Phaeldara said nothing, but her eyes flicked to Jorin Kell Harthan.
The half-elf straightened and said, “So you came to Aglarond in search of star elves?”
“We were unfamiliar with that kindred of the People, but in researching the question, we learned that their realm was known as Yuireshanyaar, and that it stood in the Yuirwood long ago.”
“How long ago did this Morthil leave Cormanthyr?” Phaeldara asked.
“Five thousand years, give or take,” Araevin said.
“Five thousand years?” Jorin Kell Harthan said, his voice incredulous. “You can’t seriously expect that any spellbooks have survived that long!”
“It is an immense span of time, I know. But time means less to elves than it does to humans. I do not hope to find the original spellbooks, but I hope to find more durable records such as telkiira stones, or mages who have studied a tradition that is founded on this missing lore without even knowing where it once came from, or possibly even books that were copied from copies made from the original tomes.” Araevin spread his hands helplessly. “I admit that I have little prospect for success, but there is no telling what horrors Sarya Dlardrageth will inflict on the lands around Myth Drannor if we do not find a way to stop her.”
Ilsevele addressed the Simbul’s apprentice. “Do the star elves still exist? Can they be found in Aglarond?”
Phaeldara turned away without answering. She paced over to a row of elegantly arched windows, gazing out over the glimmering lamps and lanterns that were coming to life all over the city below, sparkling like a sea of fireflies.
“I wish the Simbul were here,” she remarked. “She would be a better judge of this than I. But she has left the realm in my hands for better than a month now, and I do not know when she will return. I suppose I must decide as best I can.”
She looked back to Araevin and his companions. “It seems that your need is pressing, so I will share a secret that few know, and trust that two of the ar Tel-Quessir and anyone they trust enough to call friend know the value of keeping secrets. Yes, the star elves exist, but they are not exactly in Aglarond.”
“Great,” Maresa sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to sail off to Kara-Tur or Selune itself to find them, right?”
“You won’t find them in any other land, either,” Jorin Kell Harthan said.
Donnor Kerth frowned. “Are they ghosts, then?”
“Nothing like that, Dawnmaster,” Phaeldara said. “Their kingdom lies entirely within the Yuirwood, but it is not of this world. You could crisscross the peninsula a hundred times, but you would never set foot in it. Only a few of us outside its borders have been entrusted with Sildeyuir’s secret.” The Simbul’s apprentice looked over to Jorin Kell Harthan, who still lounged by the door. “But Master Harthan knows the way. He can take you there.”
The half-elf frowned. “The paths to Sildeyuir have grown wild and strange in recent years, Lady Phaeldara. And the star elves might not welcome the Dawnmaster and the genasi.”
“We will answer for them, if need be,” Ilsevele said. “Maresa has walked in Evermeet and Evereska, and Donnor Kerth has sworn by Lathander to accompany us wherever our quest takes us. They will not betray your trust.”
Phaeldara nodded. “I believe you, Ilsevele Miritar.”
Jorin shrugged and stepped forward to clasp Araevin’s hand. “I’ll meet you at the Greenhaven an hour after sunrise. Be ready for a couple of days of walking.”
The city of Yulash had been a ruin for decades. It sprawled atop a great, shield-shaped plateau overlooking the fertile lower vale of the Tesh, with the Moonsea a dark shadow in the eastern distance. From its battered walls a sentry could see the black towers of Zhentil Keep a little more than twenty miles to the north and the white-tipped peaks of the Dragonspires a hundred miles past that on a clear day.
The mountaintops floated like a distant phalanx of blunt spears in the sky, but Scyllua Darkhope ignored the view. She stood, sword in hand, beside her lord and master Fzoul, vigilantly watching the ruins around them. The two Zhents stood amid the foundations of a ruined tower that had once been the home of Yulash’s greatest wizard. That mage was long dead, assassinated in the early years of the fierce civil war that had eventually consumed the city, and his tower had the distinction of being the largest and most prominent structure located between the Zhent-fortified districts remaining around Yulash’s old citadel and the Hillsfarian-held districts located in the vicinity of the city’s great eastern gate, and the fortifications there.
Fzoul Chembryl, on the other hand, stood near a gap in the wall, gazing northward at the city he ruled, small and distant at the mouth of the Tesh. Half a dozen of the Castellan’s Guard, the most dedicated and skilled warriors of Zhentil Keep, stood watch around the clearing, and Scyllua knew that other unseen guardians hovered nearby, cloaked by magic.
“You may put up your sword, Scyllua,” the Chosen of Bane said amiably. “This is a parley, after all, and we are supposed to show some small sign to indicate that we won’t fall on our guest the minute he sets foot in the door.”
“This place is dangerous,” Scyllua replied. “I do not like to take chances with your life, my lord.”
“It’s neutral ground, Scyllua. It’s the best we could do.” Fzoul glanced at his zealous captain, and Scyllua submitted, sheathing her blade.
The air in the center of the broken tower rippled, and half a dozen figures materialized out of thin air: Maalthiir, First Lord of Hillsfar, his four black-clad swordsmen, and the stocky High Warden Hardil Gearas. Scyllua kept her hand on her sword hilt, but took care to remain still, unwilling to provoke a fight without her lord’s express permission.
Maalthiir gazed around the ruined tower, and snorted. “Trying to impress me, Fzoul?” he asked.
“Not at all,” the Lord of the Zhentarim answered. He turned away from broken walls and the view to the north, arms folded confidently across his black breastplate. He studied the first lord, his expression mild enough, even though his eyes glittered with the avid hunger that Scyllua knew burned within him. “Since I judged that you would be unwilling to come to Zhentil Keep, and I found myself unwilling to call on you in Hillsfar, I deemed Avandalythir’s Tower a good middle ground.”
“Indeed,” the first lord said. “It does not escape my attention that your army still occupies half of Yulash to deny Hillsfar control of this place.”
“I might say the same thing about your Red Plumes, Maalthiir. And I’ll add that Yulash lies much closer to my city than it does to yours.” Fzoul held up his hand to forestall Maalthiir’s retort, and continued, “Let us agree to disagree about Yulash for the moment. I did not ask you here to discuss this dilapidated ruin, First Lord. I wished to speak to you about Cormanthor and the Dalelands.”
“I am a busy man, Fzoul, so make your point quickly.”
Fzoul smiled humorlessly. “You are busy these days, Maalthiir. I have learned that a strong force of your Red Plumes is even now marching down the Moonsea Ride toward Mistledale and Battledale. And your Sembian friends are moving whole armies of mercenaries up Rauthauvyr’s Road through Tasseldale and Featherdale. I take it you have decided to seize those lands before the elven army in Cormanthor contests your actions?”
Maalthiir scowled. “I am simply taking steps to defend our commercial interests in these lands, Fzoul. I can’t have the elves throw humans out of the forest for another thirteen hundred years.”
“I certainly wonder what possible interests you might have in Mistledale or Battledale,” said Fzoul, “but I suppose your exact motives are not as important to me as the facts of your military movements.”