Weird symbols and arcane formulae pressed themselves into his mind, the spells contained in the second stone. Araevin shunted them to the side for later examination, and plunged deeper into the loregem. Like a distant beacon he sensed the third stone, burning clear and bright, somewhere far to the east and north-Faerun again, somewhere farther north than the spot where he'd found the second stone. He glimpsed a deep, moss-grown gorge through which an icy white stream rushed, and a dismal cave mouth hidden beneath the overhanging rock. And he saw again the proud sun elf with the hateful green eyes that he had seen during his exploration of the first telkiira, a mage of great power who meticulously scribed tiny runes on a large, purple gemstone the size of a thumb.
As the old thoughts faded, he looked at the spells in the stone. There was a spell of unweaving magic, which he knew already; a spell that produced a terrible blast of supernatural cold, which he did not; a spell that drained away enemy spell shields in order to strengthen the caster; a spell for destroying undead; and a spell of binding that could imprison its victims in a number of ways. And there was another segment of the mysterious spell that had appeared only as a fragment in the first stone. Clearly, he would have to examine all three telkiira at once to determine what it was and how it could be mastered.
"Well?" Ilsevele asked.
Araevin leaned wearily on his worktable, steadying himself after the effort of unlocking of the telkiira, and briefly explained to Ilsevele what he had discovered.
"If we return to Faerun," Ilsevele said, "the demon-elves will be waiting for us. They want those telkiira"
"I know. But if they reach the third stone before me, I may never unravel this little mystery Philaerin left for me." He looked out the windows, stained rose with the approaching dawn, and said, "Grayth will be rising soon; he never misses his sunrise devotions to Lathander. We should take counsel together and decide what to do next."
The holy rites of Corellon Larethian, Lord of the Seldarine and ruler over the gods of the elves, were most often celebrated under the stars. But some rituals and observances seemed most fitting at different times of the day. Seiveril Miritar stood in the mist-shrouded Grove of Corellon, greatest of the elf god's temples in Evermeet, and watched the rosy streaks of dawn coloring the eastern sky. Sunrise was a time of beginnings, of renewal and rebirth, and for the magic he contemplated that day, it was the only appropriate setting.
He closed his eyes, praying that he had read the signs correctly, that he understood Corellon's will. What he prepared to do was so rarely done that he required absolute certainty in his faith and his purpose. On returning from Evereska to Elion he had spent many long hours praying for guidance in the sacred grove, consumed with the question of how to defeat an army of demons and sorcerers. And in time he'd heard an answer to his divinations and invocations. But was it the answer Corellon gave to him, or was it the answer he had fashioned in his own heart, thinking it the will of his god?
"It is time," the priestess Thilesin said. She was the highest ranking cleric of the Seldarine among the crusade besides Seiveril himself, and he had decided to bring her into his confidence, simply to voice the thought that was in his heart and hear another's opinion. "Are you certain of Corellon's will in this?"
"As certain as I can be," he replied. "I am convinced of its necessity. We are sometimes carried by our fates like leaves swept along a swift river. Whether we desire it or not, we will go where we must go. What does your heart tell you?"
"I have sought Corellon's will as well, and I detect no disapproval." Thilesin smiled thinly and continued, "Of course, many great evils have been wrought by those who failed to see the injustice of their acts, but… as long as he is willing, I cannot see the wrong in this."
She stepped forward, bearing a long, flat bundle wrapped in heavy cloth. With care, she unwrapped the dark felt, revealing a gleaming silver broadsword, its enchanted steel marked by faint wavy patterns of green watermarks.
"Here is Keryvian," she said.
"Hold it while I speak the rites," Seiveril told her.
He drew a deep breath, and raised his arms to the rising sun. In a clear, strong voice, he began to declaim the sacred prayers and passages of a mighty spell. Corellon's holy power welled up from the center of his chest as a white nimbus, slowly spreading over his body until Seiveril's face shone with divine power, and argent light streamed from his outstretched fingertips. Almost at once he felt the strain of the powerful rite, but the magic seemed to stream through his soul stronger and more deeply with each word, until it felt as if he was nothing but a hollow shell, a brittle casting, through which Corellon's will and power flowed.
Between his raised arms a white door seemed to glimmer in the air, at first a lazy fountain of rising golden sparks, then growing clearer and more distinct as Seiveril continued his chant. Through the door Seiveril glimpsed a forest of silver and gold, a place of shining white skies and rushing perfect waters, and with all his heart he found himself yearning to step forward, to enter into the realm beyond and leave his empty shell behind. But he reminded himself of his duty, and held his place.
"Fflar Starbrow Melruth!" he called. "Hero of Myth Drannor! Come, come back! Your People need you again.
Fflar Starbrow Melruth, rise and walk the mortal world once more."
A shining figure began to coalesce in the doorway, an elf strong and sad and wise.
"Who calls me?" it whispered. "Who calls me?"
"I am Seiveril Miritar, the son of Elkhazel Miritar, your friend. Six hundred and sixty years have passed since you fought in Myth Drannor. Will you come back?"
"What is your need?" the spirit asked.
"An army of demonspawned elves and demons marches on Evereska. We will meet them in battle, but I do not know if we can prevail. Your deeds in the defense of Myth Drannor are legendary. You would be a mighty champion for our cause."
"I failed, Seiveril Miritar. I died, and Myth Drannor fell."
"Then this is your chance to join a new battle against the enemies of all elves, and triumph where once you fell."
The spirit remained silent as Seiveril held the door open. He could feel the hand of Corellon steadying him, supporting him, filling him with the power to attempt such an audacious resurrection. Fflar had died far too long ago for such magic to work reliably, and yet his heart had told him to make the attempt. It was what was meant to be.
"I will come."
The spirit seemed to move toward Seiveril. Like sunshine vanishing behind a cloud the liquid silver light dimmed and took on form, becoming a tall, broad-shouldered moon elf with russet hair and a broad, handsome face. He took one faltering step out of the door of light, and fell naked to the soft loam of the clearing, suddenly real and wholly in Evermeet, Arvandor a fleeting glimpse of bliss shining on his shoulders.
Seiveril swayed and reached out for Thilesin, who moved close to steady him. The coursing divine energy vanished so swiftly that he ached with the emptiness of it. For a long moment he could not speak.
Before him, the moon elf groaned and stirred, his strong fingers clenched in the soft earth, shaking with the chill of the morning air. He gasped once, sharply.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
"Corellon's Grove, near the city of Elion in Evermeet," Thilesin answered for Seiveril.
She hurried close with a warm robe, and threw it over the moon elf's shoulders.
The fellow pulled the robe close over his shoulders and pushed himself up to his knees. Then he slowly stood, looking around in silent wonder.