The goddess was silent for a long moment, staring into the dying campfire. “Vhaeraun hates me. He bids his worshipers harry and destroy all who follow me. He would see me destroyed, if such were in his power. It is not—quite. Yet I must leave.”
“If it is followers you require, be assured that I do not fear this Vhaeraun,” Cornaith began.
“You should.” Eilistraee cast a quelling look at the earnest young elf. “Though he is but a young god, Vhaeraun is vain and malicious, quick to attack those who do not give him homage. And that, you must not do.”
“I had no thought to,” the Moon elf said emphatically. “Until this night, I wished nothing more than to follow my mother in her dedication to Sehanine Moonbow.”
Eilistraee shook her head sadly, turning away the worship in the young elf’s eyes. “I am honored that you think of me, Cornaith Moonflower, but do not forsake your devotion to Sehanine. No, listen,” she said, cutting off his protestations. “The gods experience time in ways you cannot understand. There are some of us who hear echoes of things that have not yet happened in mortal experience. I have foreseen that most of those who follow me will, like me, be exiles, wanderers who will never find their way to the elven homeland.”
“Elves, barred from Arvandor?” Sharlario demanded. “Surely not!”
The goddess’s silver eyes grew misty, as if they turned away from time and place to gaze upon visions no mortal could see. “No, not Arvandor. There will be another homeland. There must be another homeland,” she said, her voice becoming more intense. “The storm is coming, Sharlario Moonflower, when the children of one father will become bitter enemies. Thus it was, and thus it will be, again and again. The actions of the gods ripple down through time to touch their People. Soon, mortal elves will know the pain and turmoil that tore the Seldarine asunder.”
“This Vhaeraun must be powerful indeed, to inspire his followers to such conflict,” Sharlario said in a troubled voice.
Eilistraee’s silver eyes snapped back into focus. “Not Vhaeraun,” she whispered, her beautiful face deeply troubled. “Other dark gods will come, and soon.”
Neither Moonflower elf could think of words to respond to this pronouncement. For a long time the trio sat, their silence colored only by the occasional crackle of the fading embers, the soft chirruping of night creatures, and the murmur of the nearby sea.
“There is one thing more that you must know and fear,” the goddess said at last. “High Magic, which brought you to this place, can be a wondrous thing. It can also be used for great evil. You will find this to be true, if you visit Atorrnash. You who have never had reason to fear magic must learn to be wary of it and those who wield it.”
“Atorrnash?” ventured Cornaith.
“It is a great city, not quite three days’ travel to the south. There you will find great riches, powerful magic, and those who offer alliance in your battle against the dragons. Consider such gifts carefully—some carry a hidden price.”
The goddess rose abruptly, and lifted her eyes to the sky. Overhead the moon shone full, and beams of its light filtered through the canopy of trees that sheltered the elves’ camp. Eilistraee reached out and touched a finger to a shaft of light, and her face took on the intense concentration of one who listens to distant voices.
“I have overstayed myself. There is more you should know, but I cannot linger. Beware.” With this, she leaped onto the shaft of moonlight and was gone. A faint radiance lingered in the air for a moment and then disappeared like a snuffed candle.
It seemed to Sharlario that never had a darkness seemed so oppressive as the one Eilistraee’s departure left behind. Despite the bright moon and the glow of the dying campfire, despite the company of his well-beloved son, the elf felt a desolation more poignant than anything he had ever known.
He glanced at Cornaith, and read in his son’s eyes a pain that was like bereavement. All of which explained, he supposed, why the gods seldom appear to their People—they knew the void their absence left behind.
Sharlario rose abruptly and kicked the fading embers into ash. “Come,” he said. “We have nearly three days’ travel to Atorrnash.”
The younger elf looked at him in astonishment. “Did you not hear what the goddess Eilistraee said? She warned us of the evil of this place.”
“She also told us of the power. And she did not actually bid us stay away,” Sharlario pointed out.
Since he was an honest elf, he knew these words were meant as much to silence his own unease as his son’s protest.
Before sunset on the third day after their encounter with the Dark Maiden, the Moonflower elves reached the gates of Atorrnash. Cornaith, who had never seen a city of such size and splendor, gazed at everything with such wide-eyed astonishment that his father had to remind him more than once to mind his mission—and his dignity.
But Sharlario’s reproaches were not as sharp as they might have been, for he himself was awestruck by the Ilythiirian city. He had seen on Faerie the wondrous dwellings that elven magic could coax from crystal, or coral, or living trees, the mighty castles that were fashioned of marble and moonstone. Never had he seen anything quite like Atorrnash.
The city was perched at the very edge of the sea, on all three sides of a long, narrow bay that thrust deep into the land. Many of the buildings were fashioned of dark stone—not carved into the rock, as were the cities of the dwarven folk, or made from piles of masonry such as the halflings favored, but stone that had been drawn up from the depths of the ground in the form of finished buildings. Gemstones glittered in precise patterns against the smooth stone, sometimes forming elaborate mosaics that covered entire walls or even paved the walkways. Most wondrous of all, however, was a vast castle of stark black stone whose turrets soared into the sunset clouds. A high wall surrounded the keep, enclosing a vast estate. A similar, lower wall of black granite encircled the entire city, a wall without seam or crack to mar its surface. By all appearances, it was a single expanse of solid rock. This was a mystery to Sharlario, and the wall seemed powerfully evocative of the mysteries that awaited them within.
In the days that followed their arrival to Atorrnash, Sharlario began to suspect how the strange stone walls and dwellings might have come into being.
The first thing Sharlario noticed was that there was something very wrong with the bay. The waters were too turbulent for such a sheltered place, troubled even at low tides and on the calmest of days. When night fell, and when the winds blew hot and dry from the south, the sea shrieked like a lost, demented soul. The Bay of the Banshee, the Ilythiiri called it, and probably for good reason. It was whispered that many elves had died from the force of the magic that ripped apart the land to fashion the city, and many more had perished when the sea rushed in to fill the void. Sharlario felt the uneasy presence of these restless souls in the voice of the sea.
But there was nothing about the Moonflowers’ twilight arrival to suggest anything of this grim history. The keepers of the gates asked their business and listened with courtesy as Sharlario requested the opportunity to speak with the leaders of Atorrnash on behalf of the Tintageer elves of the northern mountains. The guardians sent runners at once to Ka’Narlist Keep—the black castle that dominated the city—and before the sunset colors had faded away, the Moonflowers were settled in the lavish guest quarters of the city’s archmage.
They did not actually see Ka’Narlist for several days. The archmage sent his apologies, along with assurances that he would attend them as soon as his work permitted. In the meanwhile, his servants informed them, they were to enjoy the guest house and gardens, and explore the city as Ka’Narlist’s guests. The latter honor, as Sharlario soon learned, meant that they were given immense deference and unlimited credit wherever they went. In the markets, they quickly learned not to handle any goods, or even linger too long at a booth—anything and everything they admired was quickly pressed upon them as a gift. In Sharlario’s experience, elven cultures shared the ancient custom of exch
anging gifts, and in many places the splendor of the gift was viewed as a measure of the giver. But this generosity went beyond anything Sharlario had ever seen. Stranger still, never once would an Ilythiirian elf accept a return token.
The Moon elf’s curiosity grew as the days passed. Many of the elves of Atorrnash were as dark-skinned as the goddess Eilistraee. These dark elves, he noted, seem to hold most of the positions of influence in the city, while the fairer races were gatekeepers, shop owners, and servants. Never had Sharlario seen such starkly drawn divisions among the various elven folk, and it troubled him. So did the plethora of peculiar-looking beings that crowded the markets and the streets. Sharlario had encountered many strange and wondrous creatures in his travels, and he was constantly astonished by the diversity of life upon Faerûn, but this was beyond all his experience. His natural sensitivity to magic led him to suspect that Art had had a hand in shaping these creatures. He also noted the fear that leaped into the eyes of the Ilythiiri when he tried to speak of such matters.
Also odd was the isolation in which Ka’Narlist kept his guests. The guest dwelling was spacious and grand, and the gardens were filled with lush flowers and playing fountains such as Sharlario had not seen since his days on the lost island of Tintageer. A small army of servants was on hand to tend promptly to any request, and luxuries and diversions of all sorts were offered. In no way could the archmage’s hospitality be faulted, yet the guest quarters were set well outside of the walls that surrounded Ka’Narlist Keep. Even the grounds, outbuildings, and paddocks that surrounded the castle were separated from the guests’ domain by high black walls.
It did not surprise Sharlario, therefore, that when at last word came that Ka’Narlist would receive his guests, the audience was to be held not in the keep itself, but in the visitors’ gardens.
In preparation, Sharlario and Cornaith dressed themselves according to local custom in some of the fine clothing and gems with which the too-generous merchants had gifted them. Cornaith also brought with him a small golden harp—a nearly priceless magical instrument that he had admired before he learned the inevitable result of such courtesy. He would never forget the stricken expression on the owner’s face as she insisted with gracious phrases that he take her harp.
When the sundial’s shadow fell upon the rune that marked the appointed hour, Ka’Narlist appeared before them without warning or fanfare. At his side stood a watchful male wemic—a centaurlike being with a powerful human torso atop a body like that of an enormous lion. With his tawny skin, catlike nose, and thick flowing mane of black hair, the wemic was a most unusual and impressive sight. But after the first startled glance, the Moonflowers turned their attention fully upon the archmage.
Ka’Narlist was a dark elf. Like most of the city’s elite class, he had crimson eyes and stark white hair. Unlike most of them, he did not flaunt his wealth and status. He wore a simple white tunic over trousers and boots such as an adventurer might wear. There were no rings on his hands, and his hair was plaited back in a single braid and bound with a leather thong. Much smaller and slighter than Sharlario, he nonetheless projected an aura of tremendous power.
The archmage greeted them graciously and asked a number of questions about the elves to the north. Noting the harp that Cornaith carried, he asked for a song and seemed genuinely pleased by the young elf’s performance. More, he listened gravely to Cornaith’s request that the harp be returned to its owner and instructed his wemic servant to see that this was done that very day.
Yet despite all these courtesies, Sharlario felt wary. The answers he gave his host were more guarded than was his custom, and he instinctively found himself listening for hidden layers of meaning in the archmage’s words. He thought he probably would have done so even without Eilistraee’s warning. There was something about the dark elf that inspired caution.
“That is a very fine dagger you carry,” Ka’Narlist commented, nodding toward the long knife tucked into Sharlario’s boot. “I don’t believe I’ve seen one quite like it.”
Remembering local custom, the Moon elf slipped the knife from his boot and handed it, hilt first, to the wizard. “It is yours, if you will do me the honor of accepting so small a token.”
“With pleasure,” the dark elf said. He shifted aside a fold of his tunic to reveal a weapon belt from which hung a jeweled dagger and two small silk bags. He removed a dagger from its sheath to make room for Sharlario’s gift, then he offered his to his guest as an exchange.
The weapon was a marvelous thing, with a bright satin sheen to the blade and a large ruby set in a richly engraved hilt.
Sharlario bowed and accepted the fine dagger, wondering as he did why the archmage had pointedly admired a lesser weapon. The dagger in the Moon elf’s belt was clearly visible, and nearly as fine as the one Ka’Narlist had just given him. It would have been a nearer exchange. He wondered what the inequity signified.
“In our land, an exchange of weapons is a sign of trust,” the archmage said with a faint smile. “In some circumstances, it is also a pledge of service or assistance.”
This was something Sharlario had not anticipated, but it made a certain sense. “What service do you require of me?”
Ka’Narlist’s crimson eyes lit with amusement. “That was not my intent, I assure you. To the contrary. You have traveled far, no doubt with some purpose in mind to speed your steps. Speak freely, and I will aid you if I can. At the very least, I can answer some of your questions. I suspect you have many,” he added shrewdly.
The Moon elf nodded thoughtfully. As a diplomat, he had learned the value of news from far places. What he had just given Ka’Narlist might well be many times the worth of the ruby-hilted dagger. He was also tempted by the offer of information in exchange, and eager to hear what explanations the archmage might give for some of the customs of Atorrnash.
“I have heard that many of the People in this land worship Vhaeraun. Of this god I know little, and would like to learn whatever you can teach.”
“Vhaeraun!” The corner of Ka’Narlist’s lip lifted in an expression of contempt. “A minor godling, an upstart. His followers are mostly thieves, raiders, rogues of all kinds. I myself have nothing to do with this god.”
“Most reassuring,” Sharlario murmured.
“For those who seek to understand the source of power, to tap the force of life itself, there is only Ghaunadar, the Ancient One,” Ka’Narlist continued. He shot a wry look at the wemic, as if exchanging an unvoiced secret. “You and your son may yet have an opportunity to observe a service to the Elemental God.”
Sharlario did not find that reassuring in the slightest, though he had no knowledge of Ghaunadar. “Another thing puzzles me,” he said. “I cannot help but notice the division between the dark elves and the fair. In other places, I have seen class distinctions of royal, noble, and common, but these are matters of birth and breeding.”
“And the division of Atorrnash is not?” the wizard retorted. “It is a simple matter, really. Nature is governed by certain immutable rules. By virtue of claw and fang, the lion will always triumph over the goat. Given time, the pounding of the sea will wear away the stone. And when dark elves mingle with the lighter races, the offspring invariably take after the dark parent. It is all much the same—that which is greater will prevail. Our numbers increase steadily, both through birth and conquest. The dark elves are the dominant race, so ordained by the gods,” Ka’Narlist concluded in a matter-of-fact tone. “By this, I mean no offense.”
The apology was so obviously specious that Sharlario declined comment. “Nature is indeed full of wonders,” he continued. “The sheer variety of Atorrnash’s inhabitants leads the observer to marvel at nature’s prodigiousness.”
Ka’Narlist’s crimson eyes glinted with amusement. “Delicately put. As you surmised, nature has had little enough to do with most of those ridiculous creatures that crowd the streets,” the archmage said with a touch of asperity.
“What, then?”
“There are many wizards in this city who experiment with powerful magic, and in the process create twisted beings of all descriptions. There is an art and a science to such things, but most of the wizards go about it as if they were scullery servants tossing bits of herbs and meat into a stew pot. The result is the appalling hodgepodge you witnessed.”
“And you do such things, as well?” Cornaith demanded.
“I do such things, my dear young elf, but not ‘as well.’ Better. Far better. I do them as they should be done. My studies are thorough, my results remarkable.”
Ka’Narlist allowed a moment’s silence to give weight to this pronouncement. “You might think me prideful in these claims,” he continued in a disingenuous voice, “But I mention my work only because rumor has it you are merchants as well as diplomats. I thought you might be interested in acquiring some unusual slaves. There are several intriguing breeds that are unique to my stables.”
Sharlario caught his son’s eye with a silent warning, commanding the visibly enraged youth to hold his tongue. In truth, he was as appalled by this as was Cornaith, but he understood that speaking of it would do little good and could cause considerable harm. One thing his centuries of travel had taught him was to observe well, ponder long, and speak only after much thought. But even as Sharlario reminded himself to reserve judgment on a culture he understood but little, he began to see how the Dark Maiden’s prophecy might well come to pass.
“Despite the class divisions, surely all the People of Atorrnash would stand together against a common threat,” Sharlario commented. It was, in his opinion, well past time to turn the conversation to safer matters.
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