the rest of the day plowing through the collection of ancient texts and histories compiled by dozens of different authors, some human, some elf, and even a couple written by dwarves or halflings. Then they returned to the Golden Oak, ate, rested, and returned the next morning to resume their efforts, and again on the following day.
By the morning of the third day, Araevin had learned some things he hadn’t known before. Morthil, the star elf wizard, was said to live in a realm named Yuireshanyaar. Araevin had never heard of any such land, and so he broadened his search, looking for anything he could find about a realm so old or so far off that even the sun elves had forgotten about it. He asked Calwern to look into it as well, and resumed his reading.
Late in the afternoon, Brother Calwern brought Araevin a heavy ancient tome bound in dragon hide.
“Good afternoon, Master Teshurr,” he said warmly. “I believe I may have found your missing kingdom.”
Maresa looked up from an old tome she had been examining. “Thank Akadi,” she muttered. “My eyes can’t stand another hour of this.”
The Deneirrath cleric set the heavy book on the reading table, and opened it with care. It was an ancient atlas with page after page of old maps, all marked in script Araevin could not read.
“Is this Untheric?” he asked.
“Yes, it is. The atlas dates back almost two thousand years. Fortunately its makers protected it with spells of preservation long ago.” The white-haired Deneirrath carefully paged through the atlas, finally settling on a spread that showed, in fading ink, a long peninsula jutting into an island-studded sea. “The Yuir forest, where the realm of Aglarond now stands,” the cleric said.
Ilsevele leaned over Araevin’s shoulders. “Aglarond’s forests hide many secrets, but a fallen kingdom no one has ever heard of? That stretches credulity.”
Araevin studied the ancient map and said, “I see no realm or cities marked on the map.”
“Ah, but look at the Untheric caption, here.” Calwern pointed with one stubby finger. “It reads, ‘Here of old stood Yuireshanyaar, which is now hidden from the world.’”
Araevin glanced up to the Deneirrath. “Do you have any older maps of the Aglarondan peninsula here?”
“No, I checked already. The ancient empire of Unther was the first human realm to settle the peninsula’s shores, and this is the oldest Untheric text we have in the library.” Calwern rubbed his chin. “But there is something here that puzzles me, Master Teshurr. Why does the map say that Yuireshanyaar used to be here, but has been hidden? If one hides something in a certain place, it is still there, isn’t it?”
“That is odd,” murmured Araevin. “I might expect it to say ‘Here of old stood Yuireshanyaar,’ which would imply that the realm was there and has now fallen. Or I might expect it to say, ‘Here is Yuireshanyaar, which is now hidden.’ Which interpretation is correct?”
Calwern shrugged awkwardly. “I fear my understanding of Untheric may be insufficient to the task.”
“It could be an error on the part of the cartographer,” Araevin offered. He stood up from the desk and paced around the room, thinking. Morthil, the star elf-whatever that was-inherited the spellbooks and magical devices of Grand Mage Ithraides, hundreds of years after the coronal of Arcorar moved against the Dlardrageths. The last anyone recorded, Morthil returned to his people, taking Ithraides’s lore with him. The star elves lived in Yuireshanyaar, and here was a map claiming that Yuireshanyaar might once have stood in the forests of Aglarond.
“Does anything of Yuireshanyaar survive in Aglarond?” he wondered aloud.
“Tel’Quessir have lived in Aglarond for a long time,” Ilsevele observed. “It is said that many half-elves still live in the Yuirwood.”
“I have heard stories of old ruins and strange magic in Aglarond’s forests,” Calwern offered. “It is entirely possible that better records of Yuireshanyaar are preserved in the Simbul’s realm.”
“I am inclined to think so too,” Araevin said. He looked to Calwern. “Can I have a copy made of that map, and translations of the captions and names? By tomorrow?”
The cleric nodded. “Of course, Master Teshurr. I will set our scribes to the task immediately.”
Ilsevele looked over Araevin’s shoulder at the map with some interest. “So, how far is Aglarond from here?” she asked.
“It is quite far-two thousand miles, perhaps more,” said Calwern.
Ilsevele’s eyes widened. “That is two months’ journey, at the least!”
“It is not as bad as it sounds,” Araevin said. “A long part of that would be over water. We can hire a ship in one of the Dragon Coast ports and cross the Sea of Fallen Stars in a tenday or so. So, the question is how to reach the Sea of Fallen Stars quickly and easily.” Araevin leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “The portals we found under Myth Glaurach might serve. One led to the Chondalwood, another one to the forests of the east-”
“What of the portal to Semberholme?” Ilsevele interrupted him, tracing a path on Araevin’s map. “That would bring us within a few days’ ride of the ports in Sembia or Cormyr, wouldn’t it?”
Araevin allowed himself a small grimace. He was supposed to be the veteran traveler and the expert on portals, but Ilsevele had found the answer before he’d even started to consider the question.
“I think you’re right,” he said. “The other portals might get us closer to our goal at the first step, but then we would have to find our way to a port on strange shores. Riding from Semberholme to Suzail or Marsember seems much easier than finding our way out of the Chondalwood.”
Ilsevele patted his shoulder. He could feel her smirking behind his back.
“What are Cormyr and Sembia like?” she asked. “And how likely is it that we will find a ship bound for Aglarond in their ports?”
Araevin shrugged. “I haven’t been to that part of Faerun before, but I know they’re both regarded as civilized lands. Sembia is a land where gold is king, a league of cities governed by merchant princes. They’re suspicious of elves, I hear, but as long as we have coin to spend, we should have no trouble there. Cormyr is a smaller realm, but well spoken of by many travelers I’ve encountered. As far as passage to Aglarond, well, I suppose we will learn more when we reach the Sea of Fallen Stars. If nothing else, it seems likely that we could take passage to Westgate or Procampur, and go from there to Aglarond.”
“The quicker, the better,” Ilsevele said. “I have a feeling my father will need us in Cormanthor before too long. I do not want to tarry an hour longer than we need to.”
Maresa shut the ponderous tome in front of her and smiled crookedly. “I’ve never been to Aglarond,” she said. “I wonder if their wine’s any good.”
They returned to their rooms at the inn, making ready to depart on the following day. Araevin left the details in Ilsevele’s hands. He had something to do, and the time had come to do it whether he wanted to or not. At sunset he left the city’s gates and retraced his steps to the shrine of Labelas Enoreth, seeking quiet and solitude. The night was cool and breezy. Spring in the North faded fast once the sun set, and the woods around the old temple sighed and rustled in the wind.
Araevin seated himself cross-legged, looking out over the lights of the city below. Then, drawing a deep breath, he began to chant the words of a powerful vision spell. Before he set off for a kingdom as distant and exotic as Aglarond, he wanted to know that he could find what he sought there.
He focused on the tale of Ithraides and his allies, conjuring the images he’d seen preserved in the ancient telkiira stones: Ithraides, the ancient moon elf, with his younger apprentices around him. Morthil, he thought. Star elves. Yuireshanyaar. The telmiirkara neshyrr, the Rite of Transformation.
“I wish to know!” he called to the wind.
The vision seized him at once, powerful and immediate. Araevin felt himself flung out of his body, his perception hurtling eastward across land, sea, and mountains. He glimpsed a palace of green stone, a great woodland, a circle of old menhirs in a sun-dappled clearing in the forest. Then his vision lurched and leaped. He reeled, dizzy, setting a hand on the cold flagstones to steady himself.
