Richard Baker: Farthest Reach

“The portal refused you?” Sarya asked.

“Yes, my lady. The Lathanderians possessed some key or password that we lacked. Since we cannot use the device, I ordered it sealed with stone.”

“Good,” Sarya replied. “I am not concerned with the escape of a handful of human priests. We are the masters of this city now. But I would not want spies to slip back through the portal and learn more about us.”

Her army of fey’ri had easily overwhelmed the small companies of human adventurers and hidden nests of cultists and necromancers formerly encamped within Myth Drannor. The temple to Lathander had been the last bastion of explorers and adventurers remaining within the walls. Of course, monsters of all descriptions still lurked within their lairs and catacombs. But Sarya had no real need to eliminate such guardians, and most of the fearsome beholders, nagas, liches, dragons, and other such denizens of the ruins recognized that Sarya’s legion of well-armed fey’ri was a foe beyond their ability to drive off. The fey’ri did not go out of their way to trouble such creatures in their lairs, and for their part, the intelligent ones did not emerge to challenge Sarya’s warriors.

“There are still the devils to contend with,” Mardeiym said. “If we leave them alone, I promise you they will turn on us.” Hundreds of the supernatural fiends were bound to the ruined city. Before the arrival of Sarya and her legion, they had formerly ruled as masters over Myth Drannor. “We outnumber the filthy hellspawn. Our fey’ri warriors can defeat them now, before they have the opportunity to betray us.”

Sarya regarded her chief captain with a cold glare. Mardeiym sensed danger and dropped his gaze to her feet. Under most circumstances, Sarya-a princess of the demon-ruled Abyss by birth-would have regarded any spawn of the Nine Hells as a hated enemy. Demons and devils had fought each other throughout eternity, the unbridled destruction of demonic evil battling for supremacy against cruel, infernal tyranny.

“Do not question my judgment,” she said. “I have uses for the devils of this city.”

“I apologize, Lady Sarya. I do not mean to question your decisions, but it is important that you know when the fey’ri are troubled.” Mardeiym waited on her, his head still bowed in respect.

“Troubled?” Sarya said.

She turned away, pacing along the battlements. Flexing her wings, she luxuriated in the sheer pleasure of freedom. She would have liked to lash out at Mardeiym, remind him of the fearsome power she commanded and reinforce the ancient pacts by which she ruled absolutely over the fey’ri Houses. But the war captain was loyal to her, and spoke nothing more or less than the truth. She would do well to avoid teaching her subjects that bringing her bad news always led to punishment.

“Very well, Lord Reithel. Summon the House lords to my audience chamber, and I will explain more.”

“As you command, my lady,” the war captain said.

He bowed again, and vaulted over the battlement and took wing. Sarya watched him glide away into the ruins, then descended from the battlements into the spacious royal chambers she had claimed in the castle.

She allowed Mardeiym half an hour to gather the leaders of the other fey’ri Houses, busying herself with renewing the powerful abjurations and contingency spells with which she normally guarded herself, and she went down into the grand hall of Castle Cormanthor. Centuries ago, the coronals of the elven kingdom of Cormanthyr had presided over revels and banquets in the grand hall. Its walls were still painted with magical murals of woodland scenes that slowly changed from season to season, and the great columns that lined the walls were carved in the shape of tall, strong trees so realistic that stone blossoms and fruit could be glimpsed in the branches.

The leaders of her fey’ri legion awaited her in the hall. Each of the dozen demon-elves was the leader of one of the fey’ri Houses. Some, like Reithel, were ancient Houses from Siluvanede that were strong and numerous, having been imprisoned in the Nameless Dungeon for fifty centuries. Others, like Aelorothi, were survivor Houses, families of daemonfey who had passed their demonic heritage down through twenty generations from the time of Sarya’s ancient realm to her revival only five years ago. The descendant houses were smaller and less numerous than ancient houses such as Reithel, but they were made up of fey’ri who had grown up in the world Sarya and her ancient legion had suddenly found themselves in. They were comfortable with the new world in a way that Sarya and the other ancient prisoners could never be.

Not for the first time, Sarya found herself wondering what had become of Nurthel Floshin. He was from one of the descendant Houses, and had served as an able spymaster and lieutenant. But he had not returned from the expedition she had dispatched to recover the Nightstar, and she could only assume that he was dead.

She turned her attention to the proud, cruel lords and ladies gathered before her. “Look around you,” she began. “This will be our home, the founding-stone on which we will build our new realm. Before I and my family came to Siluvanede, we dwelled here in Cormanthyr. It is only fitting that this is the place where we begin to rebuild.”

Sarya leaped down from the steps on which she stood, flaring her wings to alight in front of the fey’ri lords. She did not look forward to what must be said next.

“You all know that this is not what I planned when I broke open Nar Kerymhoarth three months ago,” she began. “I intended to erase the realms of the High Forest and Evereska from the map, and claim vengeance for the destruction of Siluvanede five thousand years ago.”

She paused, holding the eyes of her minions, and said, “That, however, was a mistake.

“Perhaps events might have fallen out differently if Evermeet had not responded with so much force, or if Nurthel Floshin had not failed to recover the Nightstar, or even if the fortunes of battle had favored us against Evermeet’s army. But these things did not happen. I underestimated our enemies’ strength and resolve, or overestimated our own strength, or did not plan to overcome ill fortune-it does not really matter. The consequence of my mistake was that we had to abandon our stronghold at Myth Glaurach and leave our work in Evereska and the High Forest undone.”

The daemonfey queen turned away from her fey’ri, deliberately putting her back to them as she paced. She hated the idea of introducing her own fallibility into her follower’s minds, but it had to be there already, didn’t it? Still, she did not want to let the fey’ri lords consider that last thought for long. She looked back over her shoulder at her captains and lords.

“It would be foolish of me to pretend that I am incapable of making mistakes,” she said. “What I intend to do now is to learn from our mistakes. Before we take the field again or challenge the usurpers who have stolen our lands and treasures, we must grow much stronger. We will hide here in Myth Drannor, protected by the ancient power of its mythal. Within these ruined walls our enemies cannot divine our existence or scry out our strength. We will grow strong in secret, until the time is right for us to return.”

“What of the baatezu?” Alysir Ursequarra asked. “When do we destroy them?”

“They are not our enemies,” Sarya said firmly. “You are to strike no blow against the devils in this city unless I tell you to.” The fey’ri lords shifted uneasily, some risking quick glances at their fellows. Sarya turned back to face her followers. “The devils that were summoned here decades ago were outcasts from the Nine Hells, mercenaries and marauders who have no loyalty to the rest of their kind.”