“The decision was not without debate.”
Storm snorted softly in the twilight. “Sun elves make an art of understatement. Do you have any idea of the trouble that will come from this?”
“Whatever trouble comes, it must surely be less than that which will come to this land if we leave Sarya Dlardrageth in Myth Drannor,” Seiveril answered.
“Lord Miritar, not all of the Dales hold to the old Dales Compact anymore,” High Councilor Malorn said. “The four Dales represented here still abide by the promises made fourteen centuries ago by our forefathers to yours, but the Compact is not remembered with much fondness in Archendale, Tasseldale, or Scardale. Even Harrowdale is questionable.”
“And there are powers encroaching on the borders of Cormanthor that never agreed to any Compact with the elves,” Lord Theremen pointed out. “Realms such as Zhentil Keep and Hillsfar-or Sembia, for that matter-are not at all unhappy with the elves’ Retreat. They might resist your Return to Cormanthor.”
“I have no designs on their lands,” Seiveril protested.
“No, Seiveril Miritar, but they certainly have designs on yours-and ours,” Storm Silverhand said. The silver- haired bard turned back from Lake Sember and fixed her eyes on Seiveril. “Cormanthyr long shielded the Dales and the forest lands from the ambitions of kingdoms nearby. But since the final Retreat of the Elven Court thirty years ago, the realms surrounding the Dalelands and Cormanthor have been growing ever bolder. In the absence of the elves’ strength and determination, the forest has become a great borderland, a frontier that all are eager to claim.
“Fortunately — ” Storm smiled humorlessly as she spoke-“we live in interesting times. The Zhents would have overrun the northern Dales long ago, but they have murdered each other in at least two great bloody purges. They have now recovered from those feuds, stronger than ever. The Sembians might have bought Tasseldale and Featherdale and who knows what else lock, stock, and barrel-but Cormyr under King Azoun would have none of that. Well, Azoun is dead now. Hillsfar was a city friendly to the Fair Folk, respectful of the old Compact. Now it is ruled by the tyrant Maalthiir, a man known to hate elves.
“For a decade now, the only thing keeping the aspirations of these ambitious powers in check is the fear that should one of them move too quickly, the others would certainly join forces to drag down the leader from behind.” Storm frowned at Seiveril, her eyes narrow and thoughtful. “Now you tell me that there’s an army of demonspawn in Myth Drannor, who no doubt plan to seize a realm to rule for themselves.”
“That, at least, I mean to prevent,” Seiveril replied. “As for the other realms, I recognize that the years have passed since the Standing Stone was raised, and that a new Compact may be necessary. But I see no human cities standing here on the shores of Lake Sember, or rising in the silver groves of the Elven Court. I will not be told that elves cannot raise a realm under Cormanthor’s branches.”
Storm sighed and looked over at the glimmering lanterns and campfires of the elven army, which were beginning to flicker into life as the twilight deepened.
“Before the Retreat, no one would have dreamed of challenging an elven army in Cormanthor,” she said. “I do not think you can trade on that old fear and respect any longer. Whether you meant to or not, Lord Miritar, you have brought war to Cormanthor, and I cannot yet see who will take up arms against whom.”
CHAPTER TEN
4 Kythorn, the Year of Lightning Storms
Saerloon was one of the busiest ports on the Sea of Fallen Stars. Two days after Araevin and his companions arrived in the city, they boarded Windsinger, bound for the city of Velprintalar on Aglarond’s northern coast. Windsinger was a graceful three-masted caravel under the command of a captain named Ilthor, a wiry, sun- darkened Aglarondan. She had carried great tuns of wine, cords of fine hardwood, and small coffers full of rich amber from the Yuirwood to Saerloon, and was taking on Sembian pewter, ironwork, copperwork, and tooled leather to carry back home again.
The day was warm and the skies streaked with rain as two longboats pulled Windsinger from Saerloon’s wharves. Once in open water the caravel let down her sails, and set her course south-southwest for the whole day in order to clear the great southern cape of Sembia. Then, with a northwest wind at their back, they turned due east and made for the Isle of Prespur, sighting its town-dotted shores early on the third day of sailing. After that Ilthor turned Windbringer sharply to the northeast, striking across the mouth of the Dragon Reach for the city of Procampur, on the northern shore of the Inner Sea. It would have been far swifter to simply continue due east for Aglarond, crossing the center of the Sea of Fallen Stars, but the Pirate Isles and the dangerous shoals south of Altumbel lay astride that course, and Ilthor had no intention of trying his luck with either.
Araevin found the sea voyage an easy way to travel. There was little room to spare for passengers, and the deck was cluttered with cargo and stores, but the voyage offered ample opportunity to find a cargo hatch or coil of line to sit on, watch the sea or the distant shorelines, make entries in his journals, talk with his friends, or simply sit and reflect. Windsinger was too small to boast cabins exclusively for the use of passengers, so Ilsevele and Maresa shared the pilot’s cabin in the sterncastle, while the pilot bunked in the forecastle with the other crewmen. Araevin and Donnor were given the best sleeping places on the open deck. Covered from the weather by the quarterdeck overhead, the after deck was actually quite pleasant in warm weather, if not particularly private.
By night Ilthor found various small anchorages along the coastlines, dropping anchor each night in a different cove or bay. Only once did he run at night, when he crossed from Prespur to Procampur.
“The sea is too cluttered with islands and shoals to sail in the dark,” he explained. “Out on the Sword Coast or the Shining Sea, they’ll keep their course by day and night. But here I drop anchor when it gets dark, unless I’m certain I’ve got an open pitch of water all around me or the moon is bright enough to sail by.”
For the next few days they sailed eastward along the shores of Impiltur, passing cities such as Tsurlagol, Lyrabar, and Hlammach. Then Ilthor turned southeast, striking across the mouth of the Eastern Reach for Cape Dragonfang.
On the seventh day of their voyage, Araevin found himself sitting with Ilsevele at the stern. He studied his spellbooks in the bright sun, puzzling over the notations and concepts of a spell he had recorded months before but had not yet mastered, while she gazed back at the green shores of Impiltur, slowly sinking into the sea behind them. Her ivory skin had acquired a golden bronze hue in the past few days, as sun elves often did in warm climes. Even the fairest tanned quickly and easily, unlike moon elves, who could never gain more than the faintest hint of color to their skin. After a time Araevin realized that Ilsevele had been staring out over the sea for a long while, her brow faintly furrowed, her eyes distant.
He set down his spellbook and reached to place a hand over hers.
“What is it, Ilsevele? You’ve been staring at the sea all morning. Where are your thoughts?”
She didn’t reply for a long time, long enough that someone who didn’t know her as well as Araevin might have wondered whether she had heard him. But finally she took her eyes from the bright horizon, and looked down at the slender white wake streaming from behind Windsinger ’s rudderpost.
“Where will we marry?” she asked. “Where?” Araevin blinked, considering the question. In truth, he hadn’t given a single thought to any sort of wedding preparations-and especially not since the night the daemonfey had raided Tower Reilloch. “Your father’s palace at Seamist, I suppose. Everyone in Elion will want to come.” He managed an awkward shrug. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Do you think we will return to Evermeet in time for our wedding day? It is less than two years from now- Greengrass in the Year of the Bent Blade. That is the promise we made in the Year of the Prince.”
“I remember,” Araevin said. “Why wouldn’t we return for our wedding day?”
“What if my father’s army is laying siege to Myth Drannor? Or the daemonfey escape again, and we pursue them to some even more distant land? What if your search for high magic takes you to some realm on the other side of the sunrise, a road whose end you won’t reach for years and years?”
“Even if all those things happen as you say, Ilsevele, I don’t see why we could not stand in the arbor at Seamist and speak our promises before the Seldarine,” Araevin said.
“So we would abandon our battles and our journeys for a day, in order to honor our betrothal?”
“If that is the way we must do it, then yes.”
