Evermeet

by Elaine Cunningham

  Almost against his will, Kymil walked toward the goddess. The seething mass that was Ghaunadar parted to allow him to pass. Kymil gingerly walked through, then peered into the globe that Lloth had conjured from the empty air. The scene within stole his breath.

  In a sky whose utter darkness rivaled the obsidian skin of the drow goddess, two strange vessels were locked in mortal combat. One, a graceful winged vessel that looked like a titanic butterfly, was crewed by elves who could have passed as Kymil’s near kin. The other was a massive armored ship teaming with well-armed creatures that looked like orcs, but fought with an intelligence and discipline that no orc on Toril could match.

  “Scro,” Lloth said by way of explanation. “They are a race of clever, powerful orcs from another world, and they fight against the Elven Imperial Navy. As you can see, they will soon prevail against this ship.

  “Would you like to know the nature of this butterfly ship, and the elves upon it?” she continued in her faintly mocking tone. “These are survivors of a world in flames. The scro overran their homeland and utterly destroyed it. These elves are desperate for a homeland. They would follow an elven noble who offered them one, and not fret overmuch if they needed to overthrow a kingdom in order to possess it. Thus did your own ancestors, when they fled from a dying world. Thus would you do also, if you were thrust into a new world. Elves such as you believe that rulership is a divine right.”

  Kymil’s thoughts whirled as he stared intently at the life-and-death struggle playing out within the globe. The scope and complexity of the picture the goddess painted, however strange it might seem at first glimpse, fit within the framework of his mind. It was not so very hard to accept.

  “What would you have me do?”

  Lloth smiled and made a quick, complex gesture with one hand. A burst of fetid smoke filled the room, and from it stepped a second fearsome deity.

  Kymil was no coward, but he shrank back before the evil power that was Malar, the Beastlord.

  The avatar was enormous—more than twice Kymil’s height, and armed with terrible talons and antlers whose prongs looked long and as sharp as elven swords. Malar was armored with a black-furred hide, and he regarded the elf with a derisive expression in his crimson eyes. Although bearlike in general shape, the god lacked a snout or a visible mount. The furred flesh that draped his single oral cavity fluttered as Malar let out a whuffle of obvious scorn.

  But the bestial god, unlike his dark-elven ally, wasted no time either greeting or taunting the elf. Towering over the delicate Lloth, Malar bent down and tapped the floating globe with one taloned finger.

  “Look here, elf,” the god said in a harsh, grating voice. “A second elf ship, taken from Arborianna before it was set aflame. The ship is crewed by a few of my followers—goblins, base born orcs—and powered by a single elven mage. The ship is not big enough or well armed enough to turn the battle, but it has aboard a living weapon that can destroy the scro vessel. A monster that will kill and kill until none remain. You will feed my followers to it, then unleash it upon the scro ship. The elves will hail you as their savior. But be sure to kill the elf mage first, lest he betray you to the others.”

  Kymil stared at the god. “You would betray those who follow you, and bid me betray one of my own people?”

  As soon as he’d spoken the rash words, Kymil feared he’d written his own death order. To his astonishment, both gods broke into long and genuine laughter. Even Ghaunadar joined in after a fashion, for the gelatinous mass bubbled and popped in a grim parody of laughter. Finally the horrible chorus ended, and Lloth wiped her streaming eyes and turned to the bemused elf.

  “A few goblins and orcs are a small price to pay for what you will give us. Say the word, and we will set you upon this ship. The rest is yours to do.”

  “I am to lead an invasion of Evermeet,” Kymil said dazedly.

  “Was that not your intent? Is that not your dream? With the added strength of the Gold elves of Arborianna, you should have an easy task of supplanting the Moonflower clan and ruling Evermeet.”

  “If such a plan is to succeed, I will need to contact those few of my followers who remain, both on Evermeet and upon Faerûn,” Kymil said hesitantly. “Would this be possible?”

  In response, Lloth produced a handful of gems from some hidden pocket in the folds of her silken, ebony gown. These she gave to Kymil. “You will recognize these—these are gems of communication much like those you yourself have used to good effect. Tell me all those whom you wish to contact, and I will see that gems get into their hands.”

  Kymil nodded thoughtfully. It was a good plan, and it could work. He would gather support from many quarters, then slip down to Toril to lead the sea forces upon Evermeet himself. One question remained, however—an enormous question.

  “Why do you support my ambitions?” he asked bluntly. “It seems to me that one elf is much like another in the eyes of Lloth and Malar.”

  The goddess shrugged. “Evermeet has been denied to me and my children; its queen is Corellon’s special pet. The joy of seeing Amlaruil of Evermeet destroyed will be payment enough for the ignominy of any alliance I might have to make. I mean no offense, great Malar.”

  The bestial god whuffled; Kymil got the impression that Malar was of like mind on the matter.

  “That is part, but not all, of my concern,” the elf said cautiously. “Once you have begun to destroy Evermeet, will you be content to stop?”

  “You are clever,” Lloth said approvingly. “The answer, as you suspect, is no. I would love to see the wretched island swallowed by the sea! But that, I fear, must be a pleasure deferred. I do not yet have the power to destroy Evermeet; nonetheless, I will take what pleasure I can.”

  The grim, naked ambition in the goddess’s voice horrified Kymil. He did not know what ambitions the goddess harbored within her dark heart—he did not truly want to know—but somehow he believed that she would do all she offered. He himself had made several improbable alliances in order to reach the goals he had accomplished thus far, and he had honored them insomuch as they advanced his purposes. He saw his own resolve reflected back from the mirror of Lloth’s crimson eyes.

  “What you say, I will do,” he said simply.

  Book Two

  Silver and Gold

  “No one, not even the wisest and most venerable elven sage, can say with assurance when and from whence the first elves came to Toril. But tales are told of a time long past, when elves fled by the thousands from war-torn Faerie, that magical land that exists in the unseen shadows of a thousand worlds.

  The songs and stories that tell of those times are as numerous as the stars. No one now living could give a history that would sate those sages who search the ancient lore as a lover studies his beloved’s face, or as dreamers who gaze up into the night sky and wonder.

  But sometimes a pattern emerges from the telling of small tales, much as the individual bits of tile or stone become a mosaic, or a thousand bright threads interweave to form a tapestry.”

  —Excerpt from a letter from Kriios Halambar, Master Luthier of New Olamn Barding College, Waterdeep

  6

  Weaving the Web

  (Time of Dragons)

  n victory, they were defeated.

  The elves of Tintageer—at least, those few who had survived the long siege, the battle that followed, and the horrendous magical cataclysm that ended it—clung to each other and watched as the last few invading ships were torn to driftwood by the raging sea. Not a single enemy remained on their island. All had been shaken into the angry waters by the magical attack whose power went far beyond the expectations of those who’d unleashed it. Even now, violent convulsions shuddered through the elven island, as if the land itself felt a lingering horror—or a premonition of doom.

  “The trees!” one of the females cried suddenly, pointing to the line of limber palms that swayed wildly along the shore.

  Her fellow survivors looked, and a murmur of consternation rippled th
rough the battered group. Before the battle, those trees had lined the broad street that swept past Angharradh’s Temple—a street that once had been hundreds of paces from the ocean. Even as the elves watched, horrified, the crashing surf climbed higher and higher along the diamond-shaped patterns that scored the tree trunks.

  “To the dancing hill. Now!” ordered an elven youth. His voice—a fledgling baritone—cracked on the final word and rose into shrill, childlike soprano.

  But the elves obeyed him at once. They would have done so even if the wisdom in the young elf’s reasoning was not so patently obvious. Although Durothil was little more than a child, he was the youngest brother of the king—and all that remained of Tintageer’s royal family. More, there was something about the young prince that commanded respect, despite his extreme youth and the uncertain timbre of his voice.

  The elves turned away from the ruined city and hurriedly picked their way through the rubble-strewn groves that led to the dancing hill. The highest point of the island, it offered the best hope of a haven until the unnaturally high waters receded.

  As they neared the crest of the hill, the elves’ footsteps grew lighter and their ravaged countenances eased. This sacred site harbored their brightest memories and their most powerful magic. Here they gathered to celebrate the turning of the seasons, to sing the old songs and dance for the sheer joy of existence, to gather starlight and weave it into wondrous spells that blessed and strengthened the People or lent magic to their artworks.

  But the elves’ remembered joy was short-lived. The ground beneath their feet began to shiver, then convulsed briefly and violently as if in anguish.

  An eerie silence followed the quake, broken by a faint murmur coming from the distant, watery horizon. The elves looked out to sea and understood that the island’s tremors had been its death throes. A vast wall of water swept in from the west.

  The elves stood watching, stunned and silent, as death raced toward them.

  “We must dance,” Durothil urged, shaking the elf nearest him as if to waken her. Bonnalurie, the island’s only surviving priestess of Angharradh, gazed at him for a moment before his meaning pierced her grief-befogged mind. Her eyes brightened, then flamed with determination. Together they rallied the elves and explained their desperate plan.

  Under the priestess’s guidance, the elven survivors formed a circle and began to follow her through the steps of one of the most powerful of elven spells. All joined in the dance, even the younglings and the wounded, though they knew not the High Magic that it cast, although the risks to themselves and their priestess were enormous.

  When her charges had merged fully with the rhythm of the dance, Bonnalurie began to sing. Her silvery soprano voice rang out over the island, calling upon the power of her goddess, gathering the threads of magic that emanated from each elf and weaving them into a single purpose. The magic she shaped was a Seeking, one powerful enough to move beyond the veils separating the worlds, to find a place of power such as the one upon which the elves now danced—and to open a pathway to this new world. Under normal circumstances, only the most powerful elven mages would dare to cast such a spell, and then, only with the support of a Circle. Though she was no mage, Bonnalurie knew more of the Art than did most clergy. She understood the enormity of the task she had undertaken and the price it would demand of her. And not from her alone: Only a few of the elves who danced to her song would travel the silver pathway in safety. As for the others—well, Bonnalurie needed every breath and pulse of magic she could muster in order to shape this spell. If she failed, all would perish.

  Caught up in the magic, the elves danced on in near ecstacy, not knowing what they did but somehow finding a place within the emerging pattern of the dance. One after another, they began to sing, taking up the thread of Bonnalurie’s song and adding to it the magic of their own life essence. Some of the elves grew pale, wraith-like, as they were consumed by the magic they cast. But not one foot faltered, and their collective song rang out in defiance of death’s approach. They danced and sang long after they could no longer hear their own voices over the roar of the surging tide.

  A shadow fell over the dancers as the wall of water blotted out the setting sun. Then the sea slammed into the island, sending the elves spinning off into the silver path their magic had woven. Even there the sea seemed to follow, for the explosion of power that swept them away buffeted them like dark and merciless waves.

  After what seemed an eternity, Durothil landed upon an unknown shore with a force that sent agony jolting through every fiber of his body. Ignoring the pain as best he could, the young elf rolled onto his back and came up in a crouch, hand on the hilt of his dagger. His green eyes swept the area for danger. When he perceived none, he forced himself to take measure of those elves who had completed the magical journey.

  Durothil did not see Bonnalurie among the dazed survivors. He had not expected to. Although magic was as natural to them as the air they breathed, few elves could survive in the eye of a storm so enormous. Gathering and channeling so much magic required great strength, extensive training, and enormous discipline. A circle of High Magi, working together, could shape and direct these forces without ill effect. But Bonnalurie had acted alone and had channeled the magical tempest through her own being. It had swept her away.

  Later, Durothil vowed silently, the survivors of Tintageer would mourn the priestess’s passing and sing of her courage and her sacrifice for the People. But not now, nor for many days to come. Durothil’s throat felt tight with too many unsung songs of mourning.

  Of all the elves of Tintageer, an island that boasted one of the most wondrous and populous civilizations in all of Faerie, fewer than one hundred had lived through the battle to dance upon the sacred hill. Of these, not more than half remained. It was not an auspicious beginning; even so, they had survived, and they would rebuild.

  Durothil drew in a long breath and turned his gaze out over his new realm. There was no doubt in his mind that he would rule—the right and the responsibility were his by birth. The well-being of these People, for good or ill, was in his hands. Young though he was, he would ensure that they prospered in this new land.

  It was a fair land, he noted, as wild and rugged as the fabled northlands of Faerie. From where he stood—a small, flat plateau atop a soaring mountain—the view was one that stole the breath and quickened the imagination. A host of enormous mountains, so tall that their summits were lost in thick banks of sunset clouds, stood like watchful sentinels as far to the north and west as Durothil’s eyes could reach.

  The young elf’s gaze swept down the rocky slope before him, over the thick pine forest that blanketed most of the mountain. In the valley below, a river wandered through verdant meadow, its placid waters reflecting the brilliant tints of rose and gold cast by the setting sun.

  Nodding thoughtfully, Durothil took a deep breath and squared his shoulders for the task ahead. He noted that the air was thin and crisp, quite unlike the sultry, flower-scented winds that caressed his lost island home. Yet the bracing winds felt alive, singing with magic that was not so different from that to which he had been reared. The Weave was strong upon this new world, and already the young elf could glimpse his own place within the magical fabric. Where there was magic, elves could thrive. In time, this land would become a true home.

  “Faerûn,” Durothil murmured, adding the rising inflection that changed the elven word for his homeland into something new, yet familiar. He turned to face his people, and took heart at seeing his own sense of wonder—and recognition—reflected upon several elven faces.

  Under Durothil’s direction, the survivors set to work. Several minor priests had survived, as well as a few mages. These began tending the wounded with the salves and spells that remained to them. Those whose store of magic had been depleted offered prayers or simply gave comfort to those who had been shattered by the loss of their homeland, and those who were dazed by the new and unfamiliar world in which they found themsel
ves.

  And strange it was, Durothil silently agreed, despite the reassuring tug of the magical Weave. Even the stone beneath their feet was odd. The plateau was remarkably flat, almost as level as a floor, and apparently made of a single rock. The floor was slick and smooth, shiny as polished marble. Yet for all that, there were odd lumps here and there. Ever curious, the young elf wandered to the edge of the flat, then took his dagger from his belt and began to chip at one of these lumps. The stone was as brittle as glass, and it fell away easily to reveal an odd, charred shape. Durothil quickly dug free a slender metal tube from the stone.

  He picked it up, noting the silent hum of magic that flowed through it. As soon as he lifted the tube, he caught the glint of a brighter metal beneath—a sword, most likely. A few more blows with his dagger confirmed the nature of this second find. Frowning in puzzlement, Durothil lifted the magical tube to the fading light and turned it this way and that, trying to make sense of it.

  “A wrist bracer,” announced a male voice in the odd accents of Faerie’s far northlands. The speaker—a tall, flame-haired elf—stooped and took the metal tube from Durothil’s hand without bothering to ask permission. After a moment’s scrutiny, he announced, “Elven make, I’d say. The sword, too.”

  Durothil shrugged, though he suspected the older elf was right. Sharlario Moonflower was a merchant—a pirate, more likely—who’d had the misfortune to make port at Tintageer days before the invading forces struck. The northerner’s appearance was quite different from the golden, elegant beauty of Tintageer’s folk. Sharlario’s skin was pale as parchment, a stark contrast with his bright red hair and sky-colored eyes. Odd though his appearance was, his ways were stranger still. Blunt to the point of rudeness, Sharlario had little use for the elaborate traditions and protocols of court life. At the moment, however, he seemed to share in full measure the young prince’s curiosity about the objects buried in the stone.