Final Gate (26 page)

“Easier said than done. More than a few of those who rest in the Vale died fighting the Sembians’ forebears. Human armies in Cormanthor rouse old and watchful spirits.” Starbrow fell silent, and watched the Crusade’s companies and banners glide swiftly by without further comment.

“Something troubles you, old friend,” Seiveril finally said. “What is it?”

The moon elf looked down at the reins in his hands. “Seiveril, there is something I need to tell you.”

Something in his friend’s voice warned Seiveril that he would not like what followed. He turned his mount in a half-circle so that he faced the tall moon elf, and looked into his face. Starbrow avoided his eyes, instead looking out over the Crusade marching past.

“What is it, my friend?” Seiveril asked.

“Not here.” Starbrow glanced around at the elf guards who watched nearby, and led Seiveril a short distance away. When they were out of easy earshot of the other elves, he looked around one more time, and took a deep breath. “I don’t even know how to say what I have to say,” he muttered, more to himself than to the elflord.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve often found that it’s easiest to just come right out and say the thing you’re most afraid to say.”

“I know it.” Starbrow wrestled with himself a little longer, and he brought his eyes up to Seiveril’s. “I have fallen in love with Ilsevele. And I think she is in love with me, as well.”

Seiveril simply stared at Starbrow. He had heard every word clearly enough, but taken together they didn’t make sense. “I do not understand,” he managed.

“I don’t either. I did not mean to, Seiveril. It just… happened.”

“She is betrothed to Araevin, Starbrow. They are to be married.”

“I know.”

“Well, then, you must be mistaken,” Seiveril said. The more he thought about it, the more confusing he found the whole conversation. “I know you have shared many dangers with her in the last few tendays. Perhaps you have misconstrued something she said or did. It happens all the time.”

Starbrow sighed and looked away. “I know my own heart, Seiveril. I don’t think I’m mistaken about what I feel there.”

“Have you said anything to Ilsevele about … this?”

“I don’t think I’ve made myself clear, Seiveril. Ilsevele and I both feel this way. She has given me her heart, and I have given her mine.” Starbrow looked away to the east, and Seiveril followed his gaze. She was there, somewhere, riding alongside Selkirk by the Sembian banner. “When I look into her eyes, my spirit sings. And I see something in her eyes that tells me she feels the same way, and I feel like I want to leap into the sky and fly. How could I be mistaken about something like that?”

“But Ilsevele is so young,” Seiveril protested. “I am her father, and you are centuries older than me. I know that doesn’t mean much for our people, but still …”

“I’ve lived about one hundred and thirty years, Seiveril. I may have walked in Arvandor for centuries, but now the Elvenhome is only a dream to me. I can’t remember it anymore.”

Seiveril shook his head. What did I expect when I called him back to life after so long? he asked himself. He was not just a hero in a story, after all. He was a living man, and life has its own tumbling and crooked course to it. No one knows where it might lead from one moment to the next. He realized that Starbrow was waiting for him to speak, and he sighed.

“Starbrow, I do not know what to say. I did not foresee this.”

Starbrow found the confidence to look Seiveril in the eye again. “I want your blessing, Seiveril.” He waved his hand at the warriors marching past. “This war will end someday, and I might live through it. If I do, I think that my path will lead me to Ilsevele’s side … and hers to mine I need to know that you approve.”

“Approve?” Seiveril said hoarsely. “Starbrow, you have known each other only for a single short season. Ilsevele has already promised herself to Araevin. He is a fine man, and they have waited many years for the day of their marriage to come. And you were married too, were you not? It seems hard to approve of something that seems, well, impetuous at the least.”

“I can’t tell you what has passed between Ilsevele and Araevin. I suppose you will have to ask her if you want to know.” Starbrow shrugged awkwardly. “As far as my own marriage, Sorenna survived me by a century or more. She took another husband after the Weeping War, Seiveril. Death parted us, you might say. And I think that when she finally came to Arvandor, we did not walk together any longer.”

Seiveril thought of Ilyyela, his own wife. He had reached out to speak to her spirit in Arvandor, hoping to bring her back to life, but she had refused to come back. He knew with the certainty of the stars in their firmament that she waited for him in the Elvenhome, and that they would be together there when his own work in Faerun was done. He looked at Starbrow, his friend and comrade-in-arms, and he saw in the moon elf’s eyes the shadow of an old pain indeed. How happy would I be in Arvandor if Ilyyela loved another? Seiveril asked himself.

“In Myth Glaurach, you told me that I hadn’t been called back to fight one battle,” Starbrow said. “You told me that I had been called back to live, for as long as chance dictates. When I look in Ilsevele’s eyes, I know why I came back. I came back to meet her, even if I didn’t know it the night you summoned me from Arvandor.”

“Enough.” Seiveril raised his hand, forestalling Starbrow’s words. “It is still too unexpected, Starbrow. And this does not seem to be the time-“

“Lord Miritar! Lord Miritar!”

Seiveril looked around behind him Edraele Muirreste galloped back down the forest road, standing in her stirrups. She waved to him as soon as she caught sight of his banner.

“Selkirk of Sembia asks for you. The daemonfey await us in the Vale!”

Starbrow glanced at him, and back to the captain of the Silver Guard. “How strong are they, Edraele?” Starbrow called.

“Two thousand or more. The fey’ri legion is there, along with many demons and devils!”

“I suppose we’ll have to speak about Ilsevele later.” Seiveril grimaced, realizing that he was actually grateful for the opportunity to turn his attention to less confusing matters. “I did not expect Sarya to make a stand outside Myth Drannor’s walls.”

Starbrow shrugged. “I had a feeling we weren’t going to get to Myth Drannor without a fight.”

*****

As it turned out, Araevin’s teleport spell was very nearly a fatal mistake.

Instead of conjuring himself and his friends safely to the cavelike sanctuary near the top of the Long Stair, he botched it badly. The small company was scattered for a mile or more in the lightless dark. Araevin himself appeared alone a good six or seven feet in the air above the narrow roadway, and gave his knee a painful wrench on landing. Jorin and Donnor arrived in the sanctuary, but Nesterin was half a mile distant in the opposite direction and wound up clinging to the ledge with white-knuckled hands, having been dropped right at the edge of the awful precipice. And Maresa herself did actually appear out in the middle of the dreadful space, but fortunately arrested her fall with her elemental gifts. They all finally found their way to the small, cold cave above the abyss, warded by the best spell shields Araevin could manage with the last of his strength.

When they finally roused themselves, Jorin prepared the best breakfast he could from the haphazard collection of belongings they had managed to bring out of Lorosfyr with them, while Donnor illuminated their small refuge with Lathander’s golden light. Then the cleric addressed their various injuries, salving bruises and sealing cuts with his healing spells. He even managed to ameliorate the abominable ache in Araevin’s knee.

“Don’t ask me how we managed it, but we are all alive and reasonably hale and whole,” the cleric muttered when he finished. “By the Morninglord, I thought that I had seen my last dawn. When Selydra hurled that black orb at me …”

“Try finding yourself alone, falling in total blackness.” Maresa hugged her arms close to her chest and shivered. “Is that what Ilsevele meant when she said that teleport spells sometimes don’t work as well as they ought to, Araevin?”

“More or less,” Araevin admitted. “Strange magic permeates the deep places of the world. It can scatter a teleport spell, as I demonstrated for you. That is why I was hesitant to try it, unless I thought we had absolutely no other choice.”

“I think I’ll be happy to walk the next time you offer to whisk us off somewhere in the blink of an eye,” the genasi said. “Speaking of which, I think I’m about ready to walk on out of here. I’ve had all of the Underdark that I care for.”

“Back to the portal, then?” Jorin asked Araevin.

“I think so, but I am not sure. The Waymeet is not safe any more.” Araevin thought of the infernal monsters that haunted the place, and the fiery iron brands driven into the living crystal. He did not know if the devils guarding the Waymeet had determined which door they had used to leave, but the last thing he wanted to do was walk right into an ambush. “I want to make sure that I know where we’re going before we chance it again.”

“Can you sense the direction to the third shard now?” Nesterin asked.

“Let me try.”

The sun elf rummaged through his pack for a moment and drew out the first shard of the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. Then he opened the iron coffer from Selydra’s vault. The Pale Sybil’s shard rested inside on a bed of black velvet. He lifted it out carefully, and held it beside the first shard. The dagger-shaped fragments glowed with a soft lavender radiance even in the brightness of Donnor’s light spell. Araevin noticed that the glow grew stronger the closer the shards were to each other. Taking a deep breath, he fitted the two together. He felt a sharp jolt of power flow through his hands, magic old and strong indeed, and the two pieces were bonded together as if they had never been parted. He couldn’t find the slightest seam to mark the place where they joined each other.

“Amazing,” he murmured.

Cradling the joined crystal on his lap and closing his eyes, he chanted the words of a simple seeking spell and opened his mind, casting about for any hint of direction. The crystal in his hands began to shine brighter, and seemed to stir or whisper, filling the chamber with a strange high note like the ringing of a glass he might have tapped with the edge of a knife Araevin felt his friends watching him, silent and intense.

At first he felt nothing in answer to his call. But then, faint and far off, he sensed an answering note. He reached out to catch it with his mind’s eye, but no matter how he imagined the third shard, he couldn’t derive any idea of where it was in relation to the cave on Lorosfyr’s edge. He could tell that it was distant, but not in what direction it might lie.

“Well? Where is it?” Maresa asked.

“Not nearby,” Araevin answered. He frowned and tried to listen closer, hoping to learn something from the quality of the ringing note, but it was beginning to fade. “I do not think it lies on this plane of existence.”

The others exchanged sharp glances. “Where is it, then?” Donnor asked.

Araevin raised his hand for silence, still straining for the last whispers of his seeking spell. He had half-expected something like that, and he was not unprepared. As the faint ringing of the crystal faded, he freed one hand from the Gatekeeper’s Crystal and reached into the pocket of his cloak, where he kept his spell components. Casting a pinch of powdered glass above his head and muttering the words of a powerful spell, he invoked a vision.

“Where is the third shard?” he demanded. “Where?”

The chamber darkened and whirled away as the vision snatched him away from his body. He felt an instant of dizzying movement, a great leap of awareness that sent his perception racing outward through silver nothingness at the speed of thought itself, and he found himself standing on a barren, dusty plain. The sky was dark with black, racing clouds that flickered with an angry orange glow, as if great fires seethed within. Thunder crackled and echoed around him, and the air was desperately hot and dry. Around his feet, shriveled black thorns clawed their way from the dust, waiting for rain that never came. Jagged peaks as sharp as swords fenced the distance.

“Where am I?” he asked the harsh desert.

Nothing answered him, but he sensed something behind him. Turning slowly, Araevin beheld a mighty citadel of black glass. It soared skyward from the depths of a forest of dead, twisted trees. In one small tower a white light flickered, enticing him. The shard! he realized. But then the awful plain and the terrible castle reeled drunkenly, and vanished in an instant.

He gasped and jerked awake, his skin hot and dry even in the numbingly chill air of the abyss. For a moment he flailed in surprise, but strong hands caught his arms and steadied him.

“Easy, Araevin! You are back,” Jorin said. The Yuir ranger knelt on his right, and Donnor Kerth at his left. “You have seen the shard?” the cleric asked.

Araevin drew in a deep breath. “Yes. It lies in an infernal plane. Some hell or another beyond the circles of our world.”

“Of course,” Maresa muttered. “Maybe Bane himself is keeping it in his vest pocket. Why not?”

Donnor grimaced. “Are you sure?”

“There was a dry plain of sharp stones … clouds of fire in the sky … a dark and strong fortress. It was an awful place.” Araevin passed a hand over his eyes. “I know what I saw, Donnor.”

The company fell silent. Maresa shook her head and stood, keeping her thoughts to herself for once. Donnor’s armor creaked as he eased back against the wall, his stubbled jaw clenched in thought. Nesterin and Jorin watched Araevin and waited.

“So … what do you intend now?” Nesterin finally asked. “Will you try for the third shard?”

“I have to. I have no choice.”

“Myth Drannor is that dangerous in Sarya Dlardrageth’s hands?” Donnor asked.

“It’s not Myth Drannor—though that is certainly perilous in its own right. The true danger is the Waymeet, the Last Mythal. Ilsevele’s father could set a cordon around Myth Drannor and imprison the daemonfey within its bounds forever if he had to, but I can’t allow Malkizid to master the Waymeet. The consequences would be awful.”