in.”
They pulled open the heavy door and entered the building, finding themselves in a cozy, warm common room that Araevin remembered fondly. There, at least, not much had changed. A fierce-looking dragon skull hung over the large fireplace, and battered old shields and banners draped the walls. A dozen plain wooden trestle tables were jammed into the room. It was the middle of the afternoon, so most were empty, but Araevin knew they’d be full by sundown, and likely stay that way until midnight.
“Araevin!” a deep, gravelly voice called across the room.
Araevin turned to see a tall, square-shouldered human with a deeply weathered face, a gray goatee, and a close-cropped fringe of iron-gray hair rising to hail him, dressed in a simple cassock of red. He did not recognize the fellow, and opened his mouth to request an
introductionthen he realized with a shock that it was Grayth Holmfast.
The human’s dark hair had gone silver-gray and retreated sharply above his brow, and his powerful, athletic build had grown lean and spare. The Lathanderite priest caught him up in a powerful embrace before Araevin recovered from his astonishment, and thumped his back
with blows that might have staggered the elf mage if he hadn’t been held up.
“Araevin Teshurr, as I live and breathe! It’s been
damned near twenty years, old friend. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
Twenty years? Araevin thought, confused. Surely it had not been that long … but when he thought on it, he’d last traveled in Faerun in the Year of the Worm, 1356 by Dalereckoning, so that would make it eighteen years.
“Evermeet,” he answered. “I’ve continued my studies at home since I left.” He rallied and returned Grayth’s
embrace, pounding the cleric on his back. “It’s good to see you, Grayth!”
The human cleric stepped back and studied Araevin from head to toe.
“Amazing,” he said. “Time touches you so lightly. You have not changed a bit, my friend.”
Araevin replied, “I forget how different it is with us.”
Grayth barked laughter and said, “That’s one way to say that the years have been hard on me!” He gestured at his receding hairline. “The hair began retreating ten
years ago. Oddly enough, it’s started to sprout on my back instead. So, who’s your friend?”
A wave of distress crossed Ilsevele’s face at the last remark, but she bravely set it aside and thrust out her hand
in the human fashion. Her Common was a little awkward, and her voice lilted musically.
“I am Ilsevele Miritar, daughter of Lord Seiveril Miritar. I am Araevin’s betrothed. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Grayth, please! The pleasure is mine, fair lady. And welcome to Faerun. Unless I miss my guess, you haven’t spent much time away from Evermeet.”
Ilsevele shot a glance at Araevin, her surprise showing, and said, “Is it that obvious?”
“No, it’s not,” Araevin replied with a smile. “Grayth will never admit it, but he sees more in a glance than most people, human or elf, notice in an hour. Don’t play cards
with him.”
“If you’ll join us, I’ll have some food and wine sent over, and we can trade tales of old adventures,” Grayth said. “I noticed a number of mice in the stables, if your little falcon’s feeling hungry.”
“Whyllwyst died eight years ago,” Araevin said. “I have
no familiar now.”
Grayth looked up and said with a grimace, “I know that’s hard on a wizard, Araevin. I’m sorry. Come, we’ll speak of lighter things.”
The cleric motioned the two sun elves to a sturdy wooden table and bench, and sat down opposite them.
Another man was waiting for them, a strapping young fellow with sandy-blond hair and wide blue eyes. He was dressed like Grayth in the cassock of a priest of Lathander, but his robes were orange and yellow, and the emblem on his tunic was a simple half-disc of white.
“This is Brant Rethalshield,” Grayth said, “an aspirant to the Order of
They pulled open the heavy door and entered the building, finding themselves in a cozy, warm common room that Araevin remembered fondly. There, at least, not much had changed. A fierce-looking dragon skull hung over the large fireplace, and battered old shields and banners draped the walls. A dozen plain wooden trestle tables were jammed into the room. It was the middle of the afternoon, so most were empty, but Araevin knew they’d be full by sundown, and likely stay that way until midnight.
“Araevin!” a deep, gravelly voice called across the room.
Araevin turned to see a tall, square-shouldered human with a deeply weathered face, a gray goatee, and a close-cropped fringe of iron-gray hair rising to hail him, dressed in a simple cassock of red. He did not recognize the fellow, and opened his mouth to request an
introductionthen he realized with a shock that it was Grayth Holmfast.
The human’s dark hair had gone silver-gray and retreated sharply above his brow, and his powerful, athletic build had grown lean and spare. The Lathanderite priest caught him up in a powerful embrace before Araevin recovered from his astonishment, and thumped his back
with blows that might have staggered the elf mage if he hadn’t been held up.
“Araevin Teshurr, as I live and breathe! It’s been
damned near twenty years, old friend. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
Twenty years? Araevin thought, confused. Surely it had not been that long … but when he thought on it, he’d last traveled in Faerun in the Year of the Worm, 1356 by Dalereckoning, so that would make it eighteen years.
“Evermeet,” he answered. “I’ve continued my studies at home since I left.” He rallied and returned Grayth’s
embrace, pounding the cleric on his back. “It’s good to see you, Grayth!”
The human cleric stepped back and studied Araevin from head to toe.
“Amazing,” he said. “Time touches you so lightly. You have not changed a bit, my friend.”
Araevin replied, “I forget how different it is with us.”
Grayth barked laughter and said, “That’s one way to say that the years have been hard on me!” He gestured at his receding hairline. “The hair began retreating ten
years ago. Oddly enough, it’s started to sprout on my back instead. So, who’s your friend?”
A wave of distress crossed Ilsevele’s face at the last remark, but she bravely set it aside and thrust out her hand
in the human fashion. Her Common was a little awkward, and her voice lilted musically.
“I am Ilsevele Miritar, daughter of Lord Seiveril Miritar. I am Araevin’s betrothed. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Grayth, please! The pleasure is mine, fair lady. And welcome to Faerun. Unless I miss my guess, you haven’t spent much time away from Evermeet.”
Ilsevele shot a glance at Araevin, her surprise showing, and said, “Is it that obvious?”
“No, it’s not,” Araevin replied with a smile. “Grayth will never admit it, but he sees more in a glance than most people, human or elf, notice in an hour. Don’t play cards
with him.”
“If you’ll join us, I’ll have some food and wine sent over, and we can trade tales of old adventures,” Grayth said. “I noticed a number of mice in the stables, if your little falcon’s feeling hungry.”
“Whyllwyst died eight years ago,” Araevin said. “I have
no familiar now.”
Grayth looked up and said with a grimace, “I know that’s hard on a wizard, Araevin. I’m sorry. Come, we’ll speak of lighter things.”
The cleric motioned the two sun elves to a sturdy wooden table and bench, and sat down opposite them.
Another man was waiting for them, a strapping young fellow with sandy-blond hair and wide blue eyes. He was dressed like Grayth in the cassock of a priest of Lathander, but his robes were orange and yellow, and the emblem on his tunic was a simple half-disc of white.
“This is Brant Rethalshield,” Grayth said, “an aspirant to the Order of
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