Richard Baker - Farthest Reach

When he was done, he turned to Amlaruil and asked, “What brings you to my house, my lady?”

“I wanted to know what you thought of Selsharra Durothil’s suggestion. Are you willing to resume a Council seat and hold an office such as she describes?” Amlaruil sat down on the bench and arranged her silver-hued gown.

“The East Marshal?” Seiveril frowned, thinking carefully. “Are you asking me to accept this duty?”

Amlaruil smiled. “Answer my question first, and I’ll answer yours.”

“Well… no, I do not think I want to hold such a title.”

“Is it because Selsharra suggested it, or do you have some other objection?”

“I am certainly suspicious of Selsharra’s motives,” Seiveril admitted. “After all, she reversed her position with the skill of a pirouetting dancer, didn’t she? But even assuming that she was completely honest and forthcoming, I still am not sure that what she suggests will work.”

The queen tilted her head. “Go on.”

“If I swore myself to your service again, and accepted a titled office that made me a high captain of your army, I would naturally be subject to your commands. I would arrange my forces as you asked, I would march when you ordered me to march, and I would not march against an enemy unless I asked you first.” Seiveril shrugged. “That also means answering to the council for everything I do or don’t do.”

“The council does not have the authority to tell me what to do,” Amlaruil said. “It is true that I think twice before I disregard their suggestions, but the responsibility for Evermeet’s governance and safety are mine, not theirs. I will not allow the Durothils and Veldanns of the council to question my decisions beyond a reasonable point.”

“I am not certain that is as true as you would like it to be,” Seiveril said. Amlaruil’s eyes flashed, and he quickly hurried on. “You will not be on the throne forever, Amlaruil, and I will not be your general in Faerun for long. An arrangement we make now, because it suits both our talents and our interests, may not survive our successors.”

“Even I do not know when that day will come, Seiveril. We can hardly allow ourselves to refrain from making good and sound judgments now because we think those who follow us may overturn them.”

“Nevertheless. The next monarch to sit on Evermeet’s throne may not possess the mandate of the Seldarine, as Zaor did and you do. Even if a Moonflower heir succeeds you, the succession may entail compromises, limits on the monarch’s power. In that scenario, your heir may not be able to refuse a council demand to recall any standing army you leave in Faerun.” Seiveril looked down at his feet. “I do not want to see my work in Faerun reversed, because Evermeet’s monarch or council-or the next holder of my prospective title, for that matter-change their minds about engaging Faerun in a decade or two.”

“Seiveril, I have no intention of departing for Arvandor any time soon.”

“That’s not always left to our choosing, is it?” he countered.

“You truly believe that you will have an easier time maintaining a presence in Faerun through your voluntary call to arms, when the council and the crown are willing to consider formalizing what you have done?” Amlaruil shook her head in disbelief. “Seiveril, I have been won over by the persuasiveness of your arguments so far, but I simply don’t see how this can be true.”

“I know,” Seiveril said, “but I have given it a great deal of thought over the last few days.”

The queen rose, and regarded him for a long moment. “The council meets again in a little less than a tenday, my friend. I am inclined to lend my support to Selsharra’s suggestion. It would place you in an awkward position if the council appointed a different lord to go to Faerun and assume command of those in your army who would prefer to serve under the Crown.”

“I will have an answer for you and the council,” Seiveril said.

Amlaruil nodded. She took his hand, and smiled. “Then I suppose I will go. Thank you for hearing me out.”

“You are welcome in my stable any time you care to visit it, Your Majesty,” Seiveril replied.

Amlaruil laughed, and turned to go. Her gown glittered like starlight in the gathering dusk. But at the moonstone archway marking the garden’s entrance, she paused and looked back at him.

“One other matter I meant to mention,” she said. “I have heard that one of your captains wields Keryvian, the last of Demron’s baneblades. I knew the sword was in your possession, but I thought that it had answered to no hand since the fall of Myth Drannor.”

“Yes. I gave Keryvian into the keeping of my captain, Starbrow.”

“I do not know him,” Amlaruil said with a frown. Seiveril could understand her confusion. Any champion with skill and experience enough to merit such trust would have been known to her in Evermeet. “You must hold him in high regard indeed.”

“He is not who he seems to be.”

Amlaruil studied him for a moment, and her eyes widened.

“It can’t be Fflar,” she whispered. “Not after so many years.”

“Please, do not speak of this,” Seiveril asked. “He prefers to remain just Starbrow for now.”

“Seiveril, you can’t simply resurrect dead heroes when you need them! And he died so long ago.”

Seiveril glanced up at the darkening skies. “It wasn’t entirely my own idea.”

Amlaruil measured him, her expression stern. “You spoke of my mandate earlier. I sincerely hope you have the mandate you think you do. If you are wrong about what you’re doing, the consequences would be disastrous.”

She swept away into the dusk, leaving Seiveril alone in his garden.

The cleric sat down on the bench again, and watched the first dim stars emerging overhead.

“I hope I do, too,” he murmured.

Five days of hard travel brought Araevin, Ilsevele, Maresa, and Filsaelene from Silverymoon to the ruins of Myth Glaurach. Spring rains drenched them for several days, until Araevin began to wonder whether it would be better to seek some form of magical travel to speed their journey. But he disliked teleporting unless he felt that he absolutely had to do so-sometimes teleportation magic went awry, after all.

Fortunately, they found villages and inns for much of their journey-first along the road from Silverymoon to Everlund, then at Lhuvenhead and Jalanthar. From Jalanthar, at the east end of the Rauvin vale, they struck out south and east through Turnstone Pass, and arrived at the ruins of Myth Glaurach an hour after sunset. As before, the ancient city was ringed with the lanterns and modest campfires of the elven army, a cheerful sight after days of riding.

Araevin and his companions left their horses at a large camp corral where the cavalry companies of the Crusade housed their steeds, and climbed up Myth Glaurach’s winding old footpaths, which circled steadily as they ascended the forest-covered hilltop on which the city stood. Small encampments of elf warriors and patrols of vigilant guards filled the old city, calling out friendly greetings as they passed by. With a few questions Araevin and his companions learned that Starbrow and Vesilde Gaerth were currently in charge of the army, since Seiveril Miritar was away on Evermeet, and that the commanders were headquartered in the city’s old library.

They found Starbrow and Gaerth poring over supply and equipment records, wrestling with the question of how to feed and arm not only the warriors of the army-elf warriors in a forest could get along for quite some time with few stores, and most had brought their own weapons and armor-but also the thousands of horses and the more exotic creatures that accompanied the army.

The two commanders made an odd pair. Starbrow was nearly six and a half feet tall and about as burly as a moon elf ever got, while the sun elf Vesilde Gaerth was a full foot shorter and slight of build. Starbrow looked up as they entered, and grinned.