The slender white pillars had once ringed a great table where the old lords of Semberholme had feasted on summer nights. Like many of Semberholme’s ruins, they were not really ruined at all, just abandoned for a time. Since Seiveril’s folk had had a few days to set things in order, golden lanterns hung once again from the branches overhead, and the table was set much as it might have been five hundred years ago. Three humans and a half-elf awaited him.
Thilesil stepped forward and announced, “Honored guests, the Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion. Lord Seiveril, this is High Councilor Haresk Malorn of Mistledale, Lord Theremen Ularth of Deepingdale, Lord Ilmeth of Battledale, and Lady Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale.”
“Welcome, friends,” said Seiveril. “I thank you for consenting to meet me here.”
He bowed, and took a moment to study his guests. He’d sent couriers to all the nearby lands after discovering the troubles besetting Mistledale, even dispatching mages with teleport spells to speed their journeys if necessary.
Haresk Malorn, High Councilor of Mistledale, was a tall, balding human with a heavy body, dressed in garb Seiveril might expect of a small town merchant, which was exactly what Malorn was. For all his evident lack of martial bearing, he had a surprisingly direct and strong look to his face, even if he seemed a little overwhelmed in the present circumstances.
Lord Ilmeth of Battledale, another tall human, was the second of Seiveril’s guests. He had a thick, dark beard and a grim, almost sullen manner to him. He also shifted his feet nervously, his powerful arms folded across his broad chest.
His third guest was the half-elf Lord Theremen Ulath of Deepingdale. Theremen evidently had some moon elf blood in him. He was quite fair of skin, with dark hair and a build that was almost elf-slender. He seemed somewhat more at ease than the Malorn, but Seiveril would have expected that from a lord whose demesnes included both human towns and elf settlements in the southern margin of Cormanthor. It helped that Seiveril and Theremen had spoken several times already in the days since the Crusade had emerged in the forests not far north of Deepingdale.
“It has been a long time since an elflord has invited Dalelords to his table in Cormanthor,” Theremen said. “I, for one, am honored to be here.”
Seiveril inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment, and turned his eyes to the fourth of his guests- none other than Storm Silverhand, one of the Seven Sisters, Bard of Shadowdale, Harper, Chosen of Mystra, and a dozen other things more. She stood watching him, her eyes dark and thoughtful in a face of tremendous beauty. She wore a mail shirt and a leather jacket, and a long sword rode at her hip. Her silver hair, long and straight, gleamed in the lanternlight. Seiveril had not expected her, believing Shadowdale would send its lord Mourngrym Amcathra or another representative, but he was not about to tell a Chosen of Mystra that she was not welcome.
“Well, Seiveril Miritar, you’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest in Myth Drannor,” Storm said. “I suppose I would like to know what in the world is going on there, and why a whole army from Evermeet has suddenly gated into this forest.”
“I will explain,” Seiveril said, glancing to Thilesil, “but first, I was expecting a representative from Archendale too.”
“The Swords declined to come,” Thilesil said. “They sent word that they are not concerned with ‘elven matters,’ but will not obstruct your movements in any way, as long as you do not approach their land.”
Malorn shook his head. “Trust Archendale to look out for itself first. You won’t get much from them, Lord Miritar.”
“In all fairness, High Councilor, the Swords are mightily concerned by Sembia, which sits at their southern doorstep,” Lord Theremen replied. “They do not want to give Sembia a reason to pick a quarrel with them.”
Seiveril shook his head. The human ability to ignore their own common good always astonished him, but he supposed that if the rulers of Archendale wanted to be left alone, he could certainly leave them alone. He looked back to Storm Silverhand, sensing that she was the one he would have to convince. The legendary Bard of Shadowdale might not hold any titles or govern any lands, but her words went a long way in the Dalelands.
“I promised to explain our presence,” he began. “We have spent the last three months marching and fighting in the Delimbiyr Vale, where we fought a bitter campaign against a legion of daemonfey-winged demons who wear the shapes of elves. They are an ancient evil long ago defeated and imprisoned in the High Forest. But earlier this year they mounted a raid on Evermeet itself, and freed a great legion of their kind to launch an attack against the elves of the High Forest and nearby realms.”
“Evereska,” Storm said.
Seiveril nodded. He hadn’t wanted to name the city, not knowing the Dalelords with whom he spoke well enough to speak of such a secret.
“Yes, Evereska,” he allowed. “In response, I gathered a host of warriors from Evermeet to go to the Delimbiyr Vale and destroy the daemonfey threat. We stopped them at the gates of Evereska and in the deep refuges of the High Forest, and broke their army on the Lonely Moor. But the daemonfey fled through hidden gates to Myth Drannor, where they are now rebuilding their strength.” He faced Councilor Malorn and spread his hands in apology. “In truth, we did not mean to drive an army of our foes into your lands. But now that they have fled here, we have come to finish what we started at the Lonely Moor.”
“That explains your army’s presence,” Storm Silverhand said, “but perhaps you can also tell me why the forest is suddenly thick with creatures of the infernal planes. Have these daemonfey of yours broken the wards trapping those monsters inside Myth Drannor?”
“We think so, yes.” Seiveril paused, to make sure that the Chosen understood him. “One of my mages, an expert on mythalcraft and the daemonfey spells, surveyed Sarya’s handiwork at Myth Drannor. He found that she has assumed control over the mythal, and is now working to twist it to her own purposes. In the High Forest she used the wards over Myth Glaurach to summon up a whole army of fiends. I fear she will do so again in Myth Drannor if we do not stop her.”
“Damn.” Storm turned away to stare out over the lake. “We’ve allowed Myth Drannor to fester for decades, and now it seems we’ll have to pay the price for it.”
Haresk Malorn looked to Storm and asked, “Can the Sage of Shadowdale do something about a demon queen tinkering with Myth Drannor’s old magic? Or the Knights of Myth Drannor? They would not stand aside and let this happen, would they?”
The Bard of Shadowdale frowned, and her face grew dark. “Elminster took the Knights off through a magical gate months ago on some perilous errand. I haven’t seen them since. My sister-the Simbul-grew so sick with worry that she appointed a regent in Aglarond and went seeking them. She said something to me about the Srinshee before she left, but now I haven’t heard from her since. I would like to know where they are, too.”
“I know that Elminster and the Knights have proven their friendship to the Dales many times over,” Malorn said. “But still… what in the world is more important than what’s going on right here?”
“The world is full of troubles, my friend, and we who are Chosen can only deal with a very few of them.” Storm looked up at the twilight skies overhead. “For my own part, I have always hated choosing which things to do and which to leave undone.”
The high councilor frowned and looked down at his feet, perhaps regretting his words. The gathering fell silent for a long moment, as the other Dalesfolk chewed over Storm Silverhand’s tidings.
Then Ilmeth of Battledale stirred and looked over to Seiveril. “So you’re just going to march your army up to Myth Drannor, kick out the daemonfey, and ride off back to Evermeet?”
“As directly as we can, though the mythal wards may prevent us from an outright assault. We may have to invest the city and batter down its defenses, or work powerful magic of our own to contain the daemonfey.” Seiveril hesitated, then added, “After that, many of us will likely return to Evermeet. But I intend to remain here and keep some strength in this forest. We have been surprised by threats originating in Faerun too many times. I cannot speak for all who march under my banner, but I at least have Returned.”
The Dalelords did not attempt to conceal their surprise. Councilor Malorn exchanged looks with Ilmeth of Battledale, and both surreptitiously glanced to Storm Silverhand to see how the Bard of Shadowdale responded. Storm, for her part, was still staring out over the lake. After a long moment, she spoke over her shoulder.
“Turning back the march of years is rarely a good idea, Seiveril Miritar,” she said. “It took the lords of the Elven Court nearly five centuries to decide on Retreat. Are you telling me that in a few short months they’ve suddenly decided otherwise?”
