As Nesterin had told them, the star elves had created Sildeyuir as a refuge, a place to which they could Retreat from the cruel and ambitious human empires that had arisen in the ancient east. More than a thousand years before the raising of the Standing Stone in the Dales, the human kingdoms of Narfell and Raumauthar, as well as Unther and Mulhorand, had fought furiously for dominion in the region. In western Faerun many elves had retreated to Evermeet to avoid such ambitious human empires, but the star elves had decided to simply remove their entire realm rather than abandon it to flee elsewhere. All of Sildeyuir was a great work of high magic, an echo of the Yuirwood itself spun into starshine and dusk through mighty spells of old.
Since the creation of Sildeyuir, the star elves had slowly slipped farther and farther from Faerun, leaving the daylight world to its own devices. Many still traveled through the old elfgates and roamed Aglarond or the Inner Sea, but they passed themselves off as moon elves, and did not speak of their homeland to strangers. Few elves remained in the forests of the east outside of Aglarond itself, and those who lived within the Yuirwood kept their silence regarding the star elves’ secret.
Araevin spoke with Tessaernil at length, and discovered that after leaving Arcorar almost five thousand years ago, the wizard Morthil had returned to Yuireshanyaar and subsequently become that realm’s grand mage. He had played a leading role in the affairs of the kingdom for several centuries. The former apprentice of Ithraides had gone on to become an even greater mage than his master in time, founding a society of wizards known as the Seneirril Tathyrr, or the Mooncrescent Order. The order survived all the long centuries from the time of Arcorar down to Sildeyuir’s creation, three thousand years after the time of Ithraides and two thousand years before the present day.
“Even among elves, that is a very great span of time,” Araevin said to Tessaernil and Nesterin as they sat together in the library. “How is it that Morthil has been remembered for so long?”
“His tomb lies in the rotunda of Mooncrescent Tower,” Tessaernil said. “He was revered as the founder of the order. I saw it when I studied there in my youth.”
Araevin’s heart leaped in his chest. He set his hand to his breastbone, and felt the Nightstar murmur under his touch. Morthil’s works had survived to within a single elf lifetime of the present day. Was it too much to hope that a telkiira stone or a spell passed down from master to apprentice over the years might still endure, too?
“Does any of Morthil’s handiwork still survive? Lore-gems, spells he created, spellbooks he scribed?”
“When I was young, there were stories told in the Seneirril Tathyrr that the secret libraries and vaults of the tower might hold such things. But that was a long time ago-about three hundred years after the making of Sildeyuir and the translation of our kingdom into this plane.”
Araevin stared at Tessaernil. “You told me before that Yuireshanyaar had been removed to Sildeyuir two thousand years ago. You have lived that long?”
“Time flows differently in Sildeyuir, Araevin. One year passes here for every two in the world outside.” Tessaernil offered a small smile. “I was born over eighteen hundred years ago, but I am in truth not more than nine hundred years old.”
“You may not find that remarkable, but few of my folk reach nine centuries, even in Evermeet,” Araevin said. “Queen Amlaruil might be that old, but she enjoys the blessing of the Seldarine themselves.”
“It is noteworthy among my people as well,” Nesterin observed. He offered a crooked smile. “I introduced Lord Tessaernil to you as my uncle. It would have been more accurate to add a few ‘greats’ before that.”
“You said before that you thought Morthil’s tower lies in the farthest reach of your realm-you were referring to Mooncrescent Tower?”
“Yes,” Tessaernil replied.
“So I need only speak to the masters of the tower, then,” Araevin said. “They will be able to help me with Morthil’s ancient lore.”
“That is the problem,” Nesterin said. “The order failed some time ago, and Mooncrescent Tower has been abandoned for centuries. It lies at the very border of our realm. Given what I recently discovered when I visited House Aerilpe, I fear that the place may no longer be accessible.”
“As soon as you give me leave to, I certainly intend to try it, regardless of the tower’s present circumstances,” Araevin answered. “I have no small experience in dealing with ancient ruins and warding magic.”
The older elflord nodded. “I cannot understate the peril you may face, Araevin, but I did not expect that you would depart without trying.” He glanced to Nesterin and continued, “I have spoken with some of the other House lords of our land, taking counsel about you and your companions. I have decided to allow you to attempt Mooncrescent Tower. Nesterin here has agreed to guide you, at least as far as any road will serve.”
“I thank you, Lord Tessaernil,” Araevin said. He stood and offered a deep bow to the ancient elflord.
“You might not later, if things prove as dangerous as I fear they may,” Tessaernil said. He stood as well, and gravely returned Araevin’s bow. “You may set out when you like, Araevin. I wish you good fortune and a safe journey.”
For two days, Scyllua Darkhope fought with every inch of her zeal and determination to extricate something from the disaster on the borders of Shadowdale. By all rights, the Zhentarim army should have disintegrated completely in the retreat back to Voonlar, harried as it was by the slashing attacks of pursuing elf riders. But Scyllua personally commanded the rearguard action, turning at bay and standing her ground whenever the elves pressed too close, then wheeling away to gallop another mile or two down the road as soon as the elves had been repulsed again.
As she harangued the last weary companies of the rearguard, keeping them on their feet and moving north through nothing more than her own unswerving will, she found Fzoul Chembryl at a nameless ford ten miles south of Voonlar. The lord of Zhentil Keep and his company of guards came riding south, against the march of soldiers retreating north, breasting a path through the exhausted ranks with callous indifference.
When Fzoul caught sight of Scyllua, he said, “Ah, there you are. Come, Scyllua, I would like to have a word with you.”
Scyllua dismounted and followed Fzoul into an old stone cottage that overlooked the ford. She did not fear punishment for her failure at Shadowdale. There was no point in dreading it. She had failed, and she would be disciplined. That was the way of the Black Lord. If she wanted to earn Bane’s favor again, she must endure her punishment stoically, with no attempt at evasion or excuses.
Fzoul muttered the words of a spell and sealed the cottage from scrying or outside observation. Then, when he was satisfied, he turned to Scyllua and delivered a great backhanded slap to her face that spun her half around and left her reeling drunkenly, her ears ringing.
“How did you allow this to happen?” he demanded. Scyllua spat blood from her split lip, and slowly straightened. She kept her hands at her sides, expecting that her lord and master would strike her again.
“I failed to take sufficient precautions against an attack on my camp, my lord,” she said. “I expected to attack, not to be attacked.”
“Did you not entrench your camp every night, and post a strong watch?”
“I did, my lord. But events proved those measures insufficient.”
“Clearly,” Fzoul muttered. “Recount all that happened as you marched south from Voonlar. Do not seek to conceal anything from me.”
Scyllua did as she was told. When she had finished, she awaited Fzoul’s punishment with open eyes. But the Chosen of Bane did not immediately lash out. Instead, he turned away, frowning, his thick arms crossed before his chest.
After a long time, he spoke. “Circumstances beyond your control contributed to your failure,” he grudgingly admitted. “We had an excellent chance to crush the elven army, but the Red Plumes and Sembians did not take the steps that needed to be taken.”