Richard Baker - Final Gate

Nesterin and Donnor helped Jorin, who had been mauled by the errant spellchain, to Araevin’s side. Taking Maresa’s hand and Donnor’s hand in his own, Araevin chanted the words of a planewalking spell. Even though he was numb and cold with fatigue, he reached into the deepest wellsprings of his strength and found the willpower to finish the spell.

The last thing he saw of the spire top was Malkizid emerging from the dimensional prison, his face contorted in pure fury. Then the Branded King’s fortress vanished into silver, silent mist.

The last rays of sunset painted the walls of Sarya’s throne chamber a brilliant red-gold. Two days had passed since the defeat in the Vale of Lost Voices, and the weather had turned clear and warm again.

She stood facing the window, looking out over the tree-shaded ruins of the ancient city. She had first walked the streets of this place more than five millennia ago, when Arcorar, the Great Forest, was the name of the realm. She could still make out the faint suggestions of that old city, even though it had evolved over many centuries into Myth Drannor before meeting its end.

“The fey’ri are here, Mother,” Xhalph said quietly.

She nodded and turned away from the view. Mardeiym Reithel and Vesryn Aelorothi had survived the battle in the vale, so she still had her general and her spymaster. But the bladesinger Jasrya Aelorothi was dead, killed by some human archer’s lucky shot. Hundreds more of her fey’ri had died fighting against the guardians of the vale. Her legion had been reduced to no more than five hundred strong.

She studied her subjects for a moment. Mardeiym and Vesryn returned her gaze without expression, while Alysir Ursequarra’s eyes burned with a fierce anger barely kept in check. The half-dozen remaining House lords did not meet her eyes.

“What news, Vesryn?” Sarya asked the vulture-featured sorcerer. “Have our guests arrived yet?”

“The armies of Evermeet and Sembia have encircled the city, my queen,” Vesryn Aelorothi reported. “They are preparing fortifications to besiege us.”

“I am not concerned,” Sarya replied. She paced back to the window, leaving her back to her subjects. “The mythal protects us. I can destroy any paleblood or human who sets foot in Myth Drannor. Miritar and his human allies can bark and bay in the forest outside our walls for a hundred years.”

“Then what was the purpose of fighting in the vale of Lost Voices?” Alysir Ursequarra demanded from behind her. “What advantage did you seek by abandoning the defenses of this city in order to meet our enemies so far beyond our walls? And how could you fail to anticipate that the guardian spirits of the vale would side with Seiveril Miritar?”

Sarya ceased her pacing and eyed the fey’ri over her shoulder. “I have always thought it foolish to teach my subjects to guard their thoughts in my presence,” she said in a cold voice. “However, it is equally unwise to tolerate insolence. I rule here, Lady Alysir, and you exceed my tolerance.”

Alysir Ursequarra threw back her head in defiance and set her hand on the hilt of her sword. “I only speak what all here think, Sarya Dlardrageth. If you believe that you can extinguish our doubts by destroying me, then you should do so. Otherwise, I demand answers.”

“In that case, I choose to destroy you,” Sarya said.

She whirled on the fey’ri and hissed the words to a dreadful necromancy. The fey’ri drew her sword and leaped for Sarya, conjuring a spell of her own to fling at her queen-but Sarya’s spell proved the quicker. In mid-leap a fierce midnight flame erupted from Alysir’s mouth, her eyes, even her finely scaled flesh. Her spell drowned in the horrible crackling darkness that consumed her, feeding on her body as if she were made of tinder.

The rebellious fey’ri crashed to the stone floor at Sarya’s feet, screaming black fire. She found the sheer willpower and determination to claw herself two paces closer, while the awful black flames devoured her alive. Sarya smiled coldly and took a step back, remaining just out of Alysir’s reach. The ebon flames were quite dangerous, after all, and could easily spread. In a few moments there was nothing left of Alysir Ursequarra but a charred skeleton encased in blackened mail.

Sarya extinguished the flames with a single curt gesture and returned her attention to the fey’ri lords that remained. “Does anyone else wish to question my authority?” she asked. None of the others spoke up. They simply waited in silence.

“As it so happens, I had several compelling reasons to try Miritar’s strength in the vale,” she continued. “First, the open terrain favored us greatly. We worked great destruction with the advantage of the skies in the early hours of the battle. Second, I did not care to allow myself to fall under siege here. Permitting Miritar to reach Myth Drannor struck me as something that might be seen as weakness in the lands surrounding Cormanthor, even if I felt confident that he could not storm the city in the face of my control over the mythal.

“As for the vale guardians, they have been quiescent for months. So long as we did not despoil the tombs-and you may recall that I gave exacting orders that no tombs were to be broken-they should have had no reason to trouble us. It seems clear now that Seiveril Miritar had some way to rouse the guardians against us, but we did not suspect that he could do any such thing.” Sarya stretched her wings out with a sharp snapping motion, and folded them tightly to her back. “I remind you that this is war. We must be audacious, inventive, and resourceful. We set out half a year ago to avenge the wrongs of five thousand years and shake the foundations of the world. Did you think it would be easy?”

“We are with you, my queen,” Mardeiym Reithel replied. He struck his fist to his breastplate and bowed his head. The remaining fey’ri lords followed the general’s example, murmuring promises of loyalty and lowering their heads before her.

Sarya did not doubt that some at least harbored doubts much like Alysir Ursequarra’s, but for the moment she chose to accept their words of fealty. If some of them had to be bent to her will through the fear of her wrath, so be it. She did not govern by their consent and she did not care to weaken her power over them by acceding to ultimatums.

“Mardeiym, I want you to mount a vigilant guard over the city,” she said. “I have arranged the mythal to severely chastise any of our enemies who set foot in Myth Drannor, but I do not rule out the possibility that clever infiltrators may find a way to worm through the mythal’s defenses. As for the rest of you, remember what you have seen today. I trust I will not have to repeat that lesson. Now leave me.”

The lords and ladies of the fey’ri bowed again to her, and departed. Sarya refrained from pacing anxiously until they left. The audience chamber she had chosen for herself in Castle Cormanthor was too small. She could not stand confinement of any sort.

Her fey’ri were decimated, her enemies were allied against her, the drow had abandoned her cause, her city was beleaguered… but she was not yet beaten. Myth Drannor was an unassailable fortress beneath her mythal weaving.

“I will teach the palebloods the cost of defiance,” she muttered angrily. “They will rue the day they set themselves against me!”

“Ah, now that is the proper spirit.” Malkizid’s golden voice preceded the archdevil as a font of flickering black fire sprang up in one corner of the chamber. The dancing flame took on a roughly manlike shape, roiling and shifting, and it condensed all at once into the familiar form of the Branded King. “Truly, the Dlardrageths are made of stern stuff.”

Sarya turned on the handsome archdevil, cold hate smoldering in her green eyes. “My determination owes nothing to you, Malkizid! You abandoned the field at the height of the battle. We might have won the day if you had not fled!”