They passed the guards at the city gates, and walked Silverymoon’s broad boulevards until they reached the Golden Oak-a large, comfortable inn whose common room was an open atrium beneath the spreading branches of a great oak tree, from which dozens of small lanterns hung. A bard strummed a lute, and many of the inn’s guests sat drinking wine or ale beneath the oak tree, quietly conversing.
“Araevin!” called a loud voice. More than a few heads turned as Maresa Rost leaped to her feet, calling to the two elves. Maresa was an individual of striking appearance, a young woman whose skin was literally as white as snow. Her hair was long and silver-white as well, and it drifted gently around her head as if stirred by breezes unfelt by anyone else. She was a genasi, a human whose ancestry included beings of the elemental planes-in Maresa’s case, air elementals of some kind. She wore crimson-dyed leather and carried a rapier at her hip. “You were supposed to be here hours ago!”
Araevin started to bow and apologize, but Maresa surprised him, throwing her arms around him and offering a fierce hug. “I-it is good to see you, too, Maresa,” he stammered. He looked over Maresa’s shoulder to the genasi’s companion, a rather slight and young-looking sun elf woman who wore the emblem of Corellon Larethian’s clerics on her tunic. “And you, too, Filsaelene.”
Filsaelene offered a shy smile, and raised a goblet of wine. “Join us, please. I am afraid we are a little ahead of you already.”
Freed from the daemonfey stronghold only a few tendays ago, none of her former comrades had survived their battle against the demonic invaders. Filsaelene still struck Araevin as timid and retiring, but she seemed to be recovering well under Maresa’s care.
Maresa finally released him, and Araevin glanced over at Ilsevele. His betrothed shrugged.
“I could stand some song and wine,” she said. “Why not?”
They spent the evening drinking good wine, enjoying the music of the bard, and trading stories of old adventures. After a time, the lutenist was joined by a flutist and a drummer, and the three struck up a lively dance, in which Araevin was kept quite busy by dancing with all three of his companions in turn. Finally, tired and pleasantly aglow with the warm wine, he and Ilsevele said their goodnights to the others, and retired to Ilsevele’s comfortable room.
Whether it was the wine, the dancing, or simply the hidden relief of having survived their trials of the past few months, they made love for a time. Then they spent the hours after midnight lying together, content to be near each other without speaking. Such moments had become rare in the past few years, it seemed.
Ilsevele’s fingers glided over the cold, hard gemstone sealed to Araevin’s chest, and he felt her frown.
“You brought the selukiira with you?” she asked.
“I still have more to learn from it,” he told her. Then he reached up to mesh his fingers with hers, and brought her hand to his face, holding her close as they drifted off into Reverie together.
“I thought you said it was dangerous-an artifact of the daemonfey of old.”
“It is,” he said, and said no more about it.
The next morning, Araevin stirred from his Reverie and dressed himself in the dark hour before dawn. Ilsevele roused herself as he rose, drawing a deep breath as she called herself back to the inn room from whatever far memory or dream she had wandered in her own Reverie.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“The Vault of the Sages,” Araevin replied. He looked over at her. “It is the best library in the city, perhaps all of the North, and I have some research to do.”
“The Nightstar?”
“Yes. I have not yet solved all of its mysteries.” Araevin drew his cloak over his shoulders, and picked up the worn rucksack in which he carried many of his notes and journals. “I must learn more about the magic of ancient Arcorar, or at least some specific spells and rites from that era, if I am to unlock the deeper secrets Saelethil concealed in this lorestone.”
Ilsevele sat up sharply. “Is it a good idea to do that? You were lucky once with the Nightstar. Perhaps you shouldn’t delve any further into it unless you have to.”
“Last night we spoke of our unfinished business with the daemonfey. If I ever mean to finish it, I think I will need to know what other secrets the Nightstar holds.”
Ilsevele stood too, and said, “I will come with you, then.”
“There is no need. I’m not sure how much you could help, to be honest. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for.”
Ilsevele’s eyes narrowed. “I remind you, my betrothed, that I know a little bit about magic too. Besides, I have nothing else in particular to do today, and I might like a chance to look around a fine library for my own account, not yours.”
He winced. “I did not mean to imply that you were unable to help me,” he managed. “I would enjoy your company, if you wanted to come along.”
Ilsevele crossed her arms. “I find that less than convincing.”
They ate a quick breakfast of warm bread and apple butter in the inn’s common room, and set out across Silverymoon as the human town slowly woke. The Vault of the Sages was a tall horseshoe-shaped building of stone, sturdy and strong. Araevin and Ilsevele entered only moments after the priests of Denier, who kept the Vault, opened the doors for the day.
An old human cleric with a fringe of snow-white hair around his bald pate looked up from a desk to greet them.
“Ah, good morning! It is not often we are visited by two of the ar Tel’Quessir. I am Brother Calwern. How might we help you today?”
“I am Araevin Teshurr, and this is my betrothed, Lady Ilsevele Miritar,” Araevin replied. “I am interested in making use of your library.”
“Of course. What topics interest you, sir?”
“I am looking for books or treatises on the magical lore of ancient Arcorar, from the early days of Cormanthyr-the centuries following the Twelve Nights of Fire, or perhaps the Fifth Rysar of Jhyrennstar. You may also have writings by the wizards Ithraides, Kaeledhin, Morthil, or Sanathar.”
Araevin did not mention Saelethil Dlardrageth. Saelethil would never have shared any of his writings with other mages, or left a record of his studies other than the Nightstar intended for members of his own House.
Brother Calwern raised a bushy eyebrow, and leaned back in his seat. “We have few works of such antiquity here. The wizards you named, are they from the same era?” Araevin nodded, and the Deneirrath priest continued. “I will have to examine our indices and catalogs to see if we have anything that might help you. It might take a little time. In the meantime, I can certainly recommend a likely tome or two for you to begin with. I presume you read Loross and Thorass?”
“Among others, yes.”
“Excellent!” The Deneirrath priest stood up, and gestured toward an archway leading deeper into the great building. “If you please, then-this way.”
Araevin glanced at Ilsevele and offered a small smile. When it came down to it, he couldn’t resist a scholarly mystery, and there was not a better place in Faerun to solve one than the libraries of Silverymoon. Together they followed Brother Calwern into the Vault of the Sages.
“High Lords and Ladies of the Council, the Lord Seiveril Miritar of Elion!”
Seiveril faltered on the threshold of the Dome of Stars, surprised to hear his own name announced. He glanced at the herald-captain, a young sun elf who stared straight ahead, giving no further sign that he recognized Seiveril’s presence.
Eighty years on the Royal Council and never once have I been announced, Seiveril wondered. Instead, he had always been a member of the body that guests were announced to.
He felt the eyes of the minor lords and functionaries in attendance fall on him, as he stood unmoving in the chamber door. Then Seiveril recovered, and he strode with growing confidence into the Dome of Stars.
The high council chamber of Evermeet, the Dome was part of the sprawling palace compound in Leuthilspar. A striking chamber with a dark, star-flecked marble floor and a great clear ceiling of magic theurglass, the Dome was illuminated by the warm yellow light of late afternoon, striking bright gleams from the glossy stone underfoot. It was a magnificent chamber, and in its center stood the glassteel council table, a delicate ornament of frosted-white glass magically hardened to the toughness of steel. It had always struck Seiveril as a good metaphor for the elf race-beautiful to look upon, yet stronger than the eye could believe.