The Elven Crusade's Sorrow

Lynn finished packing and boarded the ship with his cousins. Aglaia appeared in midair and softly sang a blessing.

A statue of a young woman in a sky-blue gown stood at the bow, holding an Exquisite Sphere in both hands.

Aglaia's command of the Wind Law was limited. She could only make the ship a little faster or slower, but to Lynn, its defense mattered more.

White clouds gathered around the magic ship, clustering at the statue's feet like the billowing hem of her gown.

Those layers of cloud and water would at least keep the ship from being shattered outright in midair.

Hill watched the magic ship depart. Clasping his hands tightly, he whispered a wish for Lynn's safe return.

He could say nothing else. Myth Drannor's fate had long been sealed. All they could do was save the survivors.

Lynn had already received Hill's message. By the time they reached Myth Drannor, they would probably only be able to deal with the aftermath and fight the surviving Arch Arcanists' subordinates.

Few of the Arch Arcanists would die, but the survivors' first instinct would certainly be to rush for the Nether Scrolls in the Sorcerer Tower.

Ghost City, which had protected them for over a thousand years, had been sacrificed for that goal. They would never give up the Nether Scrolls.

When the Harpers sent another message, Hill estimated that Lynn was only halfway there.

The Harper delivering the news stood at the building's entrance, face flushed with excitement, one hand waving vigorously in the air.

This was nothing like people dying of plague.

Wars that killed so many high-level professionals at once had become rare in Faerûn.

Ghost City's Arch Arcanists had tried to seize control of Myth Drannor's Mythal. Amid the fierce fighting, Ghost City crashed into