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 exchanging 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 Faerun, 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 w
as 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.
The mage lifted one snowy brow. "Such as?"
"Dragons, for example. Is Atorrnash threatened by their wars?"
"Not really. The use of magic is intense in the city, and most dragons find this uncomfortable and give Atorrnash a wide berth. They do bedevil trade routes from time to time, but except in the savannahs and the forest to the north, dragons are a minor inconvenience at worst. Except, perhaps, for that one," the mage amended, grimacing slightly as he nodded toward a faint red dot in the sky.
Sharlario looked up, and his heart plummeted. "The Master of the Mountains," he murmured in a voice raw with dread.
"You mean Mahatnartorian, I take it. Yes, he is a bit of a nuisance. I have lost considerable cattle to his appetite-my herdsmen's magical defenses are pitifully inadequate against a great wyrm. I will construct better wards when my work permits me the time. But surely, Mahatnartorian is no threat to your homeland, distant as it is."
"The dragon is flying north, and I know where he is bound," the Moon elf said grimly. "We must leave at once."
"Ah." Ka'Narlist nodded in understanding. "You have had dealings with him, I take it?"
"He was conquered and banished by a clan of avariel. I fought with them, as I owed them an honor bond."
"Avariel?"
"Winged elves," Sharlario said grudgingly, wishing for some reason he had not spoken of them.
But Ka'Narlist seemed to take the comment in stride-no doubt he was jaded by exotic beings brought into existence by his own work. "And now the dragon is returning to settle the score. Of course you must go. But if you can tarry an hour's time, my wemic will see that you have a warrior band to take with you. A vengeful dragon is no easy thing to vanquish."
For a moment, Sharlario was tempted. He could not dismiss, however, the casual way that the archmage had spoken of the dark-elven attitude toward conquest and dominance. Instinct told him that accepting Ka'Narlist's offer would almost certainly seal the fate of the forest elves.
"I thank you, but I cannot wait. Not only is my family endangered, but I am bound by oath…" the Moon elf began.
Ka'Narlist cut him off with an upraised hand. "I quite understand. Do as you must, with all possible speed." The wizard turned to the ever-attentive servants who lingered on the garden's perimeters and bade them escort the Moon elves to the northern gate without delay. "Or better yet," he amended to Sharlario, "I will put you well on your way myself. Did you pass close to the white cliffs, some several days' travel to the north? Good. I shall send you there."
The wizard stretched out one hand. He clenched it into a fist, then made a quick sweeping motion to one side. There was a brief flash of light, and the Moon elves were gone.
"Hmph," the wemic grunted, obviously unimpressed by this solution to their visitors' problem. "They're not dressed for the trail."
"They are now. All their original belongings are with them, as well as most of the things they acquired in the city. Except for this harp," Ka'Narlist said, his lip curling as he cast a derisive glance at the instrument. "Dispose of this tinkling horror at the first opportunity."
"As you wish, master. But the elves-you just let them go," the wemic said, a question in his catlike eyes. "You had thought to give them in sacrifice to your god."
Ka'Narlist shrugged. "Fetch me another pair of white elves from the slave market-Ghaunadar will not mind the substitution. I have a different use for the northerners."
He waited for the wemic to ask, but the slave merely gazed at him-or past him. Ka'Narlist chuckled.
"You are stubborn, Mbugua. I see you wish to know, but I could flay your hide from your bones before you would ask. Very well, then. As you know, the dark elves are not the only People wielding powerful High Magic. Our ra
iders have been perhaps a bit too zealous of late, and conflict between the races of elves escalates. In time, there will be war, and the fair races have much to avenge. As things now stand, the outcome of such a war is in no way certain. And yet, if our visitor speaks the truth-"
Here Ka'Narlist paused and raised an eyebrow in question. The wemic knew what was expected. He had been a shaman among his own people, and he was still well versed in reading the hearts and spirits of those around him.
The slave grudgingly nodded an affirmation. "He speaks truth."
"In that case, I should very much like to acquire some of these winged elves. Sharlario Moonflower is a merchant. Perhaps he could be persuaded to provide me with a few."
The wemic did not need to ask what use his master had for such exotic creatures: The castle dungeons and grounds were teeming with the results of Ka'Narlist's magical tampering. And he knew his master well enough to suspect what in particular he had in mind.
"You would make winged dark elves," Mbugua stated.
"Night flyers," the wizard affirmed, his crimson eyes misted with the vision of future glories. "What an amazing army they would make! Invisible against the night sky, armed with dark-elven weaponcraft and magic!"
The wemic shook his head, not only to express his doubts, but to shake the horrific image from his mind. "But the red-pelt is an honorable elf. He will not bring his winged brothers to you as slaves."
Ka'Narlist only smiled in return. "It is a rare merchant who will not be swayed by enough gold and gems. But say that you are correct about our red-haired friend. Do you forget how you came to this keep? Have you forgotten the raid that enslaved your clan and all but destroyed your savannah? Have the scars from my chains faded from your wrists and paws? Has the stench of your dead mate's burning fur been banished from your dreams?"
Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books) Page 11
