Richard Baker - Final Gate

She noticed his gaze and smiled awkwardly, smoothing her dress. “Is something wrong?”

“Not a thing,” he admitted. “Lord Selkirk doesn’t stand a chance.”

She looked down and blushed. “Thank you, Starbrow,” she murmured. “I simply want to let the Sembians know that I take them seriously.”

They went down to the inn’s common room, where the Sembian messenger waited, along with a small escort of half a dozen human guards. The Sembians had arranged for several carriages, even though the Sharburg was not much of a walk from the Markhouse. In a matter of minutes they rolled into the broad dusty courtyard of Tasseldale’s chief castle, which had been crowned by the pennants of Sembia.

I wonder what the mairshars think of that? Fflar asked himself. The Sharburg was the stronghold of Tasseldale’s constables, guards, and lawkeepers… but it seemed that the Sembian lords had evicted them when they chose the Sharburg for their headquarters.

“If you get the chance,” he said to Ilsevele, “I think you should press the Sembians about their occupation of this dale. Don’t let them think that you don’t care that this town belongs to Tasseldale.”

“I will not forget the citizens of Tasseldale, Starbrow,” Ilsevele replied. She looked up at the pennants floating overhead, and drew a deep breath. Then the carriage door opened, and a coachman extended a hand to assist Ilsevele from the carriage.

A small party of Sembians waited for them in the courtyard, surrounded by a number of vigilant guards. At their head stood a tall, dark-haired man who wore lace at the cuff and collar. His hair was carefully arranged in tight ringlets, and his goatee was trimmed to an exacting point just a little below his chin, but Fflar could see at once that the man was more than a dandy. The rapier at his belt was a fine piece of steel with a well-worn hilt, and the set of his shoulders and easy confidence of his black eyes marked him as a man who knew his own strength.

“Good morning, my lady Miritar,” the Sembian lord said, and swept off his hat in a gracious bow. “I am Miklos Selkirk, of House Selkirk. I am sorry that I could not meet you before now, but events in these troubled lands kept me away until a short time ago.”

“I understand, Lord Selkirk,” Ilsevele said. “It is those same troubles that led my father to bring his Crusade here.”

She’s very good at this, Fflar decided. Ilsevele possessed a natural poise that few elves could match, let alone humans, but at the same time she was sincere and direct. It made for a disarming combination. He quietly studied the Sembians observing her. They stood mute and unmoving, eyes wide, rapt. If they’d had suspicions about her, or duplicity in their hearts, those things were forgotten for the moment.

Ilsevele exchanged a few simple pleasantries with the Sembian lord, and Selkirk bowed and led them into the castle’s hall. The windows were thrown open to the fine summer morning, and an impressive buffet was spread out on long tables along one side.

The Sembian made a point of helping himself to several small slices of cheese and a goblet of wine-demonstrating that it wasn’t poisoned, Fflar guessed-and said, “Please, refresh yourselves if you like. I haven’t had much opportunity for good meals lately, so I certainly intend to do so.”

Ilsevele inclined her head and accepted some wine from a steward. “You are most kind, Lord Selkirk.”

Selkirk studied her for a moment, then said, “While I am delighted to entertain such a beautiful lady of the Tel’ Quessir, Lady Miritar, I am afraid I do not know what I can do for you. What does your father have to say to me?”

“We have no wish to fight you, not when our true enemy awaits in Myth Drannor,” Ilsevele said evenly. “I would like to arrange a truce between our peoples. If we could reach some understanding, then my father would be freed to turn his full strength against Sarya Dlardrageth.”

“I see,” Selkirk answered. He looked down into his goblet and swirled the wine idly, thinking for a moment. “There are difficult questions to resolve between us, Lady Miritar. Regardless of the relations my father or I might desire with our northern neighbors, too many of my countrymen-including some with powerful voices in our realm’s Great Council-will not be dictated to by an elven power in Cormanthor. We are here because those voices fear that your people will deny Sembia its natural and necessary growth.”

“Do you think that Sarya Dlardrageth will permit that growth, Lord Selkirk?”

Miklos Selkirk snorted and shook his head. “Borstag Duncastle seemed to think so, but he is quite dead now. For my own part, I harbor no such illusions. Not after what I have seen in the last two tendays.”

“Then you must surely see that it costs Sembia nothing to stand aside and allow us to try our strength against the daemonfey. If you husband your forces while we and the daemonfey weaken each other, your position can only improve.”

“Unless you fail, and the daemonfey choose to make us the next target for their wrath.” Selkirk smiled humorlessly. “Or succeed, and emerge stronger from the confrontation.”

Ilsevele frowned and set down her own goblet. “You fear our failure and you fear our success. But it seems to me that the current situation simply cannot be borne indefinitely. What would you have us do?”

“Defeat the daemonfey, and leave.”

“I cannot make that promise, Lord Selkirk. We will not leave Cormanthor empty again. But I hope that we would be better neighbors than the daemonfey. We understand the notion of compromise, at least.”

“You may find the concessions my countrymen demand difficult to meet. Our merchants want Cormanthor’s timber, game, furs, even some of the forestlands to clear and settle.”

“And you may find our demands equally difficult. We will not allow the outright conquest of lands allied to us-such as Tasseldale, here-or the ungoverned and reckless plundering of the forest’s bounty.” Ilsevele took a step forward, not allowing the Sembian lord to look away. “However, we are willing to strive in good faith to find common ground with you. We must put an end to the abominable depredations of the daemonfey. The bloodshed and horror of this awful season cannot be allowed to continue a day longer.”

“The gods know that is true enough,” the Sembian said quietly.

He set down his cup and paced away, hands clasped behind his back, to gaze out one of the hall’s high windows. Fflar studied the set of the man’s shoulders, the hint of fatigue and pain lurking beneath his polished exterior. It was hard to be certain, but he thought that the Sembian lord had the decency to be outraged by the murder and horror he’d seen.

Selkirk sighed, and faced Ilsevele. “Very well, Lady Miritar. You shall have your truce. My forces will not advance against Deepingdale or press any farther north than the positions they currently hold. If you can destroy the daemonfey, the world will be a better place.”

“If you truly believe that,” Ilsevele said, “then I have something else to propose to you: Help us against the daemonfey. March alongside us and help us to burn out this evil from Myth Drannor.”

Surprise flickered across Selkirk’s face. “You have a bold turn of mind, my lady,” he breathed. “I do not think you appreciate how difficult that will be for some of my countrymen.”

“I understand, Lord Selkirk. But I suspect that elves and humans alike will find it much easier to trust one another once we have fought together in the name of what is right, as opposed to what is expedient.”

“You may be right, Lady Miritar, but it is not in my power to agree to that. Extricating Sembia from this disaster of a campaign is what I came here to do.” Miklos Selkirk shook his head. “Before I throw more gold and blood into the Dales, I will have to consult with my father in Ordulin… and likely some of the important voices in the Great Council, too.”