Final Gate (42 page)

Framing his spell in the Word of Power, Araevin hammered at her spell-shield with a reciprocal spell of his own. He seized her golden spheres, channeling all the energy of Sarya’s own defense against her. With the strength of the ondreier ysele behind his reciprocal magic, Sarya’s defense doubled and doubled again in strength. The golden spheres froze in their orbits, quavered once, and plunged into the daemonfey queen’s body.

“No! No!” Sarya screamed.

Golden light burst out of her body, raving streams of magical power that burned away her flesh and melted holes in her brazen armor. She tried once more to leap into the sky, to escape her doom, but in mid-leap a golden ray destroyed her face. She shuddered once, and collapsed into a desiccated husk. Smoke curled from her motionless form.

Araevin collapsed to all fours himself, exhausted beyond all endurance. Between the Gatekeeper’s Crystal, the encounter with Malkizid, and the final duel with Sarya, he was utterly spent. It struck him then that the sounds of battle had died away with Sarya’s fall. No more sword strokes rang in the failing mythal.

Jerreda stood over the body of the last fey’ri warrior. She looked over to Araevin. “Is Sarya-?”

Where in the world did Starbrow and Jerreda come from? he wondered. He shook his head. However they had found him, their timing had proven impeccable.

“Yes,” Araevin said with a groan. “Sarya Dlardrageth is dead.”

Maresa knelt beside him and raised him up. “Come on, Araevin, you have to get us out of here. Which door do we use?”

“I cannot tell anymore. My magic is spent.” He leaned on the genasi, too tired to take a step. Starbrow stood unbeaten before him, watching for any more enemies who might appear. Donnor supported Nesterin, with the star elf’s arm over his broad shoulders, while the wood elves who had followed Jerreda and Starbrow tended to Jorin. Araevin looked around, still trying to make sense of the scene.

“By the Seldarine,” he whispered. “Is it over?”

“Not until we get out of here,” Maresa retorted. Another convulsion shook the Fhoeldin durr, and more portals winked out. Only a few remained intact. “Take your best guess, Araevin!”

He waved his hand at the closest of the portals. The battered company hurried over to the doorway, and somehow Araevin found the tiny spark of power needed to steady it. Praying that they were not about to gate themselves into the heart of a volcano or the palace of an evil god, he staggered through the door.

The Last Mythal fell into ruin behind them.

20 Marpenoth, the Year of the Blazing Hand (1380 DR)

The splendid colors of fall covered Myth Drannor in a mantle of red and gold. The air had a crisp, fresh smell to it that never failed to intoxicate Araevin. He loved the autumn, especially when the days still remembered a hint of summer’s warmth but the nights grew cold and clear. He doubted whether Arvandor itself had anything to rival Cormanthor in the fall.

He stood in the Seldarrshen Nieryll, the Starsoul Shrine. It was a ring-shaped colonnade in the heart of the city, open on all sides. In its center stood the Tree of Souls, whose slender silvery trunk reached almost twenty feet in height. Some among the coronal’s advisors had suggested guarding it in a courtyard of Castle Cormanthor, or even concealing it in the woods outside the city, but

Ilsevele had decided that the tree was a gift to be shared by all of Myth Drannor’s folk. Through the open archways of the Seldarrshen Nieryll anyone passing through the square around the colonnade could see the tree, or even step inside to feel its presence. The tree’s own influence and the spell-shields Araevin had woven around the shrine protected it far better than mere walls of stone or doors of adamantine could ever have.

“Grow strong, grow tall,” he said to the young Tree of Souls, resting his hand on its warm bark. Then he gathered up his staff and pack, passing from the sunlit center of the shrine through the cool shadows of the colonnade to the stone steps outside. He paused again to enjoy the sensation of the autumn sunshine, so clear and perfect that it seemed the sun itself could sing for joy. Around the Seldarrshen Nieryll the ceremonial watch of warriors handpicked from the Coronal’s Guard stood in vigilant silence, but only a few steps away the People of the city carried on with their business. Dozens of craftsmen and masons worked on the new temple to the Seldarine that was rising on the opposite side of the square, merchants carried on with the growing commerce of the city, and children sang and shouted joyfully in their games. There was still much to do, of course—some parts of the ancient city would likely never be rebuilt. But Myth Drannor was a whole and living city again, and Araevin still shook his head in wonder every time that thought crossed his mind.

“You have woven well, Araevin,” Ilsevele said softly. She stood watching him, wearing an austere dress of midnight blue velvet finished with a delicate embroidery of silver thread. A tiara nestled in her bright red hair. At her belt hung a long, slender scepter of platinum—the Ruler’s Blade of Cormanthyr, in the hands of a coronal of Cormanthyr for the first time in more than seven hundred years. Ilsevele preferred to carry the ancient symbol in this form rather than as a five-foot warblade. “Are you certain you will not stay?”

He shook his head. “I think my work here is done, Ilsevele. The mythal is as sound as I can make it. The Tree of Souls is a stronger anchor than anything I might have been able to fashion. I can add nothing more.”

“You do not have to leave just because you have finished, Araevin,” Starbrow said. He stood beside his wife, her hand in his. He wore a silver fillet above his eyes, and Keryvian still rode on his hip—not only was he Ilsevele’s prince-consort, he was still her chief champion and guard as well as the high captain of Myth Drannor’s army. “You’ve earned a rest. The world outside this forest can look after itself for a little longer.”

Araevin met his friends’ eyes and smiled sadly. They’d been married five years, but a small part of his heart still ached to see Ilsevele with Starbrow. He was glad that they were happy, and he understood better how high magic had changed him, but that did not mean he did not regret some of the choices he had made.

“I think it will be good for me to travel new lands and see new things,” said Araevin. “There are still a few roads in Faerun I haven’t put under my feet yet.”

“Where will you go?” Ilsevele asked.

“The Sword Coast, first. I want to look in on Donnor, visit with Elorfindar, and perhaps see if I can’t find Grayth Holmfast’s sons in Waterdeep. Then Aglarond and Sildeyuir—I have work there that isn’t done yet. After that?” He shrugged. “I think I’ll search out Auseriel and see if I can’t put my talents to use in Lamruil’s hidden city. If he is raising a mythal there, I may be able to help.”

“I can’t imagine anyone who could help him more,” Ilsevele said with a smile. “You are always welcome here, Araevin. I will not name another grand mage yet. As long as you live, you are Cormanthyr’s grand mage, wherever you wander.”

“Are we leaving, or not? I’d like to be on our way before it gets dark.” Maresa Rost stood a little behind the elves, holding the reins of two horses. She wore her customary scarlet with a rakish feathered hat, and she folded her arms and rolled her eyes impatiently. Araevin smiled at her impetuousness. She was something of a kindred spirit, after all. Friends like Maresa had given him his own humanlike restlessness in the first place. “You’ve been saying good-bye for something like a tenday now, you know.”

Ilsevele laughed out loud. “I suppose you’re right, Maresa,” she admitted. She moved forward and kissed Araevin’s cheek. “Sweet water and light laughter until we meet again,” she said.

“And to you,” said Araevin. “I will see you again before too many seasons pass.”

“We’ll be waiting for you both.” Starbrow clapped his shoulder and took his hand in a firm grip. “Fair travels, my friend,” he said.

Araevin returned his handclasp and turned to Maresa. He swung himself up into the saddle of the roan, and patted the horse’s neck. “All right,” he said. “I am ready.”

Touching his heels to his horse’s flanks, he put Myth Drannor behind him and rode out to see where the road would take him.