Richard Baker - Final Gate

“You are most gracious,” Araevin said carefully.

Apparently she had observed them through the medium of the white sphere they had encountered on the stairs. He was not at all sure that it would be wise to dine at her table, but he certainly did not wish to offend her within the first few moments of meeting her. He offered a slight bow.

Selydra smiled coolly, as if she were amused by his caution, and made a small motion with her hand. A lantern in the shadows at the side of the hall brightened, revealing a small banquet already set out. Divans and cushions were arranged nearby. She descended from her dais and led the way to the table.

“Please, eat and drink your fill,” she said over her shoulder. “Travelers are a rare treasure in this place, and I have always been fascinated by the World Above. I am eager to hear how you came to the Long Stair.”

Araevin hesitated. He was indeed hungry and thirsty, but he reminded himself of the deathless warriors who stood watch at Selydra’s door. “If you will allow us, my lady, my comrade Donnor would like to speak a small prayer before we eat,” he said to Selydra. “It is our custom.”

The Pale Sybil inclined her head, though Araevin thought he sensed a flicker of irritation in her gaze. “By all means.”

Araevin glanced at Donnor, and to his credit the cleric understood perfectly without another word. He stepped forward and spread his arms over the banquet, looking up to the ceiling, and he murmured the words of an ancient Lathanderite prayer-followed rather subtly by a divination to determine if everything was safe. After a moment, he nodded.

“As Lathander rises,” the cleric finished. “We may eat now.”

Araevin and his friends helped themselves to the strange viands laid out for them-dark slices of some sort of broiled meat, small salty fish that were completely eyeless, a coarse gray bread, and even a few small, tart, blood-red fruits that he had never seen before. Cold, pure water and decanters of a black wine accompanied the meal. Selydra simply helped herself to a goblet of the wine, and reclined on a divan while Araevin and his friends shed their packs and sampled her table.

“What realm of the surface do you and your companions come from, Araevin?” Selydra asked, sipping at her wine.

“I am from Evermeet. Donnor Kerth, here, hails from Tethyr. Jorin and Nesterin-” Araevin nodded at the Yuir ranger and the star elf-“come from the land of Aglarond on the Sea of Fallen Stars. And Maresa is a native of Waterdeep.”

“I have heard of these places,” Selydra murmured, “but I have never seen them. Only a rare picture or two in the tomes of my library. How strange.”

“You named this city Lorosfyr, my lady,” Araevin said. “Who built it? What is the story of this place? And why do you choose to dwell here?”

“It is an intriguing mystery, isn’t it?” Selydra said. She studied Araevin with that same amused half-smile on her lips, and Araevin sensed a deep stirring of something within her, a whisper of avidness, hunger, that she carefully concealed. “This was once a city of humankind. Long ago a race of great wizards fought and lost a terrible war in the surface lands. To escape the vengeance of their foes, they fled into the farthest depths of the Underdark, and founded hidden cities such as Lorosfyr.”

“But why here, my lady?” Jorin asked. “How could they survive in this place?”

“Long ago, Lorosfyr basked in the daylight of magical suns,” Selydra said. “This place was once a great, shining realm of golden mists, brilliant as the morning. I imagine that during its day it was not at all unpleasant.”

“What happened to it?” said Araevin.

“A disaster befell the place many centuries ago. The spells sustaining light and warmth in this great darkness failed.” Selydra shrugged. “I have not discovered the cause. I came here years ago in the hope of uncovering the secrets of Imaskari magecraft, and I have never managed to unravel the story of the city’s end. Whatever doom came to this place, it fell so swiftly upon the people who lived here that they made no record of it.”

“You are a student of the Art, then, my lady?”

“I am,” the Pale Sybil admitted. “As are you, Araevin Teshurr. Now, I confess I am quite curious as to why an elf mage of such skill would venture into Lorosfyr.”

Araevin did not glance at his companions, though he felt their eyes upon him. “I believe that you have come into possession of a shard from a magical crystal,” he said. “I have great need of it, my lady. I was hoping that I could persuade you to allow me to make use of it for a short time.”

If Selydra was surprised, she did not show it. She simply sipped again from her goblet, studying Araevin over the golden rim of her cup. “Unless I am mistaken, you also have a shard of this same crystal,” she said. “It may be, Araevin Teshurr, that I would like to make use of your shard for a short time.”

“It is a matter of great urgency, my lady. Thousands of lives may depend on this. I will be happy to explain.”

Selydra rose to her feet. “And I will be happy to listen, and perhaps try to persuade you of my own need in turn. We are reasonable mages, and I am sure we can reach an agreement. But I can see that you and your companions are absolutely exhausted. Before we examine this question at any length, I must insist that you rest. Recover your strength, and enjoy my hospitality for a time. We can take up more serious matters tomorrow.” She paused, her dark eyes fixed on Araevin. “I think there is much we will learn from each other.”

Araevin started to protest, but thought better of it. He had the feeling that pressing Selydra on the question would get him nowhere. The Pale Sybil meant to enjoy her role of gracious hostess. Regardless of how reasonable she seemed at the moment, he had no way of knowing what she might or might not be capable of. He thought of the broken gnome Galdindormm, moaning in terror with her name on his lips.

Patience, Araevin, he told himself. He inclined his head to the Pale Sybil. “Of course, my lady,” he said. “I look forward to our next conversation.”

“As do I,” Selydra answered. She motioned to the silent warriors standing nearby, and the creatures drew closer. “My servitors will show you to a comfortable set of apartments. You will have everything you need there, but I am afraid I must ask you to refrain from wandering about. While my swordwights should suffice to protect you here within the palace, you will find that there are many perils in Lorosfyr.”

She gathered up her sleeves and slipped her pale hands within, and glided away into the shadows of her palace. Araevin watched her go, his lips pressed together in a frown. The ancient warriors regarded him with their dead, unblinking gazes, a pale light glimmering in their haunted eyes. One extended an arm, indicating a passageway leading somewhere else in the shadows.

“I don’t trust her for a moment,” Donnor said. “This whole place reeks of necromancy. And stranger, darker arts too, I think. We’re in danger here.”

His features hidden beneath a well-worn hood, Fflar turned into the alley running behind a merchant’s residence near the back of the Markhouse, and he paused for a moment to make sure he was not followed or observed. Then he quickly scrambled up to the roof of a shed leaning against the merchant’s house and vaulted over the tall fence that separated the inn’s smokehouse from the merchant’s alleyway. A couple of conveniently located trees made it an excellent way to slip in and out of the Markhouse without being seen.

Fflar ventured into the common room and spent a short time there listening to a lutist strumming her instrument while he indulged in two goblets of good wine. He was just about to leave a tip on the table and head upstairs to his room when the dark-haired girl, the bewitchingly beautiful girl he’d seen watching from the window five days ago, appeared in the room.