Richard Baker - Farthest Reach

At the crest of the earthwork, he paused to take in the scene. There was little fighting along the rampart. The elves had seized the camp’s fortifications. But a furious melee still raged among the tents and wagons of the Zhentish camp. The first gray gleam of the coming dawn lightened the sky to the east, and by its faint light Seiveril could see to the far side of the camp-where hundreds of Zhents were streaming north, abandoning their encampment. But waiting for them along the road to Voonlar was the Silver Guard of Elion, with Starbrow and Edraele Muirreste at its head, five hundred elven cavalry to ride down and harry the Zhents as they fled.

“Well done, Seiveril,” said Ferryl Nimersyl. “Even with the demon attack, your plan worked. We’ve got half their army trapped between us and the Silver Guard.”

Seiveril nodded. “Corellon has favored us again. Come, my friends, we have hard and ugly work to finish here.”

With a high battle cry he spurred his way down from the earthworks into the camp, followed by the knights of Evermeet.

Araevin and his comrades remained at Tower Deirr for several days, guests of Lord Tessaernil, Nesterin, and their folk. They were not prisoners-at least, they were not disarmed or confined-but Tessaernil was very clear that they were not to leave without his permission. Maresa prowled the tower continuously, more than half-convinced that they were prisoners who simply didn’t know it yet, but Araevin availed himself of the opportunity to study the elflord’s library of old tomes, and Ilsevele studied the star elves themselves.

They were an ancient people, the descendants of the old kingdom of Yuireshanyaar that had once stood in Aglarond’s forests thousands of years ago. In appearance they were very much like moon elves, though they tended toward fair hair instead of the dark brown or blue-black of most moon elves. But Araevin found their reserve and serious demeanor more reminiscent of many sun elves he knew. They had a love of song and music that was remarkable, even among elves, and when a truly skilled singer such as Nesterin raised his voice, the effect was so unearthly and beautiful that time itself seemed to fall still and listen.

As Nesterin had told them, the star elves had created Sildeyuir as a refuge, a place to which they could Retreat from the cruel and ambitious human empires that had arisen in the ancient east. More than a thousand years before the raising of the Standing Stone in the Dales, the human kingdoms of Narfell and Raumauthar, as well as Unther and Mulhorand, had fought furiously for dominion in the region. In western Faerun many elves had retreated to Evermeet to avoid such ambitious human empires, but the star elves had decided to simply remove their entire realm rather than abandon it to flee elsewhere. All of Sildeyuir was a great work of high magic, an echo of the Yuirwood itself spun into starshine and dusk through mighty spells of old.

Since the creation of Sildeyuir, the star elves had slowly slipped farther and farther from Faerun, leaving the daylight world to its own devices. Many still traveled through the old elfgates and roamed Aglarond or the Inner Sea, but they passed themselves off as moon elves, and did not speak of their homeland to strangers. Few elves remained in the forests of the east outside of Aglarond itself, and those who lived within the Yuirwood kept their silence regarding the star elves’ secret.

Araevin spoke with Tessaernil at length, and discovered that after leaving Arcorar almost five thousand years ago, the wizard Morthil had returned to Yuireshanyaar and subsequently become that realm’s grand mage. He had played a leading role in the affairs of the kingdom for several centuries. The former apprentice of Ithraides had gone on to become an even greater mage than his master in time, founding a society of wizards known as the Seneirril Tathyrr, or the Mooncrescent Order. The order survived all the long centuries from the time of Arcorar down to Sildeyuir’s creation, three thousand years after the time of Ithraides and two thousand years before the present day.

“Even among elves, that is a very great span of time,” Araevin said to Tessaernil and Nesterin as they sat together in the library. “How is it that Morthil has been remembered for so long?”

“His tomb lies in the rotunda of Mooncrescent Tower,” Tessaernil said. “He was revered as the founder of the order. I saw it when I studied there in my youth.”

Araevin’s heart leaped in his chest. He set his hand to his breastbone, and felt the Nightstar murmur under his touch. Morthil’s works had survived to within a single elf lifetime of the present day. Was it too much to hope that a telkiira stone or a spell passed down from master to apprentice over the years might still endure, too?

“Does any of Morthil’s handiwork still survive? Lore-gems, spells he created, spellbooks he scribed?”

“When I was young, there were stories told in the Seneirril Tathyrr that the secret libraries and vaults of the tower might hold such things. But that was a long time ago-about three hundred years after the making of Sildeyuir and the translation of our kingdom into this plane.”

Araevin stared at Tessaernil. “You told me before that Yuireshanyaar had been removed to Sildeyuir two thousand years ago. You have lived that long?”

“Time flows differently in Sildeyuir, Araevin. One year passes here for every two in the world outside.” Tessaernil offered a small smile. “I was born over eighteen hundred years ago, but I am in truth not more than nine hundred years old.”

“You may not find that remarkable, but few of my folk reach nine centuries, even in Evermeet,” Araevin said. “Queen Amlaruil might be that old, but she enjoys the blessing of the Seldarine themselves.”

“It is noteworthy among my people as well,” Nesterin observed. He offered a crooked smile. “I introduced Lord Tessaernil to you as my uncle. It would have been more accurate to add a few ‘greats’ before that.”

“You said before that you thought Morthil’s tower lies in the farthest reach of your realm-you were referring to Mooncrescent Tower?”

“Yes,” Tessaernil replied.

“So I need only speak to the masters of the tower, then,” Araevin said. “They will be able to help me with Morthil’s ancient lore.”

“That is the problem,” Nesterin said. “The order failed some time ago, and Mooncrescent Tower has been abandoned for centuries. It lies at the very border of our realm. Given what I recently discovered when I visited House Aerilpe, I fear that the place may no longer be accessible.”

“As soon as you give me leave to, I certainly intend to try it, regardless of the tower’s present circumstances,” Araevin answered. “I have no small experience in dealing with ancient ruins and warding magic.”

The older elflord nodded. “I cannot understate the peril you may face, Araevin, but I did not expect that you would depart without trying.” He glanced to Nesterin and continued, “I have spoken with some of the other House lords of our land, taking counsel about you and your companions. I have decided to allow you to attempt Mooncrescent Tower. Nesterin here has agreed to guide you, at least as far as any road will serve.”

“I thank you, Lord Tessaernil,” Araevin said. He stood and offered a deep bow to the ancient elflord.

“You might not later, if things prove as dangerous as I fear they may,” Tessaernil said. He stood as well, and gravely returned Araevin’s bow. “You may set out when you like, Araevin. I wish you good fortune and a safe journey.”

For two days, Scyllua Darkhope fought with every inch of her zeal and determination to extricate something from the disaster on the borders of Shadowdale. By all rights, the Zhentarim army should have disintegrated completely in the retreat back to Voonlar, harried as it was by the slashing attacks of pursuing elf riders. But Scyllua personally commanded the rearguard action, turning at bay and standing her ground whenever the elves pressed too close, then wheeling away to gallop another mile or two down the road as soon as the elves had been repulsed again.