Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and Maresa, then nodded. “Give me a moment to finish my business here, and we will go somewhere to talk. Dawnmaster, this is my betrothed, Ilsevele Miritar, and our companion Maresa Rost, who has also shared many dangers with us. We all rode with Grayth.”
Ilsevele offered her hand in the human way, and Kerth surprisingly did not seek to crush it in his mailed grasp. He drew off his gauntlet to touch her fingers, and bent down to kiss her hand.
“My lady Miritar,” he murmured. Then he turned to Maresa, who made a show of daintily extending her hand for the same treatment. “Lady Rost.”
“Dawnmaster Kerth,” Maresa intoned gravely. The genasi regarded the serious Lathanderian with a solemn face, but Araevin caught a glimmer of humor in her eyes. Maresa was not used to such displays of courtesy, it seemed.
“Let us go outside,” he suggested.
The human assented with a nod, and Araevin led him outside to the green boulevard that ran past the Vault. Many of Silverymoon’s streets would have passed for parks in other cities. They found a row of cherry trees in full bloom, and sat on a pair of stone benches beneath the soft pink blossoms. Araevin related to Donnor Kerth the story of his return to Faerun and quest for the missing telkiira. From time to time, Ilsevele or Maresa interrupted with details of Grayth’s valor and their adventures together.
Araevin went on to tell of their continued quest in search of the last telkiira, the battle against Grimlight the behir, and the daemonfey treachery that snared them all in Sarya Dlardrageth’s clutches. Then he came to the end of Grayth’s tale in the demon-haunted halls beneath Myth Glaurach.
“The daemonfey demanded that I lead them to the last of the treasures they sought, and so they threatened Grayth’s life if I did not comply.” He paused, struggling with the words, as the grief of the moment welled up again in his chest. “I hesitated, because I did not want to put such a weapon in Sarya’s hands. She ordered Grayth killed, and one of her fey’ri cut his throat. My resistance failed, and she caught me in a spell of dominion, commanding me to do as she asked.”
Kerth’s fierce eyes softened for a moment. “You did what you could, Araevin Teshurr. Your lives were forfeit from the moment such monsters captured you. As far as you knew, they would kill you anyway.”
“I know. But if I had yielded sooner, they might have saved Grayth for later use against me, as they did Ilsevele and Maresa. In which case, I might have been able to rescue him as well.”
“How did you escape the domination spell and free your comrades?”
Araevin frowned, and rubbed unconsciously at the Nightstar embedded beneath his shirt. Some things should not be lightly shared.
“Sarya’s captain commanded me to attempt something that risked grave harm. That gave me the strength to break the spell. After that, I returned to Myth Glaurach, which had been mostly emptied, as the daemonfey were busy with their war against Evereska and the High Forest. I found Ilsevele and Maresa, and teleported away.”
“He also managed to sabotage Sarya’s control of the city’s mythal, and banish a few hundred demons while he was at it,” Maresa added. “Don’t let Araevin convince you that he isn’t at least a little bit heroic.”
The human glanced at Araevin again, and leaned back to digest the tale, hands locked in front of his chest. After a long moment he sighed and looked up.
“Does Grayth’s murderer still live?” he asked.
“No. I killed the one who wielded the knife,” Araevin said.
“But as far as we know, Sarya Dlardrageth still lives,” Ilsevele added. “She is the one who ordered Grayth’s death. We think she is hiding in the ruins of Myth Drannor.”
“Then, if you will permit me, I offer you my service in Grayth Holmfast’s stead.” The Dawnmaster bowed deeply, his arms spread wide. “These daemonfey, whoever they are, have made an enemy of the Order of the Aster, and I intend to see Lord Holmfast’s work through to its end.”
Araevin frowned, not sure what to make of the offer. He exchanged looks with Ilsevele and Maresa. The genasi shrugged, but Ilsevele studied the human closely, her green eyes narrowed in thought.
“Evermeet’s army is marching against the Dlardrageths in Myth Drannor,” Araevin finally said. “However, our path does not lead there yet. We are about to set out in search of some ancient lore that we need to defeat the mythal defenses Sarya is erecting around Myth Drannor. It is my intent to travel swiftly and return to the fight against the daemonfey as quickly as I can, but I can’t say where my quest will lead me, or how long it will take.”
“A long and difficult march may prove more important than a single glorious charge in deciding a war,” the human knight said. “Honor is served equally by both. Until such a time as you know that you will have no need of my sword, I would like to aid you in whatever way I can. If Grayth would have followed you, I will follow you.”
Araevin considered his reply. As far as he knew, he might be wandering in and out of libraries for months in search of the spells he needed. But Ilsevele answered for him. As a captain in the Queen’s Guard, she understood a warrior’s honor better than he did.
“For the sake of Grayth Holmfast’s memory, we will accept your service,” she told the human. “The only conditions I place on you, Dawnmaster, are these-if Araevin or I tell you that something you see or do is not to be spoken of to those who aren’t elves, you will not do so, and you will not abandon us in danger. Other than that you are free to judge for yourself when honor has been served.”
The human crossed his right arm over his heart. “I so swear,” he said.
“Good,” said Araevin. He stood and faced the Lathanderian. “If you have a bedroll and a pack, go get them and meet us by the river gate. We need to get a mile or so beyond the city walls, and I will teleport us all to Myth Glaurach.”
Curnil Thordrim stood his ground, and prepared to meet his death shoulder-to-shoulder with five more Riders of Mistledale. He and his fellows crouched in the common room of a farmhouse, staring out through the open door and the half-shuttered windows. Skulking closer through the forest verge came shapes out of a nightmare-snarling, hissing devils with snakelike tails, wide mouths full of foul, jagged teeth, and huge saw-toothed glaives of rust-red metal. Fearsome yellow light glimmered in the fiends’ eyes, and they cackled and snarled horribly in their terrible voices.
“Why don’t they just get on with it?” muttered Rethold.
The tall archer stood beside Curnil, a silver-tipped arrow held on his bowstring. He had only three arrows left, and he was waiting until he was sure of a shot. For the better part of a tenday, the Riders of Mistledale had been embroiled in a deadly fight that worsened every day, defending their vale against what was first a marauding devil or two, then murderous gangs of the creatures. In the past few days a dozen of Curnil’s fellows had died, torn apart by fiendish talons, skewered on hell-forged hooks or spears, or blasted to smoking corpses by devil-wrought hellfire.
“Be patient, and wait for your shot,” Curnil told him. “If we are going to fall here, we have to take as many of these foul hellspawn with us as we can.”
“What I’d like to know,” remarked Ingra, who was keeping watch by the window, “is how these monsters got out of Myth Drannor.”
She stood with a powerful crossbow in her hands, a highly enchanted quarrel laid in its rest. Curnil knew that she’d account for one of the devils, when the moment came. But that wouldn’t be enough, would it?
“They’re coming!” cried Ingra.
Curnil raised his paired short swords and crouched by the doorway, ready to kill the first devil to enter the room. Rethold’s bow thrummed to his left, as the archer fired through one of the shuttered windows on that side of the house, and Ingra’s crossbow snapped sharply on his right.
There was a sudden rush of footfalls, the clicking of taloned nails on the floorboards of the porch outside-and a furious devil leaped in the door, eyes ablaze with battle-lust. It was so quick and reckless in its rush that it nearly skewered Curnil with its barbed glaive before the swordsman could move. He cursed and threw himself aside, then parried two more jabbing thrusts as the monster pressed in, two more of its fellows crowding in close behind it.