Richard Baker - Farthest Reach

“I know,” the young sun elf said. “But… even if I owe you nothing for saving me from the daemonfey dungeons, I owe something to my friends who died fighting the daemonfey. If I can help to make the daemonfey answer for the evil they have caused, I will.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to stay here by myself,” Maresa muttered. She crossed her arms and glared at Araevin. “Next time, let’s find something that needs doing in a city like Calimshan or Waterdeep, instead of some musty old ruins in the middle of the wilderness.”

“It’s our task, not yours,” Araevin said. “You don’t have to-”

“Oh, yes I do,” Maresa said. “I didn’t know him as long as you did, Araevin, but Grayth was my friend, too. And Brant, as well. If you have any chance of finding where that demonspawned bitch Sarya is hiding, I want to be a part of it. I’m in the habit of killing people who murder my friends.”

Araevin grimaced. Maresa had struck straight at a point he had half-forgotten. Caught up in the mystery of Saelethil’s lore, it had somehow slipped from the forefront of his mind that his oldest and truest human friend had not survived their battles against the daemonfey.

“I will be glad for your company, then,” he told Maresa.

Ilsevele looked down at the pack by the door. “So we are leaving now?” she said.

“Soon,” Araevin replied. “I just wanted to be ready. But if we all are going… it’s dusk, and the daemonfey already have a twenty-day head start. Tomorrow morning is good enough.”

Maresa brightened. “Well, good, then. I was afraid I wouldn’t have one more chance to drink and dance all night long before we set out.”

“It’ll be a hard day of travel tomorrow, if you overdo it this evening,” Filsaelene warned.

“That,” said Maresa, “will be tomorrow’s problem.”

13 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms

Seiveril Miritar spent much of his time in Leuthilspar closeted with Keryth Blackhelm and other captains of Evermeet’s armies and knighthoods, describing in exacting detail the course of the campaign his Crusade had fought across the wilderlands of the North. As best he could, he told them how he had confronted the daemonfey army and their demonic allies-which tactics worked against an army of winged sorcerers, which weapons and spells served to defeat demons and which did not.

When he finished with that task, he steeled himself for a duty he had no heart for, but that he had to do. After he tarried in Leuthilspar for a day more, he outfitted a riding horse in the stables of his family’s villa in the capital and left the city. He rode north into the green meadows and airy forests of the western hills, to the small forest estate of Elvath Muirreste. There he visited with Nera Muirreste, Elvath’s wife, and as best he could he told her how Elvath had died. She had heard of Elvath’s fall already, and greeted him wearing the gray veil of mourning.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” Seiveril said to her. “Elvath was more than my captain-at-arms and adviser. He was my friend. I cannot tell you how much I regret his death.”

Lady Muirreste sighed. “I know, Seiveril. Elvath thought the world of you, and he answered your call to arms with a willing heart. His death is almost more than I can bear, but it gives me comfort to know that he died fighting for a good and true cause.” Nera sat in silence for a time then she set her hand on his and asked, “How did it happen? I only heard that he fell fighting outside Evereska.”

“Elvath had command of our right flank,” Seiveril said. He found that he was glad of the opportunity to simply recount the tale, rather than search for comforting words. “Our cavalry was there. They fought valiantly and well all morning. Elvath’s forces were outnumbered, but he commanded some of our best companies, and they used their speed and courage to great effect.

“After an hour of fighting, we repelled the daemonfey attack, and their lines broke. Their army fell back in retreat. I sent our cavalry in pursuit, and Elvath and his Silver Guard drove the orcs and ogres and the rest out of the West Cwm, sealing our victory. But near the top of the Sentinel Pass on the far side of the Cwm, Elvath was killed by a boulder thrown by a giant. He was simply looking the wrong way and had no chance to dodge it.” Seiveril paused then added, “He was killed at once.”

“Were you there?”

“No, I was tending to wounded on the far side of the vale when he fell. I might have been able to save him, had I been closer. But so many of our warriors were injured in the early fighting…” He made himself look into Nera’s eyes. “I left the pursuit in Elvath’s hands, because my healing was needed so badly where I was. I should have led the pursuit myself.”

Nera squeezed his hand. “Did others live because you chose as you did?”

Seiveril considered the question. “Yes. The healing spells I cast that day likely saved a number of people who otherwise would have died.”

“Then I am certain that I do not regret your decision, Seiveril. And I know that Elvath would not, either.” Nera Muirreste released his hand, and smiled sadly behind her veil.

Seiveril took his leave an hour later, and rode back to Leuthilspar in the afternoon, taking his time. Hundreds of elves who had followed him to Faerun had fallen in battle, and he owed visits to many more people, a burden that should have broken his heart. Yet Nera’s question kept him from drowning in the grief he felt.

Did others live because I chose as I did? he asked himself. And the answer was an unequivocal yes. Elf warriors who fell in battle against the daemonfey had undoubtedly spared many more lives, the lives of many others who had no skill for battle and otherwise might have died terrible deaths. He grieved for each son or daughter of Evermeet who died following his banner, but he could not bring himself to believe that he had been wrong to take up arms against the daemonfey threat.

He returned to Leuthilspar late in the afternoon, following the familiar boulevards and winding ways that led to the Miritar villa. He tended to his horse himself, dismissing the groom as he unsaddled the animal, rubbed it down, brushed its coat, watered it, and put away the tack and harness. He had just filled the feed bag and was finishing his work, when he became aware of someone watching him from the stable door.

“Yes?” he said without turning.

“I’m glad you haven’t lost the habit of doing such work for yourself,” Queen Amlaruil replied. She glided into the stable and paused to pat the horse’s neck. “I see you have been out riding.”

Seiveril recovered from his surprise, and bowed. “Yes, my lady. I have just returned from Elvath Muirreste’s home.”

“He fell near Evereska, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. Calling on Nera was the least I could do.”

Amlaruil looked over the horse’s shoulders at him. “That was good of you, Seiveril.”

Seiveril brushed off his hands and said, “If you like, we can go inside. For some reason I feel uncomfortable entertaining the monarch of Evermeet while standing in my stable.”

“It has the virtue of being a place where we are unlikely to be listened to,” Amlaruil said. “I can think of a few people who might be tempted to scry on you. Or me, for that matter.”

“In that case, I suggest the garden.” Seiveril led Amlaruil through another door to a small bower between the stable and the manor itself. A simple stone bench overlooked a small, natural waterfall that trickled through the grounds. It was nothing compared to the expansive gardens ringing Amlaruil’s palace, but it was quiet and private. And just to ensure their privacy, Seiveril spoke a prayer to Corellon and wove a spell designed to obscure any efforts to spy on them.