“Was he also bound to a demonic essence?”
“No. He shared your useless scruples. He discovered another soulbinding, something that allowed him to match my mastery. I sincerely doubt he would have had the stomach to follow the path I chose.”
Araevin offered a grim smile and said, “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have.”
He took a step back, and willed himself up and out of Saelethil’s poisoned garden. There was a dizzying moment of soaring recklessly upward into a world of great purple planes and dancing storms of lambent fire, and he opened his eyes with a sudden gasp of breath.
He sat in his library in the House of Cedars, the Nightstar gleaming on the table before him. The sea wind rattled the windows of his study, and the ocean was dark and wild beyond.
Ithraides knew how to wield high magic without a circle, just like Saelethil, he reflected. And he did it without transforming himself into a demon. That knowledge might still exist, if he looked in the right place.
“Arcorar,” Araevin breathed, his eyes distant. Arcorar had become the realm of Cormanthyr, and Cormanthyr’s capital was the city of Myth Drannor, which had fallen only six hundred years ago. Much lore of ancient Arcorar had been carried out of Myth Drannor in its final years to Evermeet and places such as Evereska and Silverymoon. Evermeet’s hoard of Cormanthyran lore had been largely destroyed when Kymil Nimesin destroyed the Towers of the Sun and Moon five years ago, but what of Silverymoon? Araevin had heard that many Cormanthyran mages and scholars fled there when Myth Drannor fell.
It seemed as good a place to start as any, and Araevin had other reasons to visit the city in any event.
He reached out for the Nightstar and slipped the gemstone inside his shirt again, pressing it to his breastbone. He had a journey to make ready for.
CHAPTER TWO
6 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms
Sarya Dlardrageth stood on the broken battlements of Castle Cormanthor beneath a warm, steady spring rain, and surveyed her new realm. The daemonfey queen was strikingly beautiful, with the arresting features and enticing curves of a noble sun elf woman, but her skin was a deep, perfect crimson, and she possessed a powerful pair of batlike wings she kept folded behind her like a great dark cape.
Her domain was quite small, really, not more than a couple of miles from one end to the other, for she could not claim to reign over the great forest that surrounded Myth Drannor’s ancient buildings and walls. But it is a start, she told herself. Her eye fell on the rose-tinted tower the human clerics had raised within the very walls of Cormanthor’s ancient capital, and she bared her slender fangs in a vicious smile.
The shrine stood blackened and burnt, scorched by fey’ri spells and ancient Vyshaanti weapons. Its smoke was sweet in the air. Her fey’ri legion-a thousand swordsmen-sorcerers, the pride of ancient Siluvanede-had made themselves masters of the ancient city.
Sarya was not defeated yet, not by a wide margin.
“Lady Sarya, a handful of the Lathanderians escaped,” said the fey’ri lord Mardeiym Reithel as he approached carefully, offering a bow as he addressed her. “They used a hidden portal to flee our last assault. We could not follow.”
Mardeiym, and the rest of the fey’ri for that matter, were much like Sarya, sun elves of high and ancient lineage who had been imprisoned thousands of years ago. Like her, they were winged demonspawn, with skin in fine hues of red and great dark wings. But they were still more mortal than not, elves with a demonic taint. Sarya and her son Xhalph were true daemonfey, with much stronger demonic bloodlines.
“The portal refused you?” Sarya asked.
“Yes, my lady. The Lathanderians possessed some key or password that we lacked. Since we cannot use the device, I ordered it sealed with stone.”
“Good,” Sarya replied. “I am not concerned with the escape of a handful of human priests. We are the masters of this city now. But I would not want spies to slip back through the portal and learn more about us.”
Her army of fey’ri had easily overwhelmed the small companies of human adventurers and hidden nests of cultists and necromancers formerly encamped within Myth Drannor. The temple to Lathander had been the last bastion of explorers and adventurers remaining within the walls. Of course, monsters of all descriptions still lurked within their lairs and catacombs. But Sarya had no real need to eliminate such guardians, and most of the fearsome beholders, nagas, liches, dragons, and other such denizens of the ruins recognized that Sarya’s legion of well-armed fey’ri was a foe beyond their ability to drive off. The fey’ri did not go out of their way to trouble such creatures in their lairs, and for their part, the intelligent ones did not emerge to challenge Sarya’s warriors.
“There are still the devils to contend with,” Mardeiym said. “If we leave them alone, I promise you they will turn on us.” Hundreds of the supernatural fiends were bound to the ruined city. Before the arrival of Sarya and her legion, they had formerly ruled as masters over Myth Drannor. “We outnumber the filthy hellspawn. Our fey’ri warriors can defeat them now, before they have the opportunity to betray us.”
Sarya regarded her chief captain with a cold glare. Mardeiym sensed danger and dropped his gaze to her feet. Under most circumstances, Sarya-a princess of the demon-ruled Abyss by birth-would have regarded any spawn of the Nine Hells as a hated enemy. Demons and devils had fought each other throughout eternity, the unbridled destruction of demonic evil battling for supremacy against cruel, infernal tyranny.
“Do not question my judgment,” she said. “I have uses for the devils of this city.”
“I apologize, Lady Sarya. I do not mean to question your decisions, but it is important that you know when the fey’ri are troubled.” Mardeiym waited on her, his head still bowed in respect.
“Troubled?” Sarya said.
She turned away, pacing along the battlements. Flexing her wings, she luxuriated in the sheer pleasure of freedom. She would have liked to lash out at Mardeiym, remind him of the fearsome power she commanded and reinforce the ancient pacts by which she ruled absolutely over the fey’ri Houses. But the war captain was loyal to her, and spoke nothing more or less than the truth. She would do well to avoid teaching her subjects that bringing her bad news always led to punishment.
“Very well, Lord Reithel. Summon the House lords to my audience chamber, and I will explain more.”
“As you command, my lady,” the war captain said.
He bowed again, and vaulted over the battlement and took wing. Sarya watched him glide away into the ruins, then descended from the battlements into the spacious royal chambers she had claimed in the castle.
She allowed Mardeiym half an hour to gather the leaders of the other fey’ri Houses, busying herself with renewing the powerful abjurations and contingency spells with which she normally guarded herself, and she went down into the grand hall of Castle Cormanthor. Centuries ago, the coronals of the elven kingdom of Cormanthyr had presided over revels and banquets in the grand hall. Its walls were still painted with magical murals of woodland scenes that slowly changed from season to season, and the great columns that lined the walls were carved in the shape of tall, strong trees so realistic that stone blossoms and fruit could be glimpsed in the branches.
The leaders of her fey’ri legion awaited her in the hall. Each of the dozen demon-elves was the leader of one of the fey’ri Houses. Some, like Reithel, were ancient Houses from Siluvanede that were strong and numerous, having been imprisoned in the Nameless Dungeon for fifty centuries. Others, like Aelorothi, were survivor Houses, families of daemonfey who had passed their demonic heritage down through twenty generations from the time of Sarya’s ancient realm to her revival only five years ago. The descendant houses were smaller and less numerous than ancient houses such as Reithel, but they were made up of fey’ri who had grown up in the world Sarya and her ancient legion had suddenly found themselves in. They were comfortable with the new world in a way that Sarya and the other ancient prisoners could never be.
Not for the first time, Sarya found herself wondering what had become of Nurthel Floshin. He was from one of the descendant Houses, and had served as an able spymaster and lieutenant. But he had not returned from the expedition she had dispatched to recover the Nightstar, and she could only assume that he was dead.
She turned her attention to the proud, cruel lords and ladies gathered before her. “Look around you,” she began. “This will be our home, the founding-stone on which we will build our new realm. Before I and my family came to Siluvanede, we dwelled here in Cormanthyr. It is only fitting that this is the place where we begin to rebuild.”
