Sarya leaped down from the steps on which she stood, flaring her wings to alight in front of the fey’ri lords. She did not look forward to what must be said next.
“You all know that this is not what I planned when I broke open Nar Kerymhoarth three months ago,” she began. “I intended to erase the realms of the High Forest and Evereska from the map, and claim vengeance for the destruction of Siluvanede five thousand years ago.”
She paused, holding the eyes of her minions, and said, “That, however, was a mistake.
“Perhaps events might have fallen out differently if Evermeet had not responded with so much force, or if Nurthel Floshin had not failed to recover the Nightstar, or even if the fortunes of battle had favored us against Evermeet’s army. But these things did not happen. I underestimated our enemies’ strength and resolve, or overestimated our own strength, or did not plan to overcome ill fortune-it does not really matter. The consequence of my mistake was that we had to abandon our stronghold at Myth Glaurach and leave our work in Evereska and the High Forest undone.”
The daemonfey queen turned away from her fey’ri, deliberately putting her back to them as she paced. She hated the idea of introducing her own fallibility into her follower’s minds, but it had to be there already, didn’t it? Still, she did not want to let the fey’ri lords consider that last thought for long. She looked back over her shoulder at her captains and lords.
“It would be foolish of me to pretend that I am incapable of making mistakes,” she said. “What I intend to do now is to learn from our mistakes. Before we take the field again or challenge the usurpers who have stolen our lands and treasures, we must grow much stronger. We will hide here in Myth Drannor, protected by the ancient power of its mythal. Within these ruined walls our enemies cannot divine our existence or scry out our strength. We will grow strong in secret, until the time is right for us to return.”
“What of the baatezu?” Alysir Ursequarra asked. “When do we destroy them?”
“They are not our enemies,” Sarya said firmly. “You are to strike no blow against the devils in this city unless I tell you to.” The fey’ri lords shifted uneasily, some risking quick glances at their fellows. Sarya turned back to face her followers. “The devils that were summoned here decades ago were outcasts from the Nine Hells, mercenaries and marauders who have no loyalty to the rest of their kind.”
“So they would have us believe,” Alysir volunteered boldly. “How can we know they are speaking the truth?”
Sarya stalked close to Alysir, and lowered her voice to a menacing hiss. “I have investigated the matter, Lady Alysir. Do you think I have allowed myself to be deceived?”
Alysir Ursequarra paled slightly, but held her ground.
“No, Lady Sarya.”
Were her fey’ri not irreplaceably rare, Sarya would have killed Alysir Ursequarra on the spot. But each fey’ri warrior was worth twenty orcs or five ogres. She could not be careless of their lives. Sarya smiled coldly. “You forget, Alysir, that the devils are bound to this city, and we are not. Spells anchored to the mythal by human wizards twenty years ago trap the devils within Myth Drannor. I can alter the mythal to allow some, all, or none of them to escape from this place, or call them back and confine them any time I wish-but I will exact fealty from each devil I allow to leave. The devils cannot escape unless I help them, and I will not help them unless I am certain of their loyalty. They will serve in our armies alongside the demons and yugoloths we summon to serve us. Does that meet with your approval, Lady Ursequarra?”
Alysir Ursequarra offered a deep bow. “I am sworn to serve you, my lady. I do not question your commands.”
“Good. It would go poorly for you if I thought you did.” Sarya wheeled away, her tail lashing like a whip. “We hide, we wait, we grow strong, and we marshal the devils of this city to our service,” she said. “Does anyone disagree?” None of the fey’ri spoke. Sarya nodded, and looked to a gaunt fey’ri sorcerer who stood a little apart from the other House lords. “Very well. In that case… Lord Aelorothi, please describe for your peers the shape of the human lands that have grown up around Myth Drannor. These will be our foes someday, but not until we are ready for them.”
The captains and lords turned their eyes on the sorcerer-lord. Aelorothi was a descendant House, and Vesryn Aelorothi had traveled widely all across Faerun for many years. He affected a gracious and courteous manner, but Sarya knew him to be capable of exquisite cruelties. A tenday ago she had named the gaunt fey’ri sorcerer her new spymaster, and set him to the task of insinuating daemonfey gold, assassins, and sorcery into the halls of power in every nearby land.
“It would be my pleasure, Lady Sarya,” he purred.
“Listen carefully to Vesryn, my children,” she told the fey’ri lords. “Many of you will be traveling these lands in the coming months, spying out their strengths and their weaknesses.”
She motioned for the sorcerer to continue, and left her assembled captains behind her.
Vesryn stepped forward as she left, and moving very deliberately-Vesryn was nothing if not cautious-he wove his hands together and muttered the words of a spell of illusion, conjuring in midair the image of a great map.
“This,” he began, “is the forest of Cormanthor…”
Araevin left the House of Cedars in the morning after his conversation with the Nightstar. He followed rarely traveled paths into the wild pine forests and hills overlooking the sea, drinking deeply of the scent of the trees and the cool spring rain. Early in the afternoon he reached a worn old portal glade, a small clearing around a weathered stone marker that had stood in that spot for thousands of years.
Most of Evermeet’s portals were closed forever, deliberately sealed in the past few decades to guard the island from any possible attack through the magical gateways, but a few still existed-some well guarded, others only one-way portals that allowed travelers to depart from Evermeet but not return, some so old or uncertain in their working that they were risky to use. Araevin had always been fascinated by portals, and he had spent many decades exploring them in both Evermeet and Faerun. He thought he might be the only person alive who knew how to wake the one in the glade.
He spoke the spells needed to activate the portal, and passed through. With a single step Evermeet’s misty forests vanished, only to be replaced by the high, windswept downs of the Evermoors. Dusk was falling, the end of a bright and cold spring day; the Evermoors were far to the east of Evermeet.
“What becomes of the hours I missed?” Araevin wondered aloud.
He studied the featureless moorland, speckled with the first small blooms of spring despite the lingering patches of snow that still lurked in the shadowed places. It was important to be sure of his exact location in case the portal had somehow malfunctioned.
Satisfied, he closed his eyes, envisioning a small hilltop shrine he knew well, and uttered a spell of teleportation.
There was a moment of darkness, a vertiginous sense of falling without motion, and Araevin stood in the small wooded bower of a shrine to Labelas Enoreth, a mile beyond the walls of Silverymoon, another hundred miles from the portal-stone in the Evermoors. Two large blueleaf trees had long ago taken root in the veranda, shouldering aside the shrine’s flagstones and forming a living roof over the elf deity’s altar. A small balustrade of old white stone, overgrown with green vines, offered a view of the swift river Rauvin and the city of Silverymoon, cupped around both the river’s banks.
“Well, there you are. I have been waiting for you.”
Araevin turned at the words, and found himself looking on the face of his betrothed, the beautiful Lady Ilsevele Miritar. She was a sun elf like he, but she was much fairer than he was-in both senses of the word-with a radiant mane of copper-red hair and green eyes. She wore a tunic of green suede over cream-colored trousers, bloused into high leather boots decorated with tiny gold thread patterns. A slender long sword was sheathed at her hip.
“Ilsevele,” he said, and he took three steps and caught her up in his arms.
“It’s only been a couple of tendays,” she said with a laugh, finally pushing him away. “You’ve gone years at a time without thinking to look in on me.”
“I have spent too much time around humans lately,” he answered. “After two hundred and fifty years, I believe I am losing the habit of patience.”
“Well, you must wait a little longer. Our wedding is still two years away, in case you have forgotten.” Ilsevele looked out over the human city nearby. Hundreds of lanterns were flickering to life in its tree-shadowed streets and graceful buildings, reflections glimmering in the dark waters of the Rauvin, and the stars were coming out in the
