Richard Baker - Final Gate

“We will not need to ride very far,” said Seiveril, “and I hope we will not be gone for long. Besides, I’ll have Starbrow and Jorildyn with me.”

“So that all the leaders of the Crusade can be killed at the same time if Sarya’s demons find you?”

“The fewer with me, the better,” Seiveril said. “Besides, I have a feeling that the Seldarine may favor us this evening.”

Ilsevele narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going, Father?”

Seiveril started to dismiss her question, but then he checked himself. She did not know it, but she had as much right to be with him as any of the others. “Now that I think on it, I want you to come with us, Ilsevele. This is something that you should see.”

Seiveril, Starbrow, and Jorildyn found horses and mounted quietly. Seiveril took a moment to murmur a prayer for swiftness and stealth, weaving the magic of the Seldarine over their small band. Then the four of them rode away from the standard, heading north and west in the darkness.

Since most of the day’s fighting had taken place around the elven and Sembian standards, within four hundred yards they had passed out of the battleground proper. Though the smell of smoke still hung heavily in the air, the vale grew silent and almost peaceful as they rode deeper in. They began to pass isolated markers of white stone, each covered in faded Elvish script that seemed to shine with a silver radiance when the moonlight glimmered through the overcast and smoke.

“These are burial markers,” Ilsevele whispered.

“Yes. For many centuries, the People of Cormanthyr laid their dead to rest here. Long ago there was a battle lost in this place, and many warriors fell. Since that time it has been hallowed ground.”

“It seems strange that the daemonfey would choose this place to fight.”

“They probably revel in desecrating it,” Seiveril said harshly.

They rode on in silence for a time. Whether his intuition had come from Corellon’s mind or they had simply proven lucky, they ran into none of the Dlardrageth minions during their ride.

Finally, Seiveril spied a small structure of pale marble gleaming in the moonlight. It was a windowless rotunda of sorts, half-sunk into the loam of the vale amid a small copse of trees. A single door of dark iron barred its entrance.

“Ah, we are here,” Seiveril breathed.

“What is this place?” Jorildyn asked.

“This is the ancient crypt of House Miritar. Many of my forebears-and yours too, Ilsevele-rest here.” Seiveril dismounted, and faced the old monument. “I have not been here in more than two hundred years. A long time by any measure, I suppose.” He was pleased to see that the tomb had weathered well in the passing centuries. Old enchantments had been laid on the place long ago to protect it.

“Why have we come here, Seiveril?” Jorildyn asked.

“Sarya Dlardrageth has shown a talent for employing ancient secrets against us. I think it is time that we returned the favor. There is help for us here.”

The battle-mage nodded slowly in understanding. “I don’t understand why you didn’t summon the guardians of the vale last night,” he murmured. “We could have used the help.”

“I dared not do so until I had given them a chance to witness the valor of the Sembians,” Seiveril answered. “Many of the warriors sleeping here regarded the humans as enemies during their living days. I was afraid that the guardians might not be able or willing to treat Selkirk and his men as allies. But the Sembians fought and died alongside elf warriors today, Jorildyn. And most of them did so with courage equal to our own. I think that will count for a lot in the judgment of the Vale guardians.”

“Seiveril, be careful…” Starbrow warned. “The powers here are not to be lightly called upon.”

“I know.”

Seiveril strode up to face the rotunda’s only door, while the others exchanged looks behind him and slowly dismounted. He whispered a small devotion to clear his mind for the labor ahead, and pressed his hands together before his chest. Then he began to chant a powerful spell, calling on Corellon Larethian’s power and shaping the divine energy with his words and will. He sensed all around him the slow awakening of the vale. The wind shifted and grew strong, raking across the dry grass and fallen leaves with an icy touch. A pale corona began to flicker and burn around the ancient white stones of the place. He shivered and finished the incantation. Throwing his arms wide, he shouted, “Come forth, I beseech you! Come forth!”

A golden light seemed to illuminate the domed crypt in front of him, sunlight from some distant and unseen dawn. The radiance spilled out over the nearby glade. And a spectral form seemed to stride through the mithral-chased door. It was the shade of a noble sun elf warrior, dressed in the arms of Myth Drannor’s Akh Velar. His red hair spilled out from under his helm, and his eyes gleamed with a brilliant light.

Behind Seiveril, Starbrow recoiled two steps in pure astonishment. “Elkhazel!” he whispered. “Is that truly you?”

“Greetings, Father,” Seiveril said weakly. He swayed, suddenly exhausted beyond all endurance, but Ilsevele and Jorildyn hurried up to steady him.

“Seiveril, my son,” the shade of Elkhazel said. Warmth filled his voice. “Fflar, my old friend. I am pleased to see you walk in Cormanthor again.”

Seiveril looked on the visage of his father. “Forgive me for calling you from Arvandor, but the guardians of the vale are needed tonight. I hoped that you could intercede on our behalf.”

“I am not angry, Seiveril,” the golden spirit said. He drifted before the door of the Miritar crypt, ethereal mists streaming from his translucent form. His face was compassionate, but there was iron in the set of his mouth. “It is for needs such as yours that the ancient rites were first spoken. The daemonfey are an abomination in the sight of the Seldarine. Your appeal has been heard.”

“You can aid us, Father?”

“Only within the bounds of the Vale of Lost Voices itself, and only for a short time. Call for me when you judge the moment to be right, and I will come with others who sleep here.” Elkhazel Miritar offered a grim smile. “The Dlardrageths have transgressed against the memory of Cormanthyr. We await the chance to chastise the daemonfey.”

“I will call for you,” Seiveril said.

He studied the spectral visage, so familiar and yet so distant. Elkhazel had passed to Arvandor three centuries after Retreating to Evermeet, and a century after Seiveril’s birth. Though he had become a lord of Evermeet, he had never ceased to grieve for the elven realm destroyed in the Weeping War. Seiveril remembered the old pain in his father’s eyes, the wounded heart that had never wholly healed, and he felt his own heart aching with love and sorrow. Tears came to his eyes, and he made no attempt to stop them.

The ghostly elflord stretched one hand over his son’s shoulder, and stood in silence. Then he looked up, and his gaze fell on Ilsevele. “Your daughter?” Elkhazel asked softly.

Ilsevele’s eyes glimmered with tears, but she stood straight and looked her grandfather in the face. “I am Ilsevele, daughter of Seiveril and Ilyyela,” she said. “I greet you, Grandfather.”

The shade drifted closer and studied her face, his eyes shining with light. Then, slowly, he knelt and bowed his head before her, doffing his spectral helm. In the moonlight he seemed as faint as a forgotten memory, but the night fell silent as the shade paid her homage.

“I am sorry that we did not meet in life, granddaughter,” he whispered. “You are the hope of Cormanthyr, Ilsevele. In your day our People will come into a new spring.”

Ilsevele looked down on the shade of Elkhazel and frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t understand,” she said.