Forsaken House

CHAPTER 16

8 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms

An early spring had come to the great woodland of Cormanthor. The endless dreary rains from the Sea of Swords that kept the western forests cold and wet vanished as they passed over the great desert Anauroch. Warmer winds from the Drag-onmere carried gentle showers that draped the eastern forest in a green so deep and vivid that even by the pale light of the crescent moon its color leaped to the eye. Araevin tasted the warm rain on his face and breathed in the fragrance of the new blossoms, and for an instant he could almost forget the misery of his situation.

"Come along, paleblood," sneered Nurthel. "You have work to do."

Araevin complied, turning to follow the fey'ri sorcerer without any effort of his conscious mind. He fell in behind Nurthel, arms still shackled behind his back, ribs aching from the blow Grimlight had dealt him. Behind him half a dozen fey'ri warriors and a pair of foul vrock-demons marched, watching him carefully for any sign that Sarya's compulsion might be fading. The daemonfey queen was not present, having left to return to her army, but she had ordered Araevin to obey any command given him by Nurthel, instantly and without resistance, and the malignant compulsion she had used to crush his will was sufficiently strong to force Araevin to do exactly as she commanded.

Sooner or later he knew that he would be able to shake off the insidious spell-especially if Nurthel ordered him to do something he could not help but revolt against, like injure himself-but for the time being Araevin was merely a spectator in his own body, unable to conceive of refusing Nurthel's orders, even though he knew exactly how Sarya's spell had affected him. He had never cared for enchantment spells and rarely used them himself, because he'd always found it distasteful to enslave another's will, even if the subject was an enemy and the enslavement nothing more than a temporary assault to halt an attack or sow confusion among his foes. Having personally experienced the effects, he had no intention of ever using such a spell again. It was simply abominable to have one's volition stolen away.

"Which way?" Nurthel asked.

The ruined remnant of an old elven highway intersected their path, a ribbon of pale white stone buried beneath leaf mould and moss. Araevin and his captors had been walking for several hours, after teleporting from the Dlardrageth stronghold to Cormanthor's forests. The telkiira had warned Araevin that magic was unpredictable in the area surrounding the Nightstar's crypt, and he had duly warned the fey'ri of the danger of teleporting too close to the selukiira^ hiding place.

Araevin examined the path, and consulted the inner beacon guiding him onward.

"To the left," he replied. "It's less than a mile from here."

He wondered whether Ilsevele and Maresa still lived. The daemonfey had separated them as an additional guarantor of Araevin's cooperation, promising a fate worse than death for the women if he should lead Nurthel astray.

The demonic company hurried along the ancient white stones of the elfroad. Alternating showers and moon shadows made the scene eldritch and unreal. That portion of Cormanthor was the fabled Elven Court, a woodland of cathedral-like shadowtops that had once been home to countless elven palaces, temples, and towers. From time to time they passed old ruins, jumbled heaps of pale stone that seemed to glow beneath the soft touch of Selune's light. Then he spied the tower, a slender finger of white rising up beneath the mighty trees like a silver ghost.

"Wait," he said. "We're here."

"In there?" Nurthel demanded. The fey'ri sorcerer studied the place, and nodded. "Fine. You will lead. Inform me when we are at risk."

Araevin led the way to the tower's door, a blank archway of stone. No door or gate stood there. The portal was filled with a smooth, unbroken wall of stone. But Ithraides had recorded the secret of the door in his telkiira. Araevin spoke a simple password, and the stone sealing the arch became ethereal and vanished from sight.

"On the other side of the doorway there is a powerful sigil that will destroy any who enter without speaking this password: sillevi astraedh," Araevin said. "Then we will find stairs leading down to a misty hall, guarded by a powerful watch ghost. You must fight it if you wish to proceed."

He did not point out that the daemonfey could simply remain outside the tower, since the watch ghost would not attack him. Nurthel had instructed Araevin to lead and to warn him of the dangers they encountered, but he had not asked Araevin to be explain how each peril could be avoided. It was not much of a victory, but Araevin was determined to exploit every misstep in the instructions the fey'ri gave him.

They passed the sigil on the far side of the doorway, and found themselves in the tower's ground floor.

It seems to be my destiny to look for crystals in old ruins, Araevin thought bleakly.

He indicated a stone staircase leading to unseen levels beneath the tower, and led Nurthel's party down the smooth steps. At the bottom the fey'ri sorcerer stopped him.

"Remain here, and make sure you do not get hurt," Nurthel said. "We will need you once we deal with this guardian." He gestured to the fey'ri warriors and the demons who accompanied them. "Destroy the guardian."

Nurthel stayed on the steps beside Araevin, watching his soldiers prowl into the room below, curved swords in their taloned fists. The vrocks followed, their vulture heads swinging from side to side on their long, wattled necks as they looked for their foe. The chamber was exactly as Araevin remembered it from the telkiira's vision, a large misty hall with shining silver pillars.

A sheet of purple lightning crackled out of the swirling fog, blasting through a vrock and two of the fey'ri. Crawling arcs of violet energy coruscated around the demonspawn, charring great black burns across their flesh. The fey'ri shrieked and fell writhing to the floor. The vrock attempted to teleport itself away from the deadly spell, only to reappear in a terrible burst of black gore, materializing in the exact same spot as one of the bright argent pillars.

"I see that you did not lie when you warned us of teleporting here," Nurthel hissed. "Is there anything you have kept from me, Araevin?"

Araevin opened his mouth to reply, but the mists parted, revealing a bright and terrible figure of silver light. Ghostly and yet powerful, the guardian seemed to be a beautiful moon elf maiden, her dark hair streaming around her head, her white robes fading into translucent starshine.

"Depart!" she demanded in Elvish, her clear voice strangely high and distant, as if she were speaking from far away. "Depart, fiends! I will not suffer you to pass this chamber."

In answer two of the fey'ri drew out wands of bronze and blasted the ghostly sorceress with crimson darts of magical power. The sorceress's features twisted with a cry of dismay, and her substance seemed to boil away from the holes punched by the fey'ri spells. She countered by seizing one of the wand-wielders in a viselike grip of unseen force and hurling him against the wall, leaving him crumpled across the chamber. At the same time she chanted out a piercing melody of her own, her arms weaving in the gestures of a spell, and she threw a charging mezzoloth screaming back into its native hells.

A second mezzoloth stalked close and rammed its brazen trident through the center of the ghost's torso, but the infernal weapon passed through her ethereal substance without so much as a ripple. She turned on the creature and wove a spiraling spell chain around it that sliced deep into its evil flesh, slowly cutting it to pieces. But the fey'ri with the wand struck again, riddling her with more of the crimson darts, while another fey'ri warrior-one with a sword glowing with enchantment-darted close to slash at her, tearing great rents in her misty form.

Araevin took half a step forward, intending to help her in some way, but Nurthel set a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, no," the fey'ri captain said. "You are not to interfere."

He wove a spell of his own and hurled a crackling azure lance of magical force at the ghost, driving a bolt of arcane power through the center of her form.

The ghost wailed in deathless agony, transfixed by Nurthel's spell, her substance fraying away from the wound. She fixed her dissipating gaze on Araevin.

"Do not lead them any farther," she whispered. "Do not let them do this!"

"We do not intend to give him much choice in the matter," Nurthel laughed.

He drew back his spell lance, and rammed it through the center of the ghost's forehead. There was a great, silent burst of spectral energy, blindingly bright, and the ghost discorporated into streamers of mist and vapor that faded to nothing. The fey'ri laughed as he allowed his spell to end, subsuming the crackling lance back into his hand.

"How long has she waited here to turn us away, only to fail in her duty at the end?" Nurthel said. "It seems almost tragic, doesn't it?"

Araevin refused to answer. He was under no compulsion to reply to rhetorical questions. Nurthel folded his arms and looked him in the face.

"Well? What now?"

"There is a portal in the far wall. Touching it will transport one directly to the chamber of the selukiira, which is a sealed sphere of stone some distance beneath our feet. I must first wake it by casting a special spell.'' Araevin hesitated, but Sarya's spell forced him to continue. "If you, or any creature with evil intent, touches the portal, you will be destroyed."

"Could that be dispelled?"

"It would be difficult, and you would deactivate the portal, so that you could no longer reach the selukiira chamber safely," Araevin admitted. "As your demon ally demonstrated, teleporting here is dangerous."

"That does present a problem," Nurthel said. "Fortunately, we have you, so I need not test my intentions against the standards set by the ancient paleblood wizard who built this place, or settle for excavating my way to the Nightstar. You will go get the Nightstar for me. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Araevin admitted, though it turned his stomach to say it.

"And what if the selukiira's touch destroys you?"

"The device would take possession of my body. It would likely seek to return itself to your hands."

"I like the sound of that," Nurthel said. "You have caused me no end of trouble over the last few months, even when you were unwittingly doing our work. I can think of no fitter end for you." The fey'ri studied him closely, and asked, "Do you know of any reason why I would not want to send you to retrieve the Nightstar?" "No."

"Very well, then. Show me this portal."

Araevin led Nurthel across the mist-filled hall, flanked by the surviving demons and fey'ri. With all the power of his will and heart he tried again to throw off Sarya's spell and regain his freedom, but for all his effort his feet still carried him forward without hesitation, and his hands remained shackled behind him. Evidently the potential hazard of the selukiira was simply not immediate enough to give him the chance to overthrow the spell of dominion. On the wall opposite the stairway, a large design of silver inlaid in the stone depicted Selune and the diamondlike Tears trailing behind it.

"I must have my hands free to use the portal and retrieve the Nightstar," Araevin said.

Nurthel undid his bonds, watching carefully for any sign that Sarya's compulsion was weakening.

"You will use the portal to reach the selukiira chamber," the fey'ri said. "You will then take the Nightstar and bring it back here to me. Do not do anything except what I have instructed you to do. If something prevents you from accomplishing this task, you will return immediately for further instructions. Now go."

Araevin longed to rub his wrists and shake the stiffness from his arms, but the fey'ri's orders left him no latitude even for so simple an act. He chanted the words of the secret spell taught him by the three telkiira, the only spell that could awaken the portal. The silver diagram inlaid in the stone woke to life, glowing with white fire. Then he reached out and touched three of the Tears, avoiding the silver stars that would have triggered all manner of deadly spells. He felt the ancient magic awake beneath his fingers and snatch him away from the silver hall.

Seiveril stood in the silent grove, eyes closed, his face tilted up to the sky, and listened for Corellon Larethian's whispers in his heart. The wooded hillside was a remote place indeed, old and wild, a small outpost of the strange and ancient Forgotten Forest that lay two days' march behind him. The trees were gnarled and stooped like senescent men, tangled with beards and hoary coats of moss, and somewhere deep in their old black hearts they dreamed of days when their fathers stood wakeful and alert across all of northern Faerun, a single unbroken forest. Not even the elves were welcome beneath their branches.

Seiveril felt the warm glow of other elf minds nearby, the Seldarine knights and clerics of Vesilde Gaerth's Golden Star order. As the soldiers best equipped with the magic needed to fight off demonic assaults, the knights of the Golden Star never strayed far from Seiveril's banner, guarding him within a ring of holy steel and powerful protective prayers. He didn't like the idea that he required an elite guard, not when Gaerth's troops could have been gainfully employed in the close pursuit of the daemonfey, but he recognized the necessity. In the six days that the crusade had been following the retreating daemonfey army his foes had made no attempt to launch any more decapitating attacks against his standard like the one in the Western Cwm, but just because they hadn't done it so far didn't mean the daemonfey might not try it at any time.

The sun elf lord stilled his mind and looked past the nearby auras of his friends and allies, seeking the great golden presence of Corellon's will. When he felt himself calm and still again, Seiveril began to pray in earnest, reciting the spell prayers he had readied for the day. Every day since the battle in the cwm, as his host had descended the Rillvale on the heels of the horde of orcs and demons and harried them into the wild and empty lands north and west of Evereska, Seiveril had set aside an hour to wrestle with his foes, seeking to divine their secrets and their plans. Sometimes he succeeded, gaining glimpses of the daemonfey array or the ruined old city that served as their citadel. More often the spellcasters of the daemonfey horde succeeded in deflecting his divinations, blinding his magical sight. And so, while company after company of archers, swordsmen, and cavalry hurried northward on the grass-grown roadway along which the daemonfey fled, Seiveril struggled to see what would happen next and understand what he had to do.

The day's spells brought little to comfort him. He saw a terrible battle gathering in the High Forest, a fight he desperately wished to influence but was simply too far away to affect. He saw that his own army would likely be fighting again very soon, a rematch with the daemonfey horde, and he was not certain of the outcome. He could not see any hint of Ilsevele or Araevin, or the progress of their quest. It was as if they had been removed from the face of the world. He sensed that they were in danger, and that his own fortunes were tied up with theirs, but little more.

With a sigh, he allowed his arms to fall, and brought himself back to awareness. The brooding woodland returned to his eyes, its silence broken only by the soft whisper of cool, rain-speckled wind in the small green leaves of spring. He watched the woodland for a time, curiously drawn by its ancient, slumbering resentment, then he turned and picked his way down the slope.

Fflar was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on a flat stone, Keryvian leaning within easy reach. He glanced up as Seiveril returned.

"Well? What did you see today?" Fflar asked.

"There will be a fierce battle on the slopes of the Lost Peaks, and soon. The wood elves have retreated as far as they can go, and still the daemonfey pursue them."

"How soon?"

"Within a day, perhaps two."

Fflar said, "Even if we left our footsoldiers behind and took nothing but our fastest cavalry, it would take a tenday to reach that corner of the High Forest. The wood elves will have to make do without our aid."

"

Perhaps I can ask Jorildyn's mages to assist," Seiveril thought aloud. "At least thirty of our wizards and sorcerers know teleportation spells. We could spare half that number to bring fifty or more spellcasters and chosen troops to assist the wood elves."

"Jerreda Starcloak will insist that you must do something. I don't like reducing our own magical strength, not with that daemonfey army ahead of us, but I don't see any other way to help out the wood elves," Fflar said. He stood easily, unfolding his long legs, and buckled Keryvian to his hip again. "What about us? When will we fight again?"

"The daemonfey will turn and stand on the Lonely Moor," Seiveril said as he swung himself up into the saddle of his war-horse, and thanked the young warrior who held the reins.

The elven vanguard was less than ten miles from the round, scrub-covered hills that climbed up to the moor's boggy plateau. Difficult terrain lay ahead of them. The cavalry would not do well on the moorland, but on the other hand archers would exact a terrible toll from adversaries seeking to close over the uneven ground. Almost no one-elf, human, orc, or otherwise-traveled those lands often, though Seiveril's Evereskan scouts told him that bands of gnolls and bugbears hunted the moor.

"We should meet them tomorrow in the middle of the day," Seiveril went on, "if we continue our pursuit."

Fflar nodded and said, "I suppose that explains why the daemonfey haven't abandoned any poor bastard who can't fly. They could have escaped by taking to the air, and there would've been damned little we could do about it."

"They still have that option," Seiveril pointed out.

The crusade marched the rest of the day, beneath gray skies and a cold, damp wind that slowly numbed the fingers and toes until they ached as if they were on fire. That night, they bivouacked on two large knolls on the long, rumpled slope climbing up to the moor proper.

The overcast hid the stars, and the cold wind simply grew stronger, until the pennants and banners fluttered and snapped like brightly colored sails. Seiveril ordered his captains to rest the soldiers as much as possible and prepare a good, hearty meal from their stores, knowing that they would need their strength the next day.

Seiveril ate little and rested not at all, finding himself too troubled to slip into Reverie. He settled for circling the camp, watching the warriors of Evermeet making ready for battle. Beneath the songs sung by the windblown cook-fires lay a note of determination and confidence that he could not have imagined when he recklessly invited any willing fighter to follow him to Faerun. How many of them would not greet the next moonrise, lying dead on a distant and useless battlefield far from home? How long might they have lived if they had remained on Evermeet?

He sat down heavily on a boulder, bowing his head in the dark night, weary with all the weight of his four and a half centuries. His mind turned to his wife, Ilyyela, dead for three short years after centuries at his side.

Am I doing the right thing, Ilyyela? he asked the night. Is this what I am supposed to do?

A soft footfall drew his attention. Seiveril looked up, and saw Fflar approaching. He waited as the moon elf hero joined him on his boulder. They sat a while in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts against the night.

Finally Fflar said, "Where are your thoughts, Seiveril?"

"My wife, Ilyyela. She died in the war three years ago. The Tower of the Sun was destroyed by a spell cast by a circle of traitorous spellsingers, and she was in it."

"I am sorry for that, my friend," Fflar said, staring off into the blackness of the night. "I had the good fortune of preceding my wife to Arvandor. She and my son were among the last to escape Myth Drannor, in the days before the city's fall. Yet here I am now, walking the world once again, and now it is she who is gone, and my son as well. It has been six hundred years, after all. I wonder if he had children? It would be something to meet them, would it not?" The moon elf paused, and laughed softly at himself. "I miss them, Seiveril. I should not have come back."

"What do you remember of Arvandor?"

Fflar shook his head and replied, "It is only a dim dream, as you might remember a house you lived in when you were a very small child. I remember contentment, joy… I think that the gods must veil our memories when we return from death to life. Otherwise it would be an abomination to call us out of bliss, would it not? How could I stand to be parted from my wife and son a single hour otherwise?"

"Yet you agreed to return," Seiveril said. "You made that decision while Arvandor was still unveiled."

"The difficulty with attaining everything you want is that it's not enough. I recall contentment, yes, but I also recall regret. I died as a failure, Seiveril. Despite all my efforts, my city fell, my people were slaughtered, our light was extinguished. I do not know for certain why I returned, since my mind is clouded now, but I think I came back to finish what I had left undone in my mortal days." Fflar looked at Seiveril, folded his arms, and said, "You are high in the faith of Corellon Larethian. You must understand all this. Why did you call me back?"

"Because Ilyyela told me to," Seiveril said. He did not meet Fflar's gaze, but instead studied his hands, folded in his lap. "Soon after Amlaruil rallied us to repel Nimesin's attack, I attempted to resurrect my wife. Perhaps I should not have tried it, but the grief… the thought was in my heart that we were both young still, young enough to walk the world for centuries yet before departing for Arvandor together.

"Corellon did not deny me the spell. I think he knew that I had to make the attempt. At sunset of a warm summer evening I chanted the prayers and cast the spell of resurrection, and Ilyyela's spirit answered my call. But she would not cross back into life. Ilyyela, my love, come back to me,' I begged. Yet she refused. 'My time is done,' she said. 'Do not mourn for the years we might have shared in Evermeet, for we will be together in Arvandor's summer forever.'

"I pleaded with her. 'I cannot stand to be apart from you, not for the long years I might remain. I will join you in Arvandor, if you will not return.'

"Then Ilyyela regarded me with sadness. 'That is not for you to decide,' she told me. 'It is not for any to decide. There is a great labor before you, my love, which you must begin before you come home. And you will not have long to wait. You will come to Arvandor very soon, Seiveril. Until that day you must live the life allotted to you.'"

Fflar smiled in the darkness and said, "I suppose you must wonder what she meant by 'very soon.' But what does this have to do with me?"

"I said my farewells to Ilyyela's spirit then," Seiveril said. "Before she departed entirely, she told me this: 'I cannot answer your call, love. But there is one here who will. Heal him, Seiveril. His wait has been long.' "

The moon elf was silent for a long time.

"And you thought she meant me?" he said finally. "Why me, Seiveril? I never knew you in life."

"No, you did not. But you did know my father, Elkhazel. He told me many stories of your valor in the Weeping War. When he finally passed to Arvandor himself, he told me where to find Keryvian. I suppose I have regarded you as something of a hero, since I was a small lad."

"I'm only one hundred and fifty years old, Seiveril. I can't abide the notion that a fellow three times my age regards me as his boyhood hero. Nor can I believe that I was unhappy in Arvandor," Fflar said. He stood up, shaking his head. "You'd better get some rest, old man. You'll need clear wits and all your strength for tomorrow."

At daybreak the elves broke camp and began to climb the flanks of the moor, marching in battle order-tight, disciplined companies instead of the loose columns of the past few days. They marched not more than two hours before an Evereskan scout galloped up to Seiveril and Fflar at the false standard.

"Lord Seiveril! The daemonfey army has turned!"

Fflar looked at Seiveril and said, "You were right. It seems they've stopped running."

The sun elf flicked the reins of his mount and followed the messenger as they rode ahead, climbing up a sparsely wooded hillside flanking the valley through which wound the weathered old track they followed. To the north the gray, flat emptiness of the Lonely Moor stretched unbroken for mile after mile. In the distance to the east Seiveril glimpsed the brown-gold desolation of Anauroch. On the rugged downlands of the moor the daemonfey army had halted, spreading out from the ragged, misshapen column the elves had chased for days into long lines facing south.

"Can we take them, do you think?" Seiveril asked.

Fflar replied, "That is your decision, not mine."

"I am asking you for your assessment of the situation."

The big moon elf studied the enemy ranks for a while then said, "You can't win this war by seizing some piece of territory these demonspawn control. They have no cities for you to raze, no castles to pull down. If you want to end this threat, you have to beat their army, and that means you have to wait for them come to you, or you have to run them down. I faced this same dilemma in the Weeping War, except that time I faced an army that outnumbered mine by ten to one. This foe you can defeat, if you are certain that the fight is necessary."

Seiveril studied the distant ranks of the enemy army, searching for certainty. He frowned, recalling his misgivings, and wondering what had changed for the daemonfey that had encouraged them to halt their retreat and turn back. Did they like the battleground? Had they garnered reinforcements? Or had they simply reached the right time to execute some greater plan of which he was not aware?

"Well?" asked Fflar.

Corellon, grant me wisdom, Seiveril prayed silently.

He wheeled his horse around to face the officers and messengers who followed him and snapped, "Send word to all the captains. We will attack!"

Araevin found himself standing in a strange, spherical chamber of pale white stone. The room was perhaps three times his height, and the center of the floor had been leveled, so that it was not a true sphere. The walls shone with a pale radiance that illuminated the entire chamber with a strange and threatening light. He could feel the powerful spell wards that pervaded the place, spells to foil scrying, spells to make the walls impervious… The room was without exit, as he knew it would be-the chamber had been carved out of the bedrock hundreds of feet below the ghost's hall, and it was only accessible by magic.

The Nightstar hovered in the center of the room, held aloft by the spells of the ancient wizard who had built the place. It was exactly as Araevin had seen, a dagger-shaped crystal about three inches long. In color it was a deep, iridescent purple reminiscent of the last gloaming of a storm-clouded sunset, and pale lavender glyphs were etched into its surface. Unseen emanations of magical power ringed the device like heat shimmering in the air, an aura of arcane potency that halted Araevin even in the face of his compulsion to seize the gem.

For all his years of study alongside high mages and loremasters, he had never seen a selukiira before. Like their lesser kindred the telkiira, they served to store knowledge-memories, spells, secrets, whatever their creators chose to infuse them with. But the high lore-gems were also reputed to be teaching devices, a means by which the arcane study of a hundred years might be conferred to the wearer in the blink of an eye. A selukiira might make a novice into a powerful mage in a single searing instant. If what Sarya had said was true, then locked inside its violet depths lay the secrets to high magic, knowledge of ancient rites and mighty spells that otherwise might take decades of study to encompass.

This was made by a Dlardrageth, he reminded himself. A Dlardrageth who studied firsthand the forgotten magic of old Aryvandaar, the most powerful realm of elves that ever existed. From their mighty towers in the North the High Mages of Aryvandaar launched spells that destroyed entire nations and enslaved half a continent. What would Sarya do with such knowledge?

It did not matter. He didn't have the ability to refuse.

Since the gemstone hovered ten feet above the marble floor, Araevin cast a simple spell to catch hold of it and draw it down to him-but the spell failed. The Nightstar was not to be moved by such a minor magic. He stood silent, thinking, then he muttered the words of his spell of flying, and willed himself into the air. Moving slowly, as if he watched himself in a dream, he reached out to touch the crystal. Dread welled up in his mind as his fingertips neared the gem, yet he was helpless to turn away his face or even wince in anticipation of what might happen when his flesh touched the crystal.

Selukiira burn out the minds of those who are not meant to handle them, he reminded himself. They recognize those who are false, and destroy them utterly.

"I refuse," Araevin whispered.

For an awful moment he fought to keep his hand from moving an inch nearer, his muscles straining to obey Sarya's command while his mind and will woke to full power, shaking off the daemonfey enchantment. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth, throwing the entirety of his consciousness into the simple effort to hold his hand still.

"I refuse!" he snarled, and he drew his hand back half an inch. Sarya's spell enticed him toward his doom with the seductiveness of a high, rocky clifftop and the lure of the leap, but Araevin proved the stronger.

He snatched his hand away, and howled, "I refuse! "

The Nightstar hung before his face, less than an arm's length from his eyes. It stood quiescent, showing not a hint of the fearsome doom it held for him. Araevin drifted back in midair, thinking hard. He took a deep breath.

"Now what?" he asked aloud.

Though his free will had been restored, the fact remained that he could not escape the chamber except by means of the portal, and that would return him to the hall where the daemonfey waited. Any teleportation he attempted there would destroy him, as surely as the vrock had been destroyed in the rooms above. He could try to surprise Nurthel with his sudden return, and attack-but Araevin had not had the opportunity to replenish his magic since before they entered Grimlight's lair, and few of his spells remained. It did not seem realistic to hope that he could defeat Nurthel, the other daemonfey, and the surviving demons with a single swift assault.

Would I have time enough to flee? he wondered. If I could escape the misty hall… but there again the barrier against teleportation would foil me. At best I could try to outrun the daemonfey, but they have wings, don't they?

He could try to feign compliance, returning to offer Nurthel a fake Nightstar. It was possible that the fey'ri sorcerer didn't know what the device would look like. That might give him an opportunity to flee later, but if Nurthel discovered the deception he would know that Sarya's compulsion had failed. Perhaps the best thing would be to simply wait in the buried chamber without ever returning, and make sure that the daemonfey were denied the Nightstar forever. Would it be worth his life to keep the selukiira out of their hands?

"Not just your life, Araevin," he reminded himself.

Sarya still held Ilsevele and Maresa in her stronghold. If he did not return there quickly, and with his will un-trammeled by the daemonfey enchantments, Ilsevele and Maresa would suffer for it, and he could imagine only too well what form their tortures might take.

There is no way out, he realized.

Even if he regarded his own life as forfeit, he could not do the same for Ilsevele and Maresa. He had to find the path that offered him some chance to return and free them.

If he simply seized the gemstone and let it have him, there was a chance that Ilsevele and Maresa might be rescued by some other agency. Seiveril might divine her location and send help. At the very least, Araevin's resistance would not be an excuse for Sarya to kill his companions. There was at least some small possibility that the selukiira was not programmed to destroy its defiler. How much of a risk it would be, he had no way of knowing.

And when it came down to it, he was curious. Even if it destroyed him, he wanted to know what secrets the Nightstar concealed.

"Damn," he breathed.

He reached out and grasped the Nightstar.

His vision whirled, and in a flash of lambent light he felt himself drawn into the dormant consciousness of the gemstone. It engulfed him like a violet sea, smothering him in its power. He felt its might rising around him, ramparts and battlements of dangerous lore looming around him on all sides, penning him in, trapping him. Then the edifices vanished, leaving him to plummet screaming into a terrible and dark abyss, falling for what seemed to be hours through a cosmos of purple facets and white-glowing runes of fire. Darkness came, and a flash of brilliant light.

Araevin opened his eyes, and found himself standing in a wondrous and terrible garden. Walls of perfect white stone, graced by elegant arches, seemed to wall out some place of infernal terror. Brutal red firelight shone through the gaps, and the sky overhead was a sickly yellow-brown, streaked with columns of toxic smoke. The garden was home to scores of exotic plants and stunningly colorful blossoms, but they were alive and predatory, slow-moving things that writhed like serpents and dripped venom from their delicate structures. The golden fountain showed a marvelous sculpted scene of elf maidens and dancing satyrs, yet on a closer look the maidens' faces gaped with terror and the satyrs were scaly devils.

A flicker of light caught his eye, and he turned to look. From a soft sparkle of lavender a handsome sun elf stepped into the garden, appearing from the air itself. He was a regal fellow, tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore long crimson robes with a shorter vestment of gold-embroidered black over his torso. His face was sharp-featured, and his eyes were a startling, powerful green in color.

"Well," he said, his voice lilting with sinister beauty. "You are not what I expected. Who are you?"

Araevin steeled himself, determined not to show his dread, and replied, "I am Araevin Teshurr. Who are you?"

"I am Saelethil Dlardrageth. Or at least, a facsimile of him-me. I am the Nightstar."

"What is this place?"

"I am holding your mind within mine, as I assay you. Of course, your body still holds me in its hand." Saelethil paced nearer, his hands clasped before him, a sinister smile on his face. "I have taken the liberty of examining your predicament, at least as you perceive it. I am rather astonished to find that five millennia have passed, while I waited in Ithraides* prison. Saelethil did not-that is, I did not-anticipate this turn of events. If he had, I would know better what to do with you."

"If you mean to destroy me, then get on with it. I have had enough of bantering with daemonfey."

"Destroy you? Why, it's a lovely offer, but I am afraid I cannot oblige."

Araevin narrowed his eyes and studied the strange apparition more closely.

"I thought selukiira destroyed those unfit for their use," Araevin said.

"Of course I would do that. However, you are not unfit," Saelethil replied. His smirk faded a bit, and his eyes darkened with ire. "My purpose, as Saelethil himself inscribed it within me, is to teach sun elves of House Dlardrageth the secrets of Aryvandaar's high magic, provided they are sufficiently skilled in the study of magic to comprehend such things. You are a mage whose skill, while modest, still falls within acceptable limits. Therefore, I am not to destroy you."

"But I am not a Dlardrageth," Araevin replied, even as he wondered how hard he ought to argue that point with the Nightstar.

Saelethil laughed darkly and said, "Well, you may think you are not, but evidently you are. I have an infallible sense for this, and cannot be mistaken."

Could it be true? Araevin wondered. He thought back to what he knew of his ancestors… and he recalled his kinship to Elorfindar Floshin. Elorfindar and he shared an ancestor, a Floshin. And House Floshin had been one of the Houses of ancient Siluvanede, a House whose name was claimed by some among the fey'ri.

"I am a Floshin," he mumbled.

"That does not make you a Dlardrageth," Saelethil observed. "However, I would guess that one of my family chose to favor one of the Floshins with a child. The Floshins served us long and well, after all. Your heritage likely derives from such a dalliance." The cruel sun elf shook his head. "I was not nearly specific enough when I created the descriptions of who could use this device. Of course, I had no idea that five thousand years and dozens of generations would pass, allowing Dlardrageth blood to surface in some unexpected places."

"If I am a Dlardrageth, then how did I manage to unlock Ithraides' telkiira or gain access to this chamber?" Araevin asked. "These things were locked against the daemonfey."

Saelethil pursed his lips in displeasure and said, "Take up that question with Ithraides' shade, not mine. If I were to guess, I would suppose that his defenses were designed to hinder those with the stain of evil marking their souls. Your high and useless morals likely met the stodgy old bastard's approval."

Araevin closed his eyes and laughed bitterly.

"So I represent the one contradiction that neither you nor Ithraides foresaw," he said, "a Dlardrageth free of the supernatural evil of the rest of the House. Had I been evil, I never could have found this place. Had I not been a Dlardrageth, I never could have survived it."

"The irony overwhelms me," Saelethil said, grimacing.

"So, what now?"

"What now?" Saelethil repeated. He fixed his emerald eyes on Araevin, and a cruel smile grew slowly on his features. "What now? Now, my weak-minded bastard whelp who happens to be blessed with a genealogy you do not appreciate or deserve, I am going to do what I was made to do and instruct you in the things that Saelethil wished to see preserved. And well see if you are Dlardrageth enough to survive the scars I'm going to sear into your soul."

Saelethil stood before Araevin, who started to protest, but Saelethil seized his head with both hands and pressed his fingertips into Araevin's skull.

The world exploded with crimson pain.