“It is quite far-two thousand miles, perhaps more,” said Calwern.
Ilsevele’s eyes widened. “That is two months’ journey, at the least!”
“It is not as bad as it sounds,” Araevin said. “A long part of that would be over water. We can hire a ship in one of the Dragon Coast ports and cross the Sea of Fallen Stars in a tenday or so. So, the question is how to reach the Sea of Fallen Stars quickly and easily.” Araevin leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “The portals we found under Myth Glaurach might serve. One led to the Chondalwood, another one to the forests of the east-”
“What of the portal to Semberholme?” Ilsevele interrupted him, tracing a path on Araevin’s map. “That would bring us within a few days’ ride of the ports in Sembia or Cormyr, wouldn’t it?”
Araevin allowed himself a small grimace. He was supposed to be the veteran traveler and the expert on portals, but Ilsevele had found the answer before he’d even started to consider the question.
“I think you’re right,” he said. “The other portals might get us closer to our goal at the first step, but then we would have to find our way to a port on strange shores. Riding from Semberholme to Suzail or Marsember seems much easier than finding our way out of the Chondalwood.”
Ilsevele patted his shoulder. He could feel her smirking behind his back.
“What are Cormyr and Sembia like?” she asked. “And how likely is it that we will find a ship bound for Aglarond in their ports?”
Araevin shrugged. “I haven’t been to that part of Faerun before, but I know they’re both regarded as civilized lands. Sembia is a land where gold is king, a league of cities governed by merchant princes. They’re suspicious of elves, I hear, but as long as we have coin to spend, we should have no trouble there. Cormyr is a smaller realm, but well spoken of by many travelers I’ve encountered. As far as passage to Aglarond, well, I suppose we will learn more when we reach the Sea of Fallen Stars. If nothing else, it seems likely that we could take passage to Westgate or Procampur, and go from there to Aglarond.”
“The quicker, the better,” Ilsevele said. “I have a feeling my father will need us in Cormanthor before too long. I do not want to tarry an hour longer than we need to.”
Maresa shut the ponderous tome in front of her and smiled crookedly. “I’ve never been to Aglarond,” she said. “I wonder if their wine’s any good.”
They returned to their rooms at the inn, making ready to depart on the following day. Araevin left the details in Ilsevele’s hands. He had something to do, and the time had come to do it whether he wanted to or not. At sunset he left the city’s gates and retraced his steps to the shrine of Labelas Enoreth, seeking quiet and solitude. The night was cool and breezy. Spring in the North faded fast once the sun set, and the woods around the old temple sighed and rustled in the wind.
Araevin seated himself cross-legged, looking out over the lights of the city below. Then, drawing a deep breath, he began to chant the words of a powerful vision spell. Before he set off for a kingdom as distant and exotic as Aglarond, he wanted to know that he could find what he sought there.
He focused on the tale of Ithraides and his allies, conjuring the images he’d seen preserved in the ancient telkiira stones: Ithraides, the ancient moon elf, with his younger apprentices around him. Morthil, he thought. Star elves. Yuireshanyaar. The telmiirkara neshyrr, the Rite of Transformation.
“I wish to know!” he called to the wind.
The vision seized him at once, powerful and immediate. Araevin felt himself flung out of his body, his perception hurtling eastward across land, sea, and mountains. He glimpsed a palace of green stone, a great woodland, a circle of old menhirs in a sun-dappled clearing in the forest. Then his vision lurched and leaped. He reeled, dizzy, setting a hand on the cold flagstones to steady himself.
When he looked up again, he saw that he stood in a great, lightless hall. Wrecked balustrades of stone lined the walls, the remnants of high, proud galleries that once encircled the place. In the center of the hall a drifting spiral of white magic hovered in the air, turning slowly. Araevin gazed at the odd apparition, trying to make out what exactly it was-and his vision leaped again, diving into the white spiral.
He stood in a strange room of gray mist and shining light, gazing at a great old tome of golden letters, lying open on a stand.
“Ithraides’s spellbook,” he gasped.
All at once the vision whirled away from him, and Araevin was left cold and hollow on the windswept terrace above Silverymoon.
He climbed shaking to his feet, only to give up and sink back down to the ground. The spell was neither easy nor forgiving, and he would not be himself for quite some time. But the vision was usually truthful.
A silver door of mist in a black hall, he wondered. Ithraides’s lore has not been lost.
With a sigh, he climbed again to his feet, and started back toward the city and his companions below.
CHAPTER NINE
28 Mirtul, the Year of Lightning Storms
They spent their last night at the Golden Oak much as they had the last time they left Silverymoon, enjoying a good meal, drink, and dancing beneath the lanternlit boughs of the great old tree. Then, in the morning, the three travelers returned to the Vault of Sages to pick up the copies Araevin had commissioned from Brother Calwern before leaving the city again. It was another warm spring morning, and flower beds all over the city were in bloom around them.
They climbed the steps to the Vault’s entrance, and found Brother Calwern waiting for them with a new leather scroll case, secured for travel.
“The Untheric map you requested is ready,” the aged Deneirrath told Araevin. “I wish you luck in your travels, Master Teshurr. Come back when you can and tell us about them.”
“Thank you,” Araevin replied, accepting the map in its leather case. “Until we meet again, Brother Calwern.”
He bowed and turned to go, but then someone called his name from nearby. The voice was human, though raspy and somewhat deep. Araevin turned and found himself looking on a man who sat by one of the desks. The fellow stood slowly, pushing himself to his feet with a jangle of mail beneath his surcoat.
“I am Dawnmaster Donnor Kerth, of the Order of the Aster,” he said. “I have been waiting for you.”
The same order that Grayth served in, Araevin recalled. He inclined his head to the fellow.
“Well met, Dawnmaster,” he replied, studying the Lathanderian. He was young-a grown man, certainly, but no more than his mid-twenties, if Araevin was any judge of it-and he had a hard manner to him. His eyes were bright blue and intense, and his hair was hacked so short that it was little more than dark stubble covering his dusky scalp. He wore the rising sun symbol of Lathander on his breast, and a big-hilted broadsword hung at his hip. “What can I do for you?”
“You were the companion of Mornmaster Grayth Holmfast?” the human asked.
“Yes, I was,” Araevin said. He frowned, taking the young man’s measure. “We traveled together in the Company of the White Star some years ago, and again this very spring.”
“Grayth Holmfast was my mentor in the Order. I understand you were with him when he was killed.” His fierce manner grew even harder as his eyes narrowed, and a scowl crept across his features. “He was like a father to me, Master Teshurr. Tell me what happened to him.”
Araevin searched Donnor Kerth’s eyes. “Grayth was a true friend to me as well, Dawnmaster. I will do as you ask.” He reached out and set a hand on the big human’s shoulder. “But, I have to warn you-it will be hard to hear. He fought valiantly at my side through many perils, but in the end he was murdered in cold blood by the daemonfey.”
“I mean to hear your tale, Araevin Teshurr, whether it is good or ill.”