“Is this truly necessary?” she asked.
“No one goes into this tower without a Red Plume escort,” the guard sergeant replied. “The first lord has made that absolutely clear. It is a standing order.”
She came to a tall, paneled door, and opened it for Sarya. Inside was a large parlor or sitting room, with several empty bookshelves along the periphery, and a number of old portraits hanging from the walls-mostly of elves, it appeared, though with the crude human artistry it was hard to be sure.
“Wait here,” the sergeant said, and withdrew to the hallway, closing the door behind Sarya.
Sarya composed herself for a long wait, and she was not disappointed. It was well over an hour before she heard measured footfalls in the hall outside, and the rough clatter of the guards coming to attention. She turned to face the door as Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, strode into the room.
He was a human of middle years, tall but thin, with a heavily lined face and a scalp shaved down to gray stubble. He wore a long goatee of iron gray, and dressed in a high-collared tunic of gleaming black, chased with dragon designs. In one hand he carried a short staff or long scepter of dark metal, with its head in the shape of a draconic claw. Four more guards followed him into the room, pale and silent warriors who seemed human at a glance, but positively reeked of planar magic to Sarya’s keen sense for such things.
“Well, you must be Lady Senda,” Maalthiir rasped, his voice completely humorless. “I’ve never heard of any Dereths around here. Who are you, and what do you want with me?”
“Who I am does not much matter,” Sarya said. “And I want nothing more than to give you a warning, First Lord.”
Maalthiir’s scowl deepened. “I react poorly to mysteries and threats. Choose your next words carefully.”
“You have a new enemy on your doorstep, Maalthiir.”
The first lord snorted and crossed his arms, tucking his scepter under his arm. “Oh, do I? And I suppose you have come to tell me all about my new adversary. Very well, then-who is this dreadful new foe?”
“Evermeet, my lord,” Sarya said.
Whatever the first lord might have been expecting her to say, that was not it. Maalthiir glared at her for a long moment, measuring her.
“What in the world does Evermeet want with me?” he demanded.
“An army from Evermeet is returning to Cormanthor. They mean to recapture Myth Drannor and restore the kingdom of Cormanthyr. I wonder what they will think of a neighbor who purged his city of elves years ago, having them slaughtered in bloody games?”
Sarya’s eyes glittered like green ice as she delivered the barb. She had not yet managed to insinuate many fey’ri spies into the lands around Myth Drannor, but it had not taken her long to learn that Maalthiir had come to the throne of Hillsfar many years ago by deposing a council dominated by elves.
A momentary uncertainty glinted in the human lord’s face before he bared his teeth in a fierce grin.
“Cormanthyr is dead,” he stated. “The elves have Retreated. It took them five hundred years to reach that decision, Lady Senda. They will never overturn it in only fifty years.”
“Do not take me at my word, Maalthiir. Investigate for yourself. You are reputed to be a mage of no small talent. Scry the woods of Semberholme and see what you find there. Or send for your spymasters and ask them what passes in the western Dales of late. You will find an army of elves better than five thousand strong-sun elves, moon elves, bladesingers and champions, mages and clerics, making ready to march north,” said Sarya. “It is a formidable array.”
“Assuming for the moment that you are telling me the truth-who are you, and why tell me?”
Sarya glided forward a step, and glanced at the expressionless guards with their black eyes.
“Do you wish me to speak freely here?”
The first lord did not even look at the black-clad swordsmen.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Do not mind my guards. They will not repeat anything they hear, and they are completely incorruptible. I see no one alone, Lady Senda. Ever.”
“As you wish, then.” Sarya glanced at the impassive guards again, wondering exactly what they were, then dismissed them as unimportant. “Who I am is not important. As far as why I am carrying tales to you of an elven army in Cormanthyr, it is simply a matter of self-interest. The elves are my enemies. Since it seems that I must deal with them, I naturally thought it wise to consider who else might regard an elven Return to Cormanthyr as less than desirable.”
“Now it becomes clear,” Maalthiir snorted. “You picked a fight with the elves, and now that they have come for you, you hope to hide behind Hillsfar’s army.”
“Do you really wish to see a Coronal in Myth Drannor, Maalthiir? A power in the forest to shield the weaker Dales against you, to bar you from the timber and resources of the woodland at your very doorstep, and perhaps to restore elves to the rule of this city?”
“You will have to do better than that, if you hope to frighten me,” the first lord said.
“I do not expect to frighten you. I expect you to examine the situation for yourself and act in your own interests as you perceive them.” Sarya turned her back on him and paced away, pretending to admire the portraits on the walls. “You have designs on the northern Dales, do you not?”
“It is none of your business if I do,” Maalthiir snapped.
“And your ally Sembia has interests in the southern Dales,” Sarya glanced back at the mage-lord. “An elven army in Myth Drannor would make both of those goals immeasurably more difficult. I submit to you, First Lord, that you would be well advised to think of how you could encourage the elves to Retreat once again, and leave you to the business of ordering this region as you see fit.”
“I tire of this verbal fencing, my lady,” Maalthiir said. “You still have not explained who you are and why you are in my tower. I will have answers, real answers, now.”
Sarya inclined her head. “Not until you verify that I have told you the truth so far, First Lord. See for yourself the army of Evermeet, marching to your doorstep. I will return in a few days to resume this conversation when you have had an opportunity to confirm the truthfulness of my words.”
“I have not given you leave to go,” Maalthiir said. He made no motion or sound, but the pale swordsmen beside him set hands to sword hilts in unison and fixed their dead gazes on Sarya. “You will answer my questions one way or another, Lady Senda.”
“Another day,” Sarya said, and she teleported away from Maalthiir’s parlor, vanishing in the blink of an eye.
The last she saw of the first lord, his face was set in a scowl of displeasure-but not surprise.
On the morning following Seiveril’s Council of War, Araevin, Ilsevele, and Maresa gathered their belongings, armed themselves with swords and spells, shouldered their packs, and drew their traveling cloaks over their clothes. Then, as Filsaelene stood by to see them off, Araevin incanted his teleport spell and grasped the hands of the two women. The ruins of Myth Glaurach faded away into a golden, sparkling haze, only to be replaced a moment later by the cool green shadows of the old hillside shrine overlooking Silverymoon-the same hillside where he had met Ilsevele before. Silverymoon’s graceful Moonbridge glimmered in the sun below them.
Maresa glanced down and patted at her torso and arms, as if to make certain that all of her was present.
“I’ve always thought that was an extremely useful spell,” she observed. “Why bother to walk anywhere once you know it?”
“In the first place, it’s somewhat inappropriate to use magic of that sort on a whim,” Araevin replied. “More than a few wizards have managed to forget that their feet must serve when their magic won’t do. Secondly, the spell is not particularly easy. I have a difficult time holding more than one or two teleport spells in my mind at a time without giving up other spells that are equally useful. Finally, it’s wise to never use the last teleport spell you have in your repertoire unless you are in dire peril. You never know when you might earnestly wish to be somewhere else.”