"So you say," Piergeiron said.

"So we will prove," the phaerimm replied. "You are familiar with the peak Untriwin, in the east of the High Ice?"

"Where the tomb tappers rise," said Borg Ohlmak, the woolly-headed chieftain sent by the barbarians of the Ride. "We know the place well."

Mourngrym's head nodded to Borg. There are three shadow blankets at the base of the mount. When the shell falls, we will destroy all three as proof of our capabilities."

"And still we will not be able to come to terms," Alusair said. "Evereska is not ours to bargain away. Wouldn't some other place serve you as well? The Goblin Marches, for instance, are-"

"Worthless wastelands," the phaerimm said. "It must be Evereska. We have no interest in your castoff barrens."

"Then perhaps the Tun Valley," Alusair suggested. "The lands there are as fertile as any in Cormyr, and I'm certain the alliance would be willing to provide any assistance required to take Darkhold."

"Evereska."

Alusair frowned, clearly trying to think of some other place the phaerimm might desire. She was, Galaeron knew, trying to reach an unreachable compromise. The phaerimm wanted Evereska for the same reason they lived in Myth Drannor: its mythal. They needed magic the way other races needed air, and the mythals that surrounded both cities were living mantles of woven magic. Asking a phaerimm to choose another place to live was like asking a fish to make his home someplace other than in the water.

"Evereska is not ours to grant," Alusair continued, still trying. "Name another place."

"He's not going to name another place," Galaeron interjected, though he did not say why. The existence of the mythal was an elven secret, and he no longer felt any trust for the humans gathered there, not even Alusair. "When will you learn? You can't treat with phaerimm-only surrender to them like cowards, or stand and fight them like warriors."