Richard Baker - Forsaken House

"Would it be better to remain on the road?" Ilsevele asked.

"I don't know. The road has its perils, too-brigands and marauding monsters from the High Moor, thieves and cutthroats in the roadside inns. On the other hand time might be important."

They rode on for the rest of the day, and by nightfall the company had reached the outskirts of the Ardeep Forest. The sea wind kept its strength all day and into the evening, though with sunset a low, scudding cloud cover set in, making for a lightless and gloomy night. The House of Long Silences was still almost ten miles farther on, so they decided to camp for the night in the shelter of a ruined hunting lodge, a moss-covered building made of rough-hewn logs and fieldstone. It was open to the sky, but with a little work they hoisted some of the fallen timbers back into place and spread evergreen boughs over the gaps. After stabling the horses in the other half of the old lodge and fixing supper over the campfire, they drew for watches and retired.

Araevin stretched himself out on his bedroll beneath a blanket, gazing up through the gaps in the makeshift roof at the gray clouds overhead. Though elves didn't sleep, they still needed a comfortable place to sit or lie down while they drifted off into the dreamlike Reverie. Anything a human could sleep in or on was more than adequate. Ilsevele lay by his side, her hand in his, her breathing slow and deep. He wondered what she thought of human-crowded Faerun so far, and that reminded him of his first impressions when he traveled the continent. He wandered drowsily into the memories of his old journeys, and an hour or more passed as he gazed absently up at the clouds.

An electric jolt returned him to full wakefulness. Araevin sat upright with a gasp, his heart thundering. One of his alarm spells, a ward against scrying and magical spying, had been triggered. He scrambled to his feet and whirled around to see a strange, semitangible puckering in the air, the manifestation of some sort of divination magic. Within the distorted knuckle of air he glimpsed a sharply handsome face surmounted by two small black horns, one eye concealed beneath a rune-marked eye patch.

The daemonfey, he realized. They are spying on us!

"Araevin! What is it?" cried Ilsevele, startled by his sudden movement.

She seized her bow and groped for an arrow, rising to her knees as she searched wildly for a target.

Araevin ignored her and quickly worked a dispelling enchantment, wiping out the spell the other sorcerer was using. He sensed a growl of frustration, a snarl of pure hate, and the connection was severed. The mage closed his eyes and carefully enunciated the words of an amplifying spell, then stretched out his wizard's senses to encompass the whole camp. He could feel a distant presence, a tenuous thread linking their campsite with a far-off place many miles to the north and west.

"We have been spied on," Araevin said finally. "A scrying spell. I negated it."

Ilsevele paled and asked, "Who was it? Do they know where we are?"

"It was that daemonfey we saw at Reilloch," Araevin replied. "The one with the eye patch. Most likely all he knows is that we are in Faerun, camping in a forest. He did not watch us long enough to perceive more. But I wonder if he has spied on us before without our noticing him."

The rest of the company sat up in their bedrolls, looking at Araevin. Even Grayth, who had the watch, got up from the fireside and circled closer.

"Someone scried us?" the cleric asked.

"Yes," said Araevin. "I defeated this attempt, at least. I must remember to renew my defenses regularly from now on, to detect and block any such additional attempts in the future. They saw enough to recognize me, and perhaps Ilsevele too.

"Someone knows we're here."

Five days had passed since Hill Elder Imesfor of Evereska had presented his city's plea to the High Council of Evermeet-five days of bitterly divisive debate, argument, and strife that left Seiveril Miritar as cold and empty as last month's ashes at the end of each day. Imesfor had returned to Evereska already, of course. Given the approach of an enemy army, the Hill Elder could not linger in Evermeet to plead his case in person. Seiveril therefore took up the Evereskan's cause as his own. He used every argument, every wile he could think of to shake the intransigence of Durothil, Veldann, and the other conservatives in the council, but to no avail. The council could not resolve to send Evermeet's army into danger again, not so soon after the costly campaign against the phaerimm and Kymil Nimesin's invasion.

As the sun fell on the eighth day of Ches, Seiveril returned to his comfortable townhouse, a small palace of white stone in the hills overlooking Leuthilspar's harbor. Even though their ancestral lands lay along Evermeet's northern coasts, like many other noble families, the Miri-tars had maintained a residence in the capital for some centuries. The high priest donned his clerical robes and went straight to a small grove close by his palace to perform the daily rites and invocations welcoming starrise, the time holy to Corellon Larethian. He was so exhausted and sick with frustration that he stumbled over the familiar words.

With a sigh, Seiveril halted in his devotions. He was alone in the grove. Any elves who wished the clerics of Corellon to seek some special blessing or intercede on their behalf with the other deities of the Seldarine usually sought out the Uilaevelen, the Moongrove, Leuthilspar's living temple to the elf gods. Feeling as weary as an aged human, Seiveril stared up into the sky, where a few faint and distant stars were beginning to appear in the gaps between the clouds.

"Lord of the Seldarine, give me patience and strength," he prayed. "Help me to find the way to guide your People onto the right path. I cannot do it myself."

He watched the sky darken for some time, his mind calm and empty. Then, as he turned away, he caught sight of a white owl winging silently through the treetops. Seiveril scented magic in the air. The beautiful creature hooted softly and wheeled over his head before descending to the ground. Then the owl shimmered into a fountain of silver light, growing and changing. In a moment Queen Amlaruil stood before him, dressed in a silvery gown with a cloak of soft white feathers draped over her shoulders.

"Good evening, Lord Miritar," she said. "I hope you will forgive this unusual intrusion, but I wished to have a word with you without the rest of the council at hand."

Seiveril bowed and replied, "You startled me, my lady. I sometimes forget that you were a grand mage before you were queen. What can I do for you?"

"You can listen, and perhaps understand. I have come to tell you that I have composed my reply to Evereska's request for assistance."

"You have decided not to help them," the lord said. "You wanted to tell me first."

The queen nodded and said, "I will send what help I can,

Seiveril. Without showing my hand I can send a number of mages, spellarchers, spellsingers, and bladesingers to Evereska. Some of them can journey on from there to fight in the High Forest. But I cannot send any high mages, and I cannot send more than a few dozen carefully chosen warriors. And of course, I will offer safe haven here in Evermeet to any elf who seeks it."

"It is not enough. Even if Evereska has the strength to fend off this newest assault, we cannot take the chance that the city will be weakened any further."

"And I will not be permitted to take the chance that Evermeet might be rendered vulnerable by sending more of our strength to the mainland," said Amlaruil. She folded her arms beneath the white cape. "You have seen that the council cannot reach consensus on any response that requires us to send our warriors to Faerun. While we waste time in debate, the danger to our kinfolk grows each day. I will do what I can now."