Final Gate (Forgotten Realms: The Last Mythal, Book 3)
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In the hands of an elf high-mage, the fabled mythals are Faerûn's most potent sources of magical power. But in the hands of a demon princess from a forgotten epoch, they're the most powerful weapons imaginable.
left of Alysir Ursequarra but a charred skeleton encased in blackened mail. Sarya extinguished the flames with a single curt gesture and returned her attention to the fey’ri lords that remained. “Does anyone else wish to question my authority?” she asked. None of the others spoke up. They simply waited in silence. “As it so happens, I had several compelling reasons to try Miritar’s strength in the vale,” she continued. “First, the open terrain favored us greatly. We worked great destruction
the Sembians can be reasoned with, before all the Dales are laid to waste.” He started to protest but gave up with a grimace. “Very well. But promise me you will be careful, Ilsevele.” “Only if you do the same.” She smiled thinly. “Do not worry for me, Araevin. Our paths will cross again before long.” “I am not as certain of that as I once was.” He sighed and brushed a hand over his eyes. “We are heading back to the High Forest.” “The High Forest? Why?” “Because the Gatekeeper’s Crystal—or a
battles that last summer. I died on a summer afternoon, fighting the nycaloth lord Aulmpiter. “After that … I walked in Arvandor for a time, though I do not now remember much of the Elvenhome. Your father called me back a few months ago, hoping that I could lead his Crusade to victory over the daemonfey.” Ilsevele stared at him. “My father raised you from the dead?” She grappled with the thought. “But … why? The Seldarine do not give away that magic lightly. How could my father have even known
stone creaked outside their small sanctuary. “I think you drove it off,” Maresa whispered. “Good! That’ll teach it to go poking around in other people’s business.” “I don’t think we’re that lucky,” Donnor said, shaking his head. He looked up with a small frown on his face—and the roof above his head exploded in a shower of crushed blocks and mortar dust. With two great shoves of its thick arms, the giant cleared the top courses of stonework out of its way like a man sweeping a table clear of
ship followed the moonlight’s path across the water, sailing gracefully through the silvery medium as if wind, water, and night were all one and the same. “A ship of Evermeet,” he breathed. The ship seemed to meet the lake’s waters, and its sails shifted to catch a breeze that rose up to greet it. Seiveril waited on the shore as the vessel glided toward him. As it drew closer he could make out the beautifully garbed lords and ladies of the court, so radiant it was hard to look on them. Do we